The worth of admiration is, after all, in proportion to the value of the thing admired,—­a circumstance overlooked by the people who talk much pleasant nonsense about sympathy, and the courage of our emotions, and the open and generous mind.  We know how Mr. Arnold felt when an American lady wrote to him, in praise of American authors, and said that it rejoiced her heart to think of such excellence as being “common and abundant.”  Mr. Arnold, who considered that excellence of any kind was very uncommon and beyond measure rare, expressed his views on this occasion with more fervour and publicity than the circumstances demanded; but his words are as balm to the irritation which some of us suffer and conceal when drained of our reluctant applause.

It is perhaps because women have been trained to a receptive attitude of mind, because for centuries they have been valued for their sympathy and appreciation rather than for their judgment, that they are so perilously prone to enthusiasm.  It has come to all of us of late to hear much feminine eloquence, and to marvel at the nimbleness of woman’s wit, at the speed with which she thinks, and the facility with which she expresses her thoughts.  A woman who, until five years ago, never addressed a larger audience than that afforded by a reading-club or a dinner-party, will now thrust and parry on a platform, wholly unembarrassed by timidity or by ignorance.  Sentiment and satire are hers to command; and while neither is convincing, both are tremendously effective with people already convinced, with the partisans who throng unwearyingly to hear the voicing of their own opinions.  The ease with which such a speaker brings forward the great central fact of the universe, maternity, as an argument for or against the casting of a ballot (it works just as well either way); the glow with which she associates Jeanne d’Arc with federated clubs and social service; and the gay defiance she hurls at customs and prejudices so profoundly obsolete that the lantern of Diogenes could not find them lurking in a village street,—­these things may chill the unemotional listener into apathy, but they never fail to awaken the sensibilities of an audience.  The simple process, so highly commended by debaters, of ignoring all that cannot be denied, makes demonstration easy.  “A crowd,” said Mr. Ruskin, “thinks by infection.”  To be immune from infection is to stand outside the sacred circle of enthusiasts.

Yet if the experience of mankind teaches anything, it is that vital convictions are not at the mercy of eloquence.  The “oratory of conviction,” to borrow a phrase of Mr. Bagehot’s, is so rare as to be hardly worth taking into account.  Fox used to say that if a speech read well, it was “a damned bad speech,” which is the final word of cynicism, spoken by one who knew.  It was the saving sense of England, that solid, prosaic, dependable common sense, the bulwark of every great nation, which, after Sheridan’s famous speech, demanding the