Affectionately,

     W.H.P.

     To Walter H. Page, Jr.[32].

     London, Christmas, 1915.

     SIR: 

For your first Christmas, I have the honour to send you my most affectionate greetings; and in wishing you all good health, I take the liberty humbly to indicate some of the favours of fortune that I am pleased to think I enjoy in common with you.

First—­I hear with pleasure that you are quite well content with yourself—­not because of a reasoned conviction of your own worth, which would be mere vanity and unworthy of you, but by reason of a philosophical disposition.  It is too early for you to bother over problems of self-improvement—­as for me it is too late; wherefore we are alike in the calm of our self-content.  What others may think or say about us is a subject of the smallest concern to us.  Therefore they generally speak well of us; for there is little satisfaction in speaking ill of men who care nothing for your opinion of them.  Then, too, we are content to be where we happen to be—­a fact that we did not order in the beginning and need not now concern ourselves about.  Consider the eternal coming and going of folk.  On every road many are travelling one way and an equal number are travelling the other way.  It is obvious that, if they were all content to remain at the places whence they set forth, the distribution of the population would be the same.  Why therefore move hither and yon at the cost of much time and labour and money, since nothing is accomplished thereby?  We spare ourselves by being content to remain where we are.  We thereby have the more time for reflection.  Nor can we help observing with a smile that all persons who have good reasons to see us themselves make the necessary journey after they discover that we remain fixed.

Again, people about us are continually doing this service and that for some other people—­running errands, mending fences, bearing messages, building, and tearing down; and they all demand equal service in return.  Thus a large part of mankind keeps itself in constant motion like bubbles of water racing around a pool at the foot of a water-fall—­or like rabbits hurrying into their warrens and immediately hurrying out again.  Whereas, while these antics amuse and sadden us, we for the most part remain where we are.  Hence our wants are few; they are generally most courteously supplied without our asking; or, if we happen to be momentarily forgotten, we can quickly secure anything in the neighbourhood by a little judicious squalling.  Why, then, should we whirl as bubbles or scurry as rabbits?  Our conquering self-possession gives a masterful charm to life that the victims of perpetual locomotion never seem to attain.

You have discovered, and my experience confirms yours, that a perpetual self-consciousness brings most of the misery of the world.