But even giving these unpromising facts the least weight possible, the case will practically be not much mended.  The unselfish impulses, let them be diffused never so widely, will be found, as a general rule, to be very limited in power; and to be intense only for short periods, and under exceptional circumstances.  They are intense only—­in the absence of any further motive—­when the thing to be won for another becomes invested for the moment with an abnormal value, and the thing to be lost by oneself becomes abnormally depreciated; when all intermediate possibilities are suddenly swept away from us, and the only surviving alternatives are shame and heroism.  But this never happens, except in the case of great catastrophes, of such, for instance, as a shipwreck; and thus the only conditions under which an impassioned unselfishness can be counted on, are amongst the first conditions that we trust to progress to eliminate.  The common state of life, then, when the feelings are in this normal state of tension, is all that in this connection we can really be concerned in dealing with.  And there, unselfishness, though as sure a fact as selfishness, is, spontaneously and apart from a further motive, essentially unequal to the work it is asked to do.  Thus, though as I observed just now, a man may often prefer to sit on a table and give up the arm-chair to a friend, there are other times when he will be very loth to do so.  He will do so when the pleasure of looking at comfort is greater than the pleasure of feeling it.  And in certain states of mind and body this is very often the case.  But let him be sleepy and really in need of rest, the selfish impulse will at once eclipse the unselfish, and, unless under the action of some alien motive, he will keep the arm-chair for himself.  So, too, in the case of the two epicures, if there be sufficient of the best dainties for both, each will feel that it is so much the better.  But whenever the dainties in question cannot be divided, it will be the tendency of each to take them furtively for himself.

And when we come to the conditions of happiness the matter will be just the same.  If without incommoding ourselves we can, as Professor Huxley says, repress ’all those desires which run counter to the good of mankind,’ we shall no doubt all willingly do so; only in that case little more need be said.  The ‘Civitas Dei’ we are promised may be left to take care of itself, and it will doubtless very soon begin ’to rise like an exhalation.’  But if this self-repression be a matter of great difficulty, and one requiring a constant struggle on our part, it will be needful for us to intensely realise, when we abstain from any action, that the happiness it would take from others will be far greater than the happiness it would give to ourselves.  Suppose, for instance, a man were in love with his friend’s wife, and had engaged on a certain night to take her to the theatre.  He would instantly give the engagement