Both Mr. Low and Lord Chiltern were equally urgent with him to return to his usual mode of life—using different arguments for their purpose. Lord Chiltern told him plainly that he was weak and womanly—or rather that he would be were he to continue to dread the faces of his fellow-creatures. The Master of the Brake hounds himself was a man less gifted than Phineas Finn, and therefore hardly capable of understanding the exaggerated feelings of the man who had recently been tried for his life. Lord Chiltern was affectionate, tenderhearted, and true;—but there were no vacillating fibres in his composition. The balance which regulated his conduct was firmly set, and went well. The clock never stopped, and wanted but little looking after. But the works were somewhat rough, and the seconds were not scored. He had, however, been quite true to Phineas during the dark time, and might now say what he pleased. “I am womanly,” said Phineas. “I begin to feel it. But I can’t alter my nature.”
“I never was so much surprised in my life,” said Lord Chiltern. “When I used to look at you in the dock, by heaven I envied you your pluck and strength.”
“I was burning up the stock of coals, Chiltern.”
“You’ll come all right after a few weeks. You’ve been knocked out of time;—that’s the truth of it.”
Mr. Low treated his patient with more indulgence; but he also was surprised, and hardly understood the nature of the derangement of the mechanism in the instrument which he was desirous of repairing. “I should go abroad for a few months if I were you,” said Mr. Low.
“I should stick at the first inn I got to,” said Phineas. “I think I am better here. By and bye I shall travel, I dare say—all over the world, as far as my money will last. But for the present I am only fit to sit still.”
Mrs. Low had seen him more than once, and had been very kind to him; but she also failed to understand. “I always thought that he was such a manly fellow,” she said to her husband.
“If you mean personal courage, there is no doubt that he possesses it—as completely now, probably, as ever.”
“Oh yes;—he could go over to Flanders and let that lord shoot at him; and he could ride brutes of horses, and not care about breaking his neck. That’s not what I mean. I thought that he could face the world with dignity;—but now it seems that he breaks down.”
“He has been very roughly used, my dear.”
“So he has—and tenderly used too. Nobody has had better friends. I thought he would have been more manly.”
The property of manliness in a man is a great possession, but perhaps there is none that is less understood—which is more generally accorded where it does not exist, or more frequently disallowed where it prevails. There are not many who ever make up their minds as to what constitutes manliness, or even inquire within themselves upon the subject. The woman’s error, occasioned by her natural desire for a master, leads her to look for a certain outward magnificence of demeanour, a pretended indifference to stings and little torments, a would-be superiority to the bread-and-butter side of life, an unreal assumption of personal grandeur. But a robe of State such as this—however well the garment may be worn with practice—can never be the raiment natural to a man; and men, dressing themselves in women’s eyes, have consented to walk about in buckram. A composure of the eye, which has been studied, a reticence as to the little things of life, a certain slowness of speech unless the occasion call for passion, an indifference to small surroundings, these—joined, of course, with personal bravery—are supposed to constitute manliness. That personal bravery is required in the composition of manliness must be conceded, though, of all the ingredients needed, it is the lowest in value. But the first requirement of all must be described by a negative. Manliness is not compatible with affectation. Women’s virtues, all feminine attributes, may be marred by affectation, but the virtues and the vice may coexist. An affected man, too, may be honest, may be generous, may be pious;—but surely he cannot be manly. The self-conscious assumption of any outward manner, the striving to add—even though it be but a tenth of a cubit to the height—is fatal, and will at once banish the all but divine attribute. Before the man can be manly, the gifts which make him so must be there, collected by him slowly, unconsciously, as are his bones, his flesh, and his blood. They cannot be put on like a garment for the nonce—as may a little learning. A man cannot become faithful to his friends, unsuspicious before the world, gentle with women, loving with children, considerate to his inferiors, kindly with servants, tenderhearted with all—and at the same time be frank, of open speech, with springing eager energies—simply because he desires it. These things, which are the attributes of manliness, must come of training on a nature not ignoble. But they are the very opposites, the antipodes, the direct antagonism, of that staring, posed, bewhiskered and bewigged deportment, that nil admirari, self-remembering assumption of manliness, that endeavour of twopence halfpenny to look as high as threepence, which, when you prod it through, has in it nothing deeper than deportment. We see the two things daily, side by side, close to each other. Let a man put his hat down, and you shall say whether he has deposited it with affectation or true nature. The natural man will probably be manly. The affected man
