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Notes on the English Character
by E.M. Forster 
First note. I had better let the cat out of the bag at once and record my opinionthat the character of the English is essentially middle class. There is a soundhistorical reason for this, for, since the end of the eighteenth century, the middleclasses have been the dominant force in our community. They gained wealth by theIndustrial Revolution, political power by the Reform Bill of 1832; they areconnected with the rise and organization of the British Empire; they are responsiblefor the literature of the nineteenth century. Solidity, caution, integrity, efficiency.Lack of imagination, hypocrisy. These qualities characterize the middle classes inevery country, but in England they are national characteristics also, because only inEngland have the middle classes been in power for one hundred and fifty years. Napoleon, in his rude way, called us "a nation of shopkeepers." We prefer to callourselves "a great commercial nation" -- it sounds more dignified -- but the two phrases amount to the same. Of course there are other classes: there is anaristocracy, there are the poor. But it is on the middle classes that the eye of thecritic rests -- just as it rests on the poor in Russia and on the aristocracy in Japan.Russia is symbolized by the peasant or by the factory worker; Japan by the samurai;the national figure of England is Mr. Bull with his top hat, his comfortable clothes,his substantial stomach, and his substantial balance at the bank. Saint George maycaper on banners and in the speeches of politicians, but it is John Bull who deliversthe goods. And even Saint George-- if Gibbon is correct-- wore a top hat once; hewas an army contractor and supplied indifferent bacon. It all amounts to the same inthe end.Second Note. Just as the heart of England is the middle classes, so the heart of the middle classes is the public school system. This extraordinary institution is local.It does not even exist all over the British Isles. It is unknown in Ireland, almostunknown in Scotland (countries excluded from my survey), and though it mayinspire other great institutions--Aligarh, for example, and some of the schools in theUnited States--it remains unique, because it was created by the Anglo-Saxon middleclasses, and can flourish only where they flourish. How perfectly it expresses their character -- far better for instance, than does the university, into which social andspiritual complexities have already entered. With its boarding-houses, itscompulsory games, its system of prefects and fagging, its insistence on good formand on
esprit de corps,
it produces a type whose weight is out of all proportion to itsnumbers.On leaving his school, the boy either sets to work at once -- goes into the armyor into business, or emigrates -- or else proceeds to the university, and after three or four years there enters some other profession -- becomes a barrister, doctor, civilservant, schoolmaster, or journalist. (If through some mishap he does not become amanual worker or an artist.) In all these careers his education, or the absence of it,influences him. Its memories influence him also. Many men look back on their 
 
school days as the happiest of their lives. They remember with regret that goldentime when life, though hard, was not yet complex, when they all worked together and played together and thought together, so far as they thought at all; when theywere taught that school is the world in miniature and believed that no one can lovehis country who does not love his school. And they prolong that time as best theycan by joining their Old Boys' society: indeed, some of them remain Old Boys andnothing else for the rest of their lives. They attribute all good to the school. Theyworship it. They quote the remark that "The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton." It is nothing to them that the remark is inapplicablehistorically and was never made by the Duke of Wellington, and that the Duke of Wellington was an Irishman. They go on quoting it because it expresses their sentiments; they feel that if the Duke of Wellington didn't make it he ought to have,and if he wasn't an Englishman he ought to have been. And they go forth into aworld that is not entirely composed of public-school men or even of Anglo-Saxons, but of men who are as various as the sands of the sea; into a world of whoserichness and subtlety they have no conception. They go forth into it with well-developed bodies, fairly developed minds, and undeveloped hearts. And it is thisundeveloped heart that is largely responsible for the difficulties of Englishmenabroad. An undeveloped heart--not a cold one. The difference is important, and on itmy next note will be based.For it is not that the Englishman can't feel -- it is that he is afraid to feel. He has been taught at his public school that feeling is bad form. He must not express great joy or sorrow, or even open his mouth too wide when he talks--his pipe might fallout if he did. He must bottle up his emotions, or let them out only on a very specialoccasion.Once upon a time (this is an anecdote) I went for a week's holiday on theContinent with an Indian friend. We both enjoyed ourselves and were sorry whenthe week was over, but on parting our behaviour was absolutely different. He was plunged in despair.He felt that because the holiday was over all happiness was over until the worldended. He could not express his sorrow too much. But in me the Englishman cameout strong. I reflected that we should meet again in a month or two, and could writein the interval if we had anything to say; and under these circumstances I could notsee what there was to make a fuss about. It wasn't as if we were parting forever or dying. "Buck up," I said, "do buck up." He refused to buck up, and I left him plunged in gloom.The conclusion of the anecdote is even more instructive. For when we met thenext month our conversation threw a good deal of light on the English character. I began by scolding my friend. I told him that he had been wrong to feel and displayso much emotion upon so slight an occasion; that it was inappropriate. The word"inappropriate" roused him to fury. "What?" he cried. "Do you measure out your emotions as if they were potatoes?" I did not like the simile of the potatoes, but after a moment's reflection I said: "Yes, I do; and what's more, I think I ought to. A smalloccasion demands a little emotion just as a large occasion demands a great one. I
 
would like my emotions to be appropriate. This may be measuring them like potatoes, but it is better than slopping them about like water from a pail, which iswhat you did." He did not like the simile of the pail. "If those are your opinions,they part us forever," he cried, and left the room. Returning immediately, he added:"No--but your whole attitude toward emotion is wrong. Emotion has nothing to dowith appropriateness. It matters only that it shall be sincere. I happened to feeldeeply. I showed it. It doesn't matter whether I ought to have felt deeply or not."This remark impressed me very much. Yet I could not agree with it, and saidthat I valued emotion as much as he did, but used it differently; if I poured it out onsmall occasions I was afraid of having none left for the great ones, and of being bankrupt at the crises of life. Note the word "bankrupt." I spoke as a member of a prudent middle-class nation, always anxious to meet my liabilities, but my friendspoke as an Oriental, and the Oriental has behind him a tradition, not of middle-class prudence but of kingly munificence and splendour. He feels his resources areendless, just as John Bull feels his are finite. As regards material resources, theOriental is clearly unwise. Money isn't endless. If we spend or give away all themoney we have, we haven't any more, and must take the consequences, which arefrequently unpleasant. But, as regards the resources of the spirit, he may be right.The emotions may be endless. The more we express them, the more we may have toexpress.True love in this differs from gold and clay,That to divide is not to take away.Says Shelley. Shelley, at all events, believes that the wealth of the spirit is endless;that we may express it copiously, passionately, and always; that we can never feelsorrow or joy too acutely.In the above anecdote, I have figured as a typical Englishman. I will nowdescend from that dizzy and somewhat unfamiliar height, and return to my businessof notetaking. A note on the slowness of the English character. The Englishmanappears to be cold and unemotional because he is really slow. When an eventhappens, he may understand it quickly enough with his mind, but he takes quite awhile to feel it. Once upon a time a coach, containing some Englishmen and someFrenchmen, was driving over the Alps. The horses ran away, and as they weredashing across a bridge the coach caught on the stonework, tottered, and nearly fellinto the ravine below. The Frenchmen were frantic with terror: they screamed andgesticulated and flung themselves about, as Frenchmen would. The Englishmen satquite calm. An hour later, the coach drew up at an inn to change horses, and by thattime the situations were exactly reversed. The Frenchmen had forgotten all about thedanger, and were chattering gaily; the Englishmen had just begun to feel it, and onehad a nervous breakdown and was obliged to go to bed. We have here a clear  physical difference between the two races--a difference that goes deep intocharacter. The Frenchmen responded at once; the Englishmen responded in time.They were slow and they were also practical. Their instinct forbade them to throw
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