grounds of his beliefs and judgments, no less than for frankness and courage in the expression of them. In a word, we must insist on enlightenment—on the intellectual as much as the narrowly called moral aspect of the matter.
And this leads us to the conclusion that veracity, at bottom, signifies nothing less than the cultivation of a love of truth for its own sake, and is, therefore, fundamentally synonymous with intellectual integrity, absolute soundness and sanity of mind. Observe, then, the further implication. To complete our conception of veracity we have to remember that it means not alone speaking the truth, not alone proper care in ascertaining what is truth, but also thoroughgoing, unhesitating readiness to accept fact as fact, no matter how unpleasant it may seem to be. This point needs emphasis; for, hard as it may appear to have to say so, there are very few of us who are not, at some times, under some circumstances, guilty of imagining that what we like is the final measure and criterion of what is; few, therefore, who in practice live up to that ideal of complete mental honesty which demands repudiation of all prejudice, snap judgment, self-delusion, make-believe, a stern determination to see things as they are, and the corresponding willingness to adjust ourselves resolutely and without murmur to what is shown to be reality. Presented with a new idea, we are too often inclined to ask—not. What is the evidence for or against it? but. How will it suit my tastes?—not, Is it true? but, How is it likely to affect my present creed? But only when we feel able to declare with Clough, "Fact shall be fact for me, and truth the truth as ever"; to realize with Amiel that "the world must adapt itself to truth, not truth to the world"; and acknowledge with Froude that "whatever the truth may be it is best that we should know it"; and, at the same time, carrying these principles out into practice, make them the impelling and guiding forces of our lives—then, and then only, have we a right to say that our intellectual foundations are deeply and firmly laid.
But such a result requires self-culture of the widest as well as the severest kind, for it calls for balance and regulation of feeling no less than for mental alertness, vigor, clearness, and honesty. Before we can "see life steadily, and see it whole" we must have the entire nature under the complete control of that conscience of the intellect to which reference has been made; we must have trained ourselves up to a degree of fortitude sufficient to bear without flinching what Bagehot once described as the sharpest of all pains—the pain of a new and unwelcome idea. Often enough a fresh truth will bring us not comfort or the sense of satisfaction, but the reverse of these—doubt, misgiving, heart-anguish, agony of mind. The peace and joy which we once found in an older order of thought may hence-
