THE trouble with fiction is that it exalts emotion as a feature of strong character. Great writers and small make you bow the knee before the man or woman who meets a crisis with a noble emotion — not just enough emotion to lead to the right action at the right moment, but what they have stereotyped into "a very flood of emotion." Somehow as a result of this idea saturating books, traditions, and school instruction, men and women begin to gauge their own characters by their capacities to "feel deeply" on certain occasions — as though there were any particular moral worth in increased heart action and a rush of blood to the head. A glass of old port, or a sufficient number of strong cigars, or a hundred yards' dash will produce the same results. You may experience through them the very similar sense of satisfaction with yourself that is produced by helping a friend out of a scrape or saving the life of your brother — that is if you are built on the emotional plan which has been approved so long as an index of character.

      But everybody isn't of that kind. There is a sprinkling of fine robust men and women who go along doing their work, and taking pleasure and duty with equanimity, and accomplishing considerable good without any particular emotional excitement on their part. These are the people who are always characterized as "cold," "unsympathetic," or "self-seeking." They never get any credit for a good action because the world believes they did it for "reasons" — presumably selfish. You never hear them spoken of with enthusiasm as men and women of "character" — that term is reserved for the flashing eye, the sympathetic voice, and the good deed that is done dramatically. There is no insinuation of hypocrisy against this type of man. He is, we believe, sincere, lovable, and a force that makes for happiness. But he has been exalted too long, we venture, at the expense of his brother whose respiration is not so easily affected by what he sees or hears.

      The expression "cold-blooded villain" has become a truism, and there are many estimable men of equable temper who occasionally think that, as all the world believes it, they must have in themselves the capacity for unlimited villainy. They say to themselves, "If all good and great men experience such emotion, as described in the best literature, on the loss of father, mother, fortune, sweetheart — then we must be wofully lacking in the best qualities of human nature." They don't worry over it — for that is a distinguishing trait of theirs, not to "worry" themselves or anybody else. They get their reward by missing many of the accidents of life, by escaping the importunities of professional philanthropists, by not being expected to do much for their friends and relatives, and by living serenely in the midst of turmoil, and dying at the right time — for the vital machinery of such men is apt to run strong and efficiently to the last, and stop suddenly.

Drock