not thereby destroy the fabric but only leaves it the more diaphanous. It no longer rustles and crackles but flows instead with the sweeter liquefaction of Julia's silk. This gentle diffusion of her presence is a less obtrusive rôle than satire has hitherto enjoyed but is none the less essential, and in any case it is all that can be allowed by a scientific, democratic society, too well informed to deal only with surfaces, too preoccupied with its own business and desires, such as they are, to worry much about the fiasco others make of theirs, too polite to scold even with wit, and too truly humorous to tolerate the superior pose.
In proportion however, as the individual is spared, the burden of responsibility is shifted to the collected shoulders of the society he has bound himself into. Logically, of course, the collection is no more guilty than its constituents, but it has the advantage of being quite as vulnerable and capable of improvement, and yet not endowed with personal feelings to be wounded or personal ability to retaliate.
So far as there is a definite Victorian contribution to the garner of satire, it lies in this democratization of objects and rationalization of methods. How great an impulse the Victorians gave to the era of agnosticism and revaluation of all ideals whose inception so troubled the waters of their reluctant souls, we never can know. What Shaw, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Rostand, even Wells and Nietzsche, would have been without Peacock, Disraeli, Carlyle, Dickens, George Eliot, Huxley, Meredith, and Butler, is a question that admits of a wide solution. But it is assuredly as foolish to disdain the offerings of a past generation, however erring, ignorant, and prejudiced we may consider it in the light of our own emancipation
