effects, the lines of this strenuous indomitable nature are full of
impressiveness.[3] But one ought to be able to appreciate the
distinction and strength of the father, and yet also be able to see that
the distinction of the son's strength was in truth more really
impressive still. We encounter a modesty that almost speaks the language
of fatalism. Pieces of good fortune that most people would assuredly
have either explained as due to their own penetration, or to the
recognition of their worth by others, or else would have refrained from
dwelling upon, as being no more than events of secondary importance, are
by Mr. Mill invariably recognised at their full worth or even above it,
and invariably spoken of as fortunate accidents, happy turns in the
lottery of life, or in some other quiet fatalistic phrase, expressive of
his deep feeling how much we owe to influences over which we have no
control and for which we have no right to take any credit. His saying
that 'it would be a blessing if the doctrine of necessity could be
believed by all _quoad_ the characters of others, and disbelieved in
regard to their own' (p. 169), went even further than that, for he
teaches us to accept the doctrine of necessity _quoad_ the most marked
felicities of life and character, and to lean lightly or not at all
upon it in regard to our demerits. Humility is a rationalistic, no less
than a Christian grace--not humility in face of error or arrogant
pretensions or selfishness, nor a humility that paralyses energetic
effort, but a steadfast consciousness of all the good gifts which our
forerunners have made ready for us, and of the weight of our
responsibility for transmitting these helpful forces to a new
generation, not diminished but augmented.

[Footnote 3: In an interesting volume (_The Minor Works of George
Grote_, edited by Alexander Bain. London: Murray), we find Grote
confirming Mr. Mill's estimate of his father's psychagogic quality. 'His
unpremeditated oral exposition,' says Grote of James Mill, 'was hardly
less effective than his prepared work with the pen; his colloquial
fertility in philosophical subjects, his power of discussing himself,
and stimulating others to discuss, his ready responsive inspirations
through all the shifts and windings of a sort of Platonic dialogue,--all
these accomplishments were to those who knew him, even more impressive
than what he composed for the press. Conversation with him was not
merely instructiv