“Some people are not so far advanced as others,” said Virginia, “and the others lift them up with laws. Some people are undeveloped, like animals.” We could not help laughing at Virginia, with her eternal animals. “You remember,” I said, “I spoke to you of past virtues that were good in their time, because the time was ripe only for them, and that in their own setting interest and delight us, and remain forever beautiful, like old pictures, but which would now be ugly, bad and out-of-place. Revenge is an example. How the old stories of revenge stir and even uplift us, and yet how hateful is the idea of revenge in modern life! You remember being thrilled and stirred by the heroism of some old duel, whereas you could find no beauty or heroism in any duel at the present time.” “I think,” said Ruth, “it is often the language in which the thing is put that stirs us.” “It is the spirit of the time and place,” I said. “No language could make a duel in New York, among educated people, inspiring or heroic. With war it is the same. Old wars and wars among savages may inspire us, because of the heroism and comradeship of the fighters. But among modern nations even the justified war must be somewhat disgusting, because now far more heroism is required in other works, and comradeship can mean no less than all mankind. “Now,” said I, “can any of you think of another virtue, like justice, which is a substitute for understanding love?” “Yes,” said Florence; “I think that pity is.” “Pity?” I said. “Yes—perhaps. Still, that is somewhat different. Pity was good once, because it was feeling, and feeling is the root of all understanding and sympathy. But self-torturing pity seems to me a weakness. Sympathy is quite a different, a stronger, a braver thing. Who agrees with me?” First, they said, would I explain exactly what I meant? “Sympathy seems to me understanding and love, such as you have for yourself. You are willing to suffer, since it is a part of life and a part of the way. You want to suffer for the cause, if necessary; not otherwise. But you don’t pity yourself. You would be ashamed to make so much of your pain. So you do not pity others. You love them, you feel with them, you help them bravely. You can bear their pain without making a fuss over them, as you would bear your own. You consider them as strong and brave as yourself.” They all agreed with me, save Virginia. She said: “If I step by accident on the foot of a little dog, and he cries out, then that hurts me. And I think it is good, because then I know how I would feel if I were a little dog, and I try not to do it again. Isn’t that pity?” “Perhaps,” I said; “we are apt to pity lower creatures. But there is no good in the mere feeling of physical pain that goes with such things, of the pain and thrill up and down your spine when you hurt any creature accidentally, and hear it cry out.” “Don’t you think,” asked Alfred, “it is only because they cry out that we feel it?”