The　family　may　fairly　be　considered；　one　would　think；　an　ultimate
  human　institution。　　Every　one　would　admit　that　it　has　been
  the　main　cell　and　central　unit　of　almost　all　societies　hitherto；
  except；　indeed；　such　societies　as　that　of　Lacedaemon；　which　went
  in　for　〃efficiency；〃　and　has；　therefore；　perished；　and　left　not
  a　trace　behind。　　Christianity；　even　enormous　as　was　its　revolution；
  did　not　alter　this　ancient　and　savage　sanctity；　it　merely　reversed　it。
  It　did　not　deny　the　trinity　of　father；　mother；　and　child。
  It　merely　read　it　backwards；　making　it　run　child；　mother；　father。
  This　it　called；　not　the　family；　but　the　Holy　Family；
  for　many　things　are　made　holy　by　being　turned　upside　down。
  But　some　sages　of　our　own　decadence　have　made　a　serious　attack
  on　the　family。　　They　have　impugned　it；　as　I　think　wrongly；
  and　its　defenders　have　defended　it；　and　defended　it　wrongly。
  The　common　defence　of　the　family　is　that；　amid　the　stress
  and　fickleness　of　life；　it　is　peaceful；　pleasant；　and　at　one。
  But　there　is　another　defence　of　the　family　which　is　possible；
  and　to　me　evident；　this　defence　is　that　the　family　is　not　peaceful
  and　not　pleasant　and　not　at　one。
  It　is　not　fashionable　to　say　much　nowadays　of　the　advantages　of
  the　small　community。　　We　are　told　that　we　must　go　in　for　large　empires
  and　large　ideas。　　There　is　one　advantage；　however；　in　the　small　state；
  the　city；　or　the　village；　which　only　the　wilfully　blind　can　overlook。
  The　man　who　lives　in　a　small　community　lives　in　a　much　larger　world。
  He　knows　much　more　of　the　fierce　varieties　and　uncompromising　divergences
  of　men。　　The　reason　is　obvious。　　In　a　large　community　we　can　choose
  our　companions。　　In　a　small　community　our　companions　are　chosen　for　us。
  Thus　in　all　extensive　and　highly　civilized　societies　groups　come
  into　existence　founded　upon　what　is　called　sympathy；　and　shut
  out　the　real　world　more　sharply　than　the　gates　of　a　monastery。
  There　is　nothing　really　narrow　about　the　clan；　the　thing　which　is
  really　narrow　is　the　clique。　　The　men　of　the　clan　live　together
  because　they　all　wear　the　same　tartan　or　are　all　descended
  from　the　same　sacred　cow；　but　in　their　souls；　by　the　divine　luck
  of　things；　there　will　always　be　more　colours　than　in　any　tartan。
  But　the　men　of　the　clique　live　together　because　they　have　the　same
  kind　of　soul；　and　their　narrowness　is　a　narrowness　of　spiritual
  coherence　and　contentment；　like　that　which　exists　in　hell。
  A　big　society　exists　in　order　to　form　cliques。　　A　big　society
  is　a　society　for　the　promotion　of　narrowness。　　It　is　a　machinery
  for　the　purpose　of　guarding　the　solitary　and　sensitive　individual
  from　all　experience　of　the　bitter　and　bracing　human　compromises。
  It　is；　in　the　most　literal　sense　of　the　words；　a　society　for
  the　prevention　of　Christian　knowledge。
  We　can　see　this　change；　for　instance；　in　the　modern　transformation
  of　the　thing　called　a　club。　　When　London　was　smaller；　and　the　parts
  of　London　more　self…contained　and　parochial；　the　club　was　what　it
  still　is　in　villages；　the　opposite　of　what　it　is　now　in　great　cities。
  Then　the　club　was　valued　as　a　place　where　a　man　could　be　sociable。
  Now　the　club　is　valued　as　a　place　where　a　man　can　be　unsociable。
  The　more　the　enlargement　and　elaboration　of　our　civilization　goes
  on　the　more　the　club　ceases　to　be　a　place　where　a　man　can　have
  a　noisy　argument；　and　becomes　more　and　more　a　place　where　a　man
  can　have　what　is　somewhat　fantastically　called　a　quiet　chop。
  Its　aim　is　to　make　a　man　comfortable；　and　to　make　a　man　comfortable
  is　to　make　him　the　opposite　of　sociable。　　Sociability；　like　all
  good　things；　is　full　of　discomforts；　dangers；　and　renunciations。
  The　club　tends　to　produce　the　most　degraded　of　all　combinations
  the　luxurious　anchorite；　the　man　who　combines　the　self…indulgence
  of　Lucullus　with　the　insane　loneliness　of　St。　Simeon　Stylites。
  If　we　were　to…morrow　morning　snowed　up　in　the　street　in　which　we　live；
  we　should　step　suddenly　into　a　much　larger　and　much　wilder　world
  than　we　have　ever　known。　　And　it　is　the　whole　effort　of　the　typically
  modern　person　to　escape　from　the　street　in　which　he　lives。
  First　he　invents　modern　hygiene　and　goes　to　Margate。
  Then　he　invents　modern　culture　and　goes　to　Florence。
  Then　he　invents　modern　imperialism　and　goes　to　Timbuctoo。　　He　goes
  to　the　fantastic　borders　of　the　earth。　　He　pretends　to　shoot　tigers。
  He　almost　rides　on　a　camel。　　And　in　all　this　he　is　still　essentially
  fleeing　from　the　street　in　which　he　was　born；　and　of　this　flight
  he　is　always　ready　with　his　own　explanation。　　He　says　he　is　fleeing
  from　his　street　because　it　is　dull；　he　is　lying。　　He　is　really
  fleeing　from　his　street　because　it　is　a　great　deal　too　exciting。
  It　is　exciting　because　it　is　exacting；　it　is　exacting　because　it　is　alive。
  He　can　visit　Venice　because　to　him　the　Venetians　are　only　Venetians；
  the　people　in　his　own　street　are　men。　　He　can　stare　at　the　Chinese
  because　for　him　the　Chinese　are　a　passive　thing　to　be　stared　at；
  if　he　stares　at　the　old　lady　in　the　next　garden；　she　becomes　active。
  He　is　forced　to　flee；　in　short；　from　the　too　stimulating　society
  of　his　equalsof　free　men；　perverse；　personal；　deliberately　different
  from　himself。　　The　street　in　Brixton　is　too　glowing　and　overpowering。
  He　has　to　soothe　and　quiet　himself　among　tigers　and　vultures；
  camels　and　crocodiles。　　These　creatures　are　indeed　very　different
  from　himself。　　But　they　do　not　put　their　shape　or　colour　or
  custom　into　a　decisive　intellectual　competition　with　his　own。
  They　do　not　seek　to　destroy　his　principles　and　assert　their　own；
  the　stranger　monsters　of　the　suburban　street　do　seek　to　do　this。
  The　camel　does　not　contort　his　features　into　a　fine　sneer
  because　Mr。　Robinson　has　not　got　a　hump；　the　cultured　gentleman
  at　No。　5　does　exhibit　a　sneer　because　Robinson　has　not　got　a　dado。
  The　vulture　will　not　roar　with　laughter　because　a　man　does　not　fly；
  but　the　major　at　No。　9　will　roar　with　laughter　because　a　man　does
  not　smoke。　　The　complaint　we　commonly　have　to　make　of　our　neighbours
  is　that　they　will　not；　as　we　express　it；　mind　their　own　business。
  We　do　not　really　mean　that　they　will　not　mind　their　own　business。
  If　our　neighbours　did　not　mind　their　own　business　they　would　be　asked
  abruptly　for　their　rent；　and　would　rapidly　cease　to　be　our　neighbours。
  What　we　really　mean　when　we　say　that　they　cannot　mind　their　own
  business　is　something　much　deeper。　　We　do　not　dislike　them
  because　they　have　so　little　force　and　fire　that　they　cannot
  be　interested　in　themselves。　　We　dislike　them　because　they　have
  so　much　force　and　fire　that　they　can　be　interested　in　us　as　well。
  What　we　dread　about　our　neighbours；　in　short；　is　not　the　narrowness
  of　their　horizon；　but　their　superb　tendency　to　broaden　it。　　And　all
  aversions　to　ordinary　humanity　have　this　general　character。　　They　are
  not　aversions　to　its　feebleness　（as　is　pretended）；　but　to　its　energy。
  The　misanthropes　pretend　that　they　despise　humanity　for　its　weakness。
  As　a　matter　of　fact；　they　hate　it　for　its　strength。
  Of　course；　this　shrinking　from　the　brutal　vivacity　and　brutal
  variety　of　common　men　is　a　perfectly　reasonable　and　excusable
  thing　as　long　as　it　does　not　pretend　to　any　point　of　superiority。
  It　is　when　it　calls　itself　aristocracy　or　aestheticism　or　a　superiority
  to　the　bourgeoisie　that　its　inherent　weakness　has　in　justice
  to　be　pointed　out。　　Fastidiousness　is　the　most　pardonable　of　vices；
  but　it　is　the　most　unpardonable　of　virtues。　　Nietzsche；　who　represents
  most　prominently　this　pretentious　claim　of　the　fastidious；
  has　a　description　somewherea　very　powerful　description　in　the
  purely　literary　senseof　the　disgust　and　disdain　which　consume
  him　at　the　sight　of　the　common　people　with　their　common　faces；
  their　common　voices；　and　their　common　minds。　　As　I　have　said；
  this　attitude　is　almost　beautiful　if　we　may　regard　it　as　pathetic。
  Nietzsche's　aristocracy　has　about　it　all　the　sacredness　that　belongs
  to　the　weak。　　When　he　makes　us　feel　that　he　cannot　endure　the
  innumerable　faces；　the　incessant　voices；　the　overpowering　omnipresence
  which　belongs　to　the　mob；　he　will　have　the　sympathy　of　anybody
  who　has　ever　been　sick　on　a　steamer　or　tired　in　a　crowded　omnibus。
  Every　man　has　hated　mankind　when　he　was　less　than　a　man。
  Every　man　has　had　humanity　in　his　eyes　like　a　blinding　fog；
  humanity　in　his　nostrils　like　a　suffocating　smell。　　But　when　Nietzsche
  has　the　incredible　lack　of　humour　and