# Diogenes of London (collection)/A Plea for Inconstancy

pp. 191–195.

### A PLEA FOR INCONSTANCY

CONSTANCY has always received an improper meed of praise at the hands of the moralists. At the best it is a dull virtue, of no special allurements for the young and beautiful, fitter for dusty age, and no doubt a comfort in the grave. It would be easy to tell the advantages of this respectable quality, which, in truth, lie upon the surface, and make a pretty show at first sight; but its adherent failings are even more eminently visible upon deeper consideration. Constancy is the fruit of a social convenience, the heirloom from a time when solid comforts went for more than an exact delight in the offerings of Nature. The ambition of the barbarians that once we were was to live in perfect ease, with as few distractions from the engrossing appetites as possible, and with as small a spiritual reflection as might be. Constancy was to these the happiest expedient, being in a manner a moral assurance that in regard to one concern of life at least they were to be at no trouble or expense. But though the invention of the virtue was felicitous in the extreme, its tradition to our days is not wholly as welcome. Constancy, to speak plainly, is a most stagnant virtue, and one that should reflect little credit upon its exhibitor. It is one that is achieved with ridiculous ease, consumes little time, and occupies few faculties. It makes no call upon the intellect nor upon the soul; it is neither discreet nor voluntary: but is in the main a blind, mute instinct as mechanical and uninspiring as the tenacious grip of a lobster or the unreasoning attachment of a limpet. Two such primordial creatures duly juxtaposed will grow together as a matter of course, lacking the natural impetus to wander from each other. The horizon of the constant is limited, their environment has narrow bounds; they themselves are sparingly percipient and massively lethargic. So that it would seem that those who cultivate this false virtue affect the distinctive quality of an inferior organisation. Constancy is the cheap possession of the mediocre. It is followed by its adherent as naturally as the mule will chase the carrots dangling in his blinkers, or the tame horse follow after his own nose. It needs no incentive to pursue, no more than does a wheel to run down an incline or a dog to go baying at the noises in the air. It is the inherited habit of the dull and docile to be faithful; and to break through this habit is no more possible than for a machine to have a mind of its own. It is nothing to the credit of the train that once set a steaming it keeps to the appointed lines; but should it take to leaping the hedges, there were some original spirit here. Constancy is the obvious, the commonplace, the mechanical, the necessary, if you will (for it is doubtless indispensable to the work of the world); but it is singularly unhandsome and unromantic.
Constancy is the sepulture of admiration, and has, indeed, an ugly look of death itself; while inconstancy, on the other hand, is always alert and vital. To take the surest pleasure in the world's many lovely possessions we must have inconstant hearts, which shall find rest nor stop in no one thing, but keep perpetually astir. A protracted devotion to a single object is a reckless extravagance of time and soul; and there is no more dismal fate than thus to fall into an infatuated absorption, and become heedless of other opportunities of joy. The plight of one who had put such a wall to his affections were deplorable, for he would be no partner with Time in the eternal changes. Constancy, it may be, runs deep and strong, but it runs also narrow; whereas inconstancy gads in a broad stream, indifferently ecstatic. Its bed is here to-day and there to-morrow, and the day after somewhere else; none can foretell its eccentric courses; for there is but one thing certain—that it will flow through the best and choicest pastures. Inconstancy is the dilettante, constancy the poor professional content with the humdrum round. The one is a brave rogue, the other but a sober-coated citizen. Life full of faithfulness were too puritan, too dogmatic, too grey and reputable; its little infidelities give to it a dainty colour and a jaunty air. The constant soul answers but to one strain and is insensible of foreign melodies; the inconstant has an ear for the newest and rarest music. The one is a connoisseur, the other an ignoramus. The world lies open to inconstancy; constancy keeps the gate locked upon itself, and in its moments of self-distrust is minded to lose the key and thank God for a good deed. Should it be tempted for an instant out of its melancholy fidelity, it will withdraw from the beguiler precipately and go to grass again in all humility and penitence.
But it is possible to excuse the inconstant on somewhat more material grounds. They live in accordance with the laws of natural change as with the regulations of their own being. It would be an affront to one's personal design to pick but one of several attractions. Nature, a worthy exemplar and pattern, is immutably fickle, and be assured it is against her wish and precept if we alone are still and changeless. She has an elegant dislike to monotony, and expends herself in dodging it; and she has informed us with the same shifting tastes. We weary of a dress, we weary of a fare, of a scene, of a company; and why should it be for a reproach that we weary also of a passion? It is only an absurd tradition that discriminates between these different pleasures. And, in a word, to be done with logic, those who obey their own fancies in this matter, and not an austere ordinance, will find their plainest justification in the issues of their conduct. Inconstancy, be it known now and for all time, is the one superior of death. Our deepest pains come of long fellowship and plethoric association: these will the inconstant avoid. We do not mourn the unknown nor the indifferently acquainted; so too a passing admiration will entail merely a passing regret. Some are crushed to the earth by loss as by an intolerable burden; these are the prosaic faithful: and this is their reward—they go down into the dust of their own sorrow. But the inconstant may endure many such trials without discomfiture; having paid their respects to the past they have still the future. They take off their hats to trouble, but are on more intimate terms with happiness. Day by day they come freshly to their pleasure, as the bee to its work, under no obligation to attend one flower rather than another, with no regret for the last if the next will serve as well, and with no silly vows of permanent devotion. Life is most insecure; it needs that Love also should be.