THE ETHICS OF DRINK AND OTHER SOCIAL QUESTIONS_OR__JOINTS IN OUR SOCIAL ARMOUR_

BY JAMES RUNCIMAN_Author of "A Dream of the North Sea, " "Skippers and Shellbacks, " Etc_

LondonHODDER AND STOUGHTON27, PATERNOSTER ROWMDCCCXCII [1892]

_THE ETHICS OF THE DRINK QUESTION_. 

All the statistics and formal statements published about drink are nodoubt impressive enough to those who have the eye for that kind ofthing; but, to most of us, the word "million" means nothing at all, andthus when we look at figures, and find that a terrific number of gallonsare swallowed, and that an equally terrific amount in millions sterlingis spent, we feel no emotion. It is as though you told us that athousand Chinamen were killed yesterday; for we should think more aboutthe ailments of a pet terrier than about the death of the Chinese, andwe think absolutely nothing definite concerning the "millions" whichappear with such an imposing intention when reformers want to stir thepublic. No man's imagination was ever vitally impressed by figures, andI am a little afraid that the statistical gentlemen repel people insteadof attracting them. The persons who screech and abuse the drink sellersare even less effective than the men of figures; their opponents laughat them, and their friends grow deaf and apathetic in the storm ofwhirling words, while cool outsiders think that we should be betteremployed if we found fault with ourselves and sat in sackcloth and ashesinstead of gnashing teeth at tradesmen who obey a human instinct. Thepublican is considered, among platform folk in the temperance body, aseven worse than a criminal, if we take all things seriously that theychoose to say, and I have over and over again heard vague blather aboutconfiscating the drink-sellers' property and reducing them to the stateto which they have brought others. Then there is the rant regardingbrewers. Why forget essential business only in order to attack a classof plutocrats whom we have made, and whom our society worships withodious grovellings? The brewers and distillers earn their money byconcocting poisons which cause nearly all the crime and misery in broadBritain; there is not a soul living in these islands who does not knowthe effect of the afore-named poisons; there is not a soul living whodoes not very well know that there never was a pestilence crawling overthe earth which could match the alcoholic poisons in murderous power. There is a demand for these poisons; the brewer and distiller supply thedemand and gain thereby large profits; society beholds the profits andadores the brewer. When a gentleman has sold enough alcoholic poison togive him the vast regulation fortune which is the drink-maker'sinevitable portion, then the world receives him with welcome andreverence; the rulers of the nation search out honours and meekly bestowthem upon him, for can he not command seats, and do not seats meanpower, and does not power enable talkative gentry to feed themselves fatout of the parliamentary trough? No wonder the brewer is a personage. Honours which used to be reserved for men who did brave deeds, orthought brave thoughts, are reserved for persons who have done nothingbut sell so many buckets of alcoholized fluid. Observe what happens whensome brewer's wife chooses to spend £5000 on a ball. I remember oneexcellent lady carefully boasting (for the benefit of the Press) thatthe flowers alone that were in her house on one evening cost in all£2000. Well, the mob of society folk fairly yearn for invitations tosuch a show, and there is no meanness too despicable to be perpetratedby women who desire admission. So through life the drink-maker and hisfamily fare in dignity and splendour; adulation surrounds them; powerfulmen bow to the superior force of money; wealth accumulates until theamount in the brewer's possession baffles the mind that tries toconceive it--and the big majority of our interesting race say that allthis is good. Considering, then, how the English people directly andindirectly force the man of drink onward until he must of necessityfancy there is something of the moral demi-god about him; consideringhow he is wildly implored to aid in ruling us from Westminster;considering that his aid at an election may procure him the same honourwhich fell to the share of William Pitt, Earl of Chatham--may we not saythat the community makes the brewer, and that if the brewer's stuff marsthe community we have no business to howl at him. We are answerable forhis living, and moving, and having his being--the few impulsive peoplewho gird at him should rather turn in shame and try to make someimpression on the huge, cringing, slavering crowd who make theplutocrat's pompous reign possible. 

But for myself, I cannot be bothered with bare figures and vague abusenowadays; abstractions are nothing, and neat arguments are less thannothing, because the dullest quack that ever quacked can always clenchan argument in a fashion. Every turn that talk can take on the drinkquestion brings the image of some man or woman, or company of men andwomen, before me, and that image is alive to my mind. If you pelt mewith tabular forms, and tell me that each adult in Britain drank so manypints last year, you might just as well recite a mathematical proof. Ifix on some one human figure that your words may suggest and the imageof the bright lad whom I saw become a dirty, loafing, thievish sot ismore instructive and more woeful than all your columns of numerals. 

Before me passes a tremendous procession of the lost: I can stop itsmarch when I choose and fix on any given individual in the ranks, sothat you can hardly name a single fact concerning drink, which does notrecall to me a fellow-creature who has passed into the place of wreckedlives and slain souls. The more I think about it the more plainly I seethat, if we are to make any useful fight against drink, we must drop thepreachee-preachee; we must drop loud execrations of the people whoseexistence the State fosters; we must get hold of men who _know_ whatdrinking means, and let them come heart to heart with the victims whoare blindly tramping on to ruin for want of a guide and friend. Myhideous procession of the damned is always there to importune me; Igathered the dolorous recruits who form the procession when I wasdwelling in strange, darkened ways, and I know that only the magnetismof the human soul could ever have saved one of them. If anybody fanciesthat Gothenburg systems, or lectures, or little tiresome tracts, orsloppy yarns about "Joe Tomkins's Temperance Turkey, " or effusiveharangues by half-educated buffoons, will ever do any good, he must runalong the ranks of my procession with me, and I reckon he may learnsomething. The comic personages who deal with the subject are cruellyuseless; the very notion of making jokes in presence of such a mightyliving Terror seems desolating to the mind; I could not joke over thepest of drink, for I had as lief dance a hornpipe to the blare of thelast Trumpet. 

I said you must have men who _know_, if you care to rescue any temptedcreature. You must also have men who address the individual and get fasthold of his imagination; abstractions must be completely left alone, andyour workers must know so much of the minute details of the horroragainst which they are fighting that each one who comes under theirinfluence shall feel as if the story of his life were known and his soullaid bare. I do not believe that you will ever stop one man fromdrinking by means of legislation; you may level every tavern over twentysquare miles, but you will not thereby prevent a fellow who has the_bite_ of drink from boozing himself mad whenever he likes. As forstopping a woman by such merely mechanical means as the closing ofpublic-houses, the idea is ridiculous to anybody who knows the foxycunning, the fixed determination of a female soaker. It is a great moraland physical problem that we want to solve, and Bills and clauses areonly so much ink and paper which are ineffective as a schoolboy'scopybook. If a man has the desire for alcohol there is no power knownthat can stop him from gratifying himself; the end to be aimed at is toremove the desire--to get the drinker past that stage when the cravingpresses hardly on him, and you can never bring that about by rules andregulations. I grant that the clusters of drink-shops which are stucktogether in the slums of our big towns are a disgrace to all of us, butif we closed 99 per cent. Of them by Statute we should have the samedrunken crew left. While wandering far and wide over England, nothinghas struck me more than the steady resolution with which men will obtaindrink during prohibited hours; the cleverest administrator in the worldcould not frame a network of clauses that could stop them; one mightclose every drink-selling place in Britain, and yet those folks that hada mind would get drink when they wanted it. You may ply bolts and bars;you may stop the working of beer-engines and taps; but all will befutile, for I repeat, that only by asserting power over hearts, souls, imaginations, can you make any sort of definite resistance to theawe-striking plague that envenoms the world. With every humility I amobliged to say that many of the good people who aim at reform do notknow sufficiently well the central facts regarding drink and drinkers. It is beautiful to watch some placid man who stands up and talks gentlyto a gathering of sympathizers. The reposeful face, the reposeful voice, the refinement, the assured faith of the speaker are comforting; butwhen he explains that he has always been an abstainer, I am inclined towonder how he can possibly exchange ideas with an alcoholized man. How_can_ he know where to aim his persuasions with most effect? Can hereally sympathize with the fallen? He has never lived with drunkards orwastrels; he is apart, like a star, and I half think that he only has ablurred vision of the things about which he talks so sweetly. He wouldbe more poignant, and more likely to draw people after him, if he hadliving images burned into his consciousness. My own set of pictures allstand out with ghastly plainness as if they were lit up by streaks offire from the Pit. I have come through the Valley of the Shadow intowhich I ventured with a light heart, and those who know me might pointand say what was said of a giant: "There is the man who has been inhell. " It was true. Through the dim and sordid inferno, I moved as in atrance for awhile, and that is what makes me so keen to warn those whofancy they are safe; that is what makes me so discontented with thepeculiar ethical conceptions of a society which bows down before theconcocter of drink and spurns the lost one whom drink seizes. I havelearned to look with yearning pity and pardon on all who have beenblasted in life by their own weakness, and gripped by the trap intowhich so many weakly creatures stumble. Looking at brutal life, catchingthe rotting soul in the very fact, have made me feel the most carelesscontempt for Statute-mongers, because I know now that you must conquerthe evil of evils by a straight appeal to one individual after anotherand not by any screed of throttling jargon. One Father Mathew would beworth ten Parliaments, even if the Parliaments were all reeling offcurative measures with unexampled velocity. You must not talk to acounty or a province and expect to be heard to any purpose; you mustaddress John, and Tom, and Mary. I am sure that dead-lift individualeffort will eventually reduce the ills arising from alcohol to aminimum, and I am equally sure that the blind groping of half-informedmen who chatter at St. Stephen's will never do more good than thechatter of the same number of jackdaws. It is impossible to helpadmiring Sir Wilfrid Lawson's smiling courage, but I really do notbelieve that he sees more than the faint shadows of the evils againstwhich he struggles; he does not know the true nature of the task whichhe has attacked, and he fancies that securing temperance is an affair ofbolts, and bars, and police, and cackling local councils. I wish he hadlived with me for a year. 

If you talk with strong emotion about the dark horror of drink youalways earn plenty of jibes, and it is true that you do give your handaway, as the fighting men say. It is easy to turn off a light paragraphlike this: "Because A chooses to make a beast of himself, is that anyreason why B, and C, and D should be deprived of a wholesome article ofliquid food?"--and so on. Now, I do not want to trouble B, and C, and Dat all; A is my man, and I want to get at him, not by means of apoliceman, or a municipal officer of any kind, but by bringing my souland sympathy close to him. Moreover, I believe that if everybody haddefinite knowledge of the wide ruin which is being wrought by drinkthere would be a general movement which would end in the gradualdisappearance of drinking habits. At this present, however, our state istruly awful, and I see a bad end to it all, and a very bad end toEngland herself, unless a great emotional impulse travels over thecountry. The same middle class which is envenomed by the gamblingmadness is also the heir of all the more vile habits which thearistocrats have abandoned. Drinking--conviviality I think they callit--is not merely an excrescence on the life of the middle class--it_is_ the life; and work, thought, study, seemly conduct, are now theexcrescences. Drink first, gambling second, lubricity third--those arethe chief interests of the young men, and I cannot say that theinterests of mature and elderly men differ very much from those of thefledglings. Ladies and gentlemen who dwell in quiet refinement canhardly know the scenes amid which our middle-class lad passes the spanof his most impressionable days. I have watched the men at all times andin all kinds of places; every town of importance is very well known tome, and the same abomination is steadily destroying the higher life inall. The Chancellors of the Exchequer gaily repeat the significantfigures which give the revenue from alcohol; the optimist says thattimes are mending; the comfortable gentry who mount the pulpits do notgenerally care to ruffle the fine dames by talking about unpleasantthings--and all the while the curse is gaining, and the betting, scoffing, degraded crew of drinkers are sliding merrily to destruction. Some are able to keep on the slide longer than others, but I have seenscores--hundreds--stop miserably, and the very faces of the condemnedmen, with the last embruted look on them, are before me. My subject hasso many thousands of facets that I am compelled to select a few of themost striking. Take one scene through which I sat not very long ago, andthen you may understand how far the coming regenerator will have to go. A great room was filled by about 350 men and lads, all of the middleclass; a concert was going on, and I was a little curious to know thekind of entertainment which the well-dressed company liked. Of coursethere was drink in plenty, and the staff of waiters had a busy time; aloud crash of talk went on between the songs, and, as the drink gatheredpower on excited brains, this crash grew more and more discordant. Nicelads, with smooth, pleasant faces, grew flushed and excited, and I amafraid that I occupied myself in marking out possible careers for a goodmany of them as I studied their faces. There was not much fun of thehealthy kind; fat, comfortable, middle-aged men laughed so heartily atthe faintest indecent allusion that the singers grew broader andbroader, and the hateful music-hall songs grew more and more risky asthe night grew onward. By the way, can anything be more loathsomelyidiotic than the average music-hall ditty, with its refrain and itsquaint stringing together of casual filthiness? If I had not wanted tofix a new picture on my mind I should have liked better to be in atap-room among honestly brutal costers and scavengers than with thatsniggering, winking gang. The drink got hold, glasses began to be brokenhere and there, the time was beaten with glass crushers, spoons, pipes, and walking-sticks; and then the bolder spirits felt that the time forgood, rank, unblushing blackguardism had come. A being stepped up andfaced a roaring audience of enthusiasts who knew the quality of hisdirtiness; he launched out into an unclean stave, and he reduced hisadmirers to mere convulsions. He was encored, and he went a triflefurther, until he reached a depth of bestiality below which a gaff inShoreditch could net descend. Ah! Those bonny lads, how they roared withlaughter, and how they exchanged winks with grinning elders! Not asingle obscure allusion to filth was lost upon them, and they took moreand more drink under pressure of the secret excitement until many ofthem were unsteady and incoherent. I think I should shoot a boy of mineif I found him enjoying such a foul entertainment. It was léze-Humanity. The orgie rattled on, to the joy of all the steaming, soddened company, and I am not able to guess where some of the songs and recitations camefrom. There are deeps below deeps, and I suppose that there are skilledliterary workmen who have sunk so far that they are ready to supply theunspeakable dirt which I heard. 

There was a merry crowd at the bar when this astounding function ceased, and the lively lads jostled, and laughed, and quoted some of the morespicy specimens of nastiness which they had just heard. 

Now, I should not have mentioned such an unsavoury business as this, butthat it illustrates in a curious way the fact that one is met andcountered by the power of Drink at every turn in this country. Amongthat unholy audience were one or two worthies who ought by rights tohave called the police, and forced the promoters of the fun to appearbefore the Bench in the morning. But then these magistrates had aninterest in Beer, and Brewery shares were pretty well represented in theodious room, and thus a flagrant scandal was gently passed aside. Theworst of it is that, after a rouse like this, the young men do not careto go to bed, so they adjourn to some one's rooms and play cards tillany hour. In the train next morning there are blotchy faces, dull eyes, tongues with a bitter taste, and there is a general rush for "liveners"before the men go to office or warehouse; and the day drags on until thejoyous evening comes, when some new form of debauch drowns the memory ofthe morning's headache. Should you listen to a set of these men when theroar of a long bar is at its height at night, you will find that thelife of the intellect has passed away from their midst. The fellows maybe sharp in a small way at business, and I am sure I hope they are; buttheir conversation is painful in the extreme to any one who wishes toretain a shred of respect for his own species. If you listen long, andthen fix your mind so that you can pick out the exact significance ofwhat you have heard, you become confounded. Take the scraps of "bar"gabble. "So I says, 'Lay me fours. ' And he winks and says, 'I'll giveyou seven to two, if you like. ' Well, you know, the horse won, and Istood him a bottle out of the three pound ten, so I wasn't much in. ""'What!' says I; 'step outside along o' me, and bring your pal with you, and I'll spread your bloomin' nose over your face. '" "_That_ corkedhim. " "I tell you Flyaway's a dead cert. I know a bloke that goes toNewmarket regular, and he's acquainted with Reilly of the Greyhound, andReilly told him that he heard Teddy Martin's cousin say that Flyaway wastried within seven pounds of Peacock. Can you have a better tip thanthat?" "I'll give you the break, and we'll play for a bob and thegames. " "Thanks, deah boy, I'll jest have one with you. Lor! wasn't Ichippy this morning? I felt as if the pavement was making rushes at me, and my hat seemed to want a shoehorn to get it on or off for thatmatter. Bill's whisky's too good. " "I'm going out with a Judy on Sunday, or else you'd have me with you. The girls won't leave me alone, and theblessed dears can't be denied. " So the talk goes steadily forward. Whatcan a bright lad learn there? Many of the assembly are very young, andtheir features have not lost the freshness and purity of skin which givesuch a charm to a healthy lad's appearance. Would any mother like tosee her favourite among that hateful crowd? I do not think that mothersrightly know the sort of places which their darlings enter; I do notthink they guess the kind of language which the youths hear when thechimes sound at midnight; they do not know the intricacies of a societywhich half encourages callow beings to drink, and then kicks them intothe gutter if the drink takes hold effectually. The kindly, seemly womanremains at home in her drawing-room, papa slumbers if he is one of thestay-at-home sort; but Gerald, and Sidney, and Alfred are out in thedrink-shop hearing talk fit to make Rabelais turn queasy, or they are inthe billiard-room learning to spell "ruin" with all convenient speed, orperhaps they have "copped it"--that is the correct phrase--rather early, and they are swaggering along, shadowed by some creature--half girl, half tiger-cat--who will bring them up in good time. If the women knewenough, I sometimes think they would make a combined, nightly raid onthe boozing-bars, and bring their lads out. 

Some hard-headed fellows may think that there is something grandmotherlyin the regrets which I utter over the cesspool in which so many of ourmiddle-class seem able to wallow without suffering asphyxia; but I amonly mournful because I have seen the plight of so many and many aftertheir dip in the sinister depths of the pool. I envy those stolid peoplewho can talk so contemptuously of frailty--I mean I envy them theirself-mastery; I quite understand the temperament of those who can becontent with a slight exhilaration, and who fiercely contemn thecrackbrain who does not know when to stop. No doubt it is a sad thingfor a man to part with his self-control, but I happen to hold a brieffor the crackbrain, and I say that there is not any man living who canafford to be too contemptuous, for no one knows when his turn may cometo make a disastrous slip. 

Most strange it is that a vice which brings instant punishment on himwho harbours it should be first of all encouraged by the very people whoare most merciless in condemning it. The drunkard has not to wait longfor his punishment; it follows hard on his sin, and he is not left tothe justice of another world. And yet, as we have said, this vice, whichentails such scathing disgrace and suffering, is encouraged in manyseductive ways. The talk in good company often runs on wine; the man whohas the deadly taint in his blood is delicately pressed to take thatwhich brings the taint once more into ill-omened activity; but, so longas his tissues show no sign of that flabbiness and generalunwholesomeness which mark the excessive drinker, he is left unnoticed. Then the literary men nearly always make the subject of drink attractivein one way or other. We laugh at Mr. Pickwick and all his gay set ofbrandy-bibbers; we laugh at John Ridd, with his few odd gallons of aleper day; but let any man be seen often in the condition which led to Mr. Pickwick's little accident, and see what becomes of him. He is soonshunned like a scabbed sheep. One had better incur penal servitude thanfall into that vice from which the Government derives a hugerevenue--the vice which is ironically associated with friendliness, goodtemper, merriment, and all goodly things. There are times when one isminded to laugh for very bitterness. 

And this sin, which begins in kindness and ends always in utterselfishness--this sin, which pours accursed money into theExchequer--this sin, which consigns him who is guilty of it to a doomworse than servitude or death--this sin is to be fought by Act ofParliament! On the one hand, there are gentry who say, "Drink is adreadful curse, but look at the revenue. " On the other hand, there arethose who say, "Drink is a dreadful thing; let us stamp it out by meansof foolscap and printers' ink. " Then the neutrals say, "Bother both yourparties. Drink is a capital thing in its place. Why don't you leave italone?" Meantime the flower of the earth are being bitterly blighted. Itis the special examples that I like to bring out, so that the jolly ladswho are tempted into such places as the concert-room which I describedmay perhaps receive a timely check. It is no use talking to me aboutculture, and refinement, and learning, and serious pursuits saving a manfrom the devouring fiend; for it happens that the fiend nearly alwaysclutches the best and brightest and most promising. Intellect alone isnot worth anything as a defensive means against alcohol, and I canconvince anybody of that if he will go with me to a common lodging-housewhich we can choose at random. Yes, it is the bright and powerfulintellects that catch the rot first in too many cases, and that is why Ismile at the notion of mere book-learning making us any better. If Iwere to make out a list of the scholars whom I have met starving and inrags, I should make people gape. I once shared a pot of fourpenny alewith a man who used to earn £2000 a year by coaching at Oxford. He wasin a low house near the Waterloo Road, and he died of cold and hungerthere. He had been the friend and counsellor of statesmen, but the vicefrom which statesmen squeeze revenue had him by the throat before heknew where he was, and he drifted toward death in a kind of constantdream from which no one ever saw him wake. These once bright andsplendid intellectual beings swarm in the houses of poverty: if you pickup with a peculiarly degraded one you may always be sure that he was oneof the best men of his time, and it seems as if the very rich quality ofhis intelligence had enabled corruption to rankle through him so muchthe more quickly. I have seen a tramp on the road--a queer, long-nosed, short-sighted animal--who would read Greek with the book upside-down. Hewas a very fine Latin scholar, and we tried him with Virgil; he could gooff at score when he had a single line given him, and he scarcely made aslip, for the poetry seemed ingrained. I have shared a pennyworth ofsausage with the brother of a Chief Justice, and I have played a piccolowhile an ex-incumbent performed a dance which he described, I think, asPyrrhic. He fell in the fire and used hideous language in Latin andFrench, but I do not know whether that was Pyrrhic also. Drink is thedainty harvester; no puny ears for him, no faint and bending stalks: hereaps the rathe corn, and there is only the choicest of the choice inhis sheaves. That is what I want to fix on the minds of youngpeople--and others; the more sense of power you have, the more pride ofstrength you have, the more you are likely to be marked and shorn downby the grim reaper; and there is little hope for you when the reaperonce approaches, because the very friends who followed the nationalcraze, and upheld the harmlessness of drink, will shoot out their lipsat you and run away when your bad moment comes. 

The last person who ever suspects that a wife drinks is always thehusband; the last person who ever suspects that any given man is bittenwith drink is that man himself. So stealthily, so softly does the evilwind itself around a man's being, that he very often goes on fancyinghimself a rather admirable and temperate customer--until the crashcomes. It is all so easy, that the deluded dupe never thinks thatanything is far wrong until he finds that his friends are somehowbeginning to fight shy of him. No one will tell him what ails him, and Imay say that such a course would be quite useless, for the person warnedwould surely fly into a passion, declare himself insulted, and probablyperform some mad trick while his nerves were on edge. Well, there comesa time when the doomed man is disinclined for exertion, and he knowsthat something is wrong. He has become sly almost without knowing it, and, although he is pining for some stimulus, he pretends to go without, and tries by the flimsiest of devices, to deceive those around him. Nowthat is a funny symptom; the master vice, the vice that is the pillar ofthe revenue, always, without any exception known to me, turns a man intoa sneak, and it generally turns him into a liar as well. So sure as thehabit of concealment sets in, so surely we may be certain that thedry-rot of the soul has begun. The drinker is tremulous; he finds thatlight beverages are useless to him, and he tries something that burns:his nerve recovers tone; he laughs at himself for his early morningfears, and he gets over another day. But the dry-rot is spreading; bodyand soul react on each other, and the forlorn one soon begins to befatally false and weak in morals, and dirty and slovenly in person. Thenin the dead, unhappy nights he suffers all the torments that can beendured if he wakes up while his day's supply of alcohol lies stagnantin his system. No imagination is so retrospective as the drunkard's, andthe drunkard's remorse is the most terrible torture known. The windcries in the dark and the trees moan; the agonized man who lies waitingthe morning thinks of the times when the whistle of the wind was thegladdest of sounds to him; his old ambitions wake from their trance andcome to gaze on him reproachfully; he sees that fortune (and mayhapfame) have passed him by, and all through his own fault; he may whineabout imaginary wrongs during the day when he is maudlin, but the nightfairly throttles him if he attempts to turn away from the stark truth, and he remains pinned face to face with his beautiful, dead self. Then, with a start, he remembers that he has no friends. When he crawls out inthe morning to steady his hand he will be greeted with filthypublic-house cordiality by the animals to whose level he has draggedhimself, but of friends he has none. Now, is it not marvellous? Drink isso jolly; prosperous persons talk with such a droll wink about vagarieswhich they or their friends committed the night before; it is all sovery, very lightsome! The brewers and distillers who put themirth-inspiring beverages into the market receive more consideration, and a great deal more money, than an average European prince;--and yetthe poor dry-rotted unfortunate whose decadence we are tracing is like aleper in the scattering effects which he produces during his shakypromenade. He is indeed alone in the world, and brandy or gin is hisonly counsellor and comforter. As to character, the last rag of thatgoes when the first sign of indolence is seen; the watchers have eyeslike cats, and the self-restrained men among them have usually seen somany fellows depart to perdition that every stage in the process ofdegradation is known to them. No! there is not a friend, and dry, clevergentlemen say, "Yes. Good chap enough once on a day, but can't afford tobe seen with him now. " The soaker is amazed to find that women areafraid of him a little, and shrink from him--in fact, the only peoplewho are cordial with him are the landlords, among whom he is treated asa sort of irresponsible baby. "I may as well have his money as anybodyelse. He shan't get outrageously drunk here, but he may as well moistenhis clay and keep himself from being miserable. If he gets the jumps inthe night that's his look-out. " That is the soaker's friend. The man isnot unkind; he is merely hardened, and his morals, like those of nearlyall who are connected with the great Trade, have suffered a twist. Whenthe soaker's last penny has gone, he will receive from the landlord manya contemptuously good-natured gift--pity it is that the lost wastrelcannot be saved before that weariful last penny huddles in the corner ofhis pocket. 

While the harrowing descent goes on our suffering wretch is graduallychanging in appearance: the piggish element that is latent in most of uscomes out in him; his morality is sapped; he will beg, borrow, lie, andsteal; and, worst of all, he is a butt for thoughtless young fellows. The last is the worst cut of all, for the battered, bloodless, sunkenne'er-do-well can remember only too vividly his own gallant youth, andthe thought of what he was drives him crazed. 

There is only one end; if the doomed one escapes _delirium tremens_ heis likely to have cirrhosis, and if he misses both of these, then dropsyor Bright's disease claims him. Those who once loved him pray for hisdeath, and greet his last breath with an echoing sigh of thankfulnessand relief: he might have been cheered in his last hour by the gracefulsympathy of troops of friends; but the State-protected vice has such awithering effect that it scorches up friendship as a fiery breath from afurnace might scorch a grass blade. If one of my joyous, delightful ladscould just watch the shambling, dirty figure of such a failure as I havedescribed; if he could see the sneers of amused passers-by, the timidglances of women, the contemptuous off-hand speech of the children--"Oh!him! That's old, boozy Blank;" then the youths might well tremble, forthe woebegone beggar that snivels out thanks for a mouthful of gin wasonce a brave lad--clever, handsome, generous, the delight of friends, the joy of his parents, the most brilliantly promising of all hiscircle. He began by being jolly; he was well encouraged and abetted; hefound that respectable men drank, and that Society made no demur. But heforgot that there are drinkers and drinkers, he forgot that thecool-headed men were not tainted by heredity, nor were their brains sodelicately poised that the least grain of foreign matter introduced inthe form of vapour could cause semi-insanity. And thus the sacrifice ofSociety--and the Exchequer--goes to the tomb amid contempt, and hissing, and scorn; while the saddest thing of all is that those who loved himmost passionately are most glad to hear the clods thump on his coffin. I believe, if you let me keep a youngster for an hour in a room with me, I could tell him enough stories from my own shuddery experience tofrighten him off drink for life. I should cause him to be haunted. 

There is none of the rage of the convert in all this; I knew what I wasdoing when I went into the base and sordid homes of ruin during years, and I want to know how any justification _not_ fitted for the librettoof an extravaganza can be given by certain parliamentary gentlemen inorder that we may be satisfied with their conduct. My wanderings andfreaks do not count; I was a Bohemian, with the tastes of a Romany andthe curiosity of a philosopher; I went into the most abominable companybecause it amused me and I had only myself to please, and I saw what afearfully tense grip the monster, Drink, has taken of this nation; andlet me say that you cannot understand that one little bit, if you arecontent to knock about with a policeman and squint at signboards. Well, I want to know how these legislators can go to church and repeat certainprayers, while they continue to make profit by retailing Death at somuch a gallon; and I want to know how some scores of other godly men goout of their way to back up a traffic which is very well able to takecare of itself. A wild, night-roaming gipsy like me is not expected tobe a model, but one might certainly expect better things from folks whoare so insultingly, aggressively righteous. One sombre and thoughtfulRomany of my acquaintance said, "My brother, there are many things thatI try to fight, and they knock me out of time in the first round. " Thatis my own case exactly when I observe comfortable personages who deplorevice, and fill their pockets to bursting by shoving the vice right inthe way of the folks most likely to be stricken with deadly precision byit. 

It is not easy to be bad-tempered over this saddening business; one hasto be pitiful. As my memory travels over England, and follows the tracksthat I trod, I seem to see a line of dead faces, that start into life ifI linger by them, and mop and mow at me in bitterness because I put outno saving hand. So many and many I saw tramping over the path ofDestruction, and I do not think that ever I gave one of them a manlyword of caution. It was not my place, I thought, and thus their bonesare bleaching, and the memory of their names has flown away like amephitic vapour that was better dispersed. Are there many like me, Iwonder, who have not only done nothing to battle with the mightiestmodern evil, but have half encouraged it through cynical recklessnessand pessimism? We entrap the poor and the base and the wretched to theirdeaths, and then we cry out about their vicious tendencies, and theirimprovidence, and all the rest. Heaven knows I have no right tosermonize; but, at least, I never shammed anything. When I saw somespectacle of piercing misery caused by Drink (as nearly all Englishmisery is) I simply choked down the tendency to groan, and grimlyresolved to see all I could and remember it. But now that I have hadtime to reflect instead of gazing and moaning, I have a sharp conceptionof the thing that is biting at England's vitals. People fish out allsorts of wondrous and obscure causes for crime. As far as England isconcerned I should lump the influences provocative of crime andproductive of misery into one--I say Drink is the root of almost allevil. It is heartbreaking to know what is going on at our own doors, for, however we may shuffle and blink, we cannot disguise the fact thatmany millions of human beings who might be saved pass their lives in anobscene hell--and they live so in merry England. Durst any one describea lane in Sandgate, Newcastle-on-Tyne, a court off Orange Street orLancaster Street, London, an alley in Manchester, a four-storey tenementin the Irish quarter of Liverpool? I think not, and it is perhaps bestthat no description should be done; for, if it were well done it wouldmake harmless people unhappy, and if it were ill done it would driveaway sympathy. I only say that all the horrors of those places are dueto alcohol alone. Do not say that idleness is answerable for thegruesome state of things; that would be putting cause for effect. A manfinds the pains of the world too much for him; he takes alcohol to bringon forgetfulness; he forgets, and he pays for his pleasure by losingalike the desire and capacity for work. The man of the slums faresexactly like the gentleman: both sacrifice their moral sense, bothbecome idle; the bad in both is ripened into rankness, and makes itselfvillainously manifest at all seasons; the good is atrophied, and finallydies. Goodness may take an unconscionable time a-dying, but it issentenced to death by the fates from the moment when alcoholism sets in, and the execution is only a matter of time. 

England, then, is a country of grief. I never yet knew one family whichhad not lost a cherished member through the national curse; and thus atall times we are like the wailing nation whereof the first-born in everyhouse was stricken. It is an awful sight, and as I sit here alone I cansend my mind over the sad England which I know, and see the army of themourners. They say that the calling of the wounded on the field ofBoródino was like the roar of the sea: on my battle-field, where drinkhas been the only slayer, there are many dead; and I can imagine that Ihear the full volume of cries from those who are stricken but stillliving. The vision would unsettle my reason if I had not a trifle ofHope remaining. The philosophic individual who talks in correctly frigidphrases about the evils of the Liquor Trade may keep his reason balanceddaintily and his nerve unhurt. But I have images for company--images ofwild fearsomeness. There is the puffy and tawdry woman who rolls alongthe street goggling at the passengers with boiled eye. The little prettychild says, "Oh! mother, what a strange woman. I didn't understand whatshe said. " My pretty, that was Drink, and you may be like that one ofthese days, for as little as your mother thinks it, if you ever letyourself touch the Curse carelessly. Bless you, I know scores who wereonce as sweet as you who can now drink any costermonger of them allunder the stools in the Haymarket bar. The young men grin and wink asthat staggering portent lurches past: I do not smile; my heart is toosad for even a show of sadness. Then there are the children--thechildren of Drink they should be called, for they suck it from thebreast, and the venomous molecules become one with their flesh andblood, and they soon learn to like the poison as if it were puremother's milk. How they hunger--those little children! What obscurecomplications of agony they endure and how very dark their oddconvulsive species of existence is made, only that one man may buyforgetfulness by the glass. If I let my imagination loose, I can hearthe immense army of the young crying to the dumb and impotent sky, andthey all cry for bread. Mercy! how the little children suffer! And Ihave seen them by the hundred--by the thousand--and only helped fromcaprice; I could do no other. The iron winter is nearing us, and soonthe dull agony of cold will swoop down and bear the gnawing hungercompany while the two dire agencies inflict torture on the little ones. Were it not for Drink the sufferers might be clad and nourished; butthen Drink is the support of the State, and a few thousand ofraw-skinned, hunger-bitten children perhaps do not matter. Then I cansee all the ruined gentlemen, and all the fine fellows whose glitteringpromise was so easily tarnished; they have crossed my track, and Iremember every one of them, but I never could haul back one from thefate toward which he shambled so blindly; what could I do when Drink wasdriving him? If I could not shake off the memories of squalor, hunger, poverty--well-deserved poverty--despair, crime, abject wretchedness, then life could not be borne. I can always call to mind the wrung handsand drawn faces of well-nurtured and sweet ladies who saw the dull maskof loathsome degradation sliding downward over their loved one's face. Of all the mental trials that are cruel, that must be the worst--to seethe light of a beloved soul guttering gradually down into stench anduncleanness. The woman sees the decadence day by day, while the blindedand lulled man who causes all the indescribable trouble thinks thateverything is as it should be. The Drink mask is a very scaring thing;once you watch it being slowly fitted on to a beautiful and spiritualface you do not care over-much about the revenue. 

And now the famous Russian's question comes up: What shall we do? Well, so far as the wastrel poor are concerned, I should say, "Catch them whenyoung, and send them out of England so long as there is any place abroadwhere their labour is sought. " I should say so, because there is not ashadow of a chance for them in this country: they will go in their turnto drink as surely as they go to death. As to the vagabond poor whom wehave with us now I have no hope for them; we must wait until death weedsthem out, for we can do nothing with them nor for them. 

Among the classes who are better off from the worldly point of view, weshall have sacrifices offered to the fiend from time to time. Drink haswound like some ubiquitous fungus round and round the tissues of thenational body, and we are sure to have a nasty growth striking out atintervals. It tears the heart-strings when we see the brave, thebrilliant, the merry, the wise, sinking under the evil clement in ourappalling dual nature, and we feel, with something like despair, that wecannot be altogether delivered from the scourge yet awhile. I have stabsof conscience when I call to mind all I have seen and remember howlittle I have done, and I can only hope, in a shame-faced way, that theuse of intoxicants may be quietly dropped, just as the practice ofgambling, and the habit of drinking heavy, sweet wines, have passed awayfrom the exclusive society in which cards used to form the maindiversion. Frankly speaking, I have seen the degradation, theabomination, and the measureless force of Drink so near at hand that Iam not sanguine. I can take care of myself, but I am never really sureabout many other people, and I had good reason for not being sure ofmyself. One thing is certain, and that is that the creeping enemy issure to attack the very last man or woman whom you would expect to seeattacked. When the first symptoms are seen, the stricken one should bedelivered from _ennui_ as much as possible, and then some friend shouldtell, in dull, dry style, the slow horror of the drop to the Pit. Fearwill be effective when nothing else will. Many are stronger than I amand can help more. By the memory of broken hearts, by the fruitlessprayers of mothers and sorrowing wives, for the sake of the children whoare forced to stay on earth in a living death, I ask the strong to helpus all. Blighted lives, wrecked intellects, wasted brilliancy, poisonedmorality, rotted will--all these mark the road that the King of Evilstakes in his darksome progress. Out of the depths I have called for aidand received it, and now I ask aid for others, and I shall not bedenied. 

_October, 1889. _

_VOYAGING AT SEA_

A philosopher has described the active life of man as a continuouseffort to forget the facts of his own existence. It is vain to pin suchphilosophers to a definite meaning; but I think the writer meant vaguelyto hint in a lofty way that the human mind incessantly longs for change. We all crave to be something that we are not; we all wish to know thefacts concerning states of existence other than our own; and it is thiscraving curiosity that produces every form of social and spiritualactivity. Yet, with all this restless desire, this uneasy yearning, onlya few of us are ever able to pass beyond one piteously narrow sphere, and we rest in blank ignorance of the existence that goes on without thebounds of our tiny domain. How many people know that by simply going onboard a ship and sailing for a couple of days they would passpractically into another moral world, and change their mental as well astheir bodily habits? I have been moved to these reflections by observingthe vast amount of nautical literature which appears during the holidayseason, and by seeing the complete ignorance and misconception which arepalmed off upon the public. It is a fact that only a few English peopleknow anything about the mightiest of God's works. To them life on theocean is represented by a series of phrases which seem to have beentransplanted from copy-books. They speak of "the bounding main, " "theraging billows, " "seas mountains high, " "the breath of the gale, " "theseething breakers, " and so on; but regarding the commonplace, quieteveryday life at sea they know nothing. Strangely enough, only Mr. ClarkRussell has attempted to give in literary form a vivid, veraciousaccount of sea-life, and his thrice-noble books are far too littleknown, so that the strongest maritime nation in the whole world isignorant of vital facts concerning the men who make her prosperity. Letany one who is well informed enter a theatre when a nautical drama ispresented; he will find the most ridiculous spectacle that the mind ofman can conceive. On one occasion, when a cat came on to the stage atDrury Lane and ran across the heaving billows of the canvas ocean, theaudience roared with laughter; but to the judicious critic the realcause for mirth was the behaviour of the nautical persons who figured inthe drama. The same ignorance holds everywhere. Seamen scarcely everthink of describing their life to people on shore, and the majority oflandsmen regard a sea-voyage as a dull affair, to be begun with regretand ended with joy. Dull! Alas, it is dull for people who have dim eyesand commonplace minds; but for the man who has learned to gaze aright atthe Creator's works there is not a heavy minute from the time when thedawn trembles in the gray sky until the hour when, with stars andsea-winds in her raiment, night sinks on the sea. Dull! As well describethe rush of the turbulent Strand or the populous splendour of RegentStreet by that word! I have always held that a man cannot be consideredas educated if he is unable to wait an hour in a railway-station for atrain without _ennui_. What is education good for if it does not give usresources which may enable us to gather delight or instruction fromevery sight and sound that may fall on our nerves? The most melancholyspectacle in the world is presented by the stolid citizen who yawns overhis _Bradshaw_ while the swift panoramas of Charing Cross or Euston aregliding by him. Men who are rightly constituted find delight in the veryquietude and isolation of sea-life; they know how to derive pureentertainment from the pageant of the sky and the music of winds andwaters, and they experience a piquant delight by reason of the contrastbetween the loneliness of the sea and the eager struggling life of theCity. Proceeding, as is my custom, by examples, I shall give precisedescriptions of specimen days which anybody may spend on the wanderingwastes of the ocean. "All things pertaining to the life of man are ofinterest to me, " said the Roman; and he showed his wisdom by thatsaying. 

Dawn. Along the water-line a pale leaden streak appears, and littletremulous ripples of gray run gently upwards, until a broad band ofmingled white and scarlet shines with cold radiance. The mystery of thesea is suddenly removed, and we can watch the strange serpentine beltsthat twine and glitter all round from our vessel to the horizon. Thelight is strong before the sun appears; and perhaps that brooding hour, when Nature seems to be turning in her sleep, is the best of the wholeday. The dew lies thickly on deck, and the chill of the night hangs inthe air; but soon a red arc looms up gorgeously at the sea-line; longrays spread out like a sheaf of splendid swords on the blue; there is, as it were, a wild dance of colour in the noble vault, where cold greenand pink and crimson wind and flush and softly glide in mystic mazes;and then--the sun! The great flaming disc seems to poise for a little, and all around it--pierced here and there by the steely rays--the cloudshang like tossing scarlet plumes. 

 Like a warrior-angel sped On a mighty mission, Light and life about him shed-- A transcendent vision!

 Mailed in gold and fire he stands, And, with splendours shaken, Bids the slumbering seas and lands Quicken and awaken. 

 Day is on us. Dreams are dumb, Thought has light for neighbour; Room! The rival giants come-- Lo, the Sun and Labour!

After witnessing that lordly spectacle, who can wonder at Zoroaster? Asthe lights from east and west meet and mingle, and the sky rears itsblue immensity, it is hard to look on for very gladness. 

I shall suppose that we are on a small vessel--for, if we sail in aliner, or even in an ordinary big steamer, it is somewhat like movingabout on a floating factory. The busy life of a sailor begins, for Jackrarely has an idle minute while he is on deck. Landsmen can call in helpwhen their house needs repairing, but sailors must be able to keep everypart of _their_ house in perfect order; and there is always something tobe done. But we are lazy; we toil not, neither do we tar ropes, and ourmain business is to get up a thoroughly good appetite while we watch thedeft sailor-men going about their business. It is my belief that alandsman might spend a month without a tedious hour, if he would onlytake the trouble to watch everything that the men do and find out why itis done. Ages on ages of storm and stress are answerable for the mosttrifling device that the sailor employs. How many and many lives werelost before the Norsemen learned to support the masts of their wingeddragons by means of bull's-hide ropes! How many shiploads of men werelaid at the mercy of the travelling seas before the Scandinavianslearned to use a fixed rudder instead of a huge oar! Not a bolt or ropeor pulley or eyelet-hole has been fixed in our vessel save through thebitter experience of centuries; one might write a volume about thatmainsail, showing how its rigid, slanting beauty and its tremendouspower were gradually attained by evolution from the ugly square lump ofmatting which swung from the masthead of Mediterranean craft. But wemust not philosophise; we must enjoy. The fresh morning breeze runsmerrily over the ripples and plucks off their crests; our vessel leansprettily, and you hear a tinkling hiss as she shears through the lovelygreen hillocks. Sometimes she thrusts away a burst of spray, and in themidst of the white spurt there shines a rainbow. It may happen that therainbows come thickly for half an hour at a time, and then we seem to bepassing through a fairy scene. Go under the main-yard and look away toleeward. The wind roars out of the mainsail and streams over you in acold flood; but you do not mind that, for there is the joyous expanseof emerald and snow dancing under the glad sun. There is somethingunspeakably delightful in the rushing never-ending procession of wavesthat passes away, away in merry ranks to the shining horizon; and alltrue lovers of the sea are exhilarated by the sweet tumult. Remember Iam talking about a fine day; I shall come to the bad weather in goodtime. On this ineffable morning a lady may come up and walk briskly inthe crisp air; but indeed women are the best and coolest of sailors inany weather when once their preliminary troubles are over. The hours flypast, and we hail the announcement of breakfast with a sudden joy whichtells of gross materialism. I may say, by-the-way, that our lowernature, or what sentimental persons call our lower nature, comes outpowerfully at sea, and men of the most refined sort catch themselves inthe act of wondering time after time when meals will be ready. For me Ithink that it is no more gross to delight in flavours than it is todelight in colours or harmonies, and one of my main reasons for dwellingon the delights of the sea lies in the fact that the voyager learns totake an exquisite, but quite rational, delight in the mere act ofeating. I know that I ought to speak as though dinner were an ignobleinstitution; I know that the young lady who said, "Thanks--I rarelyeat, " represented a class who pretend to devote themselves to higherjoys; but I decline to talk cant on any terms, and I say that thehealthy, hearty hunger bestowed by the open sea is one of God's goodgifts. 

The sweet morning passes away, and somehow our thoughts run in brightgrooves. That is the strange thing about the sea--its moods have aninstant effect on the mind; and, as it changes with wild and swiftcaprice, the seafarer finds that his views of life alter withtantalizing but pleasant suddenness. Just now I am speaking only ofcontent and exhilaration; but I may soon see another side of thepicture. The afternoon glides by like the morning; no churlish housesand chimney-pots hide the sun, and we see him describe his magnificentcurve, while, with mysterious potency, he influences the wind. Dull!Why, on shore we should gaze out on the same streets or fields or trees;but here our residence is driven along like a flying cloud, and we gaina fresh view with every mile! I confess that I like sailing in populouswaters, for indeed the lonely tropical seas and the brassy skies are notby any means to be regarded as delightful; but for the present we aresupposing ourselves to be in the track of vessels, and there is some newand poignant interest for every hour. Watch this vast pallid cloud thatlooms up far away; the sun strikes on the cloud, and straightway thesnowy mass gleams like silver; on it comes, and soon we see a superbfour-masted clipper broadside on to us. A royal fabric she is; everysnowy sail is drawing, and she moves with resistless force and matchlessgrace through the water, while a boiling wreath of milky foam rushesaway from her bows, and swathes of white dapple the green river thatseems to pour past her majestic sides. The emigrants lean over the rail, and gaze wistfully at us. Ah, how many thousands of miles they musttravel ere they reach their new home! Strange and pitiful it is to thinkthat so few of them will ever see the old home again; and yet there issomething bright and hopeful in the spectacle, if we think not ofindividuals, but of the world's future. Under the Southern Cross amighty state is rising; the inevitable movement of populations isirresistible as the tides of mid-ocean; and those wistful emigrants whoquietly wave their handkerchiefs to us are about to assist in workingout the destiny of a new world. Dull! The passing of that great vesselgives matter for grave thought. She swings away, and we may perhaps tryto run alongside for a while, but the immense drag of her four towers ofcanvas soon draws her clear, and she speedily looms once more like acloud on the horizon. Good-bye! The squat collier lumbers along, and herleisurely grimy skipper salutes as we near him. It is marvellous toreflect that the whole of our coal-trade was carried on in those queertubs only sixty years ago. They are passing away, and the gallant, ignorant, comical race of sailors who manned them has all butdisappeared; the ugly sordid iron box that goes snorting past us, belching out jets of water from her dirty side--that is the agency thatdestroyed the colliers, and, alas, destroyed the finest breed of seamenthat ever the world saw! So rapidly do new sights and sounds greet usthat the night steals down almost before we are aware of its approach. The day is for joy; but, ah, the night is for subtle overmasteringrapture, for pregnant gloom, for thoughts that lie too deep for tears!If a wind springs up when the last ray of the sun shoots over theshoulder of the earth, then the ship roars through an inky sea, and themysterious blending of terror and ecstasy cannot be restrained. Hoarselythe breeze shrieks in the cordage, savagely the water roars as it dartsaway astern like a broad fierce white flame. The vessel seems to springforward and shake herself with passion as the sea retards her, and thewhole wild symphony of humming ropes, roaring water, screaming wind, sets every pulse bounding. Should the moon shine out from the chargingclouds, then earth has not anything to show more fair; the broad trackof light looks like an immeasurable river peopled by fiery serpents thatdart and writhe and interwind, until the eye aches with gazing on them. Sleep seems impossible at first, and yet by degrees the poppied touchlulls our nerves, and we slumber without heeding the harrowing groans ofthe timbers or the confused cries of the wind. 

So much for the glad weather; but, when the sky droops low, and leapingwaves of mournful hue seem to rear themselves and mingle with theclouds, then the gladness is not so apparent. Still the exulting rush ofthe ship through the gray seas and her contemptuous shudder as sheshakes off the masses of water that thunder down on her are fine towitness. Even a storm, when cataracts of hissing water plunge over thevessel and force every one to "hang on anywhere, " is by no means withoutits delights; but I must candidly say that a ship is hardly the placefor a woman when the wild winds try their strength against the works ofman. On the whole, if we reckon up the pains and pleasures of life onboard ship, the balance is all in favour of pleasure. The sailors have atoilsome life, and must endure much; but they have health. It is thesense of physical well-being that makes the mind so easy when one is onthe sea; and refined men who have lived in the forecastle readilydeclare that they were happy but for the invariable dirt. Instead oftrooping to stuffy lodgings, those of my readers who have the nerveshould, if not this year, then next summer, go right away and take acheap and charming holiday on the open sea. 

_October, 1887. _

_WAR. _

The brisk Pressmen are usually exceedingly busy in calculating thechances of a huge fight--indeed they spend a good part of each year inthat pleasing employment. Smug diplomatists talk glibly about "warclearing the air;" and the crowd--the rank and file--chatter as thoughwar were a pageant quite divorced from wounds and death, or a mereharmless hurly-burly where certain battalions receive thrashings of atrifling nature. It is saddening to notice the levity with which themost awful of topics is treated, and especially is it sad to see howcompletely the women and children are thrust out of mind by belligerentpersons. We who have gazed on the monster of War, we who have looked inthe whites--or rather the reds--of his loathsome eyes, cannot let thisburst of frivolity work mischief without one temperate word of warningand protest. 

Pleasant it is to watch the soldiers as they march along the streets, orform in their superb lines on parade. No man or woman of any sensibilitycan help feeling proudly stirred when a Cavalry regiment goes by. Theclean, alert, upright men, with their sure seat; the massive war-horseschamping their bits and shaking their accoutrements: the rhythmic thudof hoofs, the keen glitter of steel, and the general air of power, allcombine to form a spectacle that sets the pulses beating faster. Then, again, observe the strange elastic rhythm of the march as a battalion oftall Highlanders moves past. The fifes and drums cease, there is asilence broken only by that sinuous beautiful onward movement of linesof splendid men, until the thrilling scream of the pipes shatters theair, and the mad tumult of warlike sound makes even a Southron's nervesquiver. Then, once more, watch the deadly, steady march of a regiment ofGuards. The stalwart men step together, and, as the red ranks sway on, it seems as though no earthly power could stand against them. The gloomybearskins are like a brooding dark cloud, and the glitter of therifle-barrels carries with it certain sinister terrible suggestions. Thegaiety and splendour of Cavalry and Infantry all gain increased powerover the imagination since we know that each of those gaily clad fellowswould march to his doom without a tremor or a murmur if he received theword. Poor Tommy Atkins is surrounded by a sort of halo in the popularimagination, simply because it is known that he may one day have to dealforth death to an enemy, or take his own doom, according to the chancesof combat. I need say little about the field-days and reviews which havecaused so many martially-minded young men to take the shilling. Thecrash of the small-arm firing, the wild galloping of hastyaides-de-camp, the measured movement of serried lines, the rapid flightof flocks of bedizened staff-officers, all make up a very exciting andconfusing picture, and many a youngster has fancied that war must be aglorious game. Let us leave the picturesque and theatrical business andcome to the dry prose. 

So far from being an affair of glitter, excitement, fierce joy, fiercetriumph, war is but a round of hideous hours which bring memories ofsqualor, filth, hunger, wretchedness, dull toil, unspeakable misery. Take it at its best, and consider what a modern engagement really means. Recollect, moreover, that I am about to use sentences accurate as aphotograph. The sportive Pressman says, "Vernon began to find theenemy's cloud of sharp-shooters troublesome, so the 5th sought bettercover on the right, leaving Brown free to develop his artillery fire. ""Troublesome!" Translate that word, and it means this: Private Brown andPrivate Jones are lying behind the same low bank. Jones raises his head;there comes a sound like "Roo-o-osh--pht!"--then a horrible thud. Jonesglares, grasps at nothing with convulsed hands, and rolls sideways witha long shudder. The ball took him in the temple. Serjeant Morrison says, "Now, men, try for that felled log! Double!" A few men make a shortrush, and gain the solid cover; but one throws up his hands when halfway, gives a choking yell, springs in the air, and falls down limp. Thesame thing is going on over a mile of country, while the shell-fire isgradually gaining power--and we may be sure that the enemy are sufferingat the hands of our marksmen. And now suppose that an infantry brigadereceives orders to charge. "Charge!" The word carries magnificent poeticassociations, but, alas, it is a very prosaic affair nowadays! The linesmove onward in short rushes, and it seems as if a swarm of ants weremigrating warily. The strident voices of the officers ring here andthere: the men edge their way onward: it seems as if there were nomethod in the advance; but somehow the loose wavy ranks are kept wellin hand, and the main movement proceeds like machinery. "I feel a bitqueer, " says Bill Williams to a veteran friend. "Never mind--'taintevery one durst say that, " says the friend. "Whoo-o-sh!" a muffledthump, and the veteran falls forward, dropping his rifle. He strugglesup on hands and knees, but a rush of blood chokes him, and he drops witha groan. He will lie there for a long time before his burning throat ismoistened by a cup of water, and he knows only too well that the surgeonwill merely shake his head when he sees him. The brigade still advances;gradually the sputtering crackle in their front grows into a low steadyroar; a stream of lead whistles in the air, and the long lurid line offlame glows with the sustained glare of a fire among furze. Men fall atevery yard, but the hoarse murmur of the dogged advance never ceases. Atlast the time comes for the rush. The ranks are trimmed up byimperceptible degrees; the men set their teeth, and a strange eager lookcomes over many a face. The eyes of the youngsters stare glassily; theycan see the wood from which the enemy must be dislodged at any price, but they can form no definite ideas; they merely grip their rifles andgo on mechanically. The word is given--the dark lines dash forward; thefiring from the wood breaks out in a crash of fury--there is a longharsh rattle, then a chance crack like a thunder-clap, and then awhirring like the spinning of some demoniac mill. Curses ring out amid alow sound of hard breathing; the ranks are gapped here and there as aman wriggles away like a wounded rabbit, or another bounds upward with afrantic ejaculation. Then comes the fighting at close quarters. Perhapskind women who are misled by the newspaper-writer's brisk babblementmay like to know what that means, so I give the words of the besteyewitness that ever gazed on warfare. He took down his notes by thelight of burning wood, and he had no time to think of grammar. All hiswords were written like mere convulsive cries, but their main effect istoo vivid to be altered. Notice that he rarely concludes a sentence, forhe wanted to save time, and the bullets were cutting up the ground andthe trees all round him. "Patches of the wood take fire, and several ofthe wounded, unable to move, are consumed. Quite large spaces are sweptover, burning the dead also; some of the men have their hair and beardssinged, some burns on their faces and hands, others holes burnt in theirclothing. The flashes of fire from the cannon, the quick glaring flamesand smoke, and the immense roar--the musketry so general; the lightnearly bright enough for each side to see the other; the crashing, tramping of men--the yelling--close quarters--hand-to-hand conflicts. Each side stands up to it, brave, determined as demons; and still thewood's on fire--still many are not only scorched--too many, unable tomove, are burned to death. Who knows the conflict, hand-to-hand--themany conflicts in the dark--those shadowy, tangled, flashing, moon-beamed woods--the writhing groups and squads--the cries, the din, the cracking guns and pistols, the distant cannon--the cheers and callsand threats and awful music of the oaths, the indescribable mix, theofficers' orders, persuasions, encouragements--the devils fully rousedin human hearts--the strong shout, 'Charge, men--charge!'--the flash ofthe naked swords, and rolling flame and smoke? And still the broken, clear, and clouded heaven; and still again the moonlight pouringsilvery soft its radiant patches over all. "

There is a description vivid as lightning, though there is not aproperly-constructed sentence in it. Gruesome, cruel, horrible! Is itnot enough to make the women of our sober sensible race declare for everagainst the flaunting stay-at-homes who would egg us on to war? By allmeans let us hold to the old-fashioned dogged ways, but let us beware ofrushing into the squalid vortex of war. And now let us see what followsthe brilliant charge and bayonet fight. How many ladies consider whatthe curt word "wounded" means? It conveys no idea to them, and they aretoo apt to stray off into the dashing details that tell of a greatwrestle of armies. One eminent man--whom I believe to have uttered alibel--has declared that women like war, and that they are usually themeans of urging men on. He is a very sedate and learned philosopher whowrote that statement, and yet I cannot believe it. Ah, no! Our ladiescan give their dearest up to death when the State calls on them, butthey will never be like the odious viragoes of the Roman circus. At anyrate, if any woman acts according to the dictum of the philosopher afterreading my bitterly true words, we shall hold that our influence isdeparted. Therefore with ruthless composure I follow my observer--a manwhose pure and holy spirit upheld him as he ministered to sufferers foryear after year. 

"Then the camps of the wounded. Oh, heavens, what scene is this? Is thisindeed humanity--these butchers' shambles? There are several of them. There they lie, in the largest, in an open space in the woods--from twoto three hundred poor fellows. The groans and screams, the odour ofblood mixed with the fresh scent of the night, the grass, thetrees--that slaughter-house! Oh, well is it their mothers, theirsisters, cannot see them, cannot conceive, and never conceived suchthings! One man is shot by a shell both in the arm and leg; both areamputated--there lie the rejected members. Some have their legs blownoff, some bullets through the breast, some indescribably horrid woundsin the head--all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out, some in theabdomen, some mere boys. " Alas, I have quoted enough--and may never sucha task come before me again! The picture is sharp as an etching; it isdrawn with a shudder of the soul. Is that grim sedate man right when hesays that women are the moving influence that drives men to suchcarnage? Would you wantonly advocate war? Never! I reject the solemnphilosopher's saying, in spite of his logic and his sententiousness. 

Who shall speak of the awful monotony of the hospital camps, where mendie like flies, and where regret, sympathy, kindness are blotted fromthe hardened soldier's breast? People are not cruel by nature, but thevague picturesque language of historians and other general writersprevents men and women from forming just opinions. I believe that, ifone hundred wounded men could be transported from a battle-field andlaid down in the public square of any town or city for the population tosee, then the gazers would say among themselves, "So this is war, is it?Well, for our parts, we shall be very cautious before we raise anyagitation that might force our Government into any conflict. We can dieif our liberties are threatened, for there are circumstances in whichit would be shameful to live, but we shall never do anything which maybring about results such as those before us. " That would be a fair andtemperate mode of talking--far different from the airy babble of thewarlike scribe. 

An argumentative person may stop us here and ask, "Are you of opinionthat it is possible to abolish warfare?" Unfortunately, we can cherishno such pleasing hope. I do emphatically believe that in time men willcome to see the wild folly of engaging in sanguinary struggles; but thegrowth of their wisdom will be slow. Action and reaction are equal; thefighting instinct has been impressed on our nature by hereditarytransmission for countless generations, and we cannot hope suddenly tomake man a peaceful animal any more than we can hope to breed settersfrom South African wild dogs. But the conditions of life are graduallychanging, and the very madness which has made Europe into a huge barrackmay work its own cure. The burden will probably grow so intolerable thatthe most embruted of citizens will ask themselves why they bear it, anda rapid revolution may undo the growth of centuries. The scientific menpoint to the huge warfare that goes on from the summit of the Himalayasto the depths of the ocean slime, and they ask how men can be exemptfrom the universal struggle for existence. But it is by no means certainthat the pressure of population in the case of man will always force onstruggles--at any rate, struggles that can be decided only by death andagony. Little by little we are learning something of the laws thatgovern our hitherto mysterious existence, and we have good hopes that byand by our race may learn to be mutually helpful, so that our span oflife may be passed with as much happiness as possible. Men will striveagainst each other, but the striving will not be carried on to anaccompaniment of slaughter and torture. There are keen forms ofcompetition which, so far from being painful, give positive pleasure tothose who engage in them; there are triumphs which satisfy the victorwithout mortifying the vanquished; and, in spite of the indiscreetwriters who have called forth this Essay, I hold that such harmlessforms of competition will take the place of the brutal strife that addssenselessly to the sum of human woe. Our race has outgrown so many formsof brutality, so many deliberate changes have taken place in the courseof even two thousand years, that the final change which shall abolishwar is almost certain to come. We find that about one thousand ninehundred years ago a polished gentleman like Julius Caesar gravelycongratulates himself on the fact that his troops destroyed in coldblood forty thousand people--men, women, and children. No man in thecivilized world dare do such a deed now, even if he had the mind for thecarnage. The feeling with which we read Caesar's frigid recital measuresthe arc of improvement through which we have passed. May the improvementgo on! We can continue to progress only through knowledge; if ourpeople--our women especially--are wantonly warlike, then our action willbe wantonly warlike; knowledge alone can save us from the guilt ofblood, and that knowledge I have tried to set forth briefly. By wondrousways does our Master work out His ends. Let us pray that He may hastenthe time when nation shall not rise up against nation, neither shallthey draw the sword any more. 

_December, 1886. _

_DRINK_. 

I have no intention of imitating those intemperate advocates oftemperance who frighten people by their thunderous and extravagantdenunciations; I leave high moral considerations on one side for thepresent, and our discussion will be purely practical, and, if possible, helpful. The duty of helpful men and women is not to rave about horrorsand failures and misfortunes, but to aim coolly at remedial measures;and I am firmly convinced that such remedial measures can be employedonly by private effort. State interference is always to be deprecated;individual action alone has power to better the condition of oursorely-tempted race. With sorrow too keen for words, I hear of blightedhomes, intellects abased, children starved, careers wrecked, wives madewretched, crime fostered; and I fully sympathize with the men and womenwho are stung into wild speech by the sight of a curse that seemsall-powerful in Britain. But I prefer to cultivate a sedate andscientific attitude of mind; I do not want to repeat catalogues ofevils; I want to point out ways whereby the intemperate may be cured. Above all, I wish to abate the panic which paralyzes the minds of someafflicted people, and which causes them to regard a drunkard or even atippler as a hopeless victim. "Hopeless" is a word used by ignorantpersons, by cowards, and by fools. When I hear some mourner say, "Alas!we can do nothing with him--he is a slave!" I feel impelled to reply, "What do you know about it? Have you given yourself the trouble to domore than preach? Listen, and follow the simple directions which I laydown for you. "

First, I deal with the unhappy beings who are called periodicaldrinkers. These are generally men who possess great ability and acapacity for severe stretches of labour. They may be artists, writers, men of business, mechanicians--anything; but in nearly every case somespecial faculty of brain is developed to an extraordinary degree, andthe man is able to put forth the most strenuous exertions at a pinch. Let us name some typical examples. Turner was a man of phenomenalindustry, but at intervals his temperament craved for some excitementmore violent and distracting than any that he could get from the steadystrain of daily work. He used to go away to Wapping, and spend weeks inthe filthiest debauch with the lowest characters in London. None of hiscompanions guessed who he was; they only knew that he had more moneythan they had, and that he behaved in a more bestial manner than any ofthose who frequented the "Fox under the Hill" and other pleasinghostelries. Turner pursued his reckless career, till his money was gone, and then he returned to his gruesome den and proceeded to turn outartistic prodigies until the fit came upon him once more. BenvenutoCellini was subject to similar paroxysms, during which he behaved like amaniac. Our own novelist Bulwer Lytton disappeared at times, and plungedinto the wildest excesses among wretches whom he would have loathedwhen he was in his normal state of mind. He used to dress himself as anavvy, or as a sailor, and no one would have recognized the weirdintellectual face when the great writer was clad in rags, and when thebrutal mask of intoxication had fallen over his face. It was during hisrecovery from one of these terrible visitations that he drove the womanwhom he most loved from his house, and brought on that breach whichresulted in irreparable misery. Poor George Morland, the painter, hadwild spells of debauch, during which he spent his time in boxing-saloonsamong ruffianly prize-fighters and jockeys. His vice grew upon him, hismad fits became more and more frequent, and at last his exquisite workcould be produced only when his nerve was temporarily steadied bycopious doses of brandy. Keats, who "worshipped Beauty, " was afflictedby seizures like those of Turner and Morland. On one occasion heremained in a state of drunkenness for six weeks; and it is a wonderthat his marvellous mind retained its freshness at all after the poisonhad passed from amid the delicate tissues of the brain. He conqueredhimself at last; but I fear that his health was impaired by his few madoutbursts. Charles Lamb, who is dear to us all, reduced himself to apitiable state by giving way to outbreaks of alcoholic craving. WhenCarlyle saw him, the unhappy essayist was semi-imbecile from the effectsof drink; and the savage Scotsman wrote some cruel words which willunfortunately cleave to Lamb's cherished memory for long. Lamb foughtagainst his failing; he suffered agonies of remorse; he bitterly blamedhimself for "buying days of misery by nights of madness;" but the sweetsoul was enchained, and no struggles availed to work a blessedtransformation. Read his "Confessions of a Drunkard. " It is the mostawful chapter in English literature, for it is written out of the agonyof a pure and well-meaning mind, and its tortured phrases seem to cryout from the page that holds their misery. We are placed face to facewith a dread aspect of life, and the remorseless artist paints his ownpitiable case as though he longed to save his fellow-creatures even atthe expense of his own self-abasement. All these afflicted creaturessought the wrong remedy for the exhaustion and the nameless craving thatbeset them when they were spent with toil. The periodic drinker takeshis dive into the sensual mud-bath just at the times when eager exertionhas brought on lassitude of body and mind. He begins by timidly drinkinga little of the deleterious stuff, and he finds that his mental imagesgrow bright and pleasant. A moment comes to him when he would not changeplaces with the princes of the earth, and he endeavours to make thatmoment last long. He fails, and only succeeds in dropping intodrunkenness. On the morning after his first day he feels depressed; buthis biliary processes are undisturbed, and he is able to begin againwithout any sense of nausea. His quantity is increased until hegradually reaches the point when glasses of spirits are poured down withfeverish rapidity. His appetite is sometimes voracious, sometimescapricious, sometimes absent altogether. His stomach becomes ulcerated, and he can obtain release from the grinding uneasiness only by feedingthe inflamed organ with more and more alcohol. The liver ceases to acthealthily, the blood becomes charged with bile, and one morning thewretch awakes feeling that life is not worth having. He has slept like alog; but all night through his outraged brain has avenged itself bycalling up crowds of hideous dreams. The blood-vessels of the eye arecharged with bilious particles, and these intruding specks give rise tofearful, exaggerated images of things that never yet were seen on sea orland. Grim faces leer at the dreamer and make mock of him; frightfulanimals pass in procession before him; and hosts of incoherent words arejabbered in his ear by unholy voices. He wakes, limp, exhausted, trembling, nauseated, and he feels as if he must choose between suicideand--more drink. If he drinks at this stage, he is lost; and then is thetime to fix upon him and draw him by main force from the slough. 

Now some practitioners say, "Let him drop it gradually;" and theyproceed to stir every molecule of alcohol in the system into vileactivity by adding small doses of wine or spirit to the deadlyaccumulation. The man's brain is impoverished, and the mistaken doctorsproceed to impoverish it more, so that a patient who should be cured inforty-eight hours is kept in dragging misery for a month or more. Theproper mode of treatment is widely different. You want to nourish thebrain speedily, and at any cost, ere the ghastly depression drives theagonized wretch to the arms of Circe once more. First, then, give himmilk. If you try milk alone, the stomach will not retain it long, so youmust mix the nourishing fluid with soda-water. Half an hour afterwardsadminister a spoonful of meat-essence. Beware of giving the patient anyhot fluid, for that will damage him almost as much as alcohol. Continuewith alternate half-hourly instalments of milk and meat-essence; supplyno solid food whatever; and do not be tempted by the growing goodspirits of your charge to let him go out of doors amid temptation. Atnight, after some eight hours of this rapid feeding, you must take arisky step. Make sure that the drinker is calm, and then prepare him forsleep. That preparation is accomplished thus. Get a draught of hydrateof chloral made up, and be sure that you describe your man'sphysique--this is most important--to the apothecary who serves you. Avery light dose will suffice, and, when it is swallowed, the drugged manshould be left in quietude. He will sleep heavily, perhaps for as muchas twelve hours, and no noise must be allowed to come near him. If he iswaked suddenly, the consequences may be bad, so that those who go tolook at him must use precautions to ensure silence. In the morning hewill awake with his brain invigorated, his muscles unagitated, and hiscraving utterly gone. It is like magic; for a man who was prostrate onSunday morning is brisk and eager for work on Monday at noon. Wheneverthe cured man feels his craving arise after a spell of labour, he shouldat once recuperate his brain by rapidly-repeated doses of theeasily-assimilated meat-essence, and this, with a little strong blackcoffee taken at short intervals, will tide him over the evil time. Hesaves money, he keeps his working power, and he gives no shock to hishealth. Since a beneficent doctor first described this cure to theBritish Medical Association, hundreds have been restored and ultimatelyreclaimed. 

And now as to the persons who are called "soakers. " Scattered over thecountry are thousands of men and women who do not go to bestialexcesses, but who steadily undermine their constitutions by persistenttippling. Such a man as a commercial traveller imbibes twenty or thirtynips in the course of the day; he eats well in the evening, though he isusually repelled by the sight of food in the morning, and he preservesan outward appearance of ruddy health. Then there are the femalesoakers, whom doctors find to be the most troublesome of all theirpatients. There is not a medical man in large practice who has not ashocking percentage of lady inebriates on his list, and the cases arehard to manage. An ill-starred woman, whose well-to-do husband isengaged in business all day, finds that a dull life-weariness overtakesher. If she has many children, her enforced activity preserves her fromdanger; but, if she is childless, the subtle temptation is apt toovercome her. She seeks unnatural exaltation, and the very secrecy whichis necessary lends a strange zest to the pursuit of a numbing vice. Thenwe have such busy men as auctioneers, ship-brokers, water-clerks, ship-captains, buyers for great firms--all of whom are more or less aprey to the custom of "standing liquors. "

The soaker goes on without meeting any startling check for a good while;but, by slow degrees, the main organs of the body suffer, and a chronicstate of alcoholic irritation is set up. A man becomes suspected by hisemployers and slighted by his abstemious friends; he loses health, character, prospects; and yet he is invariably ready to declare that noone ever saw him the worse for drink. The tippling goes on till theresultant irritation reaches an acute stage, and the faintest disturbingcause brings on _delirium tremens_. There is only one way with peoplethus afflicted. They must be made to loathe alcohol, and their nervesmust at the same time be artificially stimulated. The cure is notprecisely easy, but it is certain. If my directions are followed out, then a man who is in the last stage of alcoholic debility will not onlyregain a certain measure of health, but he will turn with horror fromthe stuff that fascinated him. In the case of the soaker a little winemay be given at meal-times during the first stages of the cure; but he(or she) will soon reject even wine. Strong black coffee, or tea, shouldbe given as often as possible--the oftener the better--and icedsoda-water should be administered after a heavy meal. Take thisprescription and let it be made up--Rx Acid. Acet. Eight ounces. Spongedown the patient's spine with this fluid until the parts moistenedtingle smartly; and let this be done night and morning. Also get thefollowing from your chemist--Rx Ext. Cinch. Rub. Liq. Four ounces--andgive one teaspoonful in water after each meal. In a week the drinkerwill cease to desire alcohol, and in a month he will refuse it withdisgust. His nerves will resume their healthy action, and, if he has notreached the stage of cirrhosis of the liver, he will become well andclear-headed. Recollect that this remedy is almost infallible, and theneven the most greedy of literary students will hardly reproach me forplacing a kind of medical chapter in the quarter usually devoted todisquisitions of another kind. From every side rises the bitter cry ofthose who see their loved ones falling victims to the seductive scourge;from all quarters the voices of earnest men are raised in passionatepleading; and in every great city there are noble workers who strive torescue their fellow-creatures from drink as from a gulf of doom. Mywords are not addressed to the happy beings who can rejoice in thecheerfulness bestowed by wine; I have before me only the fortunes ofthose to whom wine is a mocker. Far be it from me to find fault with thegood and sound-hearted men and women who are never scathed by theirinnocent potations; my attempt is directed toward saving the wreckagesof civilization who perish in the grasp of the destroyer. 

_March, 1886. _

_CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO KNOW THEY ARE GOING WRONG_. 

Some five years ago a mere accident gave to the world one of the mostgruesome and remarkable pieces of literature that has ever perhaps beenseen. A convict named Fury confessed to having committed a murder of anatrocious character. He was brought from prison, put on his trial atDurham, and condemned to death. Every chance was given him to escape hisdoom; but he persisted in providing the authorities with the mostminutely accurate chain of evidence against himself; and, in the end, there was nothing for it but to cast him for death. Even when the policeblundered, he carefully set them right--and he could not have proved hisown guilt more clearly had he been the ablest prosecuting counsel inBritain. He held in his hand a voluminous statement which, as it seems, he wished to read before sentence of death was passed. The Court couldnot permit the nation's time to be thus expended; so the convict handedhis manuscript to a reporter--and we thus have possibly the mostabsolutely curious of all extant thieves' literature. Somewhere in therecesses of Fury's wild heart there must have been good concealed; forhe confessed his worst crime in the interests of justice, and he went tothe scaffold with a serious and serene courage which almost made of hima dignified person. But, on his own confession, he must have been allhis life long an unmitigated rascal--a predatory beast of the mostdangerous kind. From his youth upward he had lived as a professionalthief, and his pilferings were various and extensive. The glimpses ofsordid villainy which he frankly gives are so poignantly effective thatthey put into the shade the most dreadful phases in the life of Villon. He was a mean sneaking wretch who supported a miserable existence on thefruits of other people's industry, and he closed his list of crimes bybrutally stabbing an unhappy woman who had never harmed him. The fellowhad genuine literary skill and a good deal of culture; his confession isvery different from any of those contained in the _NewgateCalendar_--infinitely different from the crude horror of the statementwhich George Borrow quotes as a masterpiece of simple and directwriting. Here is Borrow's specimen, by-the-way--"So I went with them toa music-booth, where they made me almost drunk with gin and began totalk their flash language, which I did not understand"--and so on. Butthis dry simplicity is not in Fury's line. He has studied philosophy; hehas reasoned keenly; and, as one goes on through his terrible narrative, one finds that he has mental capacity of a high order. He was as mean arascal as Noah Claypole: and yet he had a fine clear-seeing intellect. Now what does this gallows-bird tell us? Why, his whole argument isintended to prove that he was an ill-used victim of society! Such aperversion has probably never been quite equalled; but it remains thereto show us how firmly my theory stands--that the real scoundrel neverknows himself to be a scoundrel. Had Fury settled down in a back streetand employed his genius in writing stories, he could have earned alivelihood, for people would have eagerly read his experiences; but hepreferred thieving--and then he turned round and blamed other people forhounding him on to theft. 

There are wrong-doers and wrong-doers; there are men who do ill in theworld because they are entirely harmful by nature, and they seek to hurttheir fellows--there are others who err only from weakness of will. Imake no excuse for the weaklings; a man or woman who is weak may do moreharm than the vilest criminal, and, when I hear any one talk about thatnice man who is nobody's enemy but his own, I am instantly forced toremember a score or thereabouts of beings whom I know to have been thedeadliest foes of those whom they should have cherished. Let us helpthose who err; but let us have no maudlin pity. 

Moralists in general have made a somewhat serious error in supposingthat one has only to show a man the true aspect of any given evil inorder to make sure of his avoiding it. Of late so many sad things havebeen witnessed in public and private life that one is tempted to doubtwhether abstract morality is of any use whatever in the world. One maytell a man that a certain course is dangerous or fatal; one may show byevery device of logic and illustration that he should avoid the saidcourse, and he will fully admit the truth of one's contentions; yet heis not deterred from his folly, and he goes on toward ruin with a sortof blind abandonment. "Blind, " I say. That is but a formal phrase; forit happens that the very men and women who wreck their lives by doingfoolish things are those who are keenest in detecting folly and wisestin giving advice to others. "Educate the people, and you will find thata steady diminution of vice, debauchery, and criminality must set in. " Iam not talking about criminality at present; but I am bound to say thatno amount of enlightenment seems to diminish the tendency toward formsof folly which approach criminality. It is almost confounding to see howlucid of mind and how sane in theoretical judgment are the men whosometimes steep themselves in folly and even in vice. A wicked manboasted much of his own wickedness to some fellow-travellers during abrief sea-voyage. He said, "I like doing wrong for the sake of doing it. When you know you are outraging the senses of decent people there is akind of excitement about it. " This contemptible cynic told with gleestories of his own vileness which made good men look at him with scorn;but he fancied himself the cleverest of men. With the grave nearly readyfor him, he could chuckle over things which he had done--things whichproved him base, although none of them brought him within measurabledistance of the dock. But such instances are quite rare. The man whosevision is lucid, but who nevertheless goes wrong, is usually a prey toconstant misery or to downright remorse. Look at Burns's epitaph, composed by himself for himself. It is a dreadful thing. It is more thanverse; it is a sermon, a prophecy, a word of doom; and it tells withmatchless terseness the story of many men who are at this hour passingto grim ruin either of body or soul or both. Burns had such magnificentcommon sense that in his last two lines he sums up almost everythingthat is worth saying on the subject; and yet that fatal lack of willwhich I have so often lamented made all his theoretical good sense asnaught He could give one every essential of morality and conduct--intheory--and he was one of the most convincing and wise preachers whoever lived; but that mournful epitaph summarises the results of all hismighty gifts; and I think that it should be learned by all young men, onthe chance that some few might possibly be warned and convinced. Adviceis of scanty use to men of keen reason who are capable of composingprecepts for themselves; but to the duller sort I certainly think thatthe flash of a sudden revelation given in concise words is beneficial. Here is poor Burns's saying--

 Is there a man whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs himself life's mad career Wild as the wave? Here pause, and through the starting tear Survey this grave. 

 The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the kindly glow And softer flame; But thoughtless follies laid him low And stained his name. 

 Reader, attend! Whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole; Or, darkling, grubs this earthly hole In low pursuit, Know--prudent cautious self-control Is wisdom's root. 

When I ponder that forlorn masterpiece, I cannot help a tendency todespair; for I know, by multifarious experience of men, that the curtlines hint at profundities so vast as to baffle the best powers ofcomprehension. As I think of the hundreds of men who are minor copies ofBurns, I have a passionate wish to call on the Power that sways us alland pray for pity and guidance. A most wise--should I say "wise"?--andbrilliant man had brought himself very low through drink, and was dyingsolely through the effects of a debauch which had lasted for years withscarcely an interval of pure sanity. He was beloved by all; he had amost sweet nature; he was so shrewd and witty that it seemed impossiblefor him to be wrong about anything. On his deathbed he talked withlovely serenity, and he seemed rather like some thrice-noble disciple ofSocrates than like one who had cast away all that the world has worthholding. He knew every folly that he had committed, and he knew itsexact proportions; he was consulted during his last days by young andold, who recognized the well-nigh superhuman character of his wisdom;and yet he had abundantly proved himself to be one of the most unwisemen living. How strange! How infinitely pathetic! Few men of clearervision ever came on this earth; but, with his flashing eyes open, hewalked into snare after snare, and the last of the devil's traps caughthim fatally. Even when he was too weak to stir, he said that, if hecould move, he would be sure to take the old path again. Well may thewarning devotees cry, "Have mercy upon us!" Well may they bow themselvesand wail for the weakness of man! Well may they cast themselves humblyon the bosom of the Infinite Pity! For, of a truth, we are a feeblefolk, and, if we depended only on ourselves, it would be well thatGeorge Eliot's ghastly thought of simultaneous universal suicide shouldbe put into practice speedily. 

Hark to the appalling words of wisdom uttered by the good man whose nameI never miss mentioning because I wish all gentle souls to refreshthemselves with his ineffable sweetness and tender fun! "Could the youthto whom the flavour of his first wine is delicious as the opening scenesof life or the entering upon some newly-discovered paradise look upon mydesolation, and be made to understand what a dreary thing it is when aman shall feel himself going down a precipice with open eyes and apassive will--to see his destruction and have no power to stop it, andyet to feel it all the way emanating from himself--to perceive allgoodness emptied out of him, and yet not be able to forget a time whenit was otherwise--to hear about the piteous spectacle of his ownself-ruin--could he see my fevered eye, feverish with last night'sdrinking and feverishly looking for this night's repetition of thefolly--could he feel the body of the death out of which I cry hourly, with feebler and feebler outcry, to be delivered--it were enough to makehim dash the sparkling beverage to the earth in all the pride of itsmantling temptation, to make him clasp his teeth, And not undo 'em To suffer wet damnation to run thro' 'em. "

Can that be beaten for utter lucidity and directness? Not by any masterof prose known to us--not by any man who ever wrote in prose or inverse. The vision is so completely convincing, the sense of actualitygiven by the words is so haunting, that, not even Dickens could haveequalled it. The man who wrote those searing words is to this dayremembered and spoken of with caressing gentleness by all men ofintellect, refinement, quick fancy, genial humour; the editing of hisworks has occupied a great part of the lifetime of a most distinguishedecclesiastic. Could he avoid the fell horror against which he warnedothers? No. With all his dread knowledge, he went on his sorrowfulway--and he remained the victim of his vice until the bitter end. It wasCharles Lamb. 

A gambler is usually the most prodigal of men in the matter of promises. If he is clever, he is nearly always quite ready to smile mournfully athis own infatuation, and he will warn inexperienced youngsters--unlesshe wants to rob them. 

In sum, intellect, wit, keenness, lucidity of vision, perfect reasoningpower, are all useless in restraining a man from proceeding to ruinunless some steadying agency is allied with them. After much sadbrooding, I cannot but conclude that a fervent religious faith is theonly thing that will give complete security; and it will be a bitter dayfor England and the world if ever flippancy and irreligion becomegeneral. 

_June, 1889. _

_THE SOCIAL INFLUENCE OF THE "BAR. "_

A great American writer has lately given a terrible account of "TheSocial Influence of the Saloon" in his country. The article is verygrave, and every word is weighed, but the cold precision of the paperattracts the reader with a horrible fascination. The author does not somuch regret the enormous waste of money, though he allows that about twohundred millions of pounds sterling are spent yearly in the States onstrong drink; but he mourns most because of the steady ruin which hesees overtaking the social happiness of his country. The saloon issubtly corrupting the men of America, and the ghastly plagues ofselfishness, brutality, and immorality are spreading with cruelswiftness. The great author's conclusion is more than startling, and Iconfess to having caught my breath when I read it. He says in effect, "We sacrificed a million men in order to do away with slavery, but wenow have working in our midst a curse which is infinitely worse thanslavery. One day we shall be obliged to save ourselves from ruin, evenif we have to stamp out the trade in alcohol entirely, and that by meansof a civil war. " Strong words--and yet the man speaks with intenseconviction: and his very quietude only serves to emphasise the awfulnature of his disclosures. As I read on I saw with horror that thedescription of the state of things in America accurately fits our owncountry. We do not talk of a "saloon" here, but "bar" means the samething; and the "bar" is crushing out the higher life of the Englishmiddle-class as surely as the saloon is destroying American manhood. Amid all our material prosperity, amid all the complexities of ouramazing community, an evil is at work which gathers power daily andwhich is actually assassinating, as it were, every moral quality thathas made England strong and beneficent. Begin with a picture. The longcurved counter glistens under the flare of the gas; the lines of gaudybottles gleam like vulgar, sham jewelry; the glare, the glitter, thegarish refulgence of the place dazzle the eye, and the sharp acridwhiffs of vile odour fall on the senses with a kind of mephiticinfluence. The evening is wearing away, and the broad space in front ofthe bar is crowded. A hoarse crashing babble goes steadily on, formingthe ground-bass of an odious symphony; shrill and discordant laughterrises by fits and starts above the low tumult; a coarse joke sets onegroup sniggering; a vile oath rings out from some foul-mouthedroysterer; and at intervals some flushed and bleared creature breaksinto a slavering laugh which has a sickly resemblance to weeping. At oneof the side-tables a sodden brute leans forward and wags his head to andfro with ignoble solemnity; another has fallen asleep and snores atintervals with a nauseous rattle; smart young men, dressed fashionably, fling chance witticisms at the busy barmaids, and the nymphs answer withglib readiness. This is the home of Jollity and Good-fellowship; this isthe place from which Care is banished; this is the happy corner wherethe social glass is dispensed. Alas for the jollity and the sociabilityand all the rest of it! Force yourself to study the vile spectacle, andyou will soon harbour a brood of aching reflections. The whole of thatchattering, swilling mob are employing their muddled minds on frivolityor obscenity, or worse things still. You will hear hardly an intelligentword; you will not catch a sound of sensible discussion; the scraps ofconversation that reach you alternate between low banter, lowsquabbling, objectionable narrative, and histories of fights or swindlesor former debauches. 

Middle-aged men tell interminable stories about money or smart strokesof business; youngsters wink and look unspeakably wise as they talk onthe subject of the spring handicaps; wild spirits tell of theirexperiences at a glove-fight in some foul East-end tavern; amorousexploits are detailed with a fulness and freedom which would extremelyamaze the ladies who form the subject of the conversation. In all thenasty confusion you never hear a word that can be called manly, unlessyou are prepared to allow the manliness of pugilism. Each quarter-hoursees the company grow more and more incoherent; the laughter graduallybecomes senseless, and loses the last indication of pure merriment; thereek thickens; the dense air is permeated with queasy smells which risefrom the fusel oil and the sugared beer; the shrewd landlord looks onwith affected jollity, and hails casual friends with effusive imitationof joy; and last of all "time" is called, and the host of men pour intothe street. They are ready for any folly or mischief, and they are allmore or less unfitted for the next day's work. Strangely enough, many ofthose wretched fellows who thus waste time amid sordid surroundings comefrom refined homes; but music and books and the quiet pleasant talk ofmothers and sisters are tame after the delirious rattle of the bar, andthus bright lads go home with-their wits dulled and with a completeincapacity for coherent speech. Now let it be remembered that no realfriendships are contracted in those odious drinking-shops--something inthe very atmosphere of the place seems to induce selfishness, and adrinker who goes wrong is never pitied; when evil days come, the smartlandlord shuns the failure, the barmaids sneer at him, and his booncompanions shrink away as though the doomed man were tainted. Monstrousit is to hear the remarks made about a lost soul who is plunging withaccelerated speed down the steep road to ruin. His companions comparenotes about him, and all his bodily symptoms are described withtruculent glee in the filthy slang of the bar. So long as the wretch hasmoney he is received with boisterous cordiality, and encouraged to rushyet faster on the way to perdition; his wildest feats in the way ofmawkish generosity are applauded; and the very men who drink at hisexpense go on plucking him and laughing at him until the inevitablecrash comes. I once heard with a kind of chilled horror a narrativeabout a fine young man who had died of _delirium tremens_. The narratorgiggled so much that his story was often interrupted; but it ranthus--"He was very shaky in the morning, and he began on brandy; he tookabout six before his hand was steady, and I saw him looking over hisshoulder every now and again. In the afternoon a lot of fellows came in, and he stood champagne like water to the whole gang. At six o'clock Iwanted him to have a cup of tea, but he said, 'I've had nothing butbooze for three days. ' Then he got on to the floor, and said he wascatching rats--so we knew he'd got 'em on. [1] At night he came out andcleared the street with his sword-bayonet; and it's a wonder he didn'tmurder somebody. It took two to hold him down all night, and he had hislast fit at six in the morning. Died screaming!" A burst of laughterhailed the climax, and then one appreciative friend remarked, "He was afool--I suppose he was drunk eleven months out of the last twelve. " Thiswas the epitaph of a bright young athlete who had been possessed ofhealth, riches, and all fair prospects. No one warned him; none of thosewho swilled expensive poisons for which he paid ever refused to accepthis mad generosity; he was cheered down the road to the gulf by theinane plaudits of the lowest of men; and one who was evidently hiscompanion in many a frantic drinking-bout could find nothing to say but"He was a fool!" At this moment there are thousands of youths in ourgreat towns and cities who are leading the heartless, senseless, semi-delirious life of the bar, and every possible temptation is put intheir way to draw them from home, from refinement, from high thoughts, from chaste and temperate modes of life. Horrible it is to hear finelads talking familiarly about the "jumpy" sensations which they feel inthe morning. The "jumps" are those involuntary twitchings whichsometimes precede and sometimes accompany _delirium tremens_; thefrightful twitching of the limbs is accompanied by a kind of depressionthat takes the very heart and courage out of a man; and yet no one whotravels over these islands can avoid hearing jokes on the dismalsubject made by boys who have hardly reached their twenty-fifthyear. The bar encourages levity, and the levity is unrelievedby any real gaiety--it is the hysterical feigned merriment oflost souls. 

[Footnote 1: This is the elegant public-house mode of describing_delirium tremens_. ]

There are bars of a quieter sort, and there are rooms where middle-agedtopers meet, but these are, if possible, more repulsive than theclattering dens frequented by dissipated youths. Stout staid-lookingmen--fathers of families--gather night after night to sodden themselvesquietly, and they make believe that they are enjoying the pleasures ofgood-fellowship. Curious it is to see how the fictitious assertion ofgoodwill seems to flourish in the atmosphere of the bar and the parlour. Those elderly men who sit and smoke in the places described as "cosy"are woeful examples of the effects of our national curse. They are notriotous; they are only dull, coarse, and silly. Their talk is confused, dogmatic, and generally senseless; and, when they break out intodownright foulness of speech, their comparatively silent enjoyment ofdetestable stories is a thing to make one shiver. Here againgood-fellowship is absent. Comfortable tradesmen, prosperous dealers, sharp men who hold good commercial situations, meet to gossip andexchange dubious stories. They laugh a good deal in a restrained way, and they are apparently genial; but the hard selfishness of all is plainto a cool observer. The habit of self-indigence has grown upon themuntil it pervades their being, and the corruption of the bar subtlyenvenoms their declining years. If good women could only once hear anevening's conversation that passes among these elderly citizens, theywould be a little surprised. Thoughtful ladies complain that women arenot reverenced in England, and Americans in particular notice withshame the attitude which middle-class Englishmen adopt towards ladies. If the people who complain could only hear how women are spoken of inthe homes of Jollity, they would feel no more amazement at a distressingsocial phenomenon. The talk which is chuckled over by men who havedaughters of their own is something to make an inexperienced individualredden. Reverence, nobility, high chivalry, common cleanliness, cannotflourish in the precincts of the bar, and there is not an honest man whohas studied with adequate opportunities who will deny that the socialglass is too often taken to an accompaniment of sheer uncleanness. Whyhave not our moral novelists spoken the plain truth about these things?We have many hideous pictures of the East-end drinking-bars, and muchreproachful pity is expended on the "residuum;" but the evil that iseating at the very heart of the nation, the evil that is destroying ouronce noble middle-class, finds no assailant and no chronicler. Were itnot for the athletic sports which happily engage the energies ofthousands of young men, our middle-class would degenerate with appallingrapidity. But, in spite of athletics, the bar claims its holocaust ofmanhood year by year, and the professional moralists keep silence on thematter. Some of them say that they cannot risk hurting the sensibilitiesof innocent maidens. What nonsense! Those maidens all have a chance ofbecoming the wives of men who have suffered deterioration in the reekand glare of the bar. How many sorrowing wives are now hiding theirheart-break and striving to lure their loved ones away from the curse ofcurses! If the moralists could only look on the mortal pathos of theletters which I receive, they would see that the maidens about whomthey are so nervous are the very people who should be summoned as alliesin our fight against a universal enemy. If our brave sweet English girlsonce learn the nature of the temptations to which their brothers andlovers are exposed, they will use every force of their pure souls tosave the men whom they can influence from a doom which is death in life. 

_May, 1887. _

_FRIENDSHIP_. 

The memoirs that are now poured into the book-market certainly tend tobreed cynicism in the minds of susceptible persons, for it appears thatto many eminent men and women of our generation friendship was almost anunknown sentiment. As we read one spiteful paragraph after another, webegin to wonder whether the living men around us resemble the deadpurveyors of scandal. The fashionable mode of proceeding nowadays is toleave diaries crammed with sarcasm, give some unhappy friend orders towait until you are settled in the grave, and then confound your friendsand foes by attacks which come to the light long after your ears aredeaf to praise and blame. Samuel Wilberforce went into the choicestsociety that Britain could show; he was the confidant of many people, and he contrived to charm all but a few cross-grained critics. His goodhumour seemed inexhaustible; and those who saw his cherubic face beamingsweetly on the company at banquets or assemblies fancied that sodelightful a man was never known before. But this suave, unctuousgentleman, who fascinated every one, from Queen to cottager, spent apretty fair share of his life in writing vicious witticisms and scandalsconcerning the folk with whom he seemed to be on affectionate terms. Atnights, after spending his days in working and bowing and smiling andwinning the hearts of men, he went home and poured out all the venomthat was in his heart. When his memoirs appeared, all the most selectsocial circles in the country were driven into a serious flutter. No onewas spared; and, as some of the statements made by Wilberforce were, tosay the least, a little sweeping, a violent paper warfare began, whichhas hardly ceased raging even now. Happy and contented men who believedthat the Bishop loved and admired them were surprised to find that hehad disliked and despised them. Moreover, the naughty diarist had anugly habit of recording men's private conversations; and thus a goodmany sayings which should have been kept secret became public property. A very irreverent wag wrote--

 How blest was he who'd ne'er consent With Wilberforce to walk, Nor dined with Soapy Sam, nor let The Bishop hear him talk!

and this crude epigram expressed the feelings of numbers of enraged andscandalized individuals. The wretched book gave us an ugly picture of ahollow society where kindness seemed non-existent, and where every manwalked with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. As more memoirsappeared, it was most funny to observe that, while Wilberforce wasoccupied in scarifying his dear friends, some of his dear friends wereoccupied in scarifying him. Thus we find Abraham Hayward, a polishedleader of society, writing in the following way of Wilberforce, withwhom ostensibly his relations were of the most affectionatedescription--"Wilberforce is really a low fellow. Again and again thecommittee of the Athenaeum Club have been obliged to reprove him forhis vulgar selfishness. " This is dreadful! No wonder that petty cynicssnarl and rejoice; they say, "Look at your great men, and see what meanbackbiters they are!" Alas!

Thomas Carlyle's memoirs are a kind of graveyard of reputations; and wecan well understand the rage and horror with which many individualsprotested against the fierce Scotchman's strictures. In the hearts ofthousands of noble young people Carlyle's memory was cherished like thatof some dear saint; and it was terrible to find that the strong prophethad been penetrated by such a virus of malice. Carlyle met all the bestmen and women in England; but the only ones whom he did not disparagewere Tennyson, the Duke of Wellington, Mr. Froude, and Emerson. Hecould not talk even of Charles Darwin without calling him an imbecile;and his all-round hitting at his closest intimates is simply merciless. The same perversity which made him talk of Keats's "maudlin weak-eyedsensibility" caused him to describe his loyal, generous, high-bredfriend Lord Houghton as a "nice little robin-redbreast of a man;" whileMrs. Basil Montagu, who cheered him and spared no pains to aid him inthe darkest times, is now immortalized by one masterly venomousparagraph. Carlyle was great--very great--but really the cultivation ofloyal friendships seems hardly to have been in his line. Men who knowhis works by heart, and who derived their noblest inspiration from him, cannot bear to read his memoirs twice over, for it sadly appears asthough the Titan had defiled the very altar of friendship. 

What shall we say of the cunning cat-like Charles Greville, who crepton tiptoe through the world, observing and recording the littleness ofmen? His stealthy eye missed nothing; and the men whom he flattered andused little thought that the wizened dandy who pleased them with hisold-world courtesy was chronicling their weakness and baseness for alltime. A nobly patriotic Ministry came before the world with a flourishof trumpets, and declared that England must fight Russia in defence ofpublic law, freedom, and other holy things. But the wicked diarist hadwatched the secret proceedings of his dear friends; and he informs usthat those beloved intimates were all sound asleep when a singleMinister decided on the movement which cost us forty thousand men andone hundred millions of treasure. That close sly being used--to worm outthe secrets of men's innermost hearts; and his impassive mask nevershowed a sign of emotion. To illustrate his mode of extracting theinformation of which he made such terrible use, I may tell one trivialanecdote which has never before been made public. When Greville was veryold, he went to see a spiritualistic "medium" who was attractingfashionable London. The charlatan looked at the gray worn old man andthought himself safe; four other visitors attended the _séance_, but the"medium" bestowed all his attention on Greville. With much emotion hecried, "There is an aged lady behind your chair!" Greville remarkedsweetly, "How interesting!" "She is very, very like you!" "Who can itbe?" murmured Greville. "She lifts her hands to bless you. Her hands arenow resting over your head!" shouted the medium; and the pallidemotionless man said, with a slight tremor in his voice, "Pray tell mewho this mysterious visitant may be!" "It is your mother. " "Oh, " saidGreville, "I am delighted to hear that!" "She says she is perfectlyhappy, and she watches you constantly. " "Dear soul!" muttered theimperturbable one. "She tells me you will join her soon, and be happywith her. " Then Greville said gravely, in dulcet tones, "That isextremely likely, for I am going to take tea with her at five o'clock!"He had led on the poor swindler in his usual fashion; and he neverhinted at the fact that his mother was nearly a century old. His friendswere "pumped" in the same subtle manner; and the immortally notoriousmemoirs are strewn with assassinated characters. 

As we study the phenomena indicated by these memoirs, we begin to wonderwhether friendship is or is not extinct. Men are gregarious, and flocksof them meet together at all hours of the day and night. They exchangeconventional words of greeting, they wear happy smiles, they areapparently cordial and charming' one with another; and yet a rigidlyaccurate observer may look mournfully for signs of real friendship. Howcan it exist? The men and women who pass through the whirl of a Londonseason cannot help regarding their fellow-creatures rather as layfigures than as human beings. They go to crowded balls and seething"receptions, " not to hold any wise human converse, but only to be ableto say that they were in such and such a room on a certain night. Theglittering crowds fleet by like shadows, and no man has much chance ofknowing his neighbour's heart. 

 How fast the flitting figures come-- The mild, the fierce, the stony face; Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace!

Ah, it is only the faces that the tired pleasure-seeker sees and knows;the real comrade, the human soul, is hidden away behind the mask!

Genuine heroic friendship cannot flourish in an artificial society; andthat perhaps accounts for the fact that the curled darlings of ourmodern community spend much of their leisure in reading papers devotedto tattle and scandal. It seems as though the search after pleasurepoisoned the very sources of nobleness in the nature of men. In ourmonstrous city a man may live without a quarrel for forty years; he maybe popular, he may be received with genial greetings wherever hegoes--and yet he has no friend. He lingers through his little day; and, when he passes away, the change is less heeded than would be the removalof a chair from a club smoking-room. When I see the callous indifferencewith which illness, misfortune, and death are regarded by the daintyclasses, I can scarcely wonder when irate philosophers denounce politesociety as a pestilent and demoralizing nuisance. Among the peopleairily and impudently called "the lower orders" noble friendships are byno means uncommon. "I can't bear that look on your face, Bill. I'mcoming to save you or go with you!" said a rough sailor as he spranginto a raging sea to help his shipmate. "I'm coming, old fellow!"shouted the mate of a merchant-vessel; and he dived overboard among themountainous seas that were rolling south of Cape Horn one January. Foran hour this hero fought with the blinding water, and he saved hiscomrade at last. Strange to say, the lounging impassive dandies whoregard the universe with a yawn, and who sneer at the very notion offriendship, develop the kindly and manly virtues when they are removedfrom the enervating atmosphere of Society and forced to lead a hardlife. A man to whom emotion, passion, self-sacrifice, are things to bementioned with a curl of the lip, departs on a campaign, and amidsqualor, peril, and grim horrors he becomes totally unselfish. Men whohave watched our splendid military officers in the field are apt tothink that a society which converts such generous souls intoself-seeking fribbles must be merely poisonous. The more we study thesubject the more clearly we can see that where luxury flourishesfriendship withers. In the vast suffering Russian nation friendships areat this very moment cherished to the heroic pitch. A mighty people areawakening, as it were, from sleep; the wicked and corrupt still sit inhigh places, but among the weltering masses of the populace purity andnobleness are spreading, and such friendships are fostered as never havebeen shadowed forth in story or song. Sophie Peroffsky mounts thescaffold with four other doomed mortals; she never thinks of her ownapproaching agony--she only longs to comfort her friends and she kissesthem and greets them with cheering words until the last dread momentarrives. Poor little Marie Soubotine--sweetest of perverted children, noblest of rebels--refuses to purchase her own safety by uttering a wordto betray her sworn friend. For three years she lingers on in anunderground dungeon, and then she is sent on the wild road to Siberia;she dies amid gloom and deep suffering, but no torture can unseal herlips; she gladly gives her life to save another's. Antonoff endures thetorture, but no agony can make him prove false to his friends. When hiscaptors give him a respite from the thumbscrews and the red-hot wiresthat are thrust under his nails, he forgets his own torment, andscratches on his plate his cipher signals to his comrades. Those men andwomen in that awful country are lawless and dangerous, but they areheroic, and they are true friends one to another. 

How far we proud islanders must have forsaken for a time the road tonobleness when we are able to exalt the saying "A full purse is the onlytrue friend" into a representative English proverb! We do not rage andfoam as Timon did--that would be ill-bred and ludicrous; we simply smileand utter delicate mockeries. In the plays that best please our goldenyouth nothing is so certain to win applause and laughter as a sentenceabout the treachery or greed of friends. Do those grinning, superlatively insolent cynics really represent the mighty Mother ofNations? Ah, no! If even the worst of them were thrust away into someregion where life was hard for him, he would show something likenobility and manliness; it is the mephitic airs of ease and luxury thatbreed selfishness and scorn in his soul. At any rate, those effeminatepeople are not typical specimens of our steadfast friendly race. Whenthe folk in the colliery village hear that deadly thud and feel theshudder of the earth which tell of disaster, Jack the hewer rushes tothe pit's mouth and joins the search-party. He knows that the gas maygrip him by the throat, and that the heavy current of dissolution maycreep through his veins; but his mate is down there in the workings, and he must needs save him or die in the attempt. Greater love hath noman than this. Ah, yes--the poor collier is indeed ready to lay down hislife for his friend! The fiery soldier, William Beresford, sees acomrade in peril; a horde of infuriated savages are rushing up, andthere is only one pony to carry the two Englishmen. Beresford calls, "Jump up behind me!" but the friend answers, "No; save yourself! I candie, and I won't risk your life. " Then the undignified but decidedlygallant Beresford observes, "If you don't come, I'll punch your head!"The pony canters heavily off; one stumble would mean death, but thedauntless fighting man brings in his friend safely, though only by theskin of his teeth. It is absolutely necessary for the saving of ourmoral health that we should turn away from the dreary flippancy of aneffete society to such scenes as those. If we regarded only the pamperedclasses, then we might well think that true human fellowship hadperished, and a starless darkness--worse almost than Atheism--would fallon the soul. But we are not all corrupt, and the strong brave heart ofour people still beats true. Young men cherish manly affection forfriends, and are not ashamed to show it; sweet girls form friendshipsthat hold until the maidens become matrons and till the shining lockshave turned to silver white. Wherever men are massed together thestruggle for existence grows keen, and selfishness and cynicism thrustup their rank growths. "Pleasure" blunts the moral sense and convertsthe natural man into a noxious being; but happily our people are soundat the core, and it will be long ere cynicism and corruption areuniversal. The great healthy middle-class is made up of folk who wouldregard a writer of spiteful memoirs as a mere bravo; they have notperhaps the sweetness and light which Mr. Arnold wished to bestow onthem, but at any rate they have a certain rough generosity, and theyhave also a share of that self-forgetfulness which alone forms the basisof friendship. Having that, they can do without Carlyle's learning andWilberforce's polish, and they can certainly do without the sour maliceof the historian and the prelate. 

_July, 1887. _

_DISASTERS AT SEA_. 

During last year the register of slaughter on the ocean was worse thanany ever before seen since the _Royal Charter_ took her crew todestruction; and it seems as though matters were growing worse andworse. One dismal old story is being repeated week in, week out. Inthick weather or clear weather--it does not seem to matter which--twovessels approach each other, and the presiding officers on board of eachare quite satisfied and calm; then, on a sudden, one vessel shifts hercourse, there are a few hurried and maddened ejaculations, and thencomes a crash. After that, the ugly tale may be continued in the sameterms over and over again; the boats cannot be cleared away, the vesselsdrift apart, and both founder, or one is left crippled. I shall havesomething to say about the actual effects of a collision presently, butI may first go on to name some other kinds of disaster. A heavy sea isrolling, and occasionally breaking, and a vessel is lumbering along fromcrest to hollow of the rushing seas; a big wall of water looms over herfor a second, and then comes crashing down; the deck gives way--thereare no water-tight compartments--and the ship becomes suddenly asunmanageable as a mere cask in a seaway. Again, a plate is wrenched, andsome villainously-made rivets jump out of their places like buttons froman over-tight bodice; in ten minutes the vessel is wallowing, ready forher last plunge; and very likely the crew have not even the forlornchance of taking to the boats. Once more--on a clear night in thetropics an emigrant ship is stealing softly through the water; the merrycrowd on deck has broken up, the women, poor creatures, are all lockedup in their quarters, and only a few men remain to lounge and gossip. The great stars hang like lamps from the solemn dome of the sky, and theripples are painted with exquisite serpentine streaks; the wind humssoftly from the courses of the sails, and some of the men like to letthe cool breeze blow over them. Everything seems so delightfully placidand clear that the thought of danger vanishes; no one would imagine thateven a sea-bird could come up unobserved over that starlit expanse ofwater. But the ocean is treacherous in light and shade. The loungerstell their little stories and laugh merrily; the officer of the watchcarelessly stumps forward from abreast of the wheel, looks knowinglyaloft, twirls round like a teetotum, and stumps back again; and thesweet night passes in splendour, until all save one or two home-sicklingerers are happy. It never occurs to any of these passengers toglance forward and see whether a streak of green fire seems to strikeout from the starboard--the right-hand side of the vessel--or whether ashaft of red shoots from the other side. As a matter of fact, the vesselis going on like a dark cloud over the flying furrows of the sea; butthere is very little of the cloud about her great hull, for she wouldknock a house down if she hit it when travelling at her present rate. The captain is a thrifty man, and the owners are thrifty persons; theyconsider the cost of oil; and thus, as it is a nice clear night, theside-lights are not lit, and the judgment of the tramping look-out manon the forecastle-head is trusted. Parenthetically I may say that, without being in any way disposed to harbour exaggerated sentiment, Ifeel almost inclined to advocate death for any sailor who runs inmid-ocean without carrying his proper lights out. I once saw a big ironbarque go grinding right from the bulge of the bow to the stern of anocean steamer--and that wretched barque had no lights. Half a yard'sdifference, and both vessels would have sunk. Three hundred and fiftypeople were sleeping peacefully on board the steamer, and the majorityof them must have gone down, while those who were saved would have had ahard time in the boats. Strange to say, that very same steamer wascrossed by another vessel which carried no lights: but this time theresult was bad, for the steamer went clean through the other ship andsank her instantly. 

To return to the emigrant vessel. The officer continues his tramp likeone of the caged animals of a menagerie; the spare man of the watchleans against the rail and hums--

 We'll go no more by the light of the moon; The song is done, and we've lost the tune, So I'll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid-- A-roving, A-roving, &c. 

--the pipes glow in the clear air, and the flying water bubbles andmoans. Oh, yes, all is well--beautifully well--and we need no lightswhatever! Then the look-out man whistles "Hist!"--which is quite anunusual mode of signalling; the officer ceases his monotonous tramp andruns forward. "Luff a little!" "He's still bearing up. Why doesn't hekeep away?" "Luff a little more! Stand by your lee-braces. Oh, he'll goclear!" So the low clear talk goes, till at last with a savage yell ofrage a voice comes from the other vessel--"Where you coming to?" "Harddown with it!" "He's into us!" "Clear away your boats!" Then there is asound like "smack. " Then comes a long scraunch, and a thunderous rattleof blocks; a sail goes with a report like a gun; the vessels bump a fewtimes, and then one draws away, leaving the other with bows staved in. Awild clamour surges up from below, but there is no time to heed that;the men toil like Titans, and the hideous music of prayers and cursesdisturbs the night. Then the vessel that was hit amidships rolls alittle, and there is a gurgle like that of an enormous, weir: a mastgoes with a sharp report; a man's figure appears on the taffrail andbounds far into the sea--it is an experienced hand who wants to escapethe down-draught; the hull shudders, grows steady, and then with onelurch the ship swashes down and the bellowing vortex throws up hugespirts of boiling spray. A few stray swimmers are picked up, but therest of the company will be seen nevermore. Fancy those women in thatdarkened steerage! Think of it, and then say what should be done to anowner who stints his officers in the matter of lamp-oil; or to a captainwho does not use what the owner provides! The huddled victims wake fromconfused slumbers; some scream--some become insane on the instant; thechildren add their shrill clamour to the mad rout; and the water roarsin. Then the darkness grows thick, and the agonized crowd tear andthrottle each other in fierce terror; and then approaches theslowly-coming end. Oh, how often--how wearily often--have such scenesbeen enacted on the face of this fair world! And all to save a littlelamp-oil!

Yet again--a great vessel plunges away to sea bearing a precious freightof some one thousand souls. Perhaps the owners reckon the cargo in thehold as being worth more than the human burden; but of course opinionsdiffer. The wild rush from one border of the ocean to the other goes onfor a few days and nights, and the tremendous structure of steel cleavesthe hugest waves as though they were but clouds. Down below theluxurious passengers live in their fine hotel, and the luckier ones arequite happy and ineffably comfortable. If a sunny day breaks, then thepallid battalions in the steerage come up to the air, and the ship'sdeck is like a long animated street. A thousand souls, we said? True!Now let some quiet observant man of the sailorly sort go round at nightand count the boats. Twelve, and the gig aft makes thirteen! Allowing atremendously large average, this set of boats might actually carry sixhundred persons; but the six hundred would need to sit very carefullyeven in smooth water, and a rush might capsize any one boat. 

The vast floating hotel spins on at twenty miles an hour--a speed thatmight possibly shame some of the railways that run from Londonsuburbs--and the officers want to save every yard. No care is omitted;three men are on the bridge at night, there is a starboard look-out, aport look-out, and the quartermaster patrols amidships and sees that themasthead light is all right The officer and the look-out men pass theword every half-hour, and nothing escapes notice. If some unluckysteerage passenger happens to strike a light forward, he stands a verygood chance of being put in irons; and, if there is a patient in thedeck-house, the windows must be darkened with thick cloths. Eachofficer, on hazy nights, improvises a sort of hood for himself; and hepeers forward as if life depended on his eyesight--as indeed it does. But there comes a bright evening, and the monster liner's journey is allbut over; three hours more of steaming and she will be safe. A littleschooner comes skimming up on the port side--and the schooner is to theliner as a chip is to a tree-trunk. The schooner holds on her course, for she is not bound to give way at all; but the officer on the bridgeof the steamer thinks, "I shall lose a quarter of an hour if I edge awayto starboard and let him fall astern of us. I shall keep right on andshave his bows. " The liner is going at nineteen knots, the schooner isromping along at eight--yet the liner cannot clear the little vessel. There comes a fresh gust of wind; the sailing vessel lies over to it, and just touches the floating hotel amidships--but the touch is enoughto open a breach big enough for a coach and four to go through. Thesteamer's head is laid for the land and every ounce of steam is put on, but she settles and settles more and more. And now what about thethirteen boats for a thousand people? There is a wild scuffling, wildoutcry. Women bite their lips and-try, with divine patience, to crushdown all appearance of fear, and to keep their limbs from trembling;some unruly fellows are kept in check only by terror of the revolver;and the officers remember that their fair name and their hope of earthlyredemption are at stake. In one case of this sort it took three mortalhours to ferry the passengers and crew over smooth water to therescuing vessel; and those rescued folk may think themselves the mostfortunate of all created souls, for, if the liner had been hit with animpetus of a few more tons, very few on board of her would have lived totell the tale. Unless passengers, at the risk of being snubbed andthreatened, criticise the boat accommodation of great steamers, therewill be such a disaster one day as will make the world shudder. 

The pitiful thing is to know how easily all this might be prevented. Until one has been on board a small vessel which has every spar, bolt, iron, and plank sound, one can have no idea how perfectly safe aperfectly-built ship is in any sort of weather. A schooner of onehundred and fifty tons was caught in a hurricane which was so powerfulthat the men had to hang on where they could, even before the flattenedfoaming sea rose from its level rush and began to come on board. Allround were vessels in distress; the scare caused many of the seamen toforget their lights, and the ships lumbered on, first to collision, andthen to that crashing plunge which takes all hands down. The littleschooner was actually obliged to offer assistance to a bigmail-steamer--and yet she might have been rather easily carried by thatsame steamer. But the little vessel's lights were watched with sedulouscare; the blasts might tear at her scanty canvas, but there was not arag or a rope that would give way; and, although the awful rush of thegale carried her within eight miles of a rocky lee-shore, her captainhad sufficient confidence in the goodness of his gear to begin sailinghis ship instead of keeping her hove to. One rope faulty, one lightwrong, one hand out of his place at the critical time, and the bones ofa pleasant ship's company would have been strewn on a bleak shore: buteverything was right, and the tiny craft drew away like a seagull whenshe was made to sail. Of course the sea ran clean over her, but sheforged quietly on until she was thirty miles clear of those foamingbreakers that roared on the cliffs. During that night more good seamenwere drowned than one would like to number; ships worth a king's ransomwere utterly lost. And why? Simply because they had not the perfect gearwhich saved the little schooner. Even had the little craft been sentover until she refused to rise again to the sea, the boats were ready, and everybody on board had a good chance. Care first of all is needed, and then fear may be banished. The smart agent reads his report gliblyto the directors of a steamboat company--and yet I have seen such smartagents superintending the departure of vessels whereof the appearancewas enough to make a good judge quake for the safety of crew and cargo. 

What do I advise? Well, in the first place, I must remind shoregoingfolk that a sound well-found vessel will live through anything. Letpassengers beware of lines which pay a large dividend and show nothingon their balance-sheets to allow for depreciation. In the next place, ifany passenger on a long voyage should see that the proper lights are notshown, he ought to wake up his fellow passengers at any hour of thenight, and go with his friends to threaten the captain. Never mindbluster or oaths--merely say, "If your lights are not shown, you mayregard your certificate as gone. " If that does not bring the gentlemanto his senses, nothing will. Again, take care in any case that no rawforeign seamen are allowed to go on the look-out in any vessel, for amisunderstood shout at a critical moment may bring sudden doom onhundreds of unsuspecting fellow-creatures. Above all, see that thewater-casks in every boat are kept full. In this way the sea tragediesmay be a little lessened in their hateful number. 

_March, 1889. _

_A RHAPSODY OF SUMMER_. 

There came into my life a time of strenuous effort, and I drank all thejoys of labour to the lees. When the rich dark midnights of summerdrooped over the earth, I could hardly bear to think of the hours ofoblivion which must pass ere I felt the delight of work once more. Andthe world seemed very beautiful; and, when I looked up to the solemnsky, so sweetly sown with stars, I could see stirring words like "Fame"and "Gladness" and "Triumph" written dimly across the vault; so that myheart was full of rejoicing, and all the world promised fair. In thoseimmortal midnights the sea spoke wonderful things to me, and the longrollers glittering under the high moon bore health and bright promise asthey hastened to the shore. And, when the ships stole--oh, sosilently!--out of the shadows and moved over the diamond track of themoon's light, I sent my heart out to the lonely seamen and prayed thatthey might be joyous like me. Then the ringing of the song ofmultitudinous birds sounded in the hours of dawn, and the tawny-throatedking of songsters made my pulses tremble with his wild ecstasy; and theblackbird poured forth mellow defiance, and the thrush shrilled in hislovely fashion concerning the joy of existence. 

Pass, dreams! The long beams are drawn from the bosom of dawn. The grayof the quiet sea quickens into rose, and soon the glittering serpentinestreaks of colour quiver into a blaze; the brown sands glow, and thelittle waves run inward, showing milky curves under the gay light; theshoregoing boats come home, and their sails--those coarse tannedsails--are like flowers that wake with the daisies and the peonies tofeast on the sun. Happy holiday-makers who are wise enough to watch thefishers come in! The booted thickly-clad fellows plunge into the shallowwater; and then the bare-footed women come down, and the harvest of thenight is carried up the cliffs before the most of the holiday-folk havefairly awakened. The proud day broadens to its height, and the sands areblackened by the growing crowd; for the beach near a fashionablewatering-place is like a section cut from a turbulent city street, savethat the folk on the sands think of aught but business. I have neverbeen able to sympathize with those who can perceive only vulgarity in aseaside crowd. It is well to care for deserted shores and dark moaningforests in the far North; but the average British holiday-maker is asociable creature; he likes to feel the sense of companionship, and hisspirits rise in proportion to the density of the crowd amid which hedisports himself. To me, the life, the concentrated enjoyment, the waysof the children who are set free from the trammels of town life, are alllike so much poetry. I learned early to rejoice in silent sympathy withthe rejoicing of God's creatures. Only to watch the languid pose of somesteady toiler from the City is enough to give discontented people agoodly lesson. The man has been ground in the mill for a year; hismodest life has left him no time for enjoyment, and his ideas of allpleasure are crude. Watch him as he remains passively in an ecstasy ofrest. The cries of children, the confused jargon of the crowd, fall butfaintly on his nerves; he likes the sensation of being in company; hehas a dim notion of the beauty of the vast sky with its shiningsnowy-bosomed clouds, and he lets the light breeze blow over him. I liketo look on that good citizen and contrast the dull round of hiswayfarings on many streets with the ease and satisfaction of hisattitude on the sands. Then the night comes. The dancers are busy, thecommonplace music is made refined by distance, and the murmur of the seagathers power over all other sounds, until the noon of night arrives andthe last merry voices are heard no more. Poor harmless revellers, socondemned by men whose round of life is a search for pleasure! Many ofyou do not understand or care for quiet refinements of dress anddemeanour; you lack restraint; but I have felt much gladness whiledemurely watching your abandonment. I could draw rest for my soul fromthe magnetic night long after you were aweary and asleep; but much of mypleasure came as a reflection from yours. 

As my memories of sweetness--yes, and of purifying sadness--gather morethickly, I am minded to wonder that so much has been vouchsafed merather than to mourn over shadowy might-have-beens. The summer day bythe deep lovely lake--the lake within sound of the sea! All round thesteep walls that shut in the dark glossy water there hung rank festoonsand bosses of brilliant green, and the clear reflections of the weedsand flowers hung so far down in the mysterious deeps that the height ofthe rocky wall seemed stupendous. Far over in one tremendously deeppool the lazy great fish wallowed and lunged; they would not show theirspeckled sides very much until the evening; but they kept sleepilymoving all day, and sometimes a mighty back would show like a log for aninstant. In the morning the modest ground-larks cheeped softly among therough grasses on the low hills, while the proud heaven-scaler--thelordly kinsman of the ground-lark--filled the sky with his lovelyclamour. Sometimes a water-rail would come out from the sedges and walkon the surface of the lake as a tiny ostrich might on the shifting sand;pretty creatures of all sorts seemed to find their homes near the deepwonderful water, and the whole morning might be passed in silentlywatching the birds and beasts that came around. The gay sun made streamsof silver fire shoot from the polished brackens and sorrel, the purplegeraniums gleamed like scattered jewels, and the birds seemed to bejoyful in presence of that manifold beauty--joyful as the quiet humanbeing who watched them all. And the little fishes in the shallows wouldhave their fun as well. They darted hither and thither; the spinycreatures which the schoolboy loves built their queer nests among thewaterweeds; and sometimes a silly adventurer--alarmed by the majesticapproach of a large fish--would rush on to the loamy bank at the shallowend of the lake and wriggle piteously in hopeless failure. Theafternoons were divinely restful by the varied shores of the limpidlake. Sometimes as the sun sloped there might come hollow blasts of windthat had careered for a brief space over the woods; but the broodingheat, the mastering silence, the feeling that multifarious quiescentliving things were ready to start into action, all took the senses withsomnolence. That drowsy joy, that soothing silence which seemed onlyintensified by the murmur of bees and the faint gurgle of water, werelike medicine to the soul; and it seemed that the conception of Nirvanabecame easily understood as the delicious open-air reverie grew more andmore involved and vague. Then the last look of the sun, the creepingshadows that made the sea gray and turned the little lake to an inkyhue, and then the slow fall of the quiet-coloured evening, and, last, the fall of the mystic night!

Poor little birds, moving uneasily in the darkness, threw down tinyfragments from the rocks, and each fragment fell with a sound like theclink of a delicate silver bell; softly the sea moaned, softly thenight-wind blew, and softly--so softly!--came whispering the spirits ofthe dead. Joyous faces could be seen by that lake long, long ago. Insummer, when the lower rim was all blazing with red and yellow flowers, young lovers came to whisper and gaze. They are dead and gone. Inwinter, when the tarn was covered with jetty glossy ice, there werejovial scenes whereof the jollity was shared by a happy few. Round andround on the glossy surface the skaters flew and passed like glidingghosts under the gloom of the rocks; the hiss of the iron soundedmusically, and the steep wall flung back sharp echoes of harmlesslaughter. Each volume of sound was magically magnified, and the gaycompany carried on their pleasant outing far into the chili winternight. They are all gone! One was there oftenest in spring and summer, and the last sun-rays often made her golden hair shine in splendour asshe stood gazing wistfully over the solemn lake. She saw wonders therethat coarser spirits could not know; and all her gentle musings passedinto poetry--poetry that was seldom spoken. Those who loved her nevercared to break her sacred stillness as she pondered by the side of thebeloved tarn; her language was not known to common folk, for she heldhigh converse with the great of old time; and, when she chanced to speakwith me, I understood but dimly, though I had all the sense of beautyand mystery. A shipwrecked sailor said she looked as if she belonged toGod. Her Master claimed her early. Dear, your yellow hair will shine nomore in the sun that you loved; you have long given over yourday-dreams--and you are now dreamless. Or perhaps you dwell amid thesilent glory of one last long dream of those you loved. The gorse on themoor moans by your grave, the brackens grow green and tall and witherinto dead gold year by year, the lake gleams gloomily in fitful flashesamid its borders of splendour; and you rest softly while the sea callsyour lullaby nightly. Far off, far off, my soul, by quiet seas where thelamps of the Southern Cross hang in the magnificence of the purple sky, there is one who remembers the lake, and the glassy ice, and the blazeof pompous summer, and the shining of that yellow hair. Peace--oh, peace! The sorrow has passed into quiet pensive regret that is nigh akinto gladness. 

How many other ineffable days and nights have I known? All who can feelthe thrilling of sea-winds, all who can have even one day amid grass andfair trees, grasp the time of delight, enjoy all beauties, do not passin coarseness one single minute; and then, when the Guide comes to pointyour road through the strange gates, you may be like me--you may repineat nothing, for you will have much good to remember and scanty evil. Itis good for me now to think of the thundering rush of the yacht as, withthe great mainsail drawing heavily, she roared through the field of foammade by her own splendid speed, while the inky waves on the dim horizonmoaned and the dark summer midnight brooded warmly over the dark sea. Itis good to think of the strange days when the vessel was buried inwreaths of dark cloud, and the rush of the wind only drove the hazescreaming among the shrouds. The vast dim mountains might not bepleasant to the eye of either seaman or landsman; but, when they pouredtheir thundering deluge on a strong safe deck, we did not mind them. Happy hearts were there even in stormy warring afternoons; and menwatched quite placidly as the long grim hills came gliding on. Then inthe evenings there were chance hours when the dim forecastle was apleasant place in bad weather. The bow of the vessel swayed wildly; thepitching seemed as if it might end in one immense supreme dive to thegulf, and the mad storming of the wind forced us to utter our simpletalk in loudest tones. Gruff kindly phrases, without much wit or point, were good enough for us; perhaps even the appalling dignitary--yes, eventhe mate--would crawl in; and we listened to lengthy disjointed stories. And all the while the tremendous howl of the storm went on, and themerry lads who went out on duty had to rush wildly so as to reach thealley when a very heavy sea came over. The sense of strength wassupreme; the crash of the gale was nothing; and we rather huggedourselves on the notion that the fierce screaming meant us no harm. Thecurls of smoke flitted softly amid the blurred yellow beams from thelamp, and our chat went on while the monstrous billows grew blacker andblacker and the spray shone like corpse-candles on the mystic and mightyhills. And then the hours of the terrible darkness! To leave the sweptdeck while every vein tingled with the ecstasy of the gale! The dullwarmth below was exquisite; the sly creatures which crept from their, dens and let the lamplight shine on their weird eyes--even the gamesomerats--had something merrily diabolic about them. Their thuds on thefloor, their sordid swarming, their inexplicable daring--all gave a kindof minor current of _diablerie_ to the rush and hurry of the stormynight; for they seemed to speak--and the creatures which on shore areodious appeared to be quite in place in the soaring groaning vessel. Ah, my brave forecastle lads, my merry tan-faced favourites, I shall no moresee your quaint squalor, I shall no more see your battle with wind andsavage waves and elemental turmoil! Some of you have passed to theshadows before me; some of you have only the ooze for your graves; andthe others cannot ever hear my greeting again on the sweet mornings whenthe waves are all gay with lily-hued blossoms of foam. 

 Pale beyond porch and portal, Crowned with dark flowers she stands, Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands. 

Gathers! And Proserpina will strew the flowers of foam that I may neversee more--and then she will gather me. 

All was good in the time of delight--all is good now that only a memoryclings lovingly to the heart. Take my counsel. Rejoice in your day, andthe night shall carry no dread for you. 

_June, 1889. _

_LOST DAYS. _

I fully recognize the fact which the Frenchman flippantly stated--thatno human beings really believe that death is inevitable until the lastclasp of the stone-cold king numbs their pulses. Perhaps thisinsensibility is a merciful gift; at any rate, it is a fact. If beliefcame home with violence to our minds, we should suffer from a sort ofvertigo; but the merciful dullness which the Frenchman perceived andmocked in his epigram saves us all the miseries of apprehension. This isvery curiously seen among soldiers when they know that they must soon gointo action. The soldiers chat together on the night before the attack;they know that some of them must go down; they actually go so far as toexchange messages thus--"If anything happens to me, you know, Bill, Iwant you to take that to the old people. You give me a note or anythingelse you have; and, if we get out of the shindy, we can hand the thingsback again. " After confidences of this sort, the men chat on; and Inever yet knew or heard of one who did not speak of his own safe returnas a matter of course. When a brigade charges, there may be a littleanxiety at first; but the whistle of the first bullet ends allmisgivings, and the fellows grow quite merry, though it may be that halfof them are certain to be down on the ground before the day is over. Aman who is struck may know well that he will pass away: but he willrise up feebly to cheer on his comrades--nay, he will ask questions, asthe charging troops pass him, as to the fate of Bill or Joe, or theprobable action of the Heavies, or similar trifles. 

In the fight of life we all behave much as the soldiers do in the crashand hurry of battle. If we reason the matter out with a semblance oflogic, we all know that we must move toward the shadows; but, even afterwe are mortally stricken by disease or age, we persist in acting andthinking as if there were no end. In youth we go almost further; we aretoo apt to live as though we were immortal, and as though there wereabsolutely nothing to result from human action or human inaction. To theyoung man and the young woman the future is not a blind lane with agrave at the end; it is a spacious plain reaching away towards a far-offhorizon; and that horizon recedes and recedes as they move forward, leaving magnificent expanses to be crossed in joyous freedom. A prettydelusion! The youth harks onward, singing merrily and rejoicing insympathy with the mystic song of the birds; there is so much spacearound him--the very breath of life is a joy--and he is content to tastein glorious idleness the ecstasy of living. The evening closes in, andthen the horizon seems to be narrowing; like the walls of the deadlychamber in the home of the Inquisition, the skies shrink inward--and theyouth has misgivings. The next day finds his plain shrunken a little inexpanse, and his horizon has not so superb a sweep. Nevertheless he goesgaily on, and once more he raises his voice joyously, and tries to thinkthat the plain and the horizon can contract no more. Thus in foolishhopefulness he passes his days until the glorious plain of his dreamshas been traversed, and, lo, under his very feet is the great gulffixed, and far below the tide--the tide of Eternity--laps sullenlyagainst the walls of the deadly chasm. If the youth knew that the gulfand the rolling river were so near--if he not only knew, but couldabsolutely picture his doom--would he be so merry? Ah, no!

I repeat that, if men could be so disciplined as to believe in theirsouls that death must come, then there would be no lost days. Is thereone of us who can say that he never lost a day amid this too brief, toojoyous, too entrancing term of existence? Not one. The aged Roman--who, by-the-way, was somewhat of a prig--used to go about moaning, "I havelost a day, " if he thought he had not performed some good action orlearned something in the twenty-four hours. Most of us have no suchqualms; we waste the time freely; and we never know that it is wasteduntil with a dull shock we comprehend that all must be left and that thesquandered hours can never be retrieved. The men who are strongest andgreatest and best suffer the acutest remorse for the lost days; theyknow their own powers, and that very knowledge makes them suffer all themore bitterly when they reckon up what they might have done and compareit with the sum of their actual achievement. 

In a certain German town a little cell is shown on the walls of which afamous name is marked many times. It appears that in his turbulent youthPrince Bismarck was often a prisoner in this cell; and his variousappearances are registered under eleven different dates. Moreover, Iobserve from the same rude register that he fought twenty-eight duels. Lost days--lost days! He tells us how he drank in the usual insanefashion prevalent among the students. He "cannot tell how much Burgundyhe could really drink. " Lost days--lost days! And now the great old man, with Europe at his feet and the world awaiting his lightest word witheagerness, turns regretfully sometimes to think of the days thrown away. A haze seems to hang before the eyes of such as he; and it is a hazethat makes the future seem dim and vast, even while it obscures all thesharp outlines of things. The child is not capable of reasoningcoherently, and therefore its disposition to fritter away time must beregarded as only the result of defective organization; but the young manand young woman can reason, and yet we find them perpetually makingexcuses for eluding time and eternity. Look at the young fellows who arepreparing for the hard duties of life by studying at a University. Hereis one who seems to have recognized the facts of existence; his hoursare arranged as methodically as his heart beats; he knows the exactbalance between physical and intellectual strength, and he overtaxesneither, but body and mind are worked up to the highest attainablepressure. No pleasures of the destructive sort call this youngsteraside; he has learned already what it is to reap the harvest of a quieteye, and his joys are of the sober kind. He rises early, and he has gotfar through his work ere noon; his quiet afternoon is devoted toharmless merriment in the cricket-field or on the friendly countryroads, and his evening is spent without any vain gossip in the happycompanionship of his books. That young man loses no day; but unhappilyhe represents a type which is but too rare. The steady man, economic oftime, is a rarity; but the wild youth who is always going to dosomething to-morrow is one of a class that numbers only too many on itsrolls. To-morrow! The young fellow passes to-day on the river, or spendsit in lounging or in active dissipation. He feels that he is doingwrong; but the gaunt spectres raised by conscience are always exorcisedby the bright vision of to-morrow. To-morrow the truant will go to hisbooks; he will bend himself for that concentrated effort which alonesecures success, and his time of carelessness and sloth shall be farleft behind. But the sinister influence of to-day saps his will andrenders him infirm; each new to-day is wasted amid thoughts of visionaryto-morrows which take all the power from his soul; and, when he isnerveless, powerless, tired, discontented with the very sight of thesun, he finds suddenly that his feet are on the edge of the gulf, and heknows that there will be no more to-morrows. 

I am not entering a plea for hard, petrifying work. If a man is ahand-worker or brain-worker, his fate is inevitable if he regards workas the only end of life. The loss of which I speak is that incurred byengaging in pursuits which do not give mental strength or resource orbodily health. The hard-worked business-man who gallops twenty milesafter hounds before he settles to his long stretch of toil is not losinghis day; the empty young dandy whose life for five months in the year isgiven up to galloping across grass country or lounging around stables isdecidedly a spendthrift so far as time is concerned. 

I wish--if it be not impious so to wish--that every young man couldhave one glimpse into the future. Supposing some good genius could say, "If you proceed as you are now doing, your position in your fortiethyear will be this!" what a horror would strike through many among us, and how desperately each would strive to take advantage of that kindly"If. " But there is no uplifting of the veil; and we must all be guidedby the experience of the past and not by knowledge of the future. Iobserve that those who score the greatest number of lost days on theworld's calendar always do so under the impression that they areenjoying pleasure. An acute observer whose soul is not vitiated bycynicism may find a kind of melancholy pastime in observing the hopelessattempts of these poor son's to persuade themselves that they are makingthe best of existence. I would not for worlds seem for a moment todisparage pleasure, because I hold that a human being who lives withoutjoy must either become bad, mad, or wretched. But I speak of those whocheat themselves into thinking that every hour which passes swiftly toeternity is wisely spent. Observe the parties of young men who play atcards even in the railway-train morning after morning and evening afterevening. The time of the journey might be spent in useful and happythought; it is passed in rapid and feverish speculation. There is noquestion of reviving the brain; it is not recreation that is gained, butdistraction, and the brain, instead of being ready to concentrate itspower upon work, is enfeebled and rendered vague and flighty. Supposinga youth spends but one hour per day in handling pieces of pasteboard andtrying to win his neighbour's money, then in four weeks he has wastedtwenty-four hours, and in one year he wastes thirteen days. Is thereany gain--mental, muscular, or nervous--from this unhappy pursuit? Notone jot or tittle. Supposing that a weary man of science leaves hislaboratory in the evening, and wends his way homeward, the very thoughtof the game of whist which awaits him is a kind of recuperative agency. Whist is the true recreation of the man of science; and the astronomeror mathematician or biologist goes calmly to rest with his mind at easeafter he has enjoyed his rubber. The most industrious of livingnovelists and the most prolific of all modern writers was asked--so hetells us in his autobiography--"How is it that your thirtieth book isfresher than your first?" He made answer, "I eat very well, keep regularhours, sleep ten hours a day, and never miss my three hours a day atwhist. " These men of great brain derive benefit from their harmlesscontests; the young men in the railway-carriages only waste brain-tissuewhich they do nothing-to repair. A very beautiful writer who was anextremely lazy man pictures his own lost days as arising before him andsaying, "I am thy Self; say, what didst thou to me?" That question maywell be asked by all the host of murdered days, but especially may it beasked of those foolish beings who try to gain distinction by recklesslylosing money on the Turf or in gambling-saloons. A heart of stone mightbe moved by seeing the precious time that is hurled to the limbo of lostdays in the vulgar pandemonium by the racecourse. A nice lad comes outinto the world after attaining his majority, and plunges into thatvortex of Hades. Reckon up the good he gets there. Does he gain health?Alas, think of the crowd, the rank odours, the straining heart-beats!Does he hear any wisdom? Listen to the hideous badinage, the wild burstsof foul language from the betting-men, the mean, cunning drivel of thegamblers, the shrill laughter of the horsey and unsexed women? Does theyouth make friends? Ah, yes! He makes friends who will cheat him atbetting, cheat him at horse-dealing, cheat him at gambling when theorgies of the course are over, borrow money as long as he will lend, andthrow him over when he has parted with his last penny and his last ragof self-respect. Those who can carry their minds back for twenty yearsmust remember the foolish young nobleman who sold a splendid estate topay the yelling vulgarians of the betting-ring. They cheered him when heall but beggared himself; they hissed him when he failed once to pay. With lost health, lost patrimony, lost hopes, lost self-respect, he sankamid the rough billows of life's sea, and only one human creature wasthere to aid him when the great last wave swept over him. Lostdays--lost days! Youths who are going to ruin now amid the plaudits ofthose who live upon them might surely take warning: but they do not, andtheir bones will soon bleach on the mound whereon those of all otherwasters of days have been thrown. When I think of the lost days and thelost lives of which I have cognizance, then it seems as though I weregazing on some vast charnel-house, some ghoul-haunted place of skulls. Memories of those who trifled with life come to me, and their very facesflash past with looks of tragic significance. By their own fault theywere ruined; they were shut out of the garden of their gifts; their cityof hope was ploughed and salted. The past cannot be retrieved, letcanting optimists talk as they choose; what has been has been, and theeffects will last and spread until the earth shall pass away. Our actsour angels are, or good or ill; our fatal shadows that walk by us still. The thing done lasts for eternity; the lightest act of man or woman hasincalculably vast results. So it is madness to say that the lost dayscan be retrieved. They cannot! But by timely wisdom we may save the daysand make them beneficent and fruitful in the future. Watch those wildlads who are sowing in wine what they reap in headache and degradation. Night after night they laugh with senseless glee, night after nightinanities which pass for wit are poured forth; and daily the nerve andstrength of each carouser grow weaker. Can you retrieve those nights?Never! But you may take the most shattered of the crew and assure himthat all is not irretrievably lost; his weakened nerve may be steadied, his deranged gastric functions may gradually grow more healthy, hisdistorted views of life may pass away. So far, so good; but never try topersuade any one that the past may be repaired, for that delusion is thevery source and spring of the foul stream of lost days. Once impressupon any teachable creature the stern fact that a lost day is lost forever, once make that belief part of his being, and then he will striveto cheat death. Perhaps it may be thought that I take sombre views oflife. No; I see that the world may be made a place of pleasure, but onlyby learning and obeying the inexorable laws which govern all things, from the fall of a seed of grass to the moving of the miraculous brainof man. 

_April, 1888. _

_MIDSUMMER DAYS AND MIDSUMMER NIGHTS. _

Soon, with pomp of golden days and silver nights, the dying Summer willwave the world farewell; but the precious time is still with us, and wecherish the glad moments gleefully. When the dawn swirls up in thesplendid sky, it is as though one gladsome procession of hours had begunto move. The breeze sighs cool and low, the trees rustle with vastwhisperings, and the conquering sun shoots his level volleys from rim torim of the world. The birds are very, very busy, and they take nothought of the grim time coming, when the iron ground will be swept bychill winds and the sad trees will quiver mournfully in the biting air. A riot of life is in progress, and it seems as if the sense of pure joybanished the very thought of pain and foreboding from all living things. The sleepy afternoons glide away, the sun droops, and the quiet, coloured evening falls solemnly. Then comes the hush of the huge andthoughtful night; the wan stars wash the dust with silver, and the braveday is over. Alas, for those who are pent in populous cities throughoutthis glorious time! We who are out in the free air may cast a kindlythought on the fate of those to whom "holiday" must be as a word in anunknown tongue. Some of us are happy amid the shade of mighty hills:some of us fare toward the Land of the Midnight Sun, where the goldenlight steeps all the air by night as well as day; some of us rest besidethe sea, where the loud wind, large and free, blows the long surges outin sounding bars and thrills us with fresh fierce pleasure; some of usare able to wander in glowing lanes where the tender roses star thehedges and the murmur of innumerable bees falls softly on the senses. Let us thankfully take the good that is vouchsafed to us, and let thoseof us who can lend a helping hand do something towards giving the poorand needy a brief taste of the happiness that we freely enjoy. 

I do not want to dwell on ugly thoughts; and yet it seems selfish torefrain from speaking of the fate of the poor who are packed in crowdedquarters during this bright holiday season. For them the midsummer daysand midsummer nights are a term of tribulation. The hot street reekswith pungent odours, the faint airs that wander in the scorching alleysat noonday strike on the fevered face like wafts from some furnace, andthe cruel nights are hard to endure save when a cool shower has fallen. If you wander in London byways, you find that the people are fairlydriven from their houses after a blistering summer day, and they sit inthe streets till early morning. They are not at all depressed; on thecontrary, the dark hours are passed in reckless merriment, and I haveoften known the men to rest quite contentedly on the pavement till thedawn came and the time of departure for labour was near. Even the youngchildren remain out of doors, and their shrill treble mingles with thecoarse rattle of noisy choruses. Some of those cheery youngsters havean outing in the hopping season, and they come back bronzed and healthy;but most of them have to be satisfied with one day at the most amid thefields and trees. I have spoken of London; but the case of those whodwell in the black manufacturing cities is even worse. What is Oldhamlike on a blistering midsummer day? What are Hanley and St. Helen's andthe lower parts of Manchester like? The air is charged with dust, andthe acrid, rasping fumes from the chimneys seem to acquire a malignantpower over men and brain. Toil goes steadily on, and the working-folkcertainly have the advantage of starting in the bright morning hours, before the air has become befouled; but, as the sun gains strength, andthe close air of the unlovely streets is heated, then the torment to beendured is severe. In Oldham and many other Lancashire towns a mostadmirable custom prevails. Large numbers of people club their moneyduring the year and establish a holiday-fund; they migrate wholesale inthe summertime, and have a merry holiday far away from the crush of thepavements and the dreary lines of ugly houses. A wise and beneficentcustom is this, and the man who first devised it deserves a monument. Icongratulate the troops of toilers who share my own pleasure; but, alas, how many honest folk in those awful Midland places will pant and sweatand suffer amid grime and heat while the glad months are passing! Goodmen who might be happy even in the free spaces of the Far West, fairwomen who need only rest and pure air to enable them to bloom in beauty, little children who peak and pine, are all crammed within the odiousprecincts of the towns which Cobbett hated; and the merry stretches ofthe sea, the billowy roll of the downs, the peace of soft days, are notfor them. Only last year I looked on a stretch of interminable brownsand, hard and smooth and broad, with the ocean perpetually rolling inupon it with slow-measured sweep, with rustle and hiss and foam, andmany a thump as of low bass drums. There before me was Whitman's veryvision, and in the keen mystic joy of the moment I could not helpthinking sadly of one dreadful alley where lately I had been. It seemedso sad that the folk of the alley could not share my pleasure; and themurmur of vain regrets came to the soul even amid the triumphant clamourof the free wind. Poor cramped townsfolk, hard is your fate! It is hard;but I can see no good in repining over their fortune if we aid them asfar as we can; rather let us speak of the bright time that comes for thetoilers who are able to escape from the burning streets. 

The mathematicians and such-like dry personages confine midsummer to oneday in June; but we who are untrammelled by science know a great dealbetter. For us midsummer lasts till August is half over, and we utterlyrefuse to trouble ourselves about equinoxes and solstices andtrivialities of that kind. For us it is midsummer while the sun is warm, while the trees hold their green, while the dancing waves fling theirblossoms of foam under the darting rays that dazzle us, while the sacrednight is soft and warm and the cool airs are wafted like sounds ofblessings spoken in the scented darkness. For us the solstice isabolished, and we sturdily refuse to give up our midsummer till thefirst gleam of yellow comes on the leaves. We are not all lucky enoughto see the leagues upon leagues of overpowering colour as the sun comesup on the Alps; we cannot all rest in the glittering seclusion ofNorwegian fiords; but most of us, in our modest way, can enjoy ourextravagantly prolonged midsummer beside the shore of our Britishwaters. Spring is the time for hope; our midsummer is the time forripened joy, for healthful rest; and we are satisfied with the beachesand cliffs that are hallowed by many memories--we are satisfied withsimple copses and level fields. They say that spring is the poet'sseason; but we know better. Spring is all very well for those who haveconstant leisure; it is good to watch the gradual bursting of earlybuds; it is good to hear the thrush chant his even-song of love; it isgood to rest the eye on the glorious clouds of bloom that seem to floatin the orchards. But the midsummer, the gallant midsummer, pranked inmanifold splendours, is the true season of poetry for the toilers. Thebirds of passage who are now crowding out of the towns have had littlepleasure in the spring, and their blissful days are only now beginning. What is it to them that the seaside landlady crouches awaiting her prey?What is it to them that 'Arry is preparing to make night hideous? Theyare bound for their rest, and the surcease of toil is the only thingthat suggests poetry to them. Spring the season for poets! We wipe awaythat treasonable suggestion just as we have wiped out the solstice. Weholiday makers are not going to be tyrannized over by literary andscientific persons, and we insist on taking our own way. Our blood beatsfully only at this season, and not even the extortioners' bills candaunt us. Let us break into poetry and flout the maudlin enthusiasts whoprate of spring. 

 With a ripple of leaves and a twinkle of streams The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise, And the winds are one with the clouds and beams-- Midsummer days! Midsummer days! The dusks grow vast in a purple haze, While the West from a rapture of sunset rights, Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise-- Midsummer nights! O Midsummer nights!

 * * * * *

 The wood's green heart is a nest of dreams, The lush grass thickens and springs and sways, The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams-- Midsummer days! Midsummer days! In the stilly fields, in the stilly way, All secret shadows and mystic lights, Late lovers, murmurous, linger and gaze-- Midsummer nights! O Midsummer nights!

 * * * * *

 There's a swagger of bells from the trampling teams, Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze, The rich ripe rose as with incense steams-- Midsummer days! Midsummer days! A soul from the honeysuckle strays, And the nightingale, as from prophet heights, Speaks to the Earth of her million Mays-- Midsummer nights! O Midsummer nights!

 And it's oh for my Dear and the charm that stays-- Midsummer days! Midsummer days! And it's oh for my Love and the dark that plights-- Midsummer nights! O Midsummer nights!

There is a burst for you! And we will let the poets of spring, withtheir lambkins and their catkins and the rest, match this poem ofWilliam Henley's if they can. The royal months are ours, and we love thereign of the rose. 

When the burnished tints of bronze shine on the brackens, and thenight-wind blows with a chilly moan from the fields of darkness, weshall have precious days to remember, and, ah, when the nights are long, and the churlish Winter lays his fell finger on stream and grass andtree, we shall be haunted by jolly memories! Will the memories be whollypleasant? Perchance, when the curtains are drawn and the lamp burnssoftly, we may read of bright and beautiful things. Out of doors the warof the winter fills the roaring darkness. It may be that

 Hoarsely across the iron ground The icy wind goes roaring past, The powdery wreaths go whirling round Dancing a measure to the blast. 

 The hideous sky droops darkly down In brooding swathes of misty gloom, And seems to wrap the fated town In shadows of remorseless doom. 

Then some of us may find a magic phrase of Keats's, or Thomas Hardy's, or Black's, or Dickens's, that recalls the lovely past from the dead. Many times I have had that experience. Once, after spending the long andglorious summer amid the weird subdued beauty of a wide heath, Ireturned to the great city. It had been a pleasant sojourn, though I hadhad no company save a collie and one or two terriers. At evening thedogs liked their ramble, and we all loved to stay out until the pouringlight of the moon shone on billowy mists and heath-clad knolls. Thefaint rustling of the heath grew to a wide murmur, the little bellsseemed to chime with notes heard only by the innermost spirit, and thegliding dogs were like strange creatures from some shadowy underworld. At times a pheasant would rise and whirl like a rocket from hillock tohollow, and about midnight a rapturous concert began. On one line oftrees a colony of nightingales had established themselves near the heartof the waste. First came the low inquiry from the leader; then two orthree low twittering answers; then the one long note that lays hold ofthe nerves and makes the whole being quiver; and then--ah, the passion, the pain, the unutterable delight of the heavenly jargoning when thewhole of the little choir begin their magnificent rivalry! The thoughtof death is gone, the wild and poignant issues of life are softened, andthe pulses beat thickly amid the blinding sweetness of the music. He whohas not heard the nightingale has not lived. Far off the sea called lowthrough the mist, and the long path of the moon ran toward the brighthorizon; the ships stole in shadow and shine over the glossy ripples, and swung away to north and south till they faded in wreaths of delicatedarkness. Dominating the whole scene of beauty, there was the vast andsubtle mystery of the heath that awed the soul even when the rapture wasat its keenest. Time passed away, and on one savage night I read ThomasHardy's unparalleled description of the majestic waste in "The Return ofthe Native. " That superb piece of English is above praise--indeedpraise, as applied to it, is half an impertinence; it is great asShakespeare, great almost as Nature--one of the finest poems in ourlanguage. As I read with awe the quiet inevitable sentences, the visionof my own heath rose, and the memory filled me with a sudden joy. 

I know that the hour of darkness ever dogs our delight, and the shadowof approaching darkness and toil might affront me even now, if I wereungrateful; but I live for the present only. Let grave persons talkabout the grand achievements and discoveries that have made this age orthat age illustrious; I hold that holidays are the noblest invention ofthe human mind, and, if any philosopher wants to argue the matter, Iflee from his presence, and luxuriate on the yellow sands or amid thekeen kisses of the salty waves. I own that Newton's discoveries weremeritorious, and I willingly applaud Mr. George Stephenson, throughwhose ingenuity we are now whisked to our places of rest with theswiftness of an eagle's flight. Nevertheless I contend that holidays arethe crowning device of modern thought, and I hold that no thesis can beso easily proven as mine. How did our grandfathers take holiday? Alas, the luxury was reserved for the great lords who scoured over theContinent, and for the pursy cits who crawled down to Brighthelmstone!The ordinary Londoner was obliged to endure agonies on board a stuffyMargate hoy, while the people in Northern towns never thought of takinga holiday at all. The marvellous cures wrought by Doctor Ozone were notthen known, and the science of holiday-making was in its infancy. Thewisdom of our ancestors was decidedly at fault in this matter, and thegout and dyspepsia from which they suffered served them right. Readvolumes of old memoirs, and you will find that our forefathers, who aresupposed to have been so merry and healthy, suffered from all the illswhich grumblers ascribe to struggling civilization. They did not knowhow to extract pleasure from their midsummer days and midsummer nights;we do, and we are all the better for the grand modern discovery. 

Seriously, it is a good thing that we have learned the value of leisure, and, for my own part, I regard the rushing yearly exodus from London, Liverpool, Birmingham, with serene satisfaction. It is a pity that somany English folk persist in leaving their own most lovely land when ourscenery and climate are at their best. In too many cases they wearthemselves with miserable and harassing journeys when they might beplacidly rejoicing in the sweet midsummer days at home. Snarlingaesthetes may say what they choose, but England is not half exploredyet, and anybody who takes the trouble may find out languorous nookswhere life seems always dreamy, and where the tired nerves and brain areunhurt by a single disturbing influence. There are tiny villages dottedhere and there on the coast where the flaunting tourist never intrudes, and where the British cad cares not to show his unlovable face. Still, if people like the stuffy Continental hotel and the unspeakable devicesof the wily Swiss, they must take their choice. I prefer belovedEngland; but I wish all joy to those who go far afield. 

_June, 1886. _

_DANDIES_. 

Perhaps there is no individual of all our race who is quite insensibleto the pleasures of what children call "dressing-up. " Even the cynic, the man who defiantly wears old and queer clothes, is merely sufferingfrom a perversion of that animal instinct which causes the peacock toswagger in the sun and flaunt the splendour of his train, the instinctthat makes the tiger-moth show the magnificence of his damask wing, andalso makes the lion erect the horrors of his cloudy mane and paw proudlybefore his tawny mate. We are all alike in essentials, and Diogenes withhis dirty clouts was only a perverted brother of Prince Florizel withhis peach-coloured coat and snowy ruffles. I intend to handle thesubject of dandies and their nature from a deeply philosophicstarting-point, for, like Carlyle, I recognize the vast significance ofthe questions involved in the philosophy of clothes. Let no flippantindividual venture on a jeer, for I am in dead earnest. A mocking criticmay point to the Bond Street lounger and ask, "What are the net use andpurport of that being's existence? Look at his suffering frame! Hislinen stock almost decapitates him, his boots appear to hail from thechambers of the Inquisition, every garment tends to confine his musclesand dwarf his bodily powers; yet he chooses to smile in his tormentsand pretends to luxuriate in life. Again, what are the net use andpurport of his existence?" I can only deprecate our critic's wrath bygoing gravely to first principles. O savage and critical one, thatsuffering youth of Bond Street is but exhibiting in flaunting action alaw that has influenced the breed of men since our forefathers dwelt incaves or trees! Observe the conduct of the innocent and primitive beingswho dwell in sunny archipelagos far away to the South; they suffer inthe cause of fashion as the youth of the city promenade suffers. Thechief longing of the judicious savage is to shave, but the paucity ofmetals and sharp instruments prevents him from indulging his longingvery frequently. When the joyous chance does come, the son of the forestpromptly rises to the occasion. No elderly gentleman whose feet arestudded with corns could bear the agony of patent leather boots in aheated ballroom with grander stoicism than that exhibited by our savagewhen he compasses the means of indulging in a thorough uncompromisingshave. The elderly man of the ballroom sees the rosy-fingered dawntouching the sky into golden fretwork; he thinks of his cool white bed, and then, by contrast, he thinks of his hot throbbing feet. Shootingfires dart through his unhappy extremities, yet he smiles on and bearshis pain for his daughters' sake. But the elderly hero cannot becompared with the ambitious exquisite of the Southern Seas, and we shallprove this hypothesis. The careless voyager throws a beer-bottleoverboard, and that bottle drifts to the glad shore of a glitteringisle; the overjoyed savage bounds on the prize, and proceeds to announcehis good fortune to his bosom friend. Then the pleased cronies decidethat they will have a good, wholesome, thorough shave, and they willturn all rivals green with unavailing envy. Solemnly those children ofnature go to a quiet place, and savage number one lies down while hisfriend sits on his head; then with a shred of the broken bottle theoperator proceeds to rasp away. It is a great and grave function, and nosavage worthy the name of warrior would fulfil it in a slovenly way. When the last scrape is given, and the stubbly irregular crop ofbristles stands up from a field of gore, then the operating brave liesdown, and his scarified friend sits on _his_ head. These sweet andsatisfying idyllic scenes are enacted whenever a bottle comes ashore, and the broken pieces of the receptacles that lately held foaming Bassor glistening Hochheimer are used until their edge gives way, to thegreat contentment of true untutored dandies. The Bond Street man is atone end of the scale, the uncompromising heathen barber at the other;but the same principles actuate both. 

The Maori is even more courageous in his attempts to secure a truedecorative exterior, for he carves the surface of his manly frame intodeep meandering channels until he resembles a walking advertisement ofcrochet-patterns for ladies. Dire is his suffering, long is the time ofhealing; but, when he can appear among his friends with a staring blueserpent coiled round his body from the neck to the ankle, when the rudefigure of the bounding wallaby ornaments his noble chest, he feels thatall his pain was worth enduring and that life is indeed worth living. The primitive dandy of Central Africa submits himself to the magician ofthe tribe, and has his front teeth knocked out with joy; the Ashanteeor the Masai has his teeth filed to sharp points--and each painfulprocess enables the victim to pose as a leader of fashion in the tribe. As the race rises higher, the refinements of dandyism become more andmore complex, but the ruling motive remains the same, and the Macaroni, the Corinthian, the Incroyable, the swell, the dude--nay, even thecommon toff--are all mysteriously stirred by the same instinct whichprompts the festive Papuan to bore holes in his innocent nose. Who thenshall sneer at the dandy? Does he not fulfil a law of our nature? Let usrather regard him with toleration, or even with some slight modicum ofreverence. Solemn historians affect to smile at the gaudy knights of thesecond Richard's Court, who wore the points of their shoes tied roundtheir waists; they even ridicule the tight, choking, padded coats wornby George IV. , that pattern father of his people; but I see in thestumbling courtier and the half-asphyxiated wearer of the paddedPetersham coat two beings who act under the demands of inexorable law. 

Our great modern sage brooded in loneliness for some six years over themoving problem of dandyism, and we have the results of his meditationsin "Sartor Resartus. " We have an uneasy sense that he may be making funof us--in fact, we are almost sure that he is; for, if you look at hissummary of the doctrines put forth in "Pelham, " you can hardly fail todetect a kind of sub-acid sneer. Instead of being impressed by thedainty musings of the learned Bulwer, that grim vulturine sage chose tocurl his fierce lips and turn the whole thing to a laughing-stock. Wemust at once get to that summary of what the great Thomas calls"Dandiacal doctrine, " and then just thinkers may draw their ownconclusions. 

Articles of Faith. --1. Coats should have nothing of the triangle aboutthem; at the same time wrinkles behind should be carefully avoided. 2. The collar is a very important point; it should be low behind, andslightly rolled. 3. No license of fashion can allow a man of delicatetaste to adopt the posterial luxuriance of a Hottentot. 4. There issafety in a swallowtail. 5. The good sense of a gentleman is nowheremore finely developed than in his rings. 6. It is permitted to mankind, under certain restrictions, to wear white waistcoats. 7. The trousersmust be exceedingly tight across the hips. 

Then the sage observes, "All which propositions I for the presentcontent myself with modestly, but peremptorily and irrevocably, denying. " Wicked Scotchman, rugged chip of the Hartz rock, your sevenarticles of the Whole Duty of the Dandy are evidently solemn fooling!You despised Lytton in your heart, and you thought that because you worea ragged duffel coat in gay Hyde Park you had a right to despise thehuman ephemera who appeared in inspiriting splendour. I have oftenlaughed at your solemn enumeration of childish maxims, but I am notquite sure that you were altogether right in sneering. 

So far for the heroic vein. The Clothes Philosopher whose huge burst ofliterary horse-laughter was levelled at the dandy does not alwaysconfine himself to indirect scoffing; here is a plain statement--"First, touching dandies, let us consider with some scientific strictness what adandy specially is. A dandy is a clothes-wearing man, a man whose tradeoffice, and existence consist in the wearing of clothes. Every facultyof his soul, spirit, purse, and person is heroically consecrated to thisone object--the wearing of clothes wisely and well; so that, as othersdress to live, he lives to dress. The all-importance of clothes hassprung upon the intellect of the dandy without effort, like an instinctof genius; he is inspired with cloth--a poet of cloth. Like a generouscreative enthusiast, he fearlessly makes his idea an action--showshimself in peculiar guise to mankind, walks forth a witness and livingmartyr to the eternal worth of clothes. We called him a poet; is not hisbody the (stuffed) parchment-skin whereon he writes, with cunningHuddersfield dyes, a sonnet to his mistress's eyebrow?"

This is very witty and very trenchant in allusion, but I am obliged tosay seriously that Carlyle by no means reached the root of the matter. The mere tailor's dummy is deplorable, despicable, detestable, but areal man is none the worse if he gives way to the imperious human desirefor adornment, and some of the men who have made permanent marks on theworld's face have been of the tribe whom our Scotchman satirised. I haveknown sensible young men turned into perfectly objectionable slovens byreading Carlyle; they thought they rendered a tribute to their master'sgenius by making themselves look disreputable, and they found allies toapplaud them. One youth of a poetic turn saw that the sage let his hairfall over his forehead in a tangled mass. Now this young man had verynice wavy hair, which naturally fell back in a sweep, but he devotedhimself with an industry worthy of a much better cause to the task ofmaking his hair fall in unkempt style over his brow. When he succeeded, he looked partly like a Shetland pony, partly like a street-arab; buthis own impression was that his wild and ferocious appearance acted as aliving rebuke to young men of weaker natures. If I had to express ablunt opinion, I should say he was a dreadful simpleton. Every man likesto be attractive in some way in the springtime and hey-day of life; whenthe blood flushes the veins gaily and the brain is sensitive to joy, then a man glories in looking well. Why blame him? The young officerlikes to show himself with his troop in gay trappings; the athlete likesto wear garments that set off his frame to advantage; and it is goodthat this desire for distinction exists, else we should have but a greyand sorry world to live in. When the pulses beat quietly and life moveson the downward slope, a man relies on more sober attractions, and heceases to care for that physical adornment which every young and healthyliving creature on earth appreciates. So long as our young men aregenuinely manly, good, strong, and courageous, I am not inclined to findfault with them, even if they happen to trip and fall into slightextravagances in the matter of costume. The creature who lives to dressI abhor, the sane and sound man who fulfils his life-duties gallantlyand who is not above pleasing himself and others by means of reasonableadornments I like and even respect warmly. The philosophers may growl asthey chose, but I contend that the sight of a superb young Englishmanwith his clean clear face, his springy limbs, his faultless habilimentsis about as pleasant as anything can be to a discerning man. Moreover, it is by no means true that the dandy is necessarily incompetent when hecomes to engage in the severe work of life. Our hero, our Nelson, kepthis nautical dandyism until he was middle-aged. Who ever accused him ofincompetence? Think of his going at Trafalgar into that pouring Infernoof lead and iron with all his decorations blazing on him! "In honour Iwon them and in honour I will wear them, " said this unconscionabledandy; and he did wear them until he had broken our terrible enemy'spower, saved London from sack, and worse, and yielded up his gallantsoul to his Maker. Rather an impressive kind of dandy was that wizenedlittle animal. "There'll be wigs on the green, boys--the dandies arecoming!" So Marlborough's soldiers used to cry when the regiment ofexquisites charged. At home the fierce Englishmen strutted around intheir merry haunts and showed off their brave finery as though their onetask in life were to wear gaudy garments gracefully; but, when thetrumpet rang for the charge, the silken dandies showed that they had thestuff of men in them. The philosopher is a trifle too apt to say, "Anybody who does not choose to do as I like is, on the face of it, aninferior member of the human race. " I utterly refuse to have any suchdoctrine thrust down my throat. No sage would venture to declare thatthe handsome, gorgeous John Churchill was a fool or a failure. He beatEngland's enemies, he made no blunder in his life, and he survived themost vile calumnies that ever assailed a struggling man; yet, if he wasnot a dandy, then I never saw or heard of one. All our fine fellows whostray with the British flag over the whole earth belong more or lessdistinctly to the dandy division. The velvet glove conceals the ironhand; the pleasing modulated voice can rise at short notice to tones ofcommand; the apparent languor will on occasion start with electricsuddenness into martial vigour. The lounging dandies who were in Indiawhen the red storm of the Mutiny burst from a clear sky suddenly becameheroes who toiled, fought, lavished their strength and their blood, performed glorious prodigies of unselfish action, and snatched an empirefrom the fires of ruin. 

Even if a young fellow cannot afford fine clothes, he can be neat, and Ialways welcome the slightest sign of fastidiousness, because itindicates self-respect. The awful beings who wear felt hats swung on oneside, glaring ties, obtrusive checks, and carry vulgar little sticks, are so abhorrent that I should journey a dozen miles to escape meetingone of them. The cheap, nasty, gaudy garments are an index to a vastvulgarity of mind and soul; the cheap "swell" is a sham, and, as a sham, he is immoral and repulsive. But the modest youth need not copy the wildunrestraint of the gentleman known as "'Arry"; he can contrive to makehimself attractive without sullying his appearance by a trace of cheapand nasty adornment, and every attempt which he makes to look seemly andpleasing tends subtly to raise his own character. Once or twice I havesaid that you cannot really love any one wholly unless you can sometimeslaugh at him. Now I cannot laugh at the invertebrate haunter of flashybars and theatre-stalls, because he has not the lovable element in himwhich invites kindly laughter; but I do smile--not unadmiringly--at ourdandy, and forgive him his little eccentricities because I know thatwhat the Americans term the "hard pan" of his nature is sound. It is allvery well for unhandsome philosophers in duffel to snarl at ourbutterfly youth. The dry dull person who devours blue-books and figuresmay mock at their fribbles; but persons who are tolerant take large andgentle views, and they indulge the dandy, and let him strut for his dayunmolested, until the pressing hints given by the years cause him tomodify his splendours and sink into unassuming sobriety of demeanour andraiment. 

_June, 1888. _

_GENIUS AND RESPECTABILITY_. 

A very lengthy biography of Percy Bysshe Shelley appeared recently, andthe biographer thought it his duty to give the most minute and peculiardetails concerning the poet's private life. In consequence, the book isa deplorable one in many respects, and no plain-minded person can readit without feeling sorry that our sweet singer should be presented to usin the guise of a weak-minded hypocrite. One critic wrote a great manypages in which he bemoans the dreary and sordid family-life of the manwho wrote the "Ode to the West Wind. " I can hardly help sympathizingwith the critic, for indeed Shelley's proceedings rather test thepatience of ordinary mortals, who do not think that poetic--or ratherartistic--ability licenses its possessor to behave like a scoundrel. Shelley wrote the most lovely verse in praise of purity; but he tempteda poor child to marry him, deserted her, insulted her, and finally lefther to drown herself when brutal neglect and injury had driven hercrazy. Poor Harriet Westbrook! She did not behave very discreetly afterher precious husband left her; but she was young, and thrown on a hardworld without any strength but her own to protect her. While she wasdrifting into misery the airy poet was talking sentiment and ventilatinghis theories of the universe to Mary Godwin. Harriet was too "shallow"for the rhymester, and the penalty she paid for her shallowness was tobe deceived, enticed into a rash marriage, brutally insulted, and leftto fare as well as she might in a world that is bitterly cruel tohelpless girls. The maker of rhymes goes off gaily to the Continent toenjoy himself heartily and write bewitching poems; Harriet stays at homeand lives as best she can on her pittance until the time comes for herdespairing plunge into the Serpentine. It is true that the poet invitedthe poor creature to come and stay with him; but what a piece ofunparalleled insolence toward a wronged lady! The admirers of the rhymersay, "Ah, but Harriet's society was not congenial to the poet. "Congenial! How many brave men make their bargain in youth and stand toit gallantly unto the end? A simple soul of this sort thinks to himself, "Well, I find that my wife and I are not in sympathy; but perhaps I maybe in fault. At any rate, she has trusted her life to me, and I must tryto make her days as happy as possible. " It seems that supreme poets areto be exempt from all laws of manliness and honour, and a simple womanwho cannot babble to them about their ideals and so forth is to bepitched aside like a soiled glove! Honest men who cannot jingle wordsare content with faith and honour and rectitude, but the poet is to beapplauded if he behaves like a base fellow on finding that some unhappyloving creature cannot talk in his particular fashion. We may all bevery low Philistines if we are not prepared to accept rhymers forchartered villains; but some of us still have a glimmering of belief inthe old standards of nobility and constancy. Can any one fancy WalterScott cheating a miserable little girl of sixteen into marriage, andthen leaving her, only to many a female philosopher? How that noble soulwould have spurned the maundering sentimentalist who talked of truth andbeauty, and music and moonlight and feeling, and behaved as a mean andbad man! Scott is more to my fancy than is Shelley. 

Again, this poet, this exquisite weaver of verbal harmonies, isrepresented to us by his worshippers as having a passion for truth;whereas it happens that he was one of the most remarkable fibbers thatever lived. He would come home with amazing tales about assassins whohad waylaid him, and try to give himself importance by such blusteringinventions. "Imagination!" says the enthusiast; but among commonplacepersons another word is used. "Your lordship knows what kleptomania is?"said a counsel who was defending a thief. Justice Byles replied, "Oh, yes! I come here to cure it. " Some critical justice might say the sameof Shelley's imagination. We are also told that Shelley's excessivenobility of nature prevented him from agreeing with his commonplacefather; and truly the poet was a bad and an ungrateful son. But, if apretty verse-maker is privileged to be an undutiful son, what becomes ofall our old notions? I think once more of the great Sir Walter, and Iremember his unquestioning obedience to his parents. Then we may alsoremember Gibbon, who was quite as able and useful a man as Shelley. Thehistorian loved a young French lady, but his father refused consent totheir marriage, and Gibbon quietly obeyed and accepted his hard fate. The passion sanctified his whole life, and, as he says, made him moredear to himself; he settled his colossal work, and remained unmarriedfor life. He may have been foolish: but I prefer his behaviour to thatof a man who treats his father with contumely and ingratitude even whilehe is living upon him. We hear much of Shelley's unselfishness, but itdoes not appear that he ever denied himself the indulgence of a whim. The "Ode to the West Wind, " the "Ode Written in Dejection near Naples, "and "The Skylark" are unsurpassed and unsurpassable; but I can hardlypardon a man for cruelty and turpitude merely because he produces a fewmasterpieces of art. 

A confident and serene critic attacks Mr. Arnold very severely becausethe latter writer thinks that poets should be amenable to fair andhonest social laws. If I understand the critic aright, we must all be sothankful for beautiful literary works that we must be ready to let theproducers of such works play any pranks they please under high heaven. They are the children of genius, and we are to spoil them; "ChildeHarold" and "Manfred" are such wondrous productions that we need neverthink of the author's orgies at Venice and the Abbey; "Epipsychidion" islovely, so we should not think of poor Harriet Westbrook casting herselfinto the Serpentine. This is marvellous doctrine, and one hardly knowswhither it might lead us if we carried it into thorough practice. Suppose that, in addition to indulging the spoiled children of genius, we were to approve all the proceedings of the clever children in anyhousehold. I fancy that the dwellers therein would have an unpleasanttime. Noble charity towards human weakness is one thing; but blindadulation of clever and immoral men is another. We have great need topity the poor souls who are the prey of their passions, but we need notworship them. A large and lofty charity will forgive the shortcomings ofRobert Burns; we may even love that wild and misguided but essentiallynoble man. That is well; yet we must not put Burns forward and offer ouradulation in such a way as to set him up for a model to young men. A manmay read--

 The pale moon is setting beyont the white wave, And Time is setting with me, oh!

The pathos will wring his heart; but he should not ask any youth toimitate the conduct of the great poet. Carlyle said very profoundly thatnew morality must be made before we can judge Mirabeau; but Carlylenever put his hero's excesses in the foreground of his history, nor didhe try to apologize for them; he only said, "Here is a man whose stormypassions overcame him and drove him down the steep to ruin! Think of himat his best, pardon him, and imitate, in your weak human fashion, theinfinite Divine Mercy. " That is good; and it is certainly very differentfrom the behaviour of writers who ask us to regard their heroes'evil-doing as not only pardonable, but as being almost admirable. 

This Shelley controversy raises several weighty issues. We forgive Burnsbecause he again and again offers us examples of splendid self-sacrificein the course of his broken life, and we are able to do so because thebalance is greatly on the good side; but we do not refrain from saying, "In some respects Burns was a scamp. " The fact is that the claims ofweak-headed adorers who worship men of genius would lead to endlessmischief if they were allowed. Men who were skilled in poetry and musicand art have often behaved like scoundrels; but their scoundrelismshould be reprobated, and not excused. And my reason for this contentionis very simple--once allow that a man of genius may override allsalutary conventions, and the same conventions will be overridden byvain and foolish mediocrities. Take, for example, the conventions whichguide us in the matter of dress. Most people grant that in many respectsour modern dress is ugly in shape, ugly in material, and calculated topromote ill-health. The hard hat which makes the brow ache must affectthe wearer's health, and therefore, when we see the greatest living poetgoing about in a comfortable soft felt, we call him a sensible man. Carlyle used to hobble about with soft shoes and soft slouch-hat, and hewas right But it is possible to be as comfortable as Lord Tennyson orCarlyle without flying very outrageously in the face of modernconventions; and many everyday folk contrive to keep their bodies atease without trying any fool's device. Charles Kingsley used to roamabout in his guernsey--most comfortable of all dresses--when he was inthe country; but when he visited the town he managed to dress easily andelegantly in the style of an average gentleman. 

But some foolish creatures say in their hearts, "Men of genius wearstrange clothing--Tennyson wears a vast Inverness cape, Carlyle wore aduffel jacket, Bismarck wears a flat white cap, Mortimer Collins wore abig Panama; artists in general like velvet and neckties of various gaudyhues. Let us adopt something startling in the way of costume, and wemay be taken for men of genius. " Thus it happened that very latelyLondon was invested by a set of simpletons of small ability in art andletters; they let their hair grow down their backs; they drove about inthe guise of Venetian senators of the fifteenth century; they appearedin slashed doublets and slouched hats; and one of them astonished thepublic--and the cabmen--by marching down a fashionable thoroughfare on abroiling day with a fur ulster on his back and a huge flower in hishand. Observe my point--these social nuisances obtained for themselves acertain contemptible notoriety by caricaturing the ways of able men. Ican forgive young Disraeli's gaudy waistcoats and pink-lined coats, butI have no patience with his silly imitators. This is why I object to thepraise which is bestowed on men of genius for qualities which do notdeserve praise. The reckless literary admirer of Shelley or Byron goesinto ecstasies and cries, "Perish the slave who would think of thesegreat men's vices!"--whereupon raw and conceited youngsters say, "Viceand eccentricity are signs of genius. We will be vicious and eccentric;"and then they go and convert themselves into public nuisances. 

That vice and folly are not always associated with genius scarcely needsdemonstrating. I allow that many great men have been sensual fools, butwe can by no means allow that folly and sensuality are inseparable fromgreatness. My point is to prove that littleness must be conquered beforea man can be great or good. Macaulay lived a life of perfect andexemplary purity; he was good in all the relations of life; thosenearest to him loved him most dearly, and his days were passed inthinking of the happiness of others. Perhaps he was vain--certainly hehad something to be vain of--but, though he had such masterful talent, he never thought himself licensed, and he wore the white flower of ablameless life until his happy spirit passed easily away. Wordsworth wasa poet who will be placed on a level with Byron when an estimate of ourcentury's great men comes to be made. But Wordsworth lived his sweet andpious life without in any way offending against the moral law. We musthave done with all talk about the privileges of irregular genius; aclever man must be made to see that, while he may be as independent ashe likes, he cannot be left free to offend either the sense or thesensibility of his neighbours. The genius must learn to conduct himselfin accordance with rational and seemly custom, or he must be brought tohis senses. When a great man's ways are merely innocently different fromthose of ordinary people, by all means let him alone. For instance, Leonardo da Vinci used often to buy caged wild-birds from their captorsand let them go free. What a lovely and lovable action! He hurt no one;he restored the joy of life to innocent creatures, and no one could findfault with his sweet fancy. In the same way, when Samuel Johnson choseto stalk ponderously along the streets, stepping on the edges of thepaving-stones, or even when he happened to roar a little loudly inconversation, who could censure him seriously? His heart was as a littlechild's: his deeds were saintly; and we perhaps love him all the morefor his droll little ways. But, when Shelley outrages decency and thehealthy sense of manliness by his peculiar escapades, it is not easy topardon him; the image of that drowned child rises before us, and we areapt to forget the pretty verses. Calm folk remember that many peculiarlywicked and selfish gentry have been able to make nice rhymes and paintcharming pictures. The old poet Francois Villon, who has made men weepand sympathize for so many years, was a burglar, a murderer, andsomething baser, if possible, than either murderer or burglar. A moredespicable being probably never existed; and yet he warbles with angelicsweetness, and his piercing sadness thrills us after the lapse of fourcenturies. Young men of unrestrained appetites and negative morality areoften able to talk most charmingly, but the meanest and most unworthypersons whom I have met have been the wild and lofty-minded poets whoperpetually express contempt of Philistines and cast the shaft of theirscorn at what they call "dross. " So far as money goes, I fancy that theoratorical, and grandiose poet is often the most greedy of individuals;and, when, in his infinite conceit, he sets himself up above commondecency and morality, I find it difficult to confine myself to moderatelanguage. A man of genius may very well be chaste, modest, unselfish, and retiring. Byron was at his worst when he was producing the workswhich made him immortal; I prefer to think of him as he was when he casthis baser self away, and nobly took up the cause of Greece. When oncehis matchless common sense asserted itself, and he ceased to contemplatehis own woes and his own wrongs, he became a far greater man than he hadever been before. I should be delighted to know that the cant about thelowering restrictions imposed by stupidity on genius had been silencedfor ever. A man of transcendent ability must never forget that he is amember of a community, and that he has no more right wantonly to offendthe feelings or prejudices of that community than he has to go aboutbuffeting individual members with a club. As soon as he offends thecommon feelings of his fellows he must take the consequences; andhard-headed persons should turn a deaf ear when any eloquent andsentimental person chooses to whine about his hero's wrongs. 

_March, 1888. _

_SLANG_. 

Has any one ever yet considered the spiritual significance of slang? Thedictionaries inform us that "slang is a conversational irregularity of amore or less vulgar type;" but that is not all. The prim definitionrefers merely to words, but I am rather more interested in consideringthe mental attitude which is indicated by the distortion and looseemployment of words, and by the fresh coinages which seem to spring upevery hour. I know of no age or nation that has been without its slang, and the study is amongst the most curious that a scholar can take up;but our own age, after all, must be reckoned as the palmy time of slang, for we have gone beyond mere words, and our vulgarizations of languageare significant of degradation of soul. The Romans of the decadence hada hideous cant language which fairly matched the grossness of thepeople, and the Gauls, with their descendants, fairly matched the oldconquerors. The frightful old Paris of Francois Villon, with all itsbleak show of famine and death, had its constant changes of slang. "_Tousjours vieil synge est desplaisant, "_ says the burglar-poet, and hemeans that the old buffoon is tiresome; the young man with the newestphases of city slang at his tongue's end is most acceptable in merrycompany. Very few people can read Villon's longer poems at all, for theyare almost entirely written in cant language, and the glossary must bein constant requisition. The rascal is a really great writer in hisabominable way, but his dialect was that of the lowest resorts, and helets us see that the copious _argot_ which now puzzles the stranger byits kaleidoscopic changes was just as vivid and changeable in themiserable days of the eleventh Louis. In the Paris of our day the slangvaries from hour to hour; every one seems able to follow it, and no oneknows who invents the constant new changes. The slang of theboarding-house in Balzac's "Pere Goriot" is quite different from that ofthe novels done by the Goncourt brothers; and, though I have not yetmustered courage to finish one of M. Zola's outrages, I can see that thevulgarisms which he has learned are not at all like any that have beenused in bygone days. The corruption of Paris seems to breed verbaldistortions rather freely, and the ordinary babble of the city workmanis as hard to any Englishman as are the colloquialisms of Burns to theaverage Cockney. 

In England our slang has undergone one transformation after another eversince the time of Chaucer. Shakespeare certainly gives us plenty; thenwe have the slang of the Great War, and then the unutterable horrors ofthe Restoration--even the highly proper Mr. Joseph Addison does notdisdain to talk of an "old put, " and his wags are given to "smoking"strangers. The eighteenth century--the century of the gallows--gave us awhole crop of queer terms which were first used in thieves' cellars, andgradually filtered from the racecourse and the cockpit till they tooktheir place in the vulgar tongue. The sweet idyll of "Life in London" isa perfect garden of slang; Tom the Corinthian and Bob Logic lard theirphrases with the idiom of the prize-ring, and the author obliginglyitalicises the knowing words so that one has no chance of missing them. But nowadays we have passed beyond all that, and every social clique, every school of art and literature, every trade--nay, almost everyreligion--has its peculiar slang; and the results as regards morals, manners, and even conduct in general are too remarkable to be passedover by any one who desires to understand the complex society of ourera. The mere patter of thieves or racing-men--the terms are nearlysynonymous--counts for nothing. Those who know the byways of life knowthat there are two kinds of dark language used by our nomad classes andby our human predatory animals. A London thief can talk a dialect whichno outsider can possibly understand; for, by common agreement, arbitrarynames are applied to every object which the robbers at any time handle, and to every sort of underhand business which they transact. But thisgibberish is not exactly an outcome of any moral obliquity; it isemployed as a means of securing safety. The gipsy cant is the remnant ofa pure and ancient language; we all occasionally use terms taken fromthis remarkable tongue, and, when we speak of a "cad, " or "making amull, " or "bosh, " or "shindy, " or "cadger" or "bamboozling, " or "mug, "or "duffer, " or "tool, " or "queer, " or "maunder, " or "loafer, " or"bung, " we are using pure gipsy. No distinct mental process, no processof corruption, is made manifest by the use of these terms; we simplyhave picked them up unconsciously, and we continue to utter them in thecourse of familiar conversation. 

I am concerned with a degradation of language which is of an importancefar beyond the trifling corruption caused by the introduction of termsfrom the gipsy's caravan, the betting ring, or the thieves' kitchen; onecannot help being made angry and sad by observing a tendency to belittleall things that are great, to mock all earnestness, to vulgarize allbeauty. There is not a quarter where the subtle taint has not crept in, and under its malign influence poetry has all but expired, goodconversation has utterly ceased to exist, art is no longer serious, andthe intercourse of men is not straightforward. The Englishman willalways be emotional in spite of the rigid reserve which he imposes uponhimself; he is an enthusiast, and he does truly love earnestness, veracity, and healthy vigour. Take him away from a corrupt and pettysociety and give him free scope, and he at once lets fall the film ofshams from off him like a cast garment, and comes out as a reality. Shutthe same Englishman up in an artificial, frivolous, unreal society, andhe at once becomes afraid of himself; he fears to exhibit enthusiasmabout anything, and he hides his genuine nature behind a cloud of slang. He belittles everything he touches, he is afraid to utter a word fromhis inner heart, and his talk becomes a mere dropping shower of verbalcounters which ring hollow. The superlative degree is abhorrent to himunless he can misuse it for comic purposes; and, like the ridiculousdummy lord in "Nicholas Nickleby, " he is quite capable of callingShakespeare a "very clayver man. " I have heard of the attitude taken bytwo flowers of our society in presence of Joachim. Think of it! Theunmatched violinist had achieved one of those triumphs which seem topermeate the innermost being of a worthy listener; the soul isentranced, and the magician takes us into a fair world where there isnothing but loveliness and exalted feeling. "Vewy good fellow, thatfiddle fellow, " observed the British aristocrat. "Ya-as, " answered hisfaithful friend. Let any man who is given to speaking words with a viewof presenting the truth begin to speak in our faint, super-refined, orthodox society; he will be looked at as if he were some queer objectbrought from a museum of curiosities and pulled out for exhibition. Theshallowest and most impudent being that ever talked fooleries willassume superior airs and treat the man of intellect as an amusing butinferior creature. More than that--earnestness and reality are classedtogether under the head of "bad form, " the vital word grates on theemasculate brain of the society man, and he compensates himself for hisinward consciousness of inferiority by assuming easy airs of insolence. A very brilliant man was once talking in a company which includedseveral of the superfine division; he was witty, vivid, genial, full ofknowledge and tact; but he had one dreadful habit--he always said whathe thought. The brilliant man left the company, and one sham-languidperson said to a sham-aristocratic person, "Who is that?" "Ah, he's aspecies of over-educated savage!" Now the gentleman who propounded thispleasant piece of criticism was, according to trustworthy history, themeanest, most useless, and most despicable man of his set; yet he couldventure to assume haughty airs towards a man whose shoes he was not fitto black, and he could assume those airs on the strength of his slangyimpassivity--his "good form. " When we remember that this same fictitiousindifference characterized the typical _grand seigneur_ of old France, and when we also remember that indifference may be rapidly transformedinto insolence, and insolence into cruelty, we may well look grave atthe symptoms which we can watch around us. The dreary _ennui_ of theheart, _ennui_ that revolts at truth, that is nauseated by earnestness, expresses itself in what we call slang, and slang is the sign of mentaldisease. 

I have no fault to find with the broad, racy, slap-dash language of theAmerican frontier, with its picturesque perversions and its drollexaggeration. The inspired person who chose to call a coffin an"eternity box" and whisky "blue ruin" was too innocent to sneer. Theslang of Mark Twain's Mr. Scott when he goes to make arrangements forthe funeral of the lamented Buck Fanshawe is excruciatingly funny andtotally inoffensive. Then the story of Jim Baker and the jays in "ATramp Abroad" is told almost entirely in frontier slang, yet it is oneof the most exquisite, tender, lovable pieces of work ever set down inour tongue. The grace and fun of the story, the odd effects produced bybad grammar, the gentle humour, all combine to make this decidedlyslangy chapter a literary masterpiece. A miner or rancheman will talk toyou for an hour and delight you, because his slang somehow fits hispeculiar thought accurately; an English sailor will tell a story, and hewill use one slang word in every three that come out of his mouth, yethe is delightful, for the simple reason that his distorted dialectenables him to express and not to suppress truth. But the poison thathas crept through the minds of our finer folk paralyses their utteranceso far as truth is concerned; and society may be fairly caricatured by afigure of the Father of Lies blinking through an immense eyeglass uponGod's universe. 

Mr. George Meredith, with his usual magic insight, saw long ago whitherour over-refined gentry were tending; and in one of his finest books heshows how a little dexterous slang may dwarf a noble deed. NevilBeauchamp was under a tremendous fire with his men: he wanted to carry awounded soldier out of action, but the soldier wished his adored officerto be saved. At the finish the two men arrived safely in their own linesamid the cheers of English, French, and even of the Russian enemy. Thisis how the votary of slang transfigures the episode; he wishes to make alittle fun out of the hero, and he manages it by employing the tonguewhich it is good form to use. "A long-shanked trooper bearing the nameof John Thomas Drew was crawling along under fire of the batteries. Outpops old Nevil, tries to get the man on his back. It won't do. Nevilinsists that it's exactly one of the cases that ought to be, and theyremain arguing about it like a pair of nine-pins while the Moscovitesare at work with the bowls. Very well. Let me tell you my story. It'sperfectly true, I give you my word. So Nevil tries to horse Drew, andDrew proposes to horse Nevil, as at school. Then Drew offers acompromise. He would much rather have crawled on, you know, and allowedthe shot to pass over his head; but he's a Briton--old Nevil's the same;but old Nevil's peculiarity is that, as you are aware, he hates acompromise--won't have it--_retro Sathanas!_--and Drew's proposal totake his arm instead of being carried pick-a-or piggy-back--I amignorant how Nevil spells it--disgusts old Nevil. Still it won't do tostop where they are, like the cocoanut and pincushion of our friendsthe gipsies on the downs; so they take arms and commence the journeyhome, resembling the best friends on the evening of a holiday in ournative clime--two steps to the right, half a dozen to the left, &c. Theywere knocked down by the wind of a ball near the battery. 'Confound it!'cries Nevil. 'It's because I consented to a compromise!'"

Most people know that this passage refers to Rear-Admiral Maxse, yet, well as we may know our man, we have him presented like an awkward, silly, comic puppet from a show. The professor of slang could degradethe conduct of the soldiers on board the _Birkenhead_; he could make thechoruses from _Samson Agonistes_ seem like the Cockney puerilities of acomic news-sheet. It is this high-sniffing, supercilious slang that Iattack, for I can see that it is the impudent language of a people towhom nothing is great, nothing beautiful, nothing pure, and nothingworthy of faith. 

The slang of the "London season" is terrible and painful. A gloriouslybeautiful lady is a "rather good-looking woman--looks fairly wellto-night;" a great entertainment is a "function;" a splendid ball is a"nice little dance;" high-bred, refined, and exclusive ladies andgentlemen are "smart people;" a tasteful dress is a "swagger frock;" anew craze is "the swagger thing to do. " Imbecile, useless, contemptiblebeings, male and female, use all these verbal monstrosities under theimpression that they make themselves look distinguished. Amicrocephalous youth whose chief intellectual relaxation consists insucking the head of a stick thinks that his conversational style isbrilliant when he calls a man a "Johnnie, " a battle "a blooming slog, "his lodgings his "show, " a hero "a game sort of a chappie, " and so on. Girls catch the infection of slang; and thus, while sweet young ladiesare leading beautiful lives at Girton and Newnham, their sisters ofsociety are learning to use a language which is a frail copy of therobust language of the drinking-bar and the racecourse. Under thisblight lofty thought perishes, noble language also dies away, real witis cankered and withered into a mere ghastly crackle of wordplay, humouris regarded as the sign of the savage, and generous emotion, manly love, womanly tenderness are reckoned as the folly of people whom the smartyoung lady of the period would describe as "Jugginses. "

As to the slang of the juniors of the middle class, it is well-nigh pastdescription and past bearing. The dog-collared, tight-coated, horseyyouth learns all the cant phrases from cheap sporting prints, and he hasan idea that to call a man a "bally bounder" is quite a ducal thing todo. His hideous cackle sounds in railway-carriages, or on breezy piersby the pure sea, or in suburban roads. From the time when he gabblesover his game of Nap in the train until his last villainous howlpollutes the night, he lives, moves, and has his being in slang; and heis incapable of understanding truth, beauty, grandeur, or refinement. Heis apt to label any one who does not wear a dog-collar and stableman'strousers as a cad; but, ah, what a cad he himself is! In what a vastprofound gulf of vulgarity his being wallows; and his tongue, his slang, is enough to make the spirits of the pure and just return to earth andsmite him! Better by far the cunning gipsy with his glib chatter, therough tramp with his incoherent hoarseness! All who wish to save ourgrand language from deterioration, all who wish to retain some savour ofsincerity and manhood among us, should set themselves resolutely to talkon all occasions, great or trivial, in simple, direct, refined English. There is no need to be bookish; there is much need for being natural andsincere--and nature and sincerity are assassinated by slang. 

_September, 1888. _

_PETS. _

That enterprising savage who first domesticated the pig has a good dealto answer for. I do not say that the moral training of the pig was adistinct evil, for it undoubtedly saved many aged and respectablepersons from serious inconvenience. The more practical members of theprimitive tribes were wont to club the patriarchs whom they regarded ashaving lived long enough; and an exaggerated spirit of economy led thesons of the forest to eat their venerable relatives. The domesticationof the noble animal which is the symbol of Irish prosperity caused aremarkable change in primitive public opinion. The gratified savage, conscious of possessing pigs, no longer cast the anxious eye of theepicure upon his grandmother. Thus a disagreeable habit and adisagreeable tradition were abolished, and one more step was made in thedirection of universal kindliness. But, while we are in some measuregrateful to the first pig-tamer, we do not feel quite so sure about thefirst person who inveigled the cat into captivity. Mark that I do notspeak of the "slavery" of the cat--for who ever knew a cat to doanything against its will? If you whistle for a dog, he comes withservile gestures, and almost overdoes his obedience; but, if a cat hasgot into a comfortable place, you may whistle for that cat until you arespent, and it will go on regarding you with a lordly blink ofindependence. No; decidedly the cat is not a slave. Of course I must belogical, and therefore I allow, under reasonable reservations, that aboot-jack, used as a projectile, will make a cat stir; and I have knowna large garden-syringe cause a most picturesque exodus in the case ofsome eloquent and thoughtful cats that were holding a conference in agarden at midnight. Still I must carefully point out the fact that theboot-jack will not induce the cat to travel in any given direction foryour convenience; you throw the missile, and you must wait in suspenseuntil you know whether your cat will vanish with a wild plunge throughthe roof of your conservatory or bound with unwonted smartness into yourfavourite William pear tree. The syringe is scarcely more trustworthy inits action than the boot-jack; the parting remarks of six drenched catsare spirited and harmonious; but the animals depart to differentquarters of the universe, and your hydraulic measure, so far frombringing order out of chaos, merely evokes a wailing chaos out ofcomparative order. These discursive observations aim at showing that acat has a haughty spirit of independence which centuries of partialsubmission to the suzerainty of man have not eradicated. I do not wantto censure the ancient personage who made friends with the creaturewhich is a thing of beauty and a joy for ever to many estimablepeople--I reserve my judgment. Some otherwise calm and moral men regardthe cat in such a light that they would go and jump on the tomb of theprimeval tamer; others would erect monuments to him; so perhaps it isbetter that we do not know whose memory we should revere--oranathematise--the processes are reversible, according to ourdispositions. Man is the paragon of animals; the cat is the paradox ofanimals. You cannot reason about the creature; you can only make surethat it has every quality likely to secure success in the struggle forexistence; and it is well to be careful how you state your opinions inpromiscuous company, for the fanatic cat-lover is only a little lesswildly ferocious than the fanatical cat-hater. 

Cats and pigs appear to have been the first creatures to earn theprotective affection of man; but, ah, what a cohort of brutes and birdshave followed! The dog is an excellent, noble, lovable animal; but thepet-dog! Alas! I seem to hear one vast sigh of genuine anguish as thisEssay travels round the earth from China to Peru. I can understand theartfulness of that wily savage who first persuaded the wolf-like animalof the Asiatic plains to help him in the chase; I understand thestatesmanship of the Thibetan shepherd who first made a wolf turntraitor to the lupine race. But who first invented the pet-dog? Thisimpassioned question I ask with thoughts that are a very great deal toodeep for tears. Consider what the existence of the pet-dog means. Youvisit an estimable lady, and you are greeted, almost in the hall, by apoodle, who waltzes around your legs and makes an oration like anobstructionist when the Irish Estimates are before the House. You feelthat you are pale, but you summon up all your reserves of base hypocrisyand remark, "Poor fellow! Poo-poo-poo-ole fellow!" You really mean, "Ishould like to tomahawk you, and scalp you afterwards!"--but thissentiment you ignobly retain in your own bosom. You lift one leg in anapologetic way, and poodle instantly dashes at you with all thevehemence of a charge of his compatriots the Cuirassiers. You shut youreyes and wait for the shedding of blood; but the torturer has all themalignant subtlety of an Apache Indian, and he tantalizes you. Presentlythe lady of the house appears, and, finding that you are beleaguered byan ubiquitous foe, she says sweetly, "Pray do not mind Moumou; his fungets the better of him. Go away, naughty Moumou! Did Mr. Blank frightenhim then--the darling?" Fun! A pleasing sort of fun! If the rescuer hadseen that dog's sanguinary rushes, she would not talk about fun. Whenyou reach the drawing-room, there is a pug seated on an ottoman. Helooks like a peculiarly truculent bull-dog that has been brought up on alowering diet of gin-and-water, and you gain an exaggerated idea of hissavagery as he uplifts his sooty muzzle. He barks with indignation, asif he thought you had come for his mistress's will, and intended to cuthim off with a Spratt's biscuit. Of course he comes to smell round yourankles, and equally of course you put on a sickly smile, and take up anattitude as though you had sat down on the wrong side of a harrow. Yourconversation is strained and feeble; you fail to demonstrate youraffection; and, when a fussy King Charles comes up and fairly shrieksinjurious remarks at you, the sense of humiliation and desertion is toosevere, and you depart. Of course your hostess never attempts to controlher satellites--they are quiet with her; and, even if one of themsampled the leg of a guest with a view to further business, she would besecretly pleased at such a proof of exclusive affection. We suppose thatpeople must have something to be fond of; but why should any one befond of a pug that is too unwieldy to move faster than a hedgehog? Hisface is, to say the least, not celestial--whatever his nose may be; hecannot catch a rat; he cannot swim; he cannot retrieve; he can donothing, and his insolence to strangers eclipses the best performancesof the finest and tallest Belgravian flunkeys. He is alive, and in hisyouth he may doubtless have been comic and engaging; but in his obese, waddling, ill-conditioned old age he is such an atrocity that one wishesa wandering Chinaman might pick him up and use him instantly after thesensible thrifty fashion of the great nation. 

I love the St. Bernard; he is a noble creature, and his beautifullife-saving instinct is such that I have seen a huge member of the breedjump off a high bridge to save a puppy which he considered to bedrowning. The St. Bernard will allow a little child to lead him and tosmite him on the nose without his uttering so much as a whine by way ofremonstrance. If another dog attacks him, he will not retaliate bybiting--that would be undignified, and like a mere bull-dog; he liesdown on his antagonist and waits a little; then that other dog gets upwhen it has recovered breath, and, after thinking the matter over, itconcludes that it must have attacked a sort of hairy traction-engine. All these traits of the St. Bernard are very sweet and engaging, and Imust, moreover, congratulate him on his scientific method of treatingburglars; but I do object with all the pathos at my disposal to the St. Bernard considered as a pet. His master will bring him into rooms. Now, when he is bounding about on glaciers, or infringing the Licensing Actby giving travellers brandy without scrutinizing their return-tickets, or acting as pony for frozen little boys, or doing duty as specialconstable when burglars pay an evening call, he is admirable; but, whenhe enters a room, he has all the general effects of an earthquakewithout any picturesque accessories. His beauty is of course praised, and, like any other big lumbering male, he is flattered; his vast tailmakes a sweep like the blade of a screw-propeller, and away goes a vase. A maid brings in tea, and the St. Bernard is pleased to approve theexpression of Mary's countenance; with one colossal spring he places hispaws on her shoulders, and she has visions of immediate execution. Notbeing equal to the part of an early martyr, she observes, "Ow!" The St. Bernard regards this brief statement as a compliment, and, in an ecstasyof self-approval, he sends poor Mary staggering. Of course, when he issent out, after causing this little excitement, he proceeds to eatanything that happens to be handy; and, as the cook does not wish to beeaten herself, she bears her bitter wrong in silence, only hoping thatthe two pounds of butter which the animal took as dessert may make himexcessively unwell. 

Now I ask any man and brother, or lady and sister, is a St. Bernard alegitimate pet in the proper sense of the word? As to the bull-dog, Isay little. He at least is a good water-dog, and, when he is taught, hewill retrieve birds through the heaviest sea as long as his master caresto shoot. But his appearance is sardonic, to say the least of it; heputs me in mind of a prize-fighter coming up for the tenth round when hehas got matters all his own way. Happily he is not often kept as a pet;he is usually taken out by fast young men in riverside places, for hiscompany is believed to give an air of dash and fashion to his master;and he waddles along apparently engaged in thinking out some scheme ofreform for sporting circles in general. In a drawing-room he looksunnatural, and his imperturbable good humour fails to secure him favour. Dr. Jessopp tells a story of a clergyman's wife who usually kept fromfifteen to twenty brindled bull-dogs; but this lady was an originalcharacter, and her mode of using a red-hot iron bar when any of her petshad an argument was marked by punctuality and despatch. 

The genuine collie is an ideal pet, but the cross-grained fleecy brutesbred for the show-bench are good neither for one thing nor another. Thereal, homely, ugly collie never snaps at friends; the mongrel brute withthe cross of Gordon setter is not safe for an hour at a time. The realcollie takes to sheep-driving by instinct; he will run three miles outand three miles in, and secure his master's property accurately aftervery little teaching; the present champion of all the collies would runaway from a sheep as if he had seen a troop of lions. In any case, evenwhen a collie is a genuine affectionate pet, his place is not in thehouse. Let him have all the open air possible, and he will remainhealthy, delightful in his manners, and preternaturally intelligent. Thedog of the day is the fox-terrier, and a charming little fellow he is. Unfortunately it happens that most smart youths who possess fox-terriershave an exalted idea of their friends' pugilistic powers, and hence thesweet little black, white, and tan beauty too often has life concertedinto a battle and a march. Still no one who understands the fox-terriercan help respecting and admiring him. If I might hint a fault, it isthat the fox-terrier lacks balance of character. The ejaculation"Cats!" causes him to behave in a way which is devoid of well-bredrepose, and his conduct when in presence of rabbits is enough to make ameditative lurcher or retriever grieve. When a lurcher sees a rabbit inthe daytime, he leers at him from his villainous oblique eye, and seemsto say, "Shan't follow you just now--may have the pleasure of lookingyou up this evening. " But the fox-terrier converts himself into a kindof hurricane in fur, and he gives tongue like a stump-orator in fullcry. I may say that, when once the fox-terrier becomes a drawing-roompet, he loses all character--he might just as well be a pug at once. TheBedlington is perhaps the best of all terriers, but his disreputableaspect renders him rather out of place in a refined room. It is onlywhen his deep sagacious eyes are seen that he looks attractive. He canrun, swim, dive, catch rabbits, retrieve, or do anything. I grieve tosay that he is a dog of an intriguing disposition; and no prudent ladywould introduce him among dogs who have not learned mischief. TheBedlington seems to have the power of command, and he takes a fiendishdelight in ordering young dogs to play pranks. He will whisper to ayoung collie, and in an instant you will see that collie chasing sheepor hens, or hunting among flower-beds, or baiting a cow, or somethingequally outrageous. Decidedly the Bedlington does not shine as a pet;and he should be kept only where there are plenty of things to bemurdered daily--then he lives with placid joy, varied by sublimeBerserker rage. 

As to feathered pets, who has not suffered from parrots? You buy a greyone at the docks, and pay four pounds for him on account of his manifoldaccomplishments. When he is taken home and presented to a prim lady, heof course gives her samples of the language used by the sailors on thevoyage home; and, even when his morals are cured and his language ispurified by discipline, he is a terrible creature. The imp lurks in hiseye, and his beak--his abominable beak--is like a malicious vice. But Iallow that Polly, when well behaved, gives a charming appearance to aroom, and her ways are very quaint. Lonely women have amused themselvesfor many and many a weary hour with the antics of the pretty tropicalbird; and I shall say nothing against Poll for the world. 

I started with the intention of merely skirting the subject; but I findI am involved in considerations deep as society--deep as the origins ofthe human race. In their proper place I like all pets, with theexception of snakes. The aggressive pug is bad enough, but the snake isa thousand times worse. When possible, all boys and girls should havepets, and they should be made to tend their charges without any adulthelp whatever. No indirect discipline has such a humanizing effect. Theunregenerate boy deprived of pets will tie kettles to dogs' tails, hewill shoot at cats with catapults, he is merciless to small birds, andno one can convince him that frogs or young nestlings can feel. When hehas pets, his mental horizon is widened and his kindlier instinctsawaken. A boy or girl without a pet is maimed in sympathy. 

Let me plead for discrimination in choice of pets. A gentleman--like thecelebrated Mary--had a little lamb which he loved; but the little lambdeveloped into a very big and vicious ram which the owner could notfind heart to kill. When this gentleman's friends were holding sweet andimproving converse with him, that sheep would draw up behind hismaster's companion; then he would shoot out like a stone from a sling, and you would see a disconcerted guest propelled through space in amanner destructive alike to dignity and trousers. That sheep comes andbutts at the front-door if he thinks his master is making too long acall; it is of no use to go and apologize for he will not take anydenial, and, moreover, he will as soon ram you with his granite skull aslook at you. Let the door be shut again, and the sheep seems to say, "IfI don't send a panel in, you may call me a low, common goat!" and thenhe butts away with an enthusiasm which arouses the street. A pet of thatsort is quite embarrassing, and I must respectfully beg leave to drawthe line at rams. A ram is too exciting a personage for the owner'sfriends. 

Every sign that tells of the growing love for dumb animals is gratefulto my mind; for any one who has a true, kindly love for pets cannot bewholly bad. While I gently ridicule the people who keep useless brutesto annoy their neighbours, I would rather see even the hideous, uselesspug kept to wheeze and snarl in his old age than see no pets at all. Good luck to all good folk who love animals, and may the reign ofkindness spread!

_March, 1888. _

_THE ETHICS OF THE TURF_. 

When Lord Beaconsfield called the Turf a vast engine of nationaldemoralization, he uttered a broad general truth; but, unfortunately, hedid not go into particulars, and his vague grandiloquence has inspired alarge number of ferocious imitators, who know as little about theessentials of the matter as Lord Beaconsfield did. These imitators abusethe wrong things and the wrong people; they mix up causes and effects;they are acrid where they should be tolerant; they know nothing aboutthe real evils; and they do no good, for the simple reason that racingblackguards never read anything, while cultured gentlemen who happen togo racing smile quietly at the blundering of amateur moralists. SirWilfrid Lawson is a good man and a clever man; but to see the kind ofdisplay he makes when he gets up to talk about the Turf is verysaddening. He can give you an accurate statement concerning the evils ofdrink, but as soon as he touches racing his innocence becomes woefullyapparent, and the biggest scoundrel that ever entered the Ring canafford to make game of the harmless, well-meaning critic. The subject isan intricate one, and you cannot settle it right off by talking of"pampered nobles who pander to the worst vices of the multitude;" andyou go equally wrong if you begin to shriek whenever that inevitablelarcenous shopboy whimpers in the dock about the temptations of betting. We are poisoned by generalities; our reformers, who use press andplatform to enlighten us, resemble a doctor who should stop by apatient's bedside and deliver an oration on bad health in the abstractwhen he ought to be finding out his man's particular ailment. Let usclear the ground a little bit, until we can see something definite. I amgoing to talk plainly about things that I know, and I want to put allsentimental rubbish out of the road. 

In the first place, then, horse-racing, in itself, is neither degradingnor anything else that is bad; a race is a beautiful and exhilaratingspectacle, and quiet men, who never bet, are taken out of themselves ina delightful fashion when the exquisite thoroughbreds thunder past. Nosensible man supposes for a moment that owners and trainers have anydeliberate intention of improving the breed of horses, but, nevertheless, these splendid tests of speed and endurance undoubtedlytend indirectly to produce a fine breed, and that is worth taking intoaccount. The Survival of the Fittest is the law that governs racingstuds; the thought and observation of clever men are constantlyexercised with a view to preserving excellence and eliminating defects, so that, little by little, we have contrived, in the course of acentury, to approach equine perfection. If a twelve-stone man were putup on Bendigo, that magnificent animal could give half a mile start toany Arab steed that ever was foaled, and run away from the Arab at thefinish of a four-mile course. Weight need not be considered, for if theEastern-bred horse only carried a postage-stamp the result would be muchabout the same. Minting could carry fourteen stone across a country, while, if we come to mere speed, there is really no knowing what horseslike Ormonde, Energy, Prince Charlie, and others might have done hadthey been pressed. If the Emir of Haïl were to bring over fifty of hisbest mares, the Newmarket trainers could pick out fifty fillies fromamong their second-rate animals, and the worst of the fillies coulddistance the best of the Arabs on any terms; while, if fifty heats wererun off, over any courses from half a mile to four miles, the Englishhorses would not lose one. The champion Arab of the world was matchedagainst one of the worst thoroughbreds in training; the English "plater"carried about five stone more than the pride of the East, and won by aquarter of a mile. 

Unconsciously, the breeders of racers have been evolving for us theswiftest, strongest, and most courageous horse known to the world, andwe cannot afford to neglect that consideration, for people will notstrive after perfection unless perfection brings profit. 

Again, we hear occasionally a good deal of outcry about the greatnoblemen and gentlemen who keep up expensive studs, and the assumptionis that racehorses and immorality go together; but what would thecritics have the racing nobleman do? He is born into a strangeartificial society; his fate is ready-made for him; he inherits luxuriesand pastimes as he inherits land and trees. Say that the stud is auseless luxury: but then, what about the daubs for which plutocrats paythousands of guineas? A picture costs, let us say, 2, 000 guineas; it isthe slovenly work of a hurried master, and the guineas are paid for aname; it is stuck away in a private gallery, and, if its owner looks atit so often as once a week, it costs him £2 per peep--reckoning only theinterest on the money sunk. Is that useless luxury? The fact is that weare living in a sort of guarded hothouse; our barbarian propensitiescannot have an easy outlet; and luxury of all sorts tends to lull ourbarbarian energy. If we blame one man for indulging a costly hobby, wemust blame almost every man and woman who belongs to the grades abovethe lower middle-class. A rich trader who spends £5, 000 a year onorchid-houses cannot very well afford to reprove a man who pays 50s. Perweek for each of a dozen horses in training. Rich folk, whose wealth hasbeen fostered during the long security of England, will indulge insuperfluities, and no one can stop them. A country gentleman whosucceeds to a deer park cannot slaughter all the useless, prettycreatures merely because they _are_ useless: he is bound by a thousandtraditions, and he cannot suddenly break away. A nobleman inherits acolossal income, of which he cannot very well rid himself: he followsthe traditions of his family or his class, and employs part of hisprofuse surplus riches in maintaining a racing stud; how can any onefind fault with him? Such a man as Lord Hartington would never dream ofbetting except in a languid, off-hand way. He (and his like) are fond ofwatching the superb rush of the glossy horses; they want the freedom, the swift excitement of the breezy heath; our society encourages them toamuse themselves, and they do so with a will. That is all. It may bewrong for A and B and C to own superfluous wealth, but then the fact isthere--that they have got it, and the community agree that they mayexpend the superfluity as they choose. The rich man's stud giveswholesome employment to myriads of decent folks in various stations oflife--farmers, saddlers, blacksmiths, builders, corn dealers, road-makers, hedgers, farriers, grooms, and half a score other sorts oftoilers derive their living from feeding, harnessing, and tending thehorses, and the withdrawal of such a sportsman as Mr. "Abington" fromNewmarket would inflict a terrible blow on hundreds of industriouspersons who lead perfectly useful and harmless lives. My point is, thatracing (as racing) is in no way noxious; it is the most pleasant of allexcitements, and it gives bread to many praiseworthy citizens. I haveseen 5, 000 given for a Latin hymn-book, and, when I pondered on theghastly, imbecile selfishness of that purchase, I thought that I shouldnot have mourned very much if the money had been laid out on a dozensmart colts and fillies, for, at least, the horses would have ultimatelybeen of some use, even if they all had been put to cab-work. We mustallow that when racing is a hobby, it is quite respectable--as hobbiesgo. One good friend of mine, whose fortune has been made by shrewdjudgment and constant work, always keeps five or six racers in training. He goes from meeting to meeting with all the eagerness of a boy; hisfriends sturdily maintain that his stud is composed of "hair trunks, "and the animals certainly have an impressively uniform habit of comingin last But the good owner has his pleasure; his hobby satisfies him;and, when he goes out in the morning to watch his yearlings frolicking, he certainly never dreams that he is fostering an immoral institution. Could we only have racing--and none of the hideous adjuncts--I shouldbe glad, in spite of all the moralists who associate horse-flesh withoriginal sin. 

As to the bookmakers, I shall have much to say further on. At present Iam content with observing that the quiet, respectable bookmaker is ashonourable and trustworthy as any trafficker in stocks and shares, andhis business is almost identical with that of the stockjobber in manyrespects. No class of men adhere more rigidly to the point of honourthan bookmakers of the better sort, and a mere nod from one of them isas binding to him as the most elaborate of parchments. They are simplyshrewd, audacious tradesmen, who know that most people are fools, andmake their profit out of that knowledge. It is painful to hear anignorant man abusing a bookmaker who does no more than use hisopportunities skilfully. Why not abuse the gentry who buy copper tocatch the rise of the market? Why not abuse the whole of the thousandsof men who make the City lively for six days of the week? Is there anyrational man breathing who would scruple to accept profit from the riseof a stock or share? If I, practically, back South-Eastern Railwayshares to rise, who blames me if I sell when my property has increasedin value by one-eighth? My good counsellor, Mr. Ruskin, who is the mostvirulent enemy of usury, is nevertheless very glad that his fatherbought Bank of England shares, which have now been converted into Stock, and stand at over 300; Ruskin senior was a shrewd speculator, who backedhis fancy; and a bookmaker does the same in a safer way. Bookmaking is abusiness which is carried out in its higher branches with perfectsobriety, discretion, mid probity; the gambling element does not comein on the bookmaker's side, but he deals with gamblers in a fair way. They know that he will lay them the shortest odds he can; they know thatthey put their wits against his, and they also know that he will paythem with punctilious accuracy if they happen to beat him in theencounter of brains. Three or four of the leading betting men "turnover" on the average about half a million each per annum; one firm whobet on commission receive an average of five thousand pounds per day toinvest, and the vouchers of all these speculators and agents are as goodas bank notes. Mark that I grant the certainty of the bookmakerswinning; they can remain idle in their mansions for months in the year, and the great gambling public supply the means; but I do not find faultwith the bookmakers because they use their opportunities, or else Imight rave about the iniquity of a godly man who earns in a week 100, 000from a "corner" in tin, or I might reprobate the quack who makes no lessthan 7000 per cent on every box of pills that he sells. A good man oncechatted with me for a whole evening, and all his talk ran on his ownluck in "spotting" shares that were likely to move upward. Certainly hisluck as a gambler had been phenomenal. I turned the conversation to theTurf case of Wood _v_. Cox, and the torrent of eloquence which met mewas enough to drown my intellect in its whirl and rush. My friend wasgreat on the iniquity of gaming and racing, and I rather fancy that heproposed to play on the Betting Ring with a mitrailleuse if ever he hadthe power. I know he was most sanguinary--and I smiled. He never for aninstant seemed to think that he was exactly like a backer of horses, and I have no doubt but that his density is shared by a few odd millionshere and there. The stockbroker is a kind of bookmaker, and the men andwomen who patronise both and make their wealth are fools who all may belumped under the same heading. I knew of one outside-broker--a merebucket-shop keeper--who keeps 600 clerks constantly employed. That seemsto point out rather an extensive gambling business. 

And now I have tried to clear the ground on one hand a little, and mylast and uttermost good word has been said for the Turf. With sorrow Isay that, after all excuses are made, the cool observer must own that itis indeed a vast engine of national demoralization, and the subtle venomwhich it injects into the veins of the Nation creeps along throughchannels of which Lord Beaconsfield never dreamed. I might call the Turfa canker, but a canker is only a local ailment, whereas the evils ofbetting have now become constitutional so far as the State is concerned. If we cut out the whole tribe of bookmakers and betting-agents, andapplied such cautery as would prevent any similar growth from arising inthe place wherefrom we excised them, we should do very little good; forthe life-blood of Britain is tainted, and no superficial remedy can cureher now. I shut my eyes on the bookmakers, and I only spare attentionfor the myriads who make the bookmakers' existence possible--who wouldevolve new bookmakers from their midst if we exterminated the presenttribe to-morrow. It is not the professional bettors who cause theexistence of fools; it is the insensate fools who cause the existence ofprofessional bettors. 

Gambling used to be mainly confined to the upper classes; it is now araging disease among that lower middle-class which used to form the mainelement of our national strength, and the tradesman whose cart comes toyour area in the morning gambles with all the reckless abandonment thatused to be shown by the Hon. A. Deuceace or Lady Betty when George theThird was King. Your clerk, shopman, butcher, baker, barber--especiallythe barber--ask their companions, "What have you done on the Lincoln?"or "How do you stand for the Two Thousand?" just as ordinary folks askafter each other's health. Tradesmen step out of their shops in themorning and telegraph to their bookmaker just as they might to one oftheir wholesale houses; there is not a town in broad England which hasnot its flourishing betting men, and some very small towns can maintaintwo or three. The bookmakers are usually publicans, barbers, ortobacconists; but whatever they are they invariably drive a capitaltrade. In the corner of a smoking-room you may see a quiet, impassiveman sitting daily in a contemplative manner; he does not drink much; hesmokes little, and he appears to have nothing in particular to worryhim. If he knows you well, he will scarcely mind your presence; men (andboys) greet him, and little, gentle colloquies take place from time totime; the smartest man could detect nothing, and yet the noiseless, placid gentleman of the smoking-room registers thirty or forty bets in aday. That is one type which I have watched for hours, days, months. There are dozens of other types, but I need not attempt to sketch them;it is sufficient to say that the poison has taken hard hold on us, andthat I see every symptom of a national decadence. 

Some one may say, "But you excused the Turf and the betting men. "Exactly. I said that racing is a delightful pastime to those who go towatch good horses gallop; the miserable thing to me is seeing thewretches who do not care for racing at all, but only care for gamblingon names and numbers. Let Lord Hartington, Lord Randolph Churchill, Mr. Chaplin, Mr. Corlett, Mr. Rothschild, Lord Rosebery, and the rest, goand see the lovely horses shooting over the turf; by all means let themwatch their own colts and fillies come flying home. But the poorcreatures who muddle away brains, energy, and money on what _they_ arepleased to term sport, do not know a horse from a mule; they gamble, asI have said, on names; the splendid racers give them no enjoyment suchas the true sportsman derives, for they would not know Ormonde from aClydesdale. To these forlorn beings only the ignoble side of racing isknown; it is sacrilege to call them sportsmen; they are rotting theirvery souls and destroying the remnants of their manhood over a gamewhich they play blindfold. It is pitiful--most pitiful. No good-naturedman will begrudge occasional holiday-makers their chance of seeing agood race. Rural and industrial Yorkshire are represented by thousandsat Doncaster, on the St. Ledger day, and the tourists get no particularharm; they are horsey to the backbone, and they come to see the running. They criticize the animals and gain topics for months of conversation, and, if they bet an odd half-crown and never go beyond it, perhaps noone is much the worse. When the Duke of Portland allowed his tenantry tosee St. Simon gallop five years ago at Newcastle, the pitmen andartisans thronged to look at the horse. There was no betting whatever, because no conceivable odds could have measured the difference betweenSt. Simon and his opponent, yet when Archer let the multitude see howfast a horse _could_ travel, and the great thoroughbred swept along likea flash, the excitement and enthusiasm rose to fever-pitch. Those menhad an unaffected pleasure in observing the beauty and symmetry andspeed of a noble creature, and they were unharmed by the little treatwhich the good-natured magnate provided for them. It is quite otherwisewith the mob of stay-at-home gamblers; they do not care a rush for thehorses; they long, with all the crazy greed of true dupes, to gain moneywithout working for it, and that is where the mischief comes in. Cupidity, mean anxieties, unwholesome excitements, gradually sap themorality of really sturdy fellows--the last shred of manliness is tornaway, and the ordinary human intelligence is replaced by repulsivevulpine cunning. If you can look at a little group of the stay-at-homeswhile they are discussing the prospects of a race, you will seesomething that Hogarth would have enjoyed in his large, lusty fashion. The fair human soul no longer shines through those shifty, deceitfuleyes; the men have, somehow, sunk from the level of their race, and theymake you think that Swift may-have been right after all. From longexperience I am certain that if a cultured gentleman, accustomed to highthinking, were suddenly compelled to live among these dismal beings, hewould be attacked by a species of intellectual paralysis. The affairs ofthe country are nothing to them; poetry, art, and all beautiful thingsare contemptible in their eyes; they dwell in an obscure twilight of themind, and their relaxation, when the serious business of betting is putaside for awhile, mostly lies in the direction of sheer bawdry andabomination. It is curious to see the oblique effect which generaldegradation has upon the vocabulary of these people; quiet words, orwords that express a plain meaning, are repugnant to them; even theold-fashioned full-mouthed oaths of our fathers are tame to their fancy, for they must have something strongly spiced, and thus they have bydegrees fitted themselves up with a loathly dialect of their own whichtranscends the comparatively harmless efforts of the Black Countrypotter. Foul is not the word for this ultra-filthy mode of talk--itpasses into depths below foulness. I may digress for a little toemphasize this point. The latter-day hanger-on of the Turf hasintroduced a new horror to existence. Go into the Silver Ring at asuburban meeting, and listen while two or three of the fellows workthemselves into an ecstasy of vile excitement, then you will hearsomething which cannot be described or defined in any terms known tohumanity. Why it should be so I cannot tell, but the portentous symptomof putridity is always in evidence. As is the man of the Ring, so arethe stay-at-homes. The disease of their minds is made manifest by theirmanner of speech; they throw out verbal pustules which tell of the rankcorruption which has overtaken their nature, and you need some seasoningbefore you can remain coolly among them without feeling symptoms ofnausea. There is one peer of this realm--a hereditary legislator and apatron of many Church livings--who is famous for his skill in the use ofcertain kinds of vocables. This man is a living exemplar of themysterious effect which low dodging and low distractions have on thesoul. In five minutes he can make you feel as if you had tumbled intoone of Swedenborg's loathsome hells; he can make the most eloquent ofturf thieves feel, envious, and he can make you awe-stricken as you seehow far and long God bears with man. The disease from which thispleasing pillar of the State suffers has spread, with more or lessvirulence, to the furthermost recesses of our towns, and you must knowthe fringe of the Turf world before you can so much as guess what thesymptoms are like. 

Here is a queer kind of a world which has suddenly arisen! Faith andtrust are banished; real honesty is unknown; purity is less than a name;manliness means no more than a certain readiness to use the fists. Mostof the dwellers in this atmosphere are punctilious about money paymentsbecause they durst not be otherwise, but the fine flower of real probitydoes not flourish in the mephitic air. To lie, to dodge, to take meanadvantages--these are the accomplishments which an ugly percentage ofmiddle-class youths cultivate, and all the mischief arises from the factthat they persist in trying to ape the manners of the most unworthymembers of an order to which they do not belong. It is bad enough when arich and idle man is bitten with the taste for betting, but when he isimitated by the tailor's assistant who carries his clothes home, then wehave a still more unpleasant phenomenon to consider. For it is fatal toa nation when any large and influential section of the populace oncebegin to be confused in their notions of right and wrong. Not long ago Iwas struck by noticing a significant instance of this moral dry rot. Anold racing man died, and all the sporting papers had something to sayabout him and his career. Now the best of the sporting journalists areclever and cultured gentlemen, who give refinement, to every subjectthat they touch. But a certain kind of writing is done by pariahs, whoare not much of a credit to our society, and I was interested by thestyle in which these scribbling vermin spoke of the dead man. Their gushwas a trifle nauseating; their mean worship of money gave one a shiver, and the relish with which they described their hero's exploits wouldhave been comic were it not for the before-mentioned nausea. 

It seemed that the departed turfite had been--to use blunt English--avery skilful and successful swindler. He would buy a horse which tookhis fancy, and he would run the animal again and again, until people gottired of seeing such a useless brute taken down to the starting-point. The handicappers finally let our schemer's horse in at a triflingweight, and then he prepared for business. He had trustworthy agents atManchester, Nottingham, and Newcastle, and these men contrived, withoutrousing suspicion, to "dribble" money into the market in a stealthy way, until the whole of their commission was worked on very advantageousterms. The arch-plotter did not show prominently in the transaction, andhe contrived once or twice to throw dust in the eyes of the verycleverest men. One or two neatly arranged strokes secured our acutegentleman a handsome fortune. He missed £70, 000 once, by a short head, but this was the only instance in which his plans seriously failed; andhe was looked up to as an epitome of all the virtues which are mostacceptable in racing circles. Well, had this dodger exhibited theheroism of Gordon, the benevolence of Lord Shaftesbury, the probity ofHenry Fawcett, he could not have been more bepraised and bewailed by thesmall fry of sporting literature. All he had done in life was to deceivepeople by making them fancy that certain good horses were bad ones:strictly speaking, he made money by false pretences, and yet, such isthe twist given by association with genuine gamblers, that educated menwrote of him as if he had been a saint of the most admirable order. Thisdisposition is seen all through the piece: successful roguery isglorified, and our young men admire "the Colonel, " or "the Captain, " orJack This and Tom That, merely because the Captain and the Colonel andJack and Tom are acute rascals who have managed to make money. Decidedly, our national ideals are in a queer way. Just think of alittle transaction which occurred in 1887. A noble lord ordered amiserable jockey boy to pull a horse, so that the animal might lose arace: the exalted guide of youth was found out, and deservedly packedoff the Turf; but it was only by an accident that the Stewards were ableto catch him. That legislator had funny notions of the duty which heowed to boyhood: he asked his poor little satellite to play thescoundrel, and he only did what scores do who are _not_ found out. 

A haze hangs about the Turf, and all the principles which should guidehuman nature are blurred and distorted; the high-minded, honourableracing men can do nothing or next to nothing, and the scum work theirwill in only too many instances. Every one knows that the ground ispalpitating with corruption, but our national mental disease has sogained ground that some regard corruption in a lazy way asbeing inevitable, while others--including the stay-at-homehorse-racers--reckon it as absolutely admirable. 

Some years ago, a pretty little mare was winning the St. Leger easily, when a big horse cut into her heels and knocked her over. About twomonths afterwards, the same wiry little mare was running in an importantrace at Newmarket, and at the Bushes she was hauling her jockey out ofthe saddle. There were not many spectators about, and only a few noticedthat, while the mare was fighting for her head, she was suddenly pulleduntil she reared up, lost her place, and reached the post about seventhin a large field. The jockey who rode the mare, and who made her exhibitcircus gambols, received a thousand pounds from the owner of the winninghorse. Now, there was no disguise about this transaction--nay, it wasrather advertised than otherwise, and a good many of the sporting printstook it quite as a matter of course. Why? Simply because no prominentracing man raked up the matter judicially, and because the ordinary Turfscramblers accept suspicious proceedings as part of their environment. Mr. Carlyle mourned over the deadly virus of lying which was emitted byLoyola and his crew; he might mourn now over the deadly virus ofcheating which is emitted from the central ganglia of the Turf. Theupright men who love horses and love racing are nearly powerless; thethieves leaven the country, and they have reduced what was once thefinest middle-class in the world to a condition of stark putridity. 

Before we can rightly understand the degradation which has befallen usby reason of the Turf, we must examine the position of jockeys in thecommunity. Lord Beaconsfield, in one of his most wicked sentences, saidthat the jockey is our Western substitute for the eunuch; a noble duke, who ought to know something about the matter, lately informed the worldthrough the medium of a court of law with an oath that "jockeys arethieves. " Now, I know one jockey whose character is not embraced by theduke's definition, and I have heard that there are two, but I am notacquainted with the second man. The wonder is, considering theharebrained, slavering folly of the public, that any of the ridingmanikins are half as honest as they are; the wonder is that their poorlittle horsey brains are not led astray in such fashion as to make everyrace a farce. They certainly do try their best on occasion, and Ibelieve that there are many races which are _not_ arranged before thestart; but you cannot persuade the picked men of the rascals' corps thatany race is run fairly. When Melton and Paradox ran their tremendousrace home in the Derby, I heard quite a number of intelligent gentrysaying that Paradox should have won but for the adjectived andparticipled propensities of his jockey. Nevertheless, although mostdevout turfites agree with the emphatic duke, they do not idolize theirdiminutive fetishes a whit the less; they worship the manikin with atouching and droll devotion, and, when they know him to be a confirmedscamp, they admire his cleverness, and try to find out which way thelittle rogue's interest lies, so that they may follow him. So it comesabout that we have amidst us a school of skinny dwarfs whose leaders arepaid better than the greatest statesmen in Europe. The commonestjockey-boy in this company of manikins can usually earn more than theaverage scholar or professional man, and the whole set receive a gooddeal more of adulation than has been bestowed on any soldier, sailor, explorer, or scientific man of our generation. And what is thelife-history of the jockey? A tiny boy is bound apprentice, andsubmitted to the discipline of a training stable; he goes through thelong routine of morning gallops, trials, and so forth, and when hebegins to show signs of aptitude he is put up to ride for his master inpublic. If he is a born horseman, like Archer or Robinson, he may makehis mark long before his indentures are returned to him, and he is atonce surrounded by a horde of flatterers who do their best to spoil him. There is no cult so distinguished by slavishness, by gush, bylavishness, as jockey-worship, and a boy needs to have a strong head andsound, careful advisers, if he is to escape becoming positivelyinsufferable. When the lad Robinson won the St. Leger, after his horsehad been left at the post, he was made recipient of the most frantic andsilly toadyism that the mind can conceive; the clever trainer to whom hewas apprenticed received £1, 500 for transferring the little fellow'sservices, and he is now a celebrity who probably earns a great deal morethan Professor Owen or Mr. Walter Besant. The tiny boy who won theCesarevitch on Don Juan received £1, 000 after the race, and it must beremembered that this child had not left school. Mr. Herbert Spencer hasnot earned £1, 000 by the works that have altered the course of modernthought; the child Martin picked up the amount in a lump, after he hadscurried for less than five minutes on the back of a feather-weightedthoroughbred. As the jockey grows older and is freed from hisapprenticeship he becomes a more and more important personage; if hisweight keeps well within limits he can ride four or five races every dayduring the season; he draws five guineas for a win, and three for themount, and he picks up an infinite number of unconsidered trifles in theway of presents, since the turfite, bad or good, is invariably acheerful giver. The popular jockey soon has his carriages, his horses, his valet, and his sumptuous house; noblemen, millionaires, great dames, and men and women of all degrees conspire to pamper him: forjockey-worship, when it is once started, increases in intensity by asort of geometrical progression. A shrewd man of the world may smilegrimly when he hears that a popular rider was actually received withroyal honours and installed in the royal box when he went to the theatreduring his honeymoon, but there are the facts. It was so, and the bestpeople of the fine town in which this deplorable piece of toadyism wasperpetrated were tolerably angry at the time. If the sportingjournalists perform their work of puffery with skill and care, theworship of the jockey reaches a pitch that borders on insanity. IfGeneral Gordon had returned and visited such a place as Liverpool orDoncaster during a race-meeting, he would not have been noticed by thediscriminating crowd if Archer had passed along the street. If the PrimeMinister were to visit any place of public resort while Watts or Webbhappened to be there, it is probable that his lordship would learnsomething useful concerning the relative importance of Her Majesty'ssubjects. I know for a fact that a cleverly executed cartoon of Archer, Fordham, Wood, or Barrett will have at least six times as many buyers asa similar portrait of Professor Tyndall, Mr. James Payn, M. Pasteur, Lord Salisbury, Mr. Chamberlain, or any one in Britain excepting Mr. Gladstone. I do not know how many times the _Vanity Fair_ cartoon ofArcher has been reprinted, but I learn on good authority that, foryears, not a single day has been known to pass on which the caricaturewas not asked for. And now let us bring to mind the plain truth thatthese jockeys are only uneducated and promoted stable-boys after all. Isit not a wonder that we can pick out a single honest man from theirmidst? Vast sums depend on their exertions, and they are surrounded by ahuge crowd of moneyed men who will stand at nothing if they can gaintheir ends; their unbalanced, sharp little minds are always open totemptation; they see their brethren amassing great fortunes, and theynaturally fall into line and proceed, when their turn comes, to grab asmuch money as they can. Not long ago the inland revenue officials, afterminute investigation, assessed the gains of one wee creature at £9, 000per year. This pigmy is now twenty-six years of age, and he earned asmuch as the Lord Chancellor, and more than any other judge, until a jurydecided his fate by giving him what the Lord Chief Justice called "acontemptuous verdict. " Another jockey paid income-tax on £10, 000 a year, and a thousand pounds is not at all an uncommon sum to be paid merely asa retainer. Forty or fifty years ago a jockey would not have dreamed offacing his employer otherwise than cap in hand, but the value ofstable-boys has gone up in the market, and Lear's fool might now say, "Handy-Dandy! Who is your jockey now and who is your master?" The littlemen gradually gather a kind of veneer of good manners, and some of themcan behave very much like pocket editions of gentlemen, but the scent ofthe stable remains, and, whether the jockey is a rogue or passablyhonest, he remains a stable-boy to the end. Half the mischief on theTurf arises from the way in which these overpaid, spoilt menials can bebribed, and, certes, there are plenty of bribers ready. Racing men donot seem able to shake off the rule of their stunted tyrants. When thegentleman who paid income-tax on nine thousand a year brought the actionwhich secured him the contemptuous verdict, the official handicapper tothe Jockey Club declared on oath that the jockey's character was "as badas bad can be. " The starter and a score of other witnesses followed inthe same groove, and yet this man was freely employed. Why? We mayperhaps explain by inference presently. 

With this cynically corrupt corps of jockeys and their hangers-on, itmay easily be seen that the plutocrats who manipulate the Turf wireshave an admirable time of it, while the great gaping mob of zanies whogo to races, and zanies who stay at home, are readily bled by thefellows who have the money and the "information" and the power. The ruleof the Turf is easily formulated:--"Get the better of your neighbour. Play the game outwardly according to fair rules. Pay like a man if yourcalculations prove faulty, but take care that they shall be as seldomfaulty as possible. Never mind what you pay for information if it givesyou a point the better of other men. Keep your agents honest if you can, but, if they happen to be dishonest under pressure of circumstances, take care at any rate that you are not found out. " In short, the Ring ismainly made up of men who pay with scrupulous honesty when they lose, but who take uncommonly good care to reduce the chances of losing to aminimum. Are they in the wrong? It depends. I shall not, at the presentmoment, go into details; I prefer to pause and ask what can be expectedto result from the wolfish scheme of Turf morality which I haveindicated. I do not compare it with the rules which guide our host ofcommercial middlemen, because, if I did, I should say that the bettingmen have rather the best of the comparison: I keep to the Turf, and Iwant to know what broad consequences must emanate from a body whichorganizes plans for plunder and veils them under the forms of honesty. An old hand--the Odysseus of racing--once said to me: "No man on earthwould ever be allowed to take a hundred thousand pounds out of the Ring:they wouldn't allow it, they wouldn't That young fool must drop all he'sgot. " We were speaking about a youthful madman who was just then beingplucked to the last feather, and I knew that the old turfite was right. The Ring is a close body, and I have only known about four men who evermanaged to beat the confederacy in the long run. There is one astute, taciturn, inscrutable organizer whom the bookmakers dread a little, because he happens to use their own methods; he will scheme for a yearor two if necessary until he succeeds in placing a horse advantageously, and he usually brings off his _coup_ just at the time when the Ringleast like it. "They don't yell like that when one of mine rolls home, "he once said, while the bookmakers were clamouring with delight over thedownfall of a favourite; and indeed this wily master of deceptions hasvery often made the pencillers draw long faces. But the case of the TurfOdysseus is not by any means typical; the man stands almost alone, andhis like will not be seen again for many a day. The rule is that thebacker must come to grief in the long run, for every resource ofchicanery, bribery, and resolute keenness is against him. He is there tobe plundered; it is his mission in life to lose, or how could thebookmakers maintain their mansions and carriages? It matters little whatthe backer's capital may be at starting, he will lose it all if he isidiot enough to go on to the end, for he is fighting againstunscrupulous legions. One well-known bookmaker coolly announced in 1888that he had written off three hundred thousand pounds of bad debts. Consider what a man's genuine business must be like when he can jauntilyallude to three hundred thousands as a bagatelle by the way. That sameman has means of obtaining "information" sufficient to discomfit anypoor gambler who steps into the Ring and expects to beat the bookmakersby downright above-board dealing. As soon as he begins to lay heavilyagainst a horse the animal is regarded as doomed to lose by all save theimbeciles who persist in hoping against hope. In 1889 this betting manmade a dead set at the favourite for the Two Thousand Guineas. The coltwas known to be the best of his year; he was trained in a stable whichhas the best of reputations; his exercise was uninterrupted, and mereamateurs fancied they had only to lay heavy odds _on_ him in order toput down three pounds and pick up four. Yet the inexorable bookmakerkept on steadily taking the odds; the more he betted, the more money waspiled on to the unbeaten horse, and yet few took warning, although theymust have seen that the audacious financier was taking on himself anappalling risk. Well, the peerless colt was pulled out, and, on his wayto the starting post, he began to shake blood and matter from his jaws;he could hardly move in the race, and when he was taken to his quartersa surgeon let out yet another pint of pus from the poor beast's jaw. Observe that the shrewdest trainer in England, a crowd of stable-boys, the horse's special attendant, the horse-watchers at Kingsclere, and thecasual strangers who saw the favourite gallop--all these knew nothingapparently about that monstrous abscess, and no one suspected that thecolt's jaw had been splintered. But "information"--alwaysinformation--evidently reached one quarter, and the host of outsiderslost their money. Soon afterwards a beautiful colt that had won theDerby was persistently backed for the City and Suburban Handicap. Onpaper it seemed as if the race might be regarded as over, for only thelast year's Derby winner appeared to have a chance; but our prescientpenciller cared nothing about paper. Once more he did not troublehimself about betting to figures; he must have laid his book five timesover before the flag fell. Then the nincompoops who refused to attend todanger-signals saw that the beautiful colt which had spun over the samecourse like a greyhound only ten months before was unable to gallop atall. The unhappy brute tried for a time, and was then mercifully eased;the bookmaker would have lost £100, 000 if his "information" had not beenaccurate, but that is just the crux--it _was_. So admirably do thebookmakers organize their intelligence department that I hardly knowmore than three instances in which they have blundered after they reallybegan to lay fiercely against a horse. They contrive to buy jockeys, stablemen, veterinary surgeons--indeed, who can tell whom they do _not_subsidize? When Belladrum came striding from the fateful hollow in frontof Pretender, there was one "leviathan" bookmaker who turned green andbegan to gasp, for he stood to lose £50, 000; but the "leviathan" wasspared the trouble of fainting, for the hill choked the splendidStockwell horse, and "information" was once more vindicated, whileBelladrum's backers paid copious tribute. Just two years before theleviathan had occasion to turn green our Turf Odysseus really did manageto deceive the great betting corporation with consummate skill. Thewhole business throws such a clear light on Turf ethics that I mayrepeat it for the benefit of those who know little about our greatnational sport--the Sport of Kings. It was rumoured that Hermit hadbroken a blood-vessel, and the animal was stopped for a little in hiswork. Then Odysseus and his chief confederate proceeded to seize theirchance. The horse started at 1000 to 15, and it seemed like a million toone against him, for his rough coat had been left on him, and he lookeda ragged equine invalid. The invalid won, however, by a neck, theMarquis of Hastings was ruined, and the confederates won about £150, 000. 

As we go over these stories of plot and counterplot, it is hardlypossible to avoid thinking what a singularly high-souled set of gentrywe have got amongst. What ambitions! To trick money out of somebody'spocket! To wager when you know that you have made winning certain! Theoutcome of it all is that, in the unequal battle between the men whoback and the men who lay, the latter must win; they _will_ win, even ifthey have to cog the dice on a pinch; and, moreover, they will not befound out officially, even though their "secret" is as open as if itwere written across the sky. A strange, hard, pitiless crew are thesesame bookmakers. Personally, strange to say, they are, in private life, among the most kindly and generous of men; their wild life, with itsexcitement and hurry, and keen encounters of wits, never seems to makethem anything but thoughtful and liberal when distress has to be aided;but the man who will go far out of his way to perform a charitableaction will take your very skin from you if you engage him in thatenclosure which is his battle-ground, and he will not be very particularas to whether he wins your skin by fair means or foul. 

About two years ago, an exasperating, soft-headed boy brought a colossalfortune into the Ring. I never pitied him much; I only longed to see himplaced in the hands of a good schoolmaster who knew how to use a birch. This piteous wretch, with his fatuous airs of sharpness, was exactly thekind of game that the bookmakers cared to fly at; he was cajoled andstimulated; he was trapped at every turn; the vultures flapped roundhim; and there was no strong, wise man to give the booby counsel or todrag him by main force from his fate. There was no pity for the boy'syouth; he was a mark for every obscene bird of prey that haunts theTurf; respectable betting men gave him fair play, though they exactedtheir pound of flesh; the birds of Night gave him no fair play at all. In a few short months he had poured a quarter of a million into thebursting pockets of the Ring, and he was at last "posted" for the paltrysum of £1, 400. This tragic farce was not enacted in a corner; a hundredjournals printed every act as it was played; the victim never receivedthat one hearty flogging which might have saved him, and the curtain wasat last rung down on a smug, grinning group of bookmakers, a deservedlyruined spendthrift, and a mob of indifferent lookers-on. So minutelycircumstantial were the newspapers, that we may say that all England sawa gigantic robbery being committed, and no man, on the Turf or off, interfered by so much as a sign. Decidedly, the Ethics of the Turf offeran odd study for the moralist; and, in passing, I may say that thenational ethics are also a little queer. We ruin a tradesman who letstwo men play a game at billiards for sixpence on licensed premises, andwe allow a silly boy to be rooked of a quarter of a million in ninemonths, although the robbery is as well-known as if it were advertisedover the whole front page of _The Times_ day by day. 

In sum, then, we have an inner circle of bookmakers who take care eitherto bet on figures alone, or on perfectly accurate and secretinformation; we have another circle of sharp owners and backers, who, bymeans of modified (or unmodified) false pretences, succeed at times inbeating the bookmakers; we have then an outer circle, composed partly ofstainless gentlemen who do not bet and who want no man's money, partlyof perfectly honest fellows who have no judgment, no real knowledge, andno self-restraint, and who serve as prey on which the bookmakers batten. 

And then we have circle on circle showing every shade of vice, baseness, cupidity, and blank folly. First, I may glance--and only glance--at theunredeemed, hopeless villains who are the immediate hangers-on of theTurf. People hardly believe that there are thousands of sturdy, able-bodied men scattered among our great towns and cities who havenever worked, and who never mean to work. In their hoggish way they feedwell and lie warm--the phrase is their own favourite--and they subsistlike odious reptiles, fed from mysterious sources. Go to any suburbanrace meeting (I don't care which you pick) and you will fancy thatHell's tatterdemalions have got holiday. Whatsoever things are vile, whatsoever things are roguish, bestial, abominable, belong to theracecourse loafers. To call them thieves is to flatter them, for theirimpudent knavery transcends mere thieving; they have not a virtue; theyare more than dangerous, and, if ever there comes a great socialconvulsion, they will let us know of their presence in an awkwardfashion, for they are trained to riot, fraud, bestiality, and theft, onthe fringe of the racecourse. 

Then comes the next line of predatory animals who suck the blood of thedupes. If you look at one of the daily sporting papers you will see, onthe most important page, a number of flaming announcements, which willmake very comic reading for you if you have any sense of humour at all. Gentlemen, who usually take the names of well-known jockeys or trainers, offer to make your fortune on the most ridiculously easy terms. Youforward a guinea or half-a-guinea, and an obliging prophet will show youhow to ruin the bookmakers. Old Tom Tompkins has a "glorious success"every week; Joe, and Bill, and Harry, and a good score more, are alwaysready to prove that they named the winner of any given race; one ofthese fellows advertises under at least a dozen different names, and heis able to live in great style and keep a couple of secretaries, although he cannot write a letter or compose a circular. The _SportingTimes_ will not allow one of these vermin to advertise in its columns, and it has exposed all their dodges in the most conclusive and trenchantset of articles that I ever saw; but other journals admit theadvertisements at prices which seem well-nigh prohibitive, and they arecontent to draw from £15 to £20 per day by blazoning forth falsepretences. I have had much fun out of these "tipsters, " for they aredeliciously impudent blackguards. A fellow will send you the names ofsix horses--all losers; in two days he will advertise--"I beg tocongratulate all my patrons. This week I was in great form on the whole, and on Thursday I sent all six winners. A thousand pounds will be paidto any one who can disprove this statement. " Considering that the sagesent you six losers on the Thursday, you naturally feel a littlesurprised at his tempestuously confident challenge. All the seers arealike; they pick names at haphazard from the columns of the newspapers, and then they pretend to be in possession of the darkest stable secrets. If they are wrong, and they usually are, they advertise their owninfallibility all the more brazenly. I do not exactly know what gettingmoney under false pretences may be if the proceedings which I havedescribed do not come under that heading, and I wonder what the policethink of the business. They very soon catch a poor Rommany wench whotells fortunes, and she goes to gaol for three months. But I supposethat the Rommany rawnee does not contribute to the support ofinfluential newspapers. A sharp detective ought to secure clear casesagainst at least a dozen of these parasites in a single fortnight, forthey are really stupid in essentials. One of the brotherhood always setsforth his infallible prophecies from a dark little public-house bar nearFountain Court. I have seen him, when I came off a journey, trying tosteady his hand at seven in the morning; his twisted, tortured fingerscould hardly hold the pencil, and he was fit for nothing but to sit inthe stinking dusk and soak whisky; but no doubt many of his dupesimagined that he sat in a palatial office and received myriads ofmessages from his ubiquitous corps of spies. He was a poor, diseased, cunning rogue; I found him amusing, but I do not think that his patronsalways saw the fun of him. 

And last there comes the broad outer circle, whereof the thought makesme sad. On that circle are scattered the men who should be England'sbackbone, but they are all suffering by reason of the evil germs waftedfrom the centre of contagion. Mr. Matthew Arnold often gave me a gooddeal of advice; I wish I could sometimes have given him a little. Ishould have told him that all his dainty jeers about middle-classdenseness were beside the mark; all the complacent mockery concerningthe deceased wife's sister and the rest, was of no use. If you see a manwalking right into a deadly quicksand, you do not content yourself withinforming him that a bit of fluff has stuck to his coat. Mr. Arnoldshould have gone among the lower middle-class a trifle more instead oftrusting to his superfine imagination, and then he might have got toknow whither our poor, stupid folks are tending. I have just ended anunpleasantly long spell which I passed among various centres wheremiddle-class leisure is spent, and I would not care to repeat theexperience for any money. Any given town will suit a competent observer, for I found scarcely any vital differences in passing from place toplace. It is tragical and disheartening to see scores of fine lads andmen, full of excellent faculties and latent goodness--and all under thespell of the dreary Circe of the Turf. I have been for a year, on andoff, among a large circle of fellows whom I really liked; and what wastheir staple talk? Nothing but betting. The paralysis at once ofintellect and of the sense of humour which attacks the man who beginsflirting with the gambling Enchantress struck me with a sense ofhelplessness. I like to see a race when it is possible, and I can alwayskeep a kind of picture of a horse in my eye. Well, I have known a veryenthusiastic gentleman say, "The Bard, sir, The Bard; the big horse, themighty _bay_. He'll smother 'em all. " I modestly said, "Do you think heis big enough?" "Big enough! a giant, sir! Mark my words, sir, you'llsee Bob Peck's colours in triumph on the bay. " I mildly said: "I thoughtThe Bard was a very little one when I saw him, and he didn't seem bay. He was rather like the colour you might get by shaking a flour-dredgerover a mulberry. Have you had a look at him?" As usual, I found that mylearned friend had never seen that horse nor any other; he wasneglecting his business, loafing with wastrels, and trying, in a smallway, to imitate the fine strategy of the Colonel and the Captain andOdysseus. Amongst these bewitched unfortunates, the life of the soulseems to die away. Once I said to a nice lad, "Do none of your set everread anything?" and he made answer, "I don't think any of them readvery much except the _Sportsman_. " That was true--very true and rathershocking. The _Sportsman_ is bright enough and good enough in its way, and I read it constantly; but to limit your literature to the_Sportsman_ alone--well, it must be cramping. But that is what our fineyoung men are mostly doing nowadays; the eager, intellectual life ofyoung Scotchmen and of the better sort of Englishmen is unknown: you maywait for a year and you will never hear a word of talk which isessentially above the intelligence of a hog; and a man of whom you arefond, purely because of his kindliness, may bore you in the deadliestmanner by drawling on by the hour about names and weights, the shiftingof the odds, and the changes of luck. The country fairly swarms withclubs where betting goes on all day, and sometimes all night: thedespicable dupes are drawn in one after another, and they fall intomanifold varieties of mischief; agonized parents pray for help;employers chafe at the carelessness and pre-occupation of theirservants; the dupes sink to ruin unpitied, and still the crowd stepsonward to the gulf of doom. To think that by merely setting certainnoble creatures to exhibit their speed and staunchness, we should haveended by establishing in our midst a veritable Inferno! Our faith, ourhonour, our manhood, our future as a nation, are being sacrificed, andall because Circe has read her spell over our best and most promisingsouls. And our legislators amuse themselves with recriminations! Wefoster a horde of bloodsuckers who rear their strength on our weaknessand our vices. Why should a drink-seller be kept in check by his havingto pay for a license, while the ruin-seller needs no license, and isnot even required to pay income tax. If licenses to bet were issued atvery heavy prices, and if a crushing fine were inflicted on any man whomade a book without holding a license, we might stamp out the villainoussmall fry who work in corners at all events. But Authority is supreme;the peer and the plutocrat go on unharmed, while the poor men who copyfollies which do not hurt the rich go right on to the death of the soul. 

_April, 1889. _

_DISCIPLINE_. 

Of the ancestor generally assigned to us by gentlemen who must beright--because they say so--we have very few records save the oddscratches found on bones and stones, and the remnants of extremelyfrugal meals eaten ages ago. We gather that the revered ancestor huntedlarge game with an audacity which must have pleased the Rider Haggard ofancient days; at any rate, some simple soul certainly scratched therecord of a famous mammoth-fight on a tusk, and we can now see a furiousbeast charging upon a pigmy who awaits the onset with a coolness quitesuperior to Mr. Quatermain's heroics. That Siberian hunter evidentlywent out and tried to make a bag for his own hand, and I have no doubtthat he carried out the principle of individualism until his lastmammoth reduced him to pulp. There is no indication of organization, and, although the men of the great deltas were able to indulge inoysters with a freedom which almost makes me regret the advance ofcivilization and the decay of Whitstable, yet I cannot trace one recordof an orderly supper-party. This shows how the heathen in his blindnessneglects his natural advantages. Long after the savage of the tundraspassed away we find vestiges of the family; and thenceforward disciplineadvances steadily, though with occasional relapses toward anarchy, untilwe see the ordered perfection which enables us to have West-end riotsand all-night sittings of the House of Commons without any troublewhatever. I do not care much to deal with the times when the members ofthe families elected each other promiscuously according to the successwith which they managed to club their neighbours--in fact, I wish tocome as soon as possible to the period when discipline, as understood byus, was gradually allowed to sway the lives of men, and when thesections of the race recognized tacitly the law of the strongest byappointing their best man as chief. At present we in England are passingthrough a dangerous and critical transition stage; a very strong partyinclines to abolish discipline of all sorts, the views of theContinental anarchists are slowly filtering into our great towns, and, as soon as such a move is safe, we shall have a large number of peoplewho will not scruple to cry out for free land, no taxation, freeeverything. We have heard so much about rights lately that some of usare beginning to question within ourselves as to what rights really are. If a gentleman, no matter how bookish or eloquent he may be, desires todo away with discipline altogether, I will give him credit for all thetongue-power which he happens to possess; but I must ask leave to thinkfor myself in old-fashioned grooves just a little longer. After all, asystem which--for civilized countries--has been growing gradually formore thousands of years than we dare compute cannot be entirely bad, nomatter what chance faults we may see. The generations that have flowninto the night may not have possessed complete wisdom, but they adaptedtheir social systems step by step to the needs of each new generation, and it requires very little logic to tell that they would not be likelyalways to cast out the good. The noisy orator who gets up and addressesa London crowd at midnight, yelling "Down with everything!" can hardlyknow what he means to destroy. We have come a long way since the man ofthe swamps hunted the hairy elephant and burrowed in caves; that verystructure in which the anarchists have taken to meeting represents sixtythousand years of slow progression from savagery towards seemliness andrefinement and wisdom; and therefore, bitterly as we may feel thesuffering of the poor orator, we say to him, "Wait a little, and talk tous. I do not touch politics--I loathe place-hunters and talkers as muchas you do; but you are speaking about reversing the course of the ages, and you cannot quite manage that. Let us forget the windy war of theplace-hunters, and speak reasonably and in a broad human way. "

I do not by any means hold with those very robust literary characterswho want to see the principle of stern Drill carried into the mostminute branchings of our complex society. (By-the-way, these robustgentry always put a capital "D" to the word "Drill, " as though theywould have their precious principle enthroned as an object of reverence, or even of worship. ) And I am inclined to think that not a few of themmust have experienced a severe attack of wrath when they found Carlylesuggesting that King Friedrich Wilhelm would have laid a stick acrossthe shoulders of literary men had he been able to have his own way. Theunfeeling old king used to go about thumping people in the streets witha big cudgel; and Carlyle rather implies that the world would not havebeen much the worse off if a stray literary man here and there couldhave been bludgeoned. The king flogged apple-women who did not knit andloafers who were unable to find work; and our historian apparentlyfancies that the dignity of kingship would have been rather enhancedthan otherwise had his hero broken the head of a poet or essayist. Thisis a clear case of a disciplinarian suffering from temporaryderangement. I really cannot quite stomach such heroic and sweepingwork. Carlyle, who was a Scotch peasant by birth, raised himself untilhe was deservedly regarded as the greatest man of his day, and he didthis by means of literature; yet he coolly sets an ignorant, cruel, crowned drill-serjeant high above the men of the literary calling. It isa little too much! Suppose that Carlyle had been flogged back to theplough-tail by some potentate when he first went to the University;should we not have heard a good deal of noise about the business sooneror later? Again, we find Mr. Froude writing somewhat placidly when hetells us about the men who were cut to pieces slowly in order that theiragony might be prolonged. The description of the dismemberment ofBallard and the rest, as given in the "Curiosities of Literature, " istoo gratuitously horrible to be read a second time; but Mr. Froude isconvinced that the whole affair was no more than a smart and salutarylesson given to some obtrusive Papists, and he commends the measuresadopted by Elizabeth's ministers to secure proper discipline. Similarlythe wholesale massacre of the people in the English northern counties isnot at all condemned by the judicious Mr. Freeman. The Conqueror left adesert where goodly homesteads and farms had flourished; but we are notany the less to regard him as a great statesman. I grow angry for atime with these bold writers, but I always end by smiling, for there issomething very feminine about such shrill expressions of admiration forforce. I like to figure to myself the troubles which would have ensuedhad Carlyle lived under the sway of his precious Friedrich. It was allvery well to sit in a comfortable house in pleasant Chelsea, and enlargeupon the beauties of drill and discipline; but, had the sage been castinto one of the noisome old German prisons, and kept there till he wasdying, merely because the kingly disciplinarian objected to a phrase ina pamphlet, we should have heard a very curious tune from our greathumourist. A man who groaned if his bed was ill-made or his baconill-fried would not quite have seen the beauty of being disciplined in afoul cellar among swarming vermin. 

The methods of certain other rulers may no doubt appear very fine to ourrobust scribblers, but I must always enter my own slight protest. Ivanthe Terrible was a really thorough-paced martinet who preserveddiscipline by marvellously powerful methods. He did not mind killing afew thousands of men at a time; and he was answerable for severalpyramids of skulls which remained long after his manly spirit had passedaway. He occasionally had prisoners flayed alive or impaled merely byway of instituting a change; and I think that some graphic Britishhistorian should at once give us a good life of this remarkable androyal man. The massacre of the revolted peasants would afford a fineopening to a stern rhetorician; he might lead off thus--"Dost thou thinkthat this king cared for noble sentiment? Thou poor creature who canstnot look on a man without turning green with feminine terror, thiswriter begs to inform you and all creatures of your sort that law is lawand discipline is discipline, and the divine origin of both isundeniable even in an age of advertised soap and interminable spouting. Ivan had no parliamentary eloquence under his control, but he had coldsteel and whips and racks and wheels, and he employed them all withvigour for the repression of undisciplined scoundrels. He butchered somethousands of innocent men! Ah, my sentimental friend, an anarchic mobcannot be ruled by sprinkling rose-water; the lash and the rope and thestern steel are needed to bring them to order! When my Noble One, with aglare in his lion eyes, watched the rebels being skinned alive, he wasperforming a truly beneficent function and preparing the way for thatvast, noble, and expansive Russia which we see to-day. The poorlong-eared mortals who were being skinned did not quite perceive thebeneficence at the time. How should they, unhappy long-eared creaturesthat they were? Oh, Dryasdust, does any long-eared mortal who is beingskinned by a true King--a Canning, Königlich, Able Man--does thelong-eared one amid his wriggles ever recognize the scope andtranscendent significance of Kingship? Answer me that, Dryasdust, orshut your eloquent mouth and go home to dinner. "

That is quite a proper style for a disciplinarian, but I have not gotinto the way of using it yet. For, to my limited intelligence, itappears that, if you once begin praising Friedrichs and Charlemagnes andIvans at the rate of a volume or so per massacre, you may as well go onto Cetewayo and Timour and Attila--not to mention Sulla and KoffeeKalkalli. I abhor the floggers and stranglers and butchers; and when Ispeak of discipline, I leave them out of count. My business is a littlemore practical, and I have no time to refute at length the vociferationsof persons who tell us that a man proves his capacity of kingship bycommanding the extinction or torture of vast numbers of human creatures. My thoughts are not bent on the bad deeds--the deeds of blood--wroughtout in bitterness and anguish either long ago or lately; I am thinkingof the immense European fabric which looks so solid outwardly, but whichis being permeated by the subtle forces of decay and disease. Disciplineis being outwardly preserved, but the destroying forces are creepinginto every weak place, and the men of our time may see strange things. Gradually a certain resolute body of men are teaching weaker people thateven self-discipline is unnecessary, and that self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control are only phrases used by interested peoplewho want to hold others in slavery. In our England it is plainer everyday that the character of the people is changing. Individual men areobedient, brave to the death, self-sacrificing, just as they always wereeven in our darkest times; but, none the less, it is too plain thatauthority ordained by law is dying, and that authority which rests onvague and fluctuating sentiment gains power with steady swiftness. Thejudges sit and retain all their old confidence; the magistrates sentencedaily their batches of submissive culprits; the policeman rules supremeover the streets--he scares the flower-girl, and warns the pensiveburglar with the staccato thunder of his monarchical foot. All seemsvery firm and orderly; and our largest crowds maintain their attitude ofharmless good-humour when no inflammatory talkers are there. But thehand has written, and true discipline cannot survive very much longerunless we rouse ourselves for a dead-lift effort. Take Parliament at thecrown of the social structure, and the School--the elementary school--atthe foundation, and we cannot feel reassured. All between the highestand the lowest is moderately sound; the best of the middle-classes aredecent, law-abiding, and steady; the young men are good fellows in away; the girls and young women are charming and virtuous. But theextremities are rotten, and sentiment has rotted them both. Parliamenthas become a hissing and a scorn. No man of any party in all broadEngland could be found to deny this, and many would say more. Thesentimentalist has said that loutishness shall not be curbed, that abawling ruffian who is silenced is martyred, that every man shall talkas he likes, and the veto of the Polish Assembly which enabled any oneman to ruin the work of a session is revived in sober, solid England. Soit is that all has gone to wreck; and an assembly once the noblest onearth is treated with unhidden contempt by the labourer in his field andthe mechanic at his bench. And all this has arisen from lack ofdiscipline. 

In the School--the lower-class school--things are much worse. The lowestof the low--the beings who should be kept in order by sharp, firmkindness and justice--have been taught to mock at order and justice andto treat kindness as a sign of weakness. The lads will all soon be readyto aid in governing the country. May the good powers defend us! What aset of governors! The son of the aristocrat is easily held in order, because he knows that any infraction of discipline will be surelypunished; the son and daughter of the decent artizan cause littletrouble to any teacher, because they know that their parents are on theside of order, and, even if the children are inclined to be rebellious, they dare not defy the united authority of parents and teacher. But thechild of the thief, the costermonger, the racecourse swindler, thethriftless labourer, is now practically emancipated through the actionof sentimental persons. He may go to school or not, as he likes; and, while the decent and orderly poor are harried by School Boardregulations, the rough of the slum snaps his fingers without fear at allregulations. If one of the bad boys from the "rookeries" does go toschool, he soon learns that he may take his own way. If he isfoul-mouthed, thievish, indecent, or insolent, and is promptly punished, he drags his teacher into a police-court, and the sentimentalists securea conviction. No one can tell the kind of anarchy that reigns in someparts of England excepting men who dwell amidst it; and, to make mattersworse, a set of men who may perhaps be charitably reckoned as insanehave framed a Parliamentary measure which may render any teacher whocontrols a young rough liable at once to one hundred pounds fine or sixmonths' imprisonment. This is no flight of inventive humour on our part;it is plain fact which may probably be seen in action as law beforetwelve months are over. 

Tyranny I abhor, cruelty I abhor--above all, cruelty to children. But weare threatened at one pole of the State-world with a tyranny offactioneers who cultivate rudeness and rowdyism as a science, while atthe other pole we are threatened with the uncontrolled tyranny of the"residuum. " We must return to our common sense; the middle-classes mustmake themselves heard, and we must teach the wild spirits who aim atwrecking all order that safety depends upon the submission of all to theexpressed will of the majority. Debate is free enough--too free--and noman is ever neglected ultimately if he has anything rational to say, sothat a minority has great power; but, when once a law is made, it mustbe obeyed. England is mainly sound; our movement is chiefly to the good;but this senseless pampering of loutishness in high and low places is abad symptom which tends to such consequences as can be understood onlyby those who have learned to know the secret places. If it is notchecked--if anarchists, young and old, are not taught that they mustobey or suffer--there is nothing ahead but tumult, heart-burning, andwreck. 

_March, 1889. _

_BAD COMPANY_. 

There has been much talk about the insensate youth who boasted that hehad squandered half-a-million on the Turf in a year. The marvellousjournalists who frequent betting resorts printed hundreds of paragraphsevery week explaining the wretched boy's extravagances--how he lost tenthousand pounds in one evening at cards; how he lost five thousand onone pigeon-shooting match; how he kept fifty racehorses in training; howhe made little presents of jewelry to all and sundry of his friends; howhe gaily lost fifteen thousand on a single race, though he might havesaved himself had he chosen; how he never would wear the same shirttwice. Dear boy! Every day those whose duty compels them to readnewspapers were forced to see such nauseous stuff, so that a lad'sprivate business became public property, and no secret was made ofmatters which were a subject for grief and scorn. Hundreds of grown menstood by and saw that boy lose a fortune in two hours, and some fortyparagraphs might have been collected in which the transaction wasdescribed in various terms as a gross swindle. A good shot was killingpigeons--gallant sport--and the wealthy schoolboy was betting. When asign was given by a bookmaker the shooting-man obeyed, and won or lostaccording to orders; and every man in the assembly knew what foul workwas being carried on. Did one man warn the victim? The next day thewhole country knew what had happened, and the names of the thieves weregiven in almost every sporting print; but the mischief was done, and thelookers-on contented themselves with cheap wrath. A few brief monthsflew by, and every day saw the usual flock of tributes to the mad boy'svanity; and now the end has come--a colossal fortune, amassed by half acentury's toil, has gone into the pockets of all sorts of knaves, andthe fatal _Gazette_ showed the end. The princely fortune that might havedone so much good in the world has gone to fatten the foulest flock ofpredatory birds that ever cumbered the earth. Where are the glibparasites who came to fawn on the poor dolt? Where are the swarms ofbegging dandies who clustered around him? Where are the persons who soldhim useless horses? Any one who has eyes can see that they point theirfingers and shrug. Another victim gone--that is all. 

And now our daily moralizers declare that bad company alone brought ourunhappy subject down. Yes, bad company! The boy might have grown up intobeneficent manhood; he might have helped to spread comfort and cultureand solid happiness among the people; but he fell into bad company, andhe is now pitied and scorned by the most despicable of the human race;and I observe that one of his humorous Press patrons advises him todrive a cab. Think of Gordon nobly spending his pittance among the poormudlarks; think of the good Lord Shaftesbury ekeing out his scanty meansamong the poor; think of all the gallant souls that made the most ofpoverty; and then think of that precious half-million gone to lightfresh fuel under the hotbeds of vice and villainy! Should I be wrong ifI said that the contrast rouses me to indignation and even horror? Andnow let us consider what bad company means. Paradoxical as it may seem, I do not by any means think that bad company is necessarily made up ofbad men. I say that any company is bad for a man if it does not tempthim to exert his higher faculties. It is as certain as death that abodily member which is left unused shrinks and becomes aborted. If onearm is hung for a long time in a sling, the muscles gradually fade untilthe skin clings closely round the bone. The wing of the huge penguinstill exists, but it is no bigger than that of a wren, and it is hiddenaway under the skin. The instances might be multiplied a thousandfold. In the same way then any mental faculty becomes atrophied if it isunused. Bad company is that which produces this atrophy of the finerpowers; and it is strange to see how soon the deadly process ofshrinkage sets in. The awful thing to think of is that the cramp mayinsensibly be set in action by a company which, as I have said, iscomposed of rather estimable people. Who can forget Lydgate in"Middlemarch"? There is a type drawn by a woman of transcendent genius;and the type represents only too many human wrecks. Lydgate was throwninto a respectable provincial society; he was mastered by high ambition, he possessed great powers, and he felt as though he could move themocking solidities of the world. Watch the evolution of his longhistory; to me it is truly awful in spite of its gleams of brightness. The powerful young doctor, equipped in frock-coat and modern hat, playsa part in a tragedy which is as moving as any ever imagined by abrooding, sombre Greek. As you read the book and watch the steady, inexorable decline of the strong man, you feel minded to cry out forsome one to save him--he is alive to you, and you want to call out andwarn him. When the bitter end comes, you cannot sneer as Lydgatedoes--you can hardly keep back the tears. And what is it all about? Itsimply comes to this, that a good strong man falls into the bad companyof a number of fairly good but dull people, and the result is a tragedy. Rosamund Vincy is a pattern of propriety; Mrs. Vincy is a fat, kindlysoul; Mr. Vincy is a blustering good-natured middle-class man. There isno particular harm among the whole set, yet they contrive to ruin agreat man; they lower him from a great career, and convert him into amere prosperous gout-doctor. Every high aspiration of the man dies away. His wife is essentially a commonplace pretty being, and she cannotunderstand the great heart and brain that are sacrificed to her; so thegenius is forced to break his heart about furniture and carpets andrespectability, while the prim pretty young woman who causes the ghastlydeath of a soul goes on fancying herself a model of good sense andvirtue and all the rest. "Of course I should like you to makediscoveries, " she says; but she only shudders at the microscopic work. When the financial catastrophe comes, she has the great soul at hermercy, and she stabs him--stabs him through and through--while he is toonoble and tender to make reply. Ah, it is pitiful! Lydgate is like toomany others who are stifling in the mud of respectable dullness. Thefate of those men proves what we have asserted, that bad company is thatwhich does not permit the healthful and fruitful development of a soul. Take the case of a brilliant young man who leaves the University anddives into the great whirlpool of London. Perhaps he goes to the Bar, and earns money meantime by writing for the Press. The young fellows whoswarm in the London centres--that is, the higher centres--are gentlemen, polished in manner and strict as to the code of honour, save perhaps asregards tradesmen's bills; no coarse word or accent escapes them, andthere is something attractive about their merry stoicism. But they makebad company for a young and high-souled man, and you may see your youngenthusiast, after a year of town-life, converted into a cynic who triesto make game of everything. He talks lightly of women, because that isconsidered as showing a spirit of superiority; he is humorous regardingthe state of his head on the morning after a late supper; he can giveyou slangy little details about any one and every one whom you may meetat a theatre or any other public place; he is somewhat proud when somebellowing, foul-mouthed bookmaker smiles suavely and inquires, "Doinganything to-day, sir?" Mark you, he is still a charming young fellow;but the bloom has gone from his character. He has been in bad company. 

Let it be remembered that bad company may be pleasant at first; and Ican easily give the reason for that, although the process of thinkingout the problem is a little complicated. The natural tendency of ourlower nature is toward idleness; our higher nature drives us to work. But no man ever attained the habit of work without an effort. If oncethat effort is slackened, then the lower nature gains sway by degreesand idleness creeps in. Idleness is the beginning of almost every formof ill, and the idlest man dashes down the steep to ruin either of bodyor soul, perhaps of both. Now the best of us--until our habits areformed--find something seductive in the notion of idleness; and it ismost marvellous to observe how strongly we are apt to be drawn by afascinating idle man. By-the-way, no one would accuse the residentCambridge professors of being slothful, yet one brilliant idle man ofgenius said, "When I go to Cambridge, I affect them all with a murrainof idleness. I should paralyze the work of the place if I wereresident. " To return--it appears that the best of men, especially ofyouthful men, feel the subtle charm of an invitation to laziness. Theman who says, "It's a sin to be indoors to-day; let us row up to thebackwater and try a smoke among the willows;" or the one who says, "Never mind mathematics to-night; come and have a talk with me, " is muchmore pleasing than the stern moralist. Well, it happens that the mostdangerous species of bad company is the species Idler. Look round overthe ranks of the hurtful creatures who spoil the State, corrupt and sapthe better nature of young men, and disgrace the name of our race. Whatare they all but idlers pure and simple? Idleness, idleness, thetap-root of misery, sin, villainy! Note the gambler at Monte Carlo, watching with tense but impassive face as the red and the black take theadvantage by turns--he is an idler. The roaring bookmaker whocontaminates the air with his cries, and who grows wealthy on the spoilof fools--he is an idler. The silly beings who crowd into thebetting-shops and lounge till morning in the hot air; the stout floridperson who passes from bar to bar in a commercial town; the greasyscoundrel who congregates with his mates at street corners; theunspeakable dogs who prowl at night in London and snatch their prey inlonely thoroughfares; the "jolly" gangs of young men who play cards tilldawn in provincial club-rooms; even the slouching poacher who passes hisafternoons in humorous converse at the ale-house--they are all idlers, and they all form bad company for anybody who comes within range oftheir influences. We are nearing the point of our demonstration. Theyouth is at first attracted by the charm of mere laziness, but he doesnot quite know it. Look at the case of the lad who goes fresh fromschool to the city, and starts life at seventeen years of age. We willsay that he lives in a suburb of some great town. At first he returnshome at night full of quite admirable resolves; he intends to improvehimself and advance himself in the world. But on one fine evening acompanion suggests a stroll, and it happens that billiards aresuggested. Away goes the youngster into that flash atmosphere throughwhich sharp, prematurely-aged features loom so curiously; he hears thelow hum, he sees the intense eagerness and suspense of the strikers, andhe learns to like the place. After a while he is found there nightly;his general style is low, his talk is that of the music-hall--theineffable flash air has taken the place of his natural repose. He oughtto be studying as many languages as possible, he ought to be watchingthe markets abroad, or he should be reading the latest science if he isengaged in practical work. But no--he is in bad company, and we find himat eight-and-twenty a disappointed, semi-competent man who grumblesvery much about the Germans. 

If we go to the lower classes, we observe the same set of phenomena. Ayoung workman is chatting with his friends in a public-house on Saturdaynight; he rises to go at half-past nine, but his comrades pull him down. "Make it eleven o'clock, " they say. He drinks fast in the last hour, andis then so exhilarated that he probably conveys a supply of beer home. On Sunday morning he feels muddled, heavy, a little troubled withnausea; his mates hail him joyously, and then the company wait withanxiety until the public-houses are open; then the dry throats are easedand the low spirits raised, and the game goes on till three. In theafternoon the young workman sleeps, and when he wakes up he is sodepressed that he goes out and meets his mates again. Once more he ispersuaded to exceed, but he reckons on having a good long sleep. Withaching head and fevered hands he makes a wild rush next morning, andarrives at the shop only to find himself shut out. He is horrified anddoleful, when up come a few of his friends. They laugh the matter off. "It's only a quarter lost! There's time for a pint before we go in. " Sothe drinking is begun again, and the men have none of the delicacy andsteadiness of hand that are needed. Is it not an old story? The loss of"quarters, " half-days, and days goes on; then Saint Monday comes to beobserved; then the spoiled young man and his merry crew begin to drawvery short wages on Saturdays; then the foreman begins to look askanceas the blinking uneasy laggard enters; and last comes the fatal quietspeech, "You won't be required on Monday. " Bad company! As for theheartbreaking cases of young men who go up to the Universities full ofbright hope and equipped at all points splendidly, they are almost toopitiful. Very often the lads who have done so well that subscriptionsare raised for them are the ones who go wrong soonest. A smart studentwins a scholarship or two, and his parents or relatives make a dead-lifteffort to scrape money so that the clever fellow may go well through hiscourse. At the end of a year the youth fails to present any trophies ofdistinction; he comes home as a lounger; this is "slow" and the other is"slow, " and the old folk are treated with easy contempt. Still there ishope--so very brilliant a young gentleman must succeed in the end. Butthe brilliant one has taken up with rich young cads who affectbull-terriers and boxing-gloves; he is not averse from a street-brawl inthe foggy November days; he can take his part in questionable choruses;he yells on the tow-path or in the pit of the theatre, and he is oftenshaky in the morning after a dose of very bad wine. All the idleness androwdyism do not matter to Brown and Tomkins and the rest of the raffishcompany, for they only read for the pass degree or take the poll; butthe fortunes--almost the lives--of many folk depend on our younghopeful's securing his Class, and yet he fritters away time among badtalk, bad habits, bad drink, and bad tobacco. Then come rumours ofbills, then the crash, and the brilliant youth goes down, while Brownand Tomkins and all the rowdies say, "What a fool he was to try goingour pace!" Bad company!

I should therefore say to any youth--"Always be doing something--badcompany never do anything; and thus, if you are resolved to be alwaysdoing something useful, it follows that you will not be among the badcompany. " This seems to me to be conclusive; and many a broken heart andbroken life might have been kept sound if inexperienced youths were onlytaught thus much continually. 

_October, 1888. _

_GOOD COMPANY_. 

Let it be understood that I do not intend to speak very much about theexcellent people who are kind enough to label themselves as "Society, "for I have had quite enough experience of them at one time and another, and my impressions are not of a peculiarly reverential kind. "Company"among the set who regard themselves as the cream of England's--andconsequently of the world's--population is something so laborious, souseless, so exhausting that I cannot imagine any really rational personattending a "function" (that is the proper name) if Providence had leftopen the remotest chance of running away; at any rate, the rationalperson would not endure more than one experience. For, when theclear-seeing outsider looks into "Society, " and studies the members whomake up the little clique, he is smitten with thoughts that lie too deepfor tears--or laughter. A perfectly fresh mind, when brought to bear onthe "Society" phenomenon, asks, "What are these people? What have theydone? What are they particularly fitted for? Is there anything nobleabout them? Is their conversation at all charming? Are any of themreally happy?" And to all of these queries the most disappointinganswers must be returned. Take the men. Here is a marquis who is aKnight of the Garter. He has held offices in several Cabinets; he cancontrol the votes spread over a very large slice of a county, and hisincome amounts to some trifle like one hundred and eighty thousandpounds per year. We may surely expect something of the superbaristocratic grace here, and surely a chance word of wit may drop from aman who has been in the most influential of European assemblies! Alas!The potentate crosses his hand over his comfortable stomach, and hiscontributions to the entertainment of the evening amount to occasionalejaculations of "Ugh! Ugh!" "Hah!" "Hey!" "Exactly!" "Ugh! Ugh!" In thehigher spheres of intellect and breeding I have no doubt but that "Ugh!Ugh!" "Hah!" "Hey!" may have some profound significance; but, to say theleast, it is not obviously weighty. The marchioness is sweet in manner, grave, reposeful, and with a flash of wit at disposal--not too obviouswit--that would offend against the canon which ordains restraint; butshe might, one thinks, become tiresome in an hour. No one could say thather manners were anything but absolutely simple, yet the very simplicityis so obviously maintained as a sort of gymnastic effort that it tiresus only to study it. Then here is a viscount, graceful, well-set, easyin his pose, talking with a deep voice, and lisping to the faintestdegree. He has owned some horses, caused some scandals, waltzed somewaltzes, and eaten a very large number of good dinners: he has beenadmired by many, hated by many, threatened by many, and he would not beadmitted to any refined middle-class home; yet here he is in hiselement, and no one would think of questioning his presence. He neveruttered a really wise or helpful word in his life, he never did anythingsave pamper himself--his precious self--and yet he is in "Society, " andreckoned as rather an authority too! These are only types, but, if yourun through them all, you must discover that only the sweet and splendidgirls who have not had time to be spoilt and soured are worth thinkingabout. If there is dancing, it is of course carried out with perfectgrace and composure; if there is merely an assembly, every one looks aswell as possible, and every one stares at every one else with an air asindifferent as possible. But the child of nature asks in wildbewilderment, "Where on earth does the human companionship come in?"Young girls are nowadays beginning to expect bright talk from theirpartners, and the ladies have a singularly pretty way of saying the mostbiting things in a smooth and unconcerned fashion when they find a duncebeginning to talk platitudes or to patronize his partner; but the middlegeneration are unspeakably inane; and the worst is that they regardtheir inanity as a decided sign of distinction. A grave man who adds asense of humour to his gravity may find a sort of melancholyentertainment if he listens to a pair of thorough-paced "Society"gentry. He will learn that you do not go to a "function" to pleaseothers or to be pleased yourself; you must not be witty--that is badform; you must not be quietly in earnest--that is left to literarypeople; you must not speak plain, direct truth even in the mostrestrained fashion--that is to render yourself liable to be classifiedas a savage. No. You go to a "function" in order, firstly, to see whoelse is there; secondly, to let others see you; thirdly, to be able tosay to absentees that you saw they were not there; fourthly, to say, with a liquid roll on the "ll, " "She's looking remarkably wellll. "These are the great and glorious duties of the Society person. A littlefunny creature was once talking to a writer of some distinction. Thelittle funny man would have been like a footman if he had been eightinches taller, for his manners savoured of the pantry. As it was, hesucceeded in resembling a somewhat diminutive valet who had learnt hisstyle and accent from a cook. The writer, out of common politeness, spoke of some ordinary topic, and the valet observed with honest pride, "_We_ don't talk about that sort of thing. " The writer smiled grimlyfrom under his jutting brows, and he repeated that valet's terrificrepartee for many days. The actual talk which goes on runs in this way, "Quite charming weather!" "Yes, very. " "I didn't see you at Lady Blank'son Tuesday?" "No; we could hardly arrange to suit times at all. " "Shewas looking uncommonly well. The new North-Country girl has come out. ""So I've heard. " "Going to Goodwood?" "Yes. We take Brighton this timewith the Sendalls. " And so on. It dribbles for the regulation time, and, after a sufficient period of mortal endurance, the crowd disperse, andproceed to scandalize each other or to carry news elsewhere about theladies who were looking "remarkably well-l-l. "

As for the dreadful crushes, what can one say? The absurd rooms wheresix hundred people try to move about in a space meant for three hundred;the staircase a Black-Hole tempered by flowers; the tired smile of thehostess; the set simper of long-recked shaven young men; the patient, tortured hypocrisy of hustled and heated ladies; the babble of scrappynothings; the envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness; themagnificence turned into meanness; the lack of all feeling of home, andthe discontented dispersal of ungrateful people--are these the things tooccupy life? Are these the things to interest any manly man who is freeto act for himself? Hardly. 

But our "company" refers to the meeting of human souls and hearts, andnot to the meeting of a fortuitous concourse of male and femaleevening-dresses. I have now before me a very brilliant published accountof a reception at George Eliot's house. Those assemblies were company, and company of the finest kind. The exaggerated fuss made by the sibyl'shusband in order to secure silence while she was speaking sometimesbecame a little embarrassing when men of a humorous turn were there; butnevertheless the best in England met in that drawing-room, and all thatwas highest in literature, science, and art was talked over in gracefulfashion. The sniffing drawl of Society and the impudent affectation ofcynicism were not to be found; and grave men and women--some of themmournful enough, it may be--agreed to make the useful hours fleet tosome profit. No man or woman in England--or in Europe for thatmatter--was unwilling to enter that modest but brilliant assemblage, andI wish some one could have taken minute notes, though that of coursewould have been too entirely shocking. When I think of that littledeep-voiced lady gathering the choicest spirits of her day together, andkeeping so many notes in tuneful chime, I hardly know whether to usesuperlatives of admiration about her or superlatives of contempt aboutthe fribbles who crush each other on staircases and babble like parrotsin an aviary. If we cast back a little, we have another example of analmost perfect company. People have talked of Johnson, Burke, Boswell, Beauclerc, and Goldsmith until the subject is growing a thought stale;but, unless a reader takes Boswell and reads the book attentively afterhe has come to maturity, he can hardly imagine how fine was thatadmirable company. They were men of high aims and strong sense; theytalked at their very best, and they talked because they wished to attainclear views of life and fate. The old gladiator sometimes argued forvictory, but that was only in moments of whim, and he was always readyto acknowledge when he was in error. Those men may sometimes have drunktoo much wine; they may have spoken platitudes on occasion; but theywere good company for each other, and the hearty, manly friendship whichall but poor Goldsmith and Boswell felt for every one else was certainlyexcellent. Assemblies like the Club are impossible nowadays; but surelywe might find some modification suited even to our gigantic intellectsand our exaggerated cleverness! I have defined bad company; I may definegood company as that social intercourse which tends to bring out allthat is best in man. I have said my bitter word about the artificialsociety of the capital; but I never forget the lovely quiet circleswhich meet in places far away from the blare of the city. In especial Imay refer to the beautiful family assemblies which are almostself-centred. The girls are all at home, but the boys are scattered. Harry writes from India, with all sorts of gossip from Simla, and manylongings for home; a neighbour calls, and the Indian letter gives matterfor pleasant half-melancholy chat. Then the quiet evening passes withbooks and placid casual talk; the nerves from the family stretch perhapsall over the world, but all the threads converge on one centre. Thislife is led in many places, and the folk who so live are good companyamong themselves, and good company for all who meet them. 

The very thought of the men who are usually described in set slangphrases is enough to arouse a shudder. The loud wit who cracks hisprepared witticisms either at the head of a tavern-table or in privatesociety is a mere horror. The tavern men of the commercial travellerclass are very bad, for their mirth is prepared; their jokes have runthe length and breadth of the United Kingdom, and they are not alwaysprepared to sacrifice the privilege of being coarse which used to beregarded as the joker's prerogative. In moving about the world I havealways found that the society of the great commercial room set up forbeing jolly, but I could never exactly perceive where the jollityentered. Noise, sham gentility, the cackle of false laughter were there;but the strong, sincere cheerfulness of friendly men--never! Yet thetavern humourist, or even the club joker, is as nothing compared withthe true professional wit. Who can remember that story about TheodoreHook and the orange? Hook wrote a note to the hostess, saying, "Ask meat dinner if I will venture on an orange. " The lady did so, and then thebrilliant wit promptly made answer, "I'm afraid I should tumble off. " Awhole volume of biography is implied in that one gruesome and vulgaranecdote. In truth, the professional wit is no company at all; he hasthe effect of a performing monkey suddenly planted on the table, andhis efforts are usually quite on a level with the monkey's. 

Among the higher Bohemian sets--Bohemian they call themselves, as ifthere ever was a Bohemian with five hundred a year!--good company iscommon. I may say, with fear and much trembling, that the man ofletters, the man who can name you all the Restoration comedies or tellyou the styles of the contemporaries of Alan Chartier is a most terriblebeing, and I should risk sharks rather than remain with him on adesolate island; but a mixed set of artists, musicians, verse-makers, novelists, critics--yea, even critics--contrive usually to make anunusually pleasant company. They are all so clever that the professionalwit dares not raise his voice lest some wielder of the bludgeon shouldsmite him; no long-winded talk is allowed, and, though a bore may oncebe admitted to the company, he certainly will never be admitted morethan once. The talk ranges loosely from point to point, and yet acertain sequence is always observed; the men are freed from conventions;they like each other and know each other's measure pretty well; so thehours fly in merry fashion, and the brethren who carried on thesymposium go away well pleased with themselves and with each other. There can be no good company where the capacity for general agreement iscarried too far in any quarter. Unity of aim, difference ofopinion--those are the elements that make men's conversations valuable. Last of all, I must declare that there can be no good company unlesswomen are present. The artists and authors and the rest are all verywell in their way, but the dexterous unseen touch of the lady isneeded; and no man can reckon himself fit to converse at all unless hehas been taught by women's care, and gently reproved by women'simpalpable skill. Young men of our day are beginning to think itchildish or tedious to mix much in women's society; the consequence isthat, though many of them go a long way toward being gentlemen, too manyare the merest cubs that ever exhibited pure loutishness inconversation. The subtle blending, the light give-and-take of chatbetween men and women is the true training which makes men graceful oftongue, kindly in the use of phrases, and, I believe, pure in heart. 

_October, 1888. _

_GOING A-WALKING. _

One of the most pestilent of all social nuisances is the athlete whomust be eternally performing "feats, " and then talking about them. Hegoes to the Alps, and, instead of looking at the riot of sunset colouror the immortal calm of the slumbering peaks, he attempts performanceswhich might be amusing in a circus of unlimited size, but which are notin the least interesting when brought off on the mighty declivities ofthe great hills. One of these gentlemen takes up a quarter of a volumein telling us how he first of all climbed up a terrible peak, then fellbackwards and slid down a slope of eight hundred feet, cutting his headto the bone, and losing enough blood to make him feel faint The samegentleman had seen two of his companions fly into eternity down the grimsides of the same mountain; but he must needs climb to the top, not inorder to serve any scientific purpose, or even to secure a strikingview, but merely to say he had been there. After an hour on the summitof the enormous mass of stone, he came down; and I should have liked toask him what he reckoned to be the net profit accruing to him for hislittle exploit. Wise men do not want to clamber up immense and dangerousAlps; there is a kind of heroic lunacy about the business, but it is notuseful, and it certainly is not inviting. If a thoughtful man goes evenin winter among the mountains, their vast repose sinks on his soul; hislove of them never slackens, and he returns again and again to hishaunts until time has stiffened his joints and dulled his eyes, and heprepares to go down into the dust of death. But the wise man has asalutary dislike of break-neck situations; he cannot let his sweet ormelancholy fancies free while he is hanging on for dear life to someinhospitable crag, so he prefers a little moderate exercise of themuscles, and a good deal of placid gazing on scenes that ennoble histhoughts and make his imagination more lofty. One of themountain-climbing enthusiasts could not contrive to break his neck inEurope, so, with a gallantry worthy of a better cause, he went to SouthAmerica and scaled Chimborazo. He could not quite break his neck even inthe Andes, but he no doubt turned many athletic friends yellow withenvy. Yet another went to the Caucasus, and found so many charming andalmost deadly perils there that he wants numbers of people to go out andshare his raptures. 

The same barren competitive spirit breaks out in other directions. Menwill run across the North Sea in a five-ton boat, though there arescores of big and comfortable steamers to carry them: they are crampedin their tiny craft; they can get no exercise; their limbs are pained;they undergo a few days of cruel privation--and all in order that theymay tell how they bore a drenching in a cockboat. On the roads in ourown England we see the same disposition made manifest. The bicyclisttears along with his head low and his eyes fixed just ahead of the tyreof his front wheel; he does not enjoy the lovely panorama that flitspast him, he has no definite thought, he only wants to cover so manymiles before dark; save for the fresh air that will whistle past him, thrilling his blood, he might as well be rolling round on a cinder trackin some running-ground. But the walker--the long-distance walker--is themost trying of all to the average leisurely and meditative citizen. Hefits himself out with elaborate boots and ribbed stockings; he carriesresin and other medicaments for use in case his feet should give way;his knapsack is unspeakably stylish, and he posts off like a spiritedthoroughbred running a trial. His one thought is of distances; he gloatsover a milestone which informs him that he is going well up to five anda half miles per hour, and he fills up his evening by giving spiritedbut somewhat trying accounts of the pace at which he did each stage ofhis pilgrimage. In the early morning he is astir, not because he likesto see the diamond dew on the lovely trees or hear the chant of thebirds as they sing of love and thanksgiving--he wants to make a goodstart, so that he may devour even more of the way than he did the daybefore. In any one lane that he passes through there are scores ofsights that offer a harvest to the quiet eye; but our insatiable athletedoes not want to see anything in particular until the sight of hisevening steak fills him with rapture. If the most patient and urbane ofmen were shut up with one of these tremendous fellows during a storm ofrain, he would pray for deliverance before a couple of hours went by;for the competitive athlete's intelligence seems to settle in hiscalves, and he refers to his legs for all topics which he kindlyconceives to possess human interest. Of course the swift walker maybecome a useful citizen should we ever have war; he will display thesame qualities that were shown by the sturdy Bavarians andBrandenburgers who bore those terrible marches in 1870 and sweptMacMahon into a deadly trap by sheer endurance and speed of foot; but heis not the ideal companion. 

Persons who are wise proceed on a different plan; they wish to make themost of every moment, and, while they value exercise, they like to makethe quickened currents of their blood feed a receptive and perhapssomewhat epicurean brain. To the judicious man our lovely countryaffords a veritable harvest of delights--and the delights can be gainedwith very little trouble. I let the swift muscular men hurry away to theTyrol or the Caucasus or the Rocky Mountains, or whithersoever else theycare to go, and I turn to our own windy seashore or quiet lanes orflushed purple moorlands. I do not much care for the babble of talk atmy elbow; but one good companion who has cultivated the art of keepingsilent is a boon. Suppose that you follow me on a roundabout journey. Say we run northward in the train and resolve to work to the south onfoot; we start by the sea, and foot it on some fine gaudy morning overthe springy links where the grass grows gaily and the steel-colouredbent-grass gleams like the bayonets of some vast host. The fresh windsings from the sea and flies through the lungs and into the pores withan exhilarating effect like that of wine; the waves dance shoreward, glittering as if diamonds were being pelted down from the blue archabove; the sea-swallows sweep over the bubbling crests like flights ofsilver arrows. It is very joyous. You have set off early, of course, andthe rabbits have not yet turned into their holes for their day-longsnooze. Watch quietly, and you may perhaps see how they make their fairyrings on the grass. One frolicsome brown rogue whisks up his white tail, and begins careering round and round; another is fired by emulation andjoins; another and another follow, and soon there is a flying ring ofmerry little creatures who seem quite demented with the very pleasure ofliving. One bounds into the air with a comic curvet, and comes down witha thud; the others copy him, and there is a wild maze of coiling bodiesand gleaming white tails. But let the treacherous wind carry the scentof you down on the little rascals and you will see a change. An oldfellow sits up like a kangaroo for an instant, looking extremely wiseand vigilant; he drops and kicks the ground with a sharp thud that canbe heard a long way off; the terror of man asserts itself in the midstof that pure, peaceful beauty, and the whole flock dart off in agitatedfashion till they reach their holes; then they seem to look round with asarcastic air, for they know that you could not even raise a gun to yourshoulder in time to catch one of them before he made his lightning diveinto the darksome depths of the sand-hill. How strange it is thatmeditative men like to watch the ways of wild things! White of Selbornedid not care much for killing anything in particular; he enjoyed himselfin a beautiful way for years, merely because he had learned to love thepretty creatures of fen and meadow and woodland. Mr. Russell Lowell canspend a happy day in watching through his glass the habits of the birdsthat haunt his great garden; he does not want a gun; he only cares toobserve the instincts which God has implanted in the harmless childrenof the air. On our walking tour we have hundreds of chances to see themystic mode of life pursued by the creatures that swarm even in ourcrowded England; and if we use our eyes we may see a score of genuinemiracles every day. 

On the pleasant "links" there is always something new to draw the eye. Out on the flashing sea a ship rolls bravely away to north or south; hersails are snowy in certain lights, and then in an instant she stands upin raiment of sooty black. You may make up a story about her if you arefanciful. Perhaps she is trailing her way into the deep quiet harbourwhich you have just left, and the women are waiting until the roughbearded fellows come lumbering up the quay. Perhaps she was careeringover the rushing mountain waves to the southward of the desolate Hornonly a few weeks ago, and the men were counting the days wearily, whilethe lasses and wives at home sighed as the wind scourged the sea in thedreary night and set all the rocks thundering with the charges of madsurges. A little indulgence of the fancy does you no harm even thoughyou may be all wrong; very likely the skipper of the glad-looking vesselis tipsy, maybe he has just been rope's-ending his cabin-boy or engagingin some equally unpoetic pursuit; still no one is harmed by idealizing alittle, and so, by your leave, we will not alter our crude romance ofthe sailor-men. Meantime, as you go on framing poetic fancies, there isa school of other poets up above you, and they are composing theirfantasies at a pretty rate. The modest brown lark sits quietly amid thesheltering grass, and will hardly stir, no matter how near her you maygo; but her mate, the glorious singer, is far away up toward the sun, and he shouts in his joyous ecstasy until the heaven is full of hisexquisite joyance. Imagine how he puts his heart into his carol! He isat least a mile above you, and you can hear him over a radius of half amile, measured from the place where he will drop. The little poets chantone against the other, and yet there is no discord, for the magic ofdistance seems to harmonize song with song, and the tumult soothesinstead of exciting you. Who is the poet who talks of "drawing a threadof honey through your heart"? It is a quaint, conceited phrase, and yetsomehow it gives with absurd felicity some idea of the lark's song. Theymassacre these innocents of the holy choir by thousands, and put them inpuddings for Cockneys to eat. The mere memory of one of those beatifiedmornings makes you want to take the blood of the first poulterer whomyou find exposing a piteous string of the exquisite darlings. But wemust not think of blood, or taxes, or German bands, or politicalspeeches, or any other abomination, for our walk takes us throughflowery regions of peace. 

Your muscles tighten rarely as you stump on over the elastic herbage;two miles an hour is quite enough for your modest desires, especially asyou know you can quicken to four or five whenever you choose. As the daywears on, the glorious open-air confusion takes possession of yoursenses, your pulses beat with spirit, and you pass amid floating visionsof keen colour, soft greenery, comforting shades. The corn rustles onthe margin where the sandy soil ceases; the sleepy farmhouses seem to'give you a lazy greeting, and the figures of the labourers are likenatural features of the landscape. Everything appears friendly; it maybe that the feeling of kindness and security arises from your physicalwell-being, but it is there all the same, and what can you do more thanenjoy? Perhaps in the midst of your confused happiness your mind beginsacting on its own account, and quite disregards its humble companion, the body. Xavier de Maistre's mind always did so, and left what Xaviercalled the poor _bête_ of a carcass to take care of itself; and all ofus have to experience this double existence at times. Then you find theadvantages of knowing a great deal of poetry. I would not give a rushfor a man who merely pores over his poets in order to make notes orcomments on them; you ought to have them as beloved companions to benear you night and day, to take up the parable when your own independentthought is hazy with delight or even with sorrow. As you tramp along thewhistling stretches amid the blaze of the ragworts and the tenderpassing glances of the wild veronica, you can take in all theirloveliness with the eye, while the brain goes on adding to your pleasureby recalling the music of the poets. Perhaps you fall into step with thequiver and beat of our British Homer's rushing rhymes, and Marmionthunders over the brown hills of the Border, or Clara lingers wheremingles war's rattle with groans of the dying. Perhaps the wilful brainpersists in crooning over the "Belle Dame Sans Merci;" your moodflutters and changes with every minute, and you derive equalsatisfaction from the organ-roll of Milton or the silvery flageolettones of Thomas Moore. If culture consists in learning the grammar anetymologies of a poet's song, then no cultured man will ever get anypleasure from poetry while he is on a walking tour; but, if you absorbyour poets into your being, you have spells of rare and unexpecteddelight. 

The halt is always pleasant. On our sand-hills the brackens grow to animmense height, and, if you lie down among them, you are surrounded by apale green gleam, as if you had dived beneath some lucent sun-smittenwater. The ground-lark sways on a frond above you; the stonechat lightsfor an instant, utters his cracking cry, and is off with a whisk; youhave fair, quiet, and sweet rest, and you start up ready to jog alongagain. You come to a slow clear stream that winds seaward, lilting toitself in low whispered cadences. Over some broad shallow pool pavenwith brown stones the little trout fly hither and thither, making a weftand woof of dark streaks as they travel; the minnows poise themselves, and shiver and dart convulsively; the leisurely eel undulates along, andperhaps gives you a glint of his wicked eye; you begin to understand theangler's fascination, for the most restive of men might be lulled by thelight moan of that wimpling current. Cruel? Alas, yes!

 That quaint old cruel coxcomb in his gullet Should have a hook, with a small trout to pull it. 

That was the little punishment which Byron devised for Izaak Walton. Butof course, if you once begin to be supersensitive about cruelty, youfind your way blocked at every cross-road of life, and existence ceasesto be worth having. 

On, as the sun slopes, and his beams fall slant over solemn mounds ofcool gray hue and woody fields all pranked in gold. Look to the north, and you see the far-away hills in their sunset livery of white andpurple and rose. On the clear summits the snow sometimes lies; and, asthe royal orb sinks, you will see the snow blush for a minute withthrobbing carnation tints that shift and faint off slowly into coldpallid green. The heart is too full of ecstasy to allow even of thought. You live--that is all! You may continue your wanderings among all themystic sounds and sights of the night, but it is better to rest long andwell when you can. Let the village innkeeper put down for you thecoarsest fare that can be conceived, and you will be content; for, as amatter of fact, any food and drink appeal gratefully to the palate of aman who has been inhaling the raciest air at every pore for eight or tenhours. If the fare does not happen to be coarse--if, for example, thelandlord has a dish of trout--so much the better; you do not envy anycrowned personage in Christendom or elsewhere. And how much does yourday of Paradise cost you? At the utmost, half-a-crown. Had you been awayon the Rhine or in Switzerland or in some German home of brigands, youwould have been bleeding at the purse all day, while in our ownmatchless land you have had merriment, wild nature, air that is like theessence of life--and all for thirty pence. When night falls heavily, youpass your last hour in listening to the under-song of the sea and thewhisper of the roaming winds among the grass. Then, if you are wise andgrateful, you thank the Giver of all, and go to sleep. 

In the jolly greenwoods of the Midlands you may have enjoyment ofanother kind. Some men prefer the sleepy settled villages, the sweepingfens with their bickering windmills, the hush and placidity of oldmarket-towns that brood under the looming majesty of the castle. Thetruth is that you cannot go anywhere in England outside of the blightedhideous manufacturing districts without finding beauty and peace. In thefirst instance you seek health and physical well-being--that goeswithout saying; but the walking epicure must also have dainty thoughts, full banquets of the mind, quiet hours wherein resolutions may be framedin solitude and left in the soul to ripen. When the epicure returns tothe din of towns, he has a safeguard in his own breast which tends tokeep him alike from folly and melancholy. Furthermore, as he passes thereeking dens where human beings crowd who never see flower or tree, hefeels all churlishness depart from him, and he is ready to pity and helphis less happy brethren. After he has settled to labour again, his hoursof rest are made calmly contented by the chance visions that come to himand show him the blown sea, the rustling whiteness of fretted surges, the painted meadows, and the solemn colours of the dying day. And allthis talk we have got only through letting our minds go wandering awayon the subject of going a-walking. I have always said that the sweetestpleasures are almost costless. The placid "look of the bay mare" tookall the silliness out of Walt Whitman; and there is more in his queerphrase than meets the eye. One word. When you go a-walking, do not tryto be obtrusively merry. Meet a group of tramping gentlemen who havebeen beer-drinking at noon; they are surprisingly vivacious until thegaze of the sun becomes importunate; they even sing as they go, andtheir hearty laughter resounds far and near. See them in the afternoon, and ask where the merriment is; their eyes are glazed, their nervescrave slumber, their steps are by no mean sprightly, and they probablyform a doleful company, ready to quarrel or think pessimistic thoughts. Be calm, placid, even; do not expect too much, and your reward will berich. 

_June, 1888. _

_"SPORT. "_

Simple folk fancy that "sport" must be a joyous pursuit, and that asportsman is a jovial, light-hearted, and rather innocent person. It maybe useful to many parents, and perhaps to some young people, if I letthem know what "sport" really means nowadays. Those who have theirimaginations filled with pictures of merry red-coated riders, or ofsturdy gaitered squires tramping through stubble behind their dogs, arequite welcome to their agreeable visions. The hounds of course meet inhundreds of places in winter-time, and the bold riders charge gailyacross meadows and over fences. It is a splendid, exhilarating sight;and no one can find much fault with the pursuit, for it gives health tothousands. The foxes may perhaps object a little; but, if a philosophercould explain to them that, if they were not preserved for huntingpurposes, they would soon be exterminated, we have no doubt that theywould choose the alternative which gives them a chance. Shooting isengaged in with more enthusiasm now than ever it was before; anddoubtless the gentlemen who sit in snug corners and knock down tamepheasants derive benefit--physical and moral--from the lively exercise. But the word "sport" in England does not now refer to hunting andshooting; it has a wide application, and it describes in a generic waya number of pursuits which are, to say the least, not improving to thosewho engage in them. 

The royal sport is of course horse-racing; and about that amusement--inits present aspect--I may have something profitable to say. Theadvocates of racing inform us that the noble sport improves the breed ofhorses, and affords wholesome relaxation to men; they grow quiteindignant with the narrow Puritans who talk "stuff" aboutdemoralization, and they have numerous fine phrases referring to oldEngland and the spirit of our fathers. All the talk concerning theimproving influence of the Turf on horses and men is perniciousnonsense, and there is an end of the matter. The English thoroughbred isa beautiful creature, and it is pleasant enough to see him make hissplendid rush from start to finish; amusing also is it to watch theskill of the wiry manikins who ride; the jockeys measure every secondand every yard, and their cleverness in extracting the last ounce ofstrength from their horses is quite curious. The merest novice may enjoythe sight of the gay colours, and he cannot help feeling a thrill ofexcitement when the thud, thud of the hoofs sounds near him as theexquisite slender animals fly past. But the persons who take mostinterest in races are those who hardly know a horse from a mule. Theymay make a chance visit to a racecourse, but the speed and beauty of theanimals do not interest them in any way; they cannot judge the skill ofa rider; they have no eye for anything but money. To them a horse ismerely a name; and, so far from their racing pursuits bringing themhealth, they prefer staying in a low club or lower public-house, wherethey may gamble without being obliged to trouble themselves about thenobler animals on which they bet. 

The crowd on a racecourse is always a hideous spectacle. The class ofmen who swarm there are amongst the worst specimens of the human race, and, when a stranger has wandered among them for an hour or so, he feelsas though he had been gazing at one huge, gross, distorted face. Theirlanguage is many degrees below vulgarity; in fact, their coarseness canbe understood only by people who have been forced to go much amongstthem--and that perhaps is fortunate. The quiet stoical aristocrats inthe special enclosures are in all ways inoffensive; they gamble andgossip, but their betting is carried on with still self-restraint, andtheir gossip is the ordinary polished triviality of the country-houseand drawing-room. But what can be said of the beings who crowd thebetting-ring? They are indeed awful types of humanity, fitted to makesensitive men shudder. Their yells, their profanity, their low cunning, their noisy eagerness to pounce upon a simpleton, their infamousobscenity, all combine to make them the most loathsome collection ofhuman beings to be found on the face of the broad earth. 

Observe that all of this betting crew appear to be what is calledrolling in money. They never do a stroke of useful work; they merelyhowl and make bets--that is their contribution to the prosperity of theState. Yet they are dressed with vulgar richness, they fare sumptuously, and they would not condescend to taste any wine save the finestvintages; they have servants and good horses, and in all ways theyresemble some rank luxurious growth that has sprung from a putrid soil. Mark that these bookmakers, as they are called, are not gentlemen inany sense of the word; some of them are publicans, some look likeprize-fighters, some like promoted costermongers, some like commonthieves. There is not a man in the company who speaks with a decentlyrefined accent--in short, to use plain terms, they are the scum of theearth. Whence then comes the money which enables them to live in riotousprofusion? The explanation is a sad one, and I trust that these wordsmay warn many young people in time. Here is the point to be weighedupon--these foul-mouthed persons in the betting-ring are able to travelabout all spring, summer, and autumn, staying in the best hotels andlacking nothing; in winter they can loll away their time inbilliard-rooms. Once more, who supplies the means? It is the senselessoutside public who imagine they know something about "sport. "

Every town in England contains some centre--generally a public-house ora barber's shop--where men meet to make wagers; the evil influence ofthe Turf is almost everywhere apparent, for it is probable that at leasttwo millions of men are interested in betting. London swarms with vileclubs which are merely gambling saloons; professional men, tradesmen, clerks, and even artizans crowd into these horrid holes, and do businesswith the professional gamblers. In London alone there are somehalf-dozen papers published daily which are entirely devoted to "sport, "and these journals are of course bought by the gudgeons who seekdestruction in the betting-rooms. In the provinces there are severaltowns which easily support a daily sporting journal; and no ordinarypaper in the North of England could possibly survive unless at leastone-eighth of its space were devoted to racing matters of various sorts. There are hundreds of thousands of our population who read absolutelynothing save lists of weights and entries, quotations which give theodds against horses, and reports of races. Not 5 per cent, of theseindividuals ever see a horse from year's end to year's end, yet theytalk of nothing else but horses, horses, horses, and every effort oftheir intellects is devoted to the task of picking out winners. Incredible as it may seem, these poor souls call themselves sportsmen, and they undoubtedly think that their grubbing about in malodoroustap-rooms is a form of "sport"; it is their hopeless folly and greedthat fill the pockets of the loud-mouthed tenants of the Ring. Some onemust supply the bookmakers' wealth, and the "some one" is the senselessamateur who takes his ideas from newspapers. The amateur of the tap-roomor the club looks down a list of horses and chooses one which hefancies; perhaps he has received private advice from one of the beingswho haunt the training-grounds and watch the thoroughbreds at exercise;perhaps he is influenced by some enthusiast who bids him risk all he hason certain private information. The fly enters the den and asks thespider, "What price Flora?"--that means, "What odds are you prepared tolay against the mare named Flora?" The spider answers--say seven to one;the fly hands one pound to the spider, and the bet is made. Thepeculiarity of this transaction is that one of the parties to it isalways careful to arrange so that he cannot lose. Supposing that thereare seven horses entered in a race, it is certain that six must belosers. The bookmaker so makes his wagers that no matter which of theseven wins he at least loses nothing; the miserable amateur has only onechance. He may possibly be lucky; but the chances in the long run aredead against him, for he is quite at the mercy of the sharp capitalistwho bets with him. The money which the rowdies of the Ring spend solavishly all comes from the pockets of dupes who persist in pursuing akind of _ignis fatuus_ which too often leads them into a bog of ruin. 

This deplorable business of wagering has become universal. We talk ofthe Italians as a gambling nation, but they are not to be compared withthe English for recklessness and purblind persistence. I know almostevery town in England, and I say without fear that the main topic ofconversation in every place of entertainment where the traveller staysis betting. A tourist must of course make for hotel after hotel wherethe natives of each place congregate; and, if he keeps his ears open, hewill find the gambling venom has tainted the life-blood of the people inevery town from Berwick to Hastings. It may be asked, "How do thesesilly creatures who bet manage to obtain any idea of a horse?" They havenot the faintest notion of what any given horse is like, but theyusually follow the advice of some sharper who pretends to know what isgoing to win. There are some hundreds of persons who carry on a kind ofsecret trade in information, and these persons profess their ability toenable any one to win a fortune. The dupes write for advice, enclosing afee, and they receive the name of a horse; then they risk their money, and so the shocking game goes on. 

I receive only too many letters from wives, mothers, and sisters whoseloved ones are being drawn into the vortex of destruction. Let me givesome rough colloquial advice to the gamblers--"You bet on horsesaccording to the advice of men who watch them. Observe how foolish youare! The horse A is trained in Yorkshire; the horse B at Newmarket. Theman who watches A thinks that the animal can gallop very fast, and yourisk your money according to his report. But what means has he ofknowing the speed of B? If two horses gallop towards the winning-postlocked together, it often happens that one wins by about six inches. There is no real difference in their speed, but the winner happens tohave a neck slightly longer than the other. Observe that onerace-horse--Buccaneer--has been known to cover a mile at the rate offifty-four feet per second; it is therefore pretty certain that at hisvery highest speed he could move at sixty feet per second. Very good; ithappens then that a horse which wins a race by one foot is aboutone-sixtieth of a second faster, than the beaten animal. What a dolt youmust be to imagine that any man in the world could possibly tell youwhich of those two brutes was likely to be the winner! It is the merestguess-work; you have all the chances against you and you might as wellbet on the tossing of halfpence. The bookmaker does not need to care, for he is safe whatever may win; but you are defying all the laws ofchance; and, although you may make one lucky hit, you must fare ill inthe end. " But no commonsensical talk seems to have any effect on theinsensate fellows who are the betting-man's prey, and thus this precioussport has become a source of idleness, theft, and vast misery. Onewretch goes under, but the stock of human folly is unlimited, and theshoal of gudgeons moves steadily into the bookmaker's net. Onebetting-agent in France receives some five thousand letters andtelegrams per day, and all this huge correspondence comes from personswho never take the trouble to see a race, but who are bitten with thegambler's fever. No warning suffices--man after man goes headlong toruin, and still the doomed host musters in club and tavern. They loseall semblance of gentle humanity; they become mere blockheads--forcupidity and stupidity are usually allied--and they form a demoralizingleaven that is permeating the nation and sapping our manhood. 

We have only to consider the position of the various dwarfs who bestridethe racehorses in order to see how hard a hold this iniquity has on us. A jockey is merely a stable-boy after all; yet a successful jockeyreceives more adulation than does the greatest of statesmen. Atheatrical manager has been known to prepare the royal box for thereception of one of these celebrities; some of the manikins earn fivethousand a year, one of them has been known to make twenty thousandpounds in a year; and that same youth received three thousand pounds forriding in one race. As to the flattery--the detestable flattery--whichthe mob bestows on good horsemen, it cannot be mentioned with patience. In sum, then, a form of insanity has attacked England, and we shall paybitterly for the fit. The idle host who gather on the racecourse addnothing to the nation's wealth; they are poisonous parasites whoseinfluence destroys industry, honesty, and common manliness. And yet thewhole hapless crew, winners and losers, call themselves "sportsmen. " Ihave said plainly enough that every villainous human being seems to takenaturally to the Turf; but unfortunately the fools follow on the sametrack as that trodden by the villains, and thus the honest gentlemen whostill support a vile institution have all their work set out in order toprevent the hawks from making a meal of the pigeons. One of the honestguardians of racing morality resigned in bitter despair some time ago, giving as his reason the assertion that he could trust nobody. Nobody!The man was a great lord, he was totally disinterested and utterlygenerous, he never betted a penny, and he only preferred to see thesuperb thoroughbreds gallop. Lavish he was to all about him--and hecould trust nobody. It seems that this despairful nobleman had tolerablygood reasons for his hasty departure, for we have had such a crop ofvillainies to reap this year as never was gathered before in the sametime, and it appears plain that no animal will be allowed to win anyprize unless the foul crew of betting-men accord their kind approval, and refrain from poisoning the brute. 

I address myself directly, and with all the earnestness of which I amcapable, to those young simpletons who think that it is a fine andknowing thing to stake money on a horse. Some poor silly creaturescannot be taught that they are not even backing a good chance; they willnot learn that the success or failure of horses in important races isregulated by a clique of rapscallions whose existence sullies the verylight of day. Even if the simpleton chooses the very best horse in arace, it by no means follows that the creature will win--nay, the veryexcellence of an animal is all against its chances of success. TheRing--which is largely composed of well-to-do black-legs--will not letany man win too much. What earthly chance can a clerk or shopman ortradesman in Manchester or Derby have of knowing what passes in thehotels of Newmarket, the homes of trainers, the London betting-clubs?The information supplied so copiously by the sporting journals is asgood as money can buy, but the writers on those papers are just aseasily deceived as other people. Men are out every morning watching thehorses take their exercise, and an animal cannot sneeze without the factbeing telegraphed to the remotest corners of the country; but all thisvigilance is useless when roguery comes into the field. Observe that forthe moment I am not speaking about the morality of betting at all. Ihave my own opinion as to the mental tone of a man who is continuallyeyeing his neighbour's pocket and wondering what he can abstracttherefrom. There is, and can be, no friendship save bottle friendshipamong the animals of prey who spend their time and energy on betting;and I know how callously they let a victim sink to ruin after they havesucked his substance to the last drop. The very face of a betting-man isenough to let you know what his soul is like; it is a face such as canbe seen nowhere but on the racecourse or in the betting-club: the lasttrace of high thought has vanished, and, though the men may laugh andindulge in verbal horse-play, there is always something carnivorousabout their aspect. They are sharp in a certain line, but trueintelligence is rarely found among them. Strange to say, they are oftengenerous with money if their sentimental side is fairly touched, buttheir very generosity is the lavishness of ostentation, and they seem tohave no true kindness in them, nor do they appear capable of evenshamming to possess the genuine helpful nature. Eternally on the watchfor prey, they assume the essential nature of predatory animals; theirnotion of cleverness is to get the better of somebody, and their idea ofintellectual effort is to lay cunning traps for fools to enter. Yes; thebetting-ring is a bad school of morality, and the man who goes there asa fool and a victim too, often blossoms into a rogue and a plunderer. 

With all this in my mind, I press my readers to understand that I leavethe ethics of wagering alone for the present, and confine my attentionstrictly to the question of expediency. What is the use of wearing outnerve and brain on pondering an infinite maze of uncertainties? Therogues who command jockeys and even trainers on occasion can act withcertainty, for they have their eye on the very tap-root of the Turfupas-tree. The noodles who read sporting prints and try to look knowingcan only fumble about among uncertainties; they and their pitiful moneyhelp to swell the triumphs and the purses of rascals, and they fritteraway good brain-power on calculations which have no sound basiswhatever. Let us get to some facts, and let us all hope in the name ofeverything that is righteous and of good report that, when this articleis read, some blind feather-brains may be induced to stop ere theinevitable final ruin descends upon them. What has happened in thedoleful spring of this year? In 1887 a colt was brought out for thefirst time to run for the greatest of all Turf prizes. As usual, somebagatelle of a million or thereabouts had been betted on a horse whichhad won several races, and this animal was reckoned to be incapable oflosing: but the untried animal shot out and galloped home an easywinner. So little was the successful brute distressed by his race thathe began to caper out of sheer light-heartedness when he was led back tothe enclosure, and he very soon cleared the place in his gambols--infact, he could have run another race within half an hour after the firstone. In the autumn this same winner strained a ligament; but in spite ofthe accident he ran for another important prize, and his lightning speedserved him in good stead, for he came in second for the St. Leger. Well, in the spring this animal was entered in a handicap race, and the weightwhich he had to carry seemed so trifling that good judges thought hemust romp over the course and win with ease. Hundreds of thousands ofdolts rushed to wager their money on this chance, and the horse's owner, who is anything but a fool, proceeded to back his own property lavishly. Now a certain number of the betting-rogues appeared to knowsomething--if I may be pardoned for using their repulsivephraseology--and, so long as any one was willing to bet on the horse, they were ready to lay against him. Still the pigeons would not takewarning by this ominous symptom; they had chances enough to keep clearof danger, but they flocked into the snare in their confused fashion. Agrain of common sense would have made them ask, "Why do these shrewd, hard men seem so certain that our favourite must lose? Are they the kindof persons who risk thousands in hard cash unless they know particularlywell what they are doing? They bet with an air of certainty, though someof them must be almost ruined if they have made a miscalculation; theydefy even the owner of the animal, and they cheerfully give him theopportunity of putting down thousands if he wishes to do so. There mustbe some reason for this assurance which at first sight looks so veryoverweening. Better have a care!"

Thus would common sense have counselled the victims; but, alas, commonsense is usually left out of the composition of the betting-man'svictim, and the flood of honest money rolled into the keeping of men whoare certainly no more than indifferent honest. The day of the race came;the great gaping public dipped their hands in their pockets and acceptedshort odds about their precious certainty. When the flag fell for thestart, the most wildly extravagant odds were offered against thefavourite by the men who had been betting against him all along, forthey saw very soon that they were safe. The poor brute on whose successso many thousands depended could not even gallop; he trailed on wearilyfor a little, without showing any sign of his old gallant fire andspeed, and at last his hopeless rider stopped him. This story is in themouths of all men; and now perhaps our simpletons maybe surprised tohear that the wretched animal which was the innocent cause of loss andmisery was poisoned by a narcotic. In his efforts to move freely hestrained himself, for the subtle drug deprived him of the power of usinghis limbs, and he could only sprawl and wrench his sinews. This is thefourth case of the kind which has recently occurred; and now cleverjudges have hit upon the cause which has disabled so many good horses, after the rascals of the Ring have succeeded in laying colossal amountsagainst them. Too many people know the dire effects of the morphiainjections which are now so commonly used by weak individuals who fearpain and _ennui_; the same deadly drug is used to poison the horses. Onetouch with the sharp needle-point under the horse's elbow, and thesubtle, numbing poison speeds through the arteries and paralyzes thenerves; a beautiful creature that comes out full of fire and courage isconverted in a very few minutes into a dull helpless mass that has nomore conscious volition than a machine. The animal remains on its feet, but exertion is impossible, and neither rein, whip, nor spur serves tostimulate the cunning poisoner's victim. About the facts there can nowbe no dispute: and this last wretched story supplies a copestone to apile of similar tales which has been in course of building during thepast three or four years. Enraged men have become outspoken, and thingsare now boldly printed and circulated which were mentioned only inwhispers long ago. The days of clumsy poisoning have gone by; theprowling villain no longer obtains entrance to a stable for the purposeof battering a horse's leg or driving a nail into the frog of the foot;the ancient crude devices are used no more, for science has become thehandmaid of scoundrelism. When in 1811 a bad fellow squirted a solutionof arsenic into a locked horse-trough, the evil trick was too clumsy toescape detection, and the cruel rogue was promptly caught and sent tothe gallows; but we now have horse-poisoners who hold a secret similarto that which Palmer of Rugeley kept so long. I say "a secret, " thoughevery skilled veterinary surgeon knows how to administer morphia, andknows its effects; but the new practitioners contrive to send in thedeadly injection of the drug in spite of the ceaseless vigilance oftrainers, stablemen, detectives, and all other guards. Now I ask anyrational man who may have been tempted to bet, Is it worth while? Leaveout the morality for the present, and tell us whether you think itbusiness-like to risk your money when you know that neither a horse'sspeed nor a trainer's skill will avail you when once an acute crew ofsharpers have settled that a race must not be won by a certain animal. The miserable creature whose case has served me for a text was tried athome during the second week of April; he carried four stone more thanthe very useful and fast horse which ran against him, and he merelyamused himself by romping alongside of his opponent. Again, when he tooka preliminary canter before the drug had time to act, he moved withgreat strength and with the freedom of a greyhound; yet within threeminutes he was no more than an inert mass of flesh and bone. I say tothe inexperienced gambler, "Draw your own conclusions, and if, afterstudying my words, you choose to tempt fortune any more, your fate--yourevil fate--be on your own head, for nothing that I or any one else cando will save you. "

Not long before the melancholy and sordid case which I have described, and which is now gaining attention and rousing curiosity everywhere, acertain splendid steeplechaser was brought out to run for the mostimportant of cross-country races. He was a famous horse, and, like ourDerby winner, he bore the fortunes of a good many people. To theconfusion and dismay of the men who made sure of his success, he wasfound to be stupified, and suffering from all the symptoms ofmorphia-poisoning! Not long ago an exquisite mare was brought out to runfor the Liverpool Steeplechase, and, like the two I have already named, she was deemed to be absolutely certain of success. She came out merrilyfrom her box; but soon she appeared to become dazed and silly; shecould not move properly, and in trying to clear her first fence shestaggered like a soddened drunkard and fell. The rascals had not becomeartistic poisoners at that date, and it was found that the poor mare hadreceived the drug through a rather large puncture in her nostril. 

The men whom I seek to cure are not worthy of much care; but they havedependants; and it is of the women and children that I think. Here isanother pitfall into which the eager novice stumbles; and once more ongrounds of expediency I ask the novice to consider his position. According to the decision of the peculiarly-constituted senate whichrules racing affairs, I understand that, even if a horse starts in arace with health and training all in its favour, it by no means followsthat he will win, or even run well. Cunning touches of the bridle, dexterous movements of body and limbs on the jockey's part, subtlechecks applied so as to cramp the animal's stride--all these things tendto bring about surprising results. The horse that fails dismally in onerace comes out soon afterwards and wins easily in more adversecircumstances. I grow tired of the unlucky catalogue of mean swindles, and I should be glad if I never heard of the Turf again; though, alas, Ihave little hope of that so long as betting-shops are open, and so longas miserable women have the power to address letters to me! I can onlyimplore those who are not stricken with the gambler's fever to come awayfrom danger while yet there is time. A great nobleman like LordHartington or Lord Rodney may amuse himself by keeping racers; he gainsrelaxation by running out from London to see his pretty colts andfillies gallop, and he needs not to care very much whether they win orlose, for it is only the mild excitement and the change of scene that hewants. The wealthy people who go to Newmarket seek pleasant company asmuch as anything, and the loss of a few hundreds hardly counts in theiryear's expenses. But the poor noodle who can hardly afford to pay hisfare and hotel bill--why should he meddle with horses? If an animal ispoisoned, the betting millionaire who backs it swallows his chagrin andthinks no more of the matter, but the wretched clerk who has risked aquarter's salary cannot take matters so easily. Racing is the rich man'sdiversion, and men of poor or moderate means cannot afford to thinkabout it. The beautiful world is full of entertainment for those whosearch wisely; then why should any man vex heart and brain by meddlingwith a pursuit which gives him no pleasure, and which cannot by anychance bring him profit? I have no pity for a man who ascribes his ruinto betting, and I contemn those paltry weaklings whose cases I study andcollect from the newspapers. Certainly there are enough of them! A manwho bets wants to make money without work, and that on the face of it isa dishonourable aspiration; if he robs some one, I do not in thefaintest degree try to palliate his crime--he is a responsible being, orought to be one, and he has no excuse for pilfering. I should never aidany man who suffered through betting, and I would not advise any oneelse to do so. My appeal to the selfish instincts of the gudgeons whoare hooked by the bookmakers is made only for the sake of the helplesscreatures who suffer for the follies and blundering cupidity of thewould-be sharper. I abhor the bookmakers, but I do not blame themalone; the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done, and theyare doubtless tempted to roguery by the very simpletons who complainwhen they meet the reward of their folly. I am solely concerned with theinnocents who fare hardly because of their selfish relatives' recklesswant of judgment, and for them, and them alone, my efforts are engaged. 

_May, 1888_

_DEGRADED MEN_. 

The man of science derives suggestive knowledge from the study of mereputrefaction; he places an infusion of common hay-seeds or meat or fruitin his phials, and awaits events; presently a drop from one of theinfusions is laid on the field of the microscope, and straightly theeconomy of a new and strange kingdom is seen by the observer. Themicroscopist takes any kind of garbage; he watches the bacteria andtheir mysterious development, and he reaches at last the mostsignificant conclusions regarding the health and growth and diseases ofthe highest organizations. The student of human nature must also bestowhis attention on disease of mind if he would attain to any realknowledge of the strange race to which he belongs. We develop, it istrue, but there are modes and modes of development. I have often pointedout that a steady process of degeneration goes on side by side with theunfolding of new and healthy powers in the animal and vegetablekingdoms. The great South American lizards grow strong and splendid inhue amid the rank freedom of pampas or forest; but their poor relativesin the sunless caves of Transylvania grow milky white, flabby, andstone-blind. The creatures in the Kentucky caves are all aborted in someway or other; the birds in far-off islands lose the power of flight, andthe shrivelled wings gradually sink under the skin, and show us only atiny network of delicate bones when the creature is stripped to theskeleton. The condor soars magnificently in the thin air over theAndes--it can rise like a kite or drop like a thunderbolt: the weeka ofNew Zealand can hardly get out of the way of a stick aimed by an activeman. The proud forest giant sucks up the pouring moisture from the greatBrazilian river; the shoots that rise under the shadow of the monstertree are weakened and blighted by lack of light and free air. The sameastounding work goes on among the beings who are so haughty in theirassumption of the post of creation's lords. The healthy child born ofhealthy parents grows up amid pure air and pure surroundings; histissues are nourished by strength-giving food, he lives according tosane rules, and he becomes round-limbed, full-chested, and vigorous. Thepoor little victim who first sees the light in the Borough or Shadwell, or in the noxious alleys of our reeking industrial towns, receives foulair, mere atmospheric garbage, into his lungs; he becomes thin-blooded, his unwholesome pallor witnesses to his weakness of vitality, hismuscles are atrophied, and even his hair is ragged, lustreless, ill-nurtured. In time he transmits his feebleness to his successors; andwe have the creatures who stock our workhouses, hospitals, and ourgaols--for moral degradation always accompanies radical degradation ofthe physique. 

So, if we study the larger aspects of society, we find that in allgrades we have large numbers of individuals who fall out of the linethat is steadfastly progressing, and become stragglers, camp-followers--anything you will. Let a cool and an unsentimentalobserver bend himself to the study of degraded human types, and he willlearn things that will sicken his heart if he is weak, and strengthenhim in his resolve to work gallantly during his span of life if he isstrong. Has any one ever fairly tried to face the problem ofdegradation? Has any one ever learned how it is that a distinct form ofmental disease seems to lurk in all sorts of unexpected fastnesses, ready to breathe a numbing and poisonous vapour on those who are notfortified against the moral malaria? I am not without experience of thefell chances and changes of life; I venture therefore to use someportion of the knowledge that I have gathered in order to help tofortify the weak and make the strong wary. 

If you wander on the roads in our country, you are almost sure to meetmen whom you instinctively recognize as fallen beings. What theirprevious estate in life may have been you cannot tell, but you know thatthere has been a fall, and that you are looking on a moral wreck. Thetypes are superficially varied, but an essential sameness, not alwaysvisible at first sight, connects them and enables you to class them asyou would class the specimens in a gallery of the British Museum. As youwalk along on a lonely highway, you meet a man who carries himself witha kind of jaunty air. His woeful boots show glimpses of bare feet, hisclothes have a bright gloss in places, and they hang untidily; but hiscoat is buttoned with an attempt at smartness, and his ill-used hat isset on rakishly. You note that the man wears a moustache, and you learnin some mysterious way that he was once accustomed to be very trim andspruce in person. When he speaks, you find that you have a hint of acultivated accent; he sounds the termination "ing" with precision, andyou also notice that such words as "here, " "there, " "over, " arepronounced with a peculiar broad vowel sound at the end. He cannot lookyou boldly in the face, and it is hard to catch a sight of his eyes, butyou may take for granted that the eyes are bad and shifty. The cheeksare probably a little pendulous, and the jaw hangs with a certainslackness. The whole visage looks as if it had been cast in a tolerablygood mould and had somehow run out of shape a little. Your man is fluentand communicative; he mouths his sentences with a genteel roll in hisvoice, and he punctuates his talk with a stealthy, insincere laugh whichhardly rises above the dignity of a snigger. 

Now how does such a man come to be tramping aimlessly on a public road?He does not know that he is going to any place in particular; he iscertainly not walking for the sake of health, though he needs healthrather badly. Why is he in this plight? You do not need to wait long fora solution, if the book of human experience has been your study. Thatman is absolutely certain to begin bewailing his luck--it is always"luck. " Then he has a choice selection of abuse to bestow on largenumbers of people who have trodden him down--he is always down-trodden;and he proves to you that, but for the ingratitude of A, the roguery ofB, the jealousy of C, the undeserved credit obtained by the despicableD, he would be in "a far different position to-day, sir. " If he is anold officer--and a few gentlemen who once bore Her Majesty's commissionare now to be found on the roads, or in casual wards, or lounging aboutlow skittle-alleys and bagatelle or billiard tables--he will allude tothe gambling that went on in the regiment. "How could a youngster keepout of the swim?" All went well with him until he took to late hours anddevilled bones; "then in the mornings we were all ready for a peg; and Ishould like to see the man who could get ready for parade after a hardnight unless he had something in the shape of a reviver. " So he prateson. He curses the colonel, the commander-in-chief, and the Armyorganization in general; he gives leering reminiscences of garrisonbelles--reminiscences that make a pure minded man long to inflict somesort of chastisement on him; and thus, while he thinks he is impressingyou with an overpowering sense of his bygone rank and fashion, he reallyunfolds the history of a feeble unworthy fellow who carries a strongtinge of rascality about him. He is always a victim, and he illustratesthe unvarying truth of the maxim that a dupe is a rogue minuscleverness. The final crash which overwhelmed him was of course ahorse-racing blunder. He would have recovered his winter's losses hadnot a gang of thieves tampered with the favourite for the City andSuburban. "Do you think, sir, that Highflyer could not have givenStonemason three stone and a beating?" You modestly own your want ofacquaintance with the powers of the famous quadrupeds, and theinfatuated dupe goes on, "I saw how Bill Whipcord was riding; he easedat the corner, when I wouldn't have taken two thousand for my bets, andyou could see that he let Stonemason up. I had taken seven to four eighttimes in hundreds, and that broke me. " The ragged raffish man neverthinks that he was quite ready to plunder other people; he growsinarticulate with rage only when he remembers how he was bitten insteadof being the biter. His watery eyes slant as you near a roadside inn, and he is certain to issue an invitation. Then you see what reallybrought him low. It may be a lovely warm day, when the acrid reek ofalcohol is more than usually abhorrent; but he must take somethingstrong that will presently inflame the flabby bulge of his cheeks andset his evil eyes watering more freely than ever. Gin is his favouriterefreshment, because it is cheap, and produces stupefaction more rapidlythan any other liquid. Very probably he will mix gin and ale in onehorrid draught--and in that case you know that he is very far goneindeed on the downward road. If he can possibly coax the change out ofyou when the waiter puts it down he will do so, for he cannot resist thegleam of the coins, and he will improvise the most courageous lies withan ease which inspires awe. He thanks you for nothing; he hovers betweencringing familiarity and patronage; and, when you gladly part with him, he probably solaces himself by muttering curses on your meanness or yourinsolence. Once more--how does the faded military person come to be onthe roads? We shall come to that presently. 

Observe the temporary lord of the tap-room when you halt on the dustyroads and search for tea or lunch. He is in black, and a soiledhandkerchief is wound round his throat like an eel. He wears a soft felthat which has evidently done duty as a night-cap many times, and hetries to bear himself as though the linen beneath his pinned-up coatwere of priceless quality. You know well enough that he has no shirt on, for he would sell one within half an hour if any Samaritan fitted himout. His boots are carefully tucked away under the bench, and his sharpknees seem likely to start through their greasy casing. As soon as hesees you he determines to create an impression, and he at once draws youinto the conversation. "Now, sir, you and I are scholars--I am an oldBalliol man myself--and I was explaining to these good lads the meaningof the phrase which had puzzled them, as it has puzzled many more. _Casus belli_, sir--that is what we find in this local rag of a journal;and _status quo ante bellum_. Now, sir, these ignorant souls couldn'ttell what was meant, so I have been enlightening them. I relax my mindin this way, though you would hardly think it the proper place for aBalliol man, while that overfed brute up at the Hall can drive out witha pair of two-hundred-guinea bays, sir. Fancy a gentleman and a scholarbeing in this company, sir! Now Jones, the landlord there, is a good manin his way--oh, no thanks Jones; it is not a compliment!--and I'd liketo see the man who dared say that I'm not speaking the truth, for I usedto put my hands up like a good one when we were boys at the old'varsity, sir. Jones, this gentleman would like something; and I don'tmind taking a double dose of Glenlivat with a brother-scholar and agentleman like myself. " So the mawkish creature maunders on until one'sgorge rises; but the stolid carters, the idle labourers, the shoemakerfrom the shop round the corner, admire his eloquence, and enjoy theluxury of pitying a parson and an aristocrat. How very numerous are therepresentatives of this type, and how unspeakably odious they are! Thisfoul weed in dirty clothing assumes the pose of a bishop; he swears atthe landlord, he patronizes the shoemaker--who is his superior in allways--he airs the feeble remnants of his Latin grammar and his stockquotations. He will curse you if you refuse him drink, and he willdescribe you as an impostor or a cad; while, if you are weak enough togratify his taste for spirits, he will glower at you over his glass, andsicken you with fulsome flattery or clumsy attempts at festive wit. Enough of this ugly creature, whose baseness insults the light of God'sday! We know how he will end; we know how he has been a fraud throughouthis evil life, and we can hardly spare even pity for him. It is well ifthe fellow has no lady-wife in some remote quarter--wife whom he can robor beg from, or even thrash, when he searches her out after one of hisrambles from casual ward to casual ward. 

In the wastes of the great cities the army of the degraded swarm. Hereis the loose-lipped rakish wit, who tells stories in the commonlodging-house kitchen. He has a certain brilliancy about him which lastsuntil the glassy gleam comes over his eyes, and then he becomes merelyblasphemous and offensive. He might be an influential writer orpolitician, but he never gets beyond spouting in a pot-house debatingclub, and even that chance of distinction does not come unless he haswritten an unusually successful begging-letter. Here too is the brokenprofessional man. His horrid face is pustuled, his hands are likeunclean dough, he is like a creature falling to pieces; yet he can showyou pretty specimens of handwriting, and, if you will steady him bygiving him a drink of ale, he will write your name on the edge of anewspaper in copper-plate characters or perform some analogous feat. Allthe degraded like to show off the remains of their accomplishments, andyou may hear some odious being warbling. "_Ah, che la morte!_" withquite the air of a leading tenor. In the dreadful purlieus lurk the poorsubmissive ne'er-do-well, the clerk who has been imprisoned forembezzlement, the City merchant's son who is reduced to being the toutof a low bookmaker, the preacher who began as a youthful phenomenon andended by embezzling the Christmas dinner fund, the forlorn brute whosewife and children have fled from him, and who spends his time betweenthe police-cells and the resorts of the vilest. If you could know thenames of the tramps who yell and make merry over their supper in themurky kitchen, you would find that people of high consideration would betouched very painfully could they be reminded of the existence ofcertain relatives. Degraded, degraded are they all! And why?

The answer is brief, and I have left it until last, for no particularelaboration is needed. From most painful study I have come to theconclusion that nearly all of our degraded men come to ruin throughidleness in the first instance; drink, gambling, and other forms ofdebauch follow, but idleness is the root-evil. The man who begins bysaying, "It's a poor heart that never rejoices, " or who refers to thedanger of making Jack a dull boy, is on a bad road. Who ever heard of aworker--a real toiler--becoming degraded? Worn he may be, and perhapsdull to the influence of beauty and refinement; but there is always somenobleness about him. The man who gives way to idleness at once prepareshis mind as a soil for evil seeds; the universe grows tiresome to him;the life-weariness of the old Romans attacks him in an ignoble form, and he begins to look about for distractions. Then his idleness, frombeing perhaps merely amusing, becomes offensive and suspicious; drinktakes hold upon him; his moral sense perishes; only the husks of hisrefinement remain; and by and by you have the slouching wanderer who isgood for nothing on earth. He is despised of men, and, were it not thatwe know the inexhaustible bounty of the Everlasting Pity, we mightalmost think that he was forgotten of Heaven. Stand against idleness. Anything that age, aches, penury, hard trial may inflict on the soul istrifling. Idleness is the great evil which leads to all others. Therefore work while it is day. 

_September, 1888. _

_A REFINEMENT OF "SPORTING" CRUELTY. _

I firmly believe in the sound manhood of the English people, and I knowthat in any great emergency they would rise and prove themselves trueand gallant of soul; but we happen for the time to have amongst us avery large class of idlers, and these idlers are steadily introducinghabits and customs which no wise observer can regard without solemnapprehensions. The simple Southampton poet has told us what "idle hands"are apt to do under certain guidance, and his saying--truism as itappears--should be studied with more regard to its vital meaning. Theidlers crave for novelties; they seek for new forms of distraction; theyseem really to live only when they are in the midst of deliriousexcitement. Unhappily their feverish unrest is apt to communicate itselfto men who are not naturally idlers, and thus their influence movesoutwards like some vast hurtful wind blown from a pestilent region. During the past few years the idlers have invented a form of amusementwhich for sheer atrocity and wanton cruelty is unparalleled in thehistory of England. I shall say some words about this remarkableamusement, and I trust that gentle women who have in them the heart ofcompassion, mothers who have sons to be ruined, fathers who have pursesto bleed, may aid in putting down an evil that gathers strength everyday. 

Most of my readers know what the "sport" of coursing is; but, for thebenefit of strictly town-bred folk, I may roughly indicate the nature ofthe pursuit as it was practised in bygone times. A brace of greyhoundswere placed together in the slips--that is, in collars which fly openwhen the man who holds the dogs releases a knot; and then a line of menmoved slowly over the fields. When a hare rose and ran for her life, theslipper allowed her a fair start, and then he released the dogs. Themode of reckoning the merits of the hounds is perhaps a little toocomplicated for the understanding of non-"sporting" people; but I maybroadly put it that the dog which gives the hare most trouble, the dogthat causes her to dodge and turn the oftenest in order to save herlife, is reckoned the winner. Thus the greyhound which reaches the harefirst receives two points; poor pussy then makes an agonized rush toright or left, and, if the second dog succeeds in passing his opponentand turning the hare again, he receives a point, and so on. Theold-fashioned open-air sport was cruel enough, for it often happenedthat the hare ran for two or three miles with her ferocious pursuershard on her track, and every muscle of her body was strained withpoignant agony; but there is this to be said--the men had healthy, matchless exercise on breezy plains and joyous uplands, they tramped allday until their limbs were thoroughly exercised, and they earned soundrepose by their wholesome exertions. Moreover, the element of fair-playenters into coursing when pursued in the open spaces. Pussy knows everyfoot of the ground; nightly she steals gently to the fields where hersucculent food is found, and in the morning she steals back again to hertiny nest, or form, amid the soft grass. All day she lies chewing thecud in her fashion, and moving her delicate ears hither and thither, lest fox or stoat or dog should come upon her unawares; and at nightfallshe steals away once more. Every run, every tuft of grass, every risingof the ground is known to her; and, when at last the tramp of theapproaching beaters rouses her, she rushes away with a distinctadvantage over the dogs. She knows exactly whither to go; the otheranimals do not, and usually, on open ground, the quarry escapes. I donot think that any greyhound living could catch one of the hares nowleft on the Suffolk marshes; and there are many on the great Wiltshireplains which are quite capable of rushing at top speed for three milesand more. The chase in the open is cruel--there is no denying it--forpoor puss dies many deaths ere she bids her enemies good-bye; but stillshe has a chance for life, and thus the sport, inhuman as it is, has apraiseworthy element of fairness in it. 

But the betting-man, the foul product of civilization's depravity, casthis eye on the old-fashioned sport and invaded the field. He found theprocess of walking up the game not much to his taste, for he cares onlyto exercise his leathern lungs; moreover, the courses were few and farbetween and the chances of making wagers were scanty. He set himself tomeditate, and it struck him that, if a good big collection of harescould be got together, it would be possible to turn them out one by one, so that betting might go on as fast and as merrily on thecoursing-ground as at the roulette-table. Thus arose a "sport" which iseducating many, many thousands in callousness and brutality. Here andthere over England are dotted great enclosed parks, and the visitor isshown wide and mazy coverts where hares swarm. Plenty of food is strewnover the grass, and in the wildest of winters pussy has nothing tofear--until the date of her execution arrives. The animals are notnatives of those enclosures; they are netted in droves on the Wiltshireplains or on the Lancashire moors, and packed off like poultry to thecoursing-ground. There their life is calm for a long time; no poachersor lurchers or vermin molest them; stillness is maintained, and thehares live in peace. But one day there comes a roaring crowd to thepark, and, though pussy does not know it, her good days are passed. Lookat the mob that surges and bellows on the stands and in the enclosures. They are well dressed and comfortable, but a more unpleasant gang couldnot be seen. Try to distinguish a single face that shows kindness orgoodness--you fail; this rank roaring crowd is made up of betting-menand dupes, and it is hard to say which are the worse. There is nohorse-racing in the winter, and so these people have come out to see asuccession of innocent creatures die, and to bet on the event. The slowcoursing of the old style would not do for the fiery betting-man; but weshall have fun fast and furious presently. The assembly seems frantic;flashy men with eccentric coats and gaudy hats of various patterns standabout and bellow their offers to bet; feverish dupes move hither andthither, waiting for chances; the rustle of notes, the chink of money, sound here and there, and the immense clamour swells and swells, till astunning roar dulls the senses, and to an imaginative gazer it seems asthough a horde of fiends had been let loose to make day hideous. Abroad smooth stretch of grass lies opposite to the stands, and at oneend of this half-mile stretch there runs a barrier, the bottom of whichis fringed with straw and furze. If you examined that barrier, you wouldfind that it really opens into a wide dense copse, and that a hare orrabbit which whisks under it is safe on the far side. At the other sideof this field a long fenced lane opens, and seems to be closed at theblind end by a wide door. To the right of the blind lane is a tiny hutsurrounded by bushes, and by the side of the hut a few scattered menloaf in a purposeless way. Presently a red-coated man canters across thesmooth green, and then the diabolical tumult of the stands reachesear-splitting intensity. Your betting-man is cool enough in reality; buthe likes to simulate mad eagerness until it appears as though theswollen veins of face or throat would burst. And what is going on at theclosed end of that blind lane? On the strip of turf around the widefield the demure trainers lead their melancholy-looking dogs. Eachgreyhound is swathed in warm clothing, but they all look wretched; and, as they pick their way along with dainty steps, no one would guess thatthe sight of a certain poor little animal would convert each dolefulhound into an incarnate fury. Two dogs are led across to the littlehut--the bellow of the Ring sounds hoarsely on--and the chosen pair ofdogs disappear behind the shrubs. And now what is passing on the fartherside of that door which closes the lane? A hare is comfortably nestlingunder a clump of furze when a soft step sounds near her. A man! Pussywould like to move to right or left; but, lo, here are other men!Decidedly she must move forward. Oh, joy! A swinging door rises softly, and shows her a delightful long lane that seems to open on to a pleasantopen country. She hops gaily onward, and then a little uneasinessovertakes her; she looks back, but that treacherous door has swung downagain, and there is only one road for her now. Softly she steals onwardto the mouth of the lane, and then she finds a slanting line of men whowave their arms at her when she tries to shoot aside. A loud roar burstsfrom the human animals on the stand, and then a hush falls. Now ornever, pussy! The far-off barrier must be gained, or all is over. Thehare lowers her ears and dashes off; then from the hut comes astaggering man, who hangs back with all his strength as a pair offerocious dogs writhe and strain in the leash; the hounds rise on theirhaunches, and paw wildly with their fore-feet, and they struggle forwarduntil puss has gone a fair distance, while the slipper encourages themwith low guttural sounds. Crack! The tense collars fly, and the arrowyrush of the snaky dogs follows. Puss flicks her ears--she hears a thud, thud, wallop, wallop; and she knows the supreme moment has come. Hersinews tighten like bowstrings, and she darts on with the lightningspeed of despair. The grim pursuers near her; she almost feels thebreath of the foremost. Twitch!--and with a quick convulsive effort shesheers aside, and her enemy sprawls on. But the second dog is ready tomeet her, and she must swirl round again. The two serpentine savagesgather themselves together and launch out in wild efforts to reach her;they are upon her--she must dart round again, and does so under the veryfeet of the baffled dogs. Her eyes are starting with overmasteringterror; again and again she sweeps from right to left, and again andagain the staunch hounds dash along in her track. Pussy fails fast; onedog reaches her, and she shrieks as she feels his ferocious jaws touchher; but he snatches only a mouthful of fur, and there is anotherrespite. Then at last one of the pursuers balances himself carefully, his wicked head is raised, he strikes, and the long tremulous shriek ofdespair is drowned in the hoarse crash of cheering from the mob. Bravesport, my masters! Gallant Britons ye are! Ah, how I should like to letone of you career over that field of death with a brace of business-likeboarhounds behind you!

There is no slackening of the fun, for the betting-men must be keptbusy. Men grow frantic with excitement; young fools who should be attheir business risk their money heedlessly, and generally go wrong. Ifthe hares could only know, they might derive some consolation from thecertainty that, if they are going to death, scores of their gallantsporting persecutors are going to ruin. Time after time, in monotonoussuccession, the same thing goes on through the day--the agonized harestwirl and strain; the fierce dogs employ their superb speed andstrength; the unmanly gang of men howl like beasts of prey; and thesweet sun looks upon all!

Women, what do you think of that for Englishmen's pastime? Recollectthat the mania for this form of excitement is growing more intensedaily; as much as one hundred thousand pounds may depend on a singlecourse--for not only the mob in the stands are betting, but thousandsare awaiting each result that is flashed off over the wires; and, although you may be far away in remote country towns, your sons, yourhusbands, your brothers, may be watching the clicking machine thatrecords the results in club and hotel--they may be risking theirsubstance in a lottery which is at once childish and cruel. 

There is not one word to be said in favour of this vile game. Theold-fashioned courser at least got exercise and air; but the modernbetting-man wants neither; he wants only to make wagers and add to hispile of money. For him the coursing meetings cannot come too often; theswarming gudgeons flock to his net; he arranges the odds almost as hechooses--with the help of his friends; and simpletons who do not know agreyhound from a deerhound bet wildly--not on dogs, but on names. The"sport" has all the uncertainty of roulette, and it is villainouslycruel into the bargain. Amid all those thousands you never hear one wordof pity for the stricken little creature that is driven out, as I havesaid, for execution; they watch her agonies, and calculate the chancesof pouching their sovereigns. That is all. 

Here then is another vast engine of demoralization set going, just as ifthe Turf were not a blight of sufficient intensity! A young man venturesinto one of those cruel rings, buys a card, and resolves to risk poundsor shillings. If he is unfortunate, he may be saved; but, curiouslyenough, it often happens that a greenhorn who does not know onegreyhound from another blunders into a series of winning bets. If hewins, he is lost, for the fever seizes him; he does not know what oddsare against him, and he goes on from deep to deep of failure anddisaster. Well for him if he escapes entire ruin! I have drawn attentionto this new evil because I have peculiar opportunities of studying theinner life of our society, and I find that the gambling epidemic isspreading among the middle-classes. To my mind these coursing massacresshould be made every whit as illegal as dog-fighting or bull-baiting, for I can assure our legislators that the temptation offered by thechances of rapid gambling is eating like a corrosive poison into theyoung generation. Surely Englishmen, even if they want to bet, need notinvent a medium for betting which combines every description of noxiouscruelty! I ask the aid of women. Let them set their faces against tin'shorrid sport, and it will soon be known no more. 

If the silly bettors themselves could only understand their ownposition, they might be rescued. Let it be distinctly understood thatthe bookmaker cannot lose, no matter how events may go. On the otherhand, the man who makes wagers on what he is pleased to term his"fancies" has everything against him. The chances of his choosing awinner in the odious new sport are hardly to be mathematically stated, and it may be mathematically proved that he must lose. Then, apart fromthe money loss, what an utterly ignoble and unholy pursuit thistrapped-hare coursing is for a manly man! Surely the heart of compassionin any one not wholly brutalized should be moved at the thought of thosecabined, cribbed, confined little creatures that yield up their innocentlives amid the remorseless cries of a callous multitude. Poor innocents!Is it not possible to gamble without making God's creatures undergotorture? If a man were to turn a cat into a close yard and set dogs uponit, he would be imprisoned, and his name would be held up to scorn. Whatis the difference between cat and hare?

_March, 1887. _

_LIBERTY_. 

"What things are done in thy name!" The lady who spoke thus of Libertyhad lived a high and pure life; all good souls were attracted to her;and it seems strange that so sweet and pure and beautiful a creaturecould have grown up in the vile France of the days before theRevolution. She kept up the traditions of gentle and seemly courtesyeven at times when Sardanapalus Danton was perforce admitted to her_salon_; and in an age of suspicion and vile scandal she kept astainless name, for even the most degraded pamphleteer in Paris dared dono more than hint a fault and hesitate dislike. But this lady went tothe scaffold with many and many of the young, the beautiful, the brave;and her sombre satire, "What things are done in thy name!" wasremembered long afterwards when the despots and the invading alien hadin turn placed their feet on the neck of devoted France. "What thingsare done in thy name!" Yes; and we, in this modern world, might vary thesaying a little and exclaim, "What things are said in thy name!"--for wehave indeed arrived at the era of liberty, and the gospel of Rousseau isbeing preached with fantastic variations by people who think that anyspeech which apes the forms of logic is reasonable and that any desirewhich is expressed in a sufficiently loud howl should be at oncegratified. We pride ourselves on our knowledge and our reasoning power;but to judicious observers it often seems that those who talk loudesthave a very thin vein of knowledge, and no reasoning faculty that is notimitative. 

By all means let us have "freedom, " but let us also consider our terms, and fix the meaning of the things that we say. Perhaps I should write"the things that we think we say, " because so many of those who makethemselves heard do not weigh words at all, and they imagine themselvesto be uttering cogent truths when they are really giving us the babbleof Bedlam. If ladies and gentlemen who rant about freedom would try toemancipate themselves from the dominion of meaningless words, we shouldall fare better; but we find a large number of public personages usingperfectly grammatical series of phrases without dreaming for a momentthat their grave sentences are pure gibberish. A few simple questionsaddressed in the Socratic manner to certain lights of thought might domuch good. For instance, we might say, "Do you ever speak of being freefrom good health, or free from a good character, or free fromprosperity?" I fancy not; and yet copiously talkative individuals employterms quite as hazy and silly as those which I have indicated. 

We have gone very far in the direction of scientific discovery, and wehave a large number of facts at our disposal; but some of us have quiteforgotten that true liberty comes only from submitting to wise guidance. Old Sandy Mackay, in Alton Locke, declared that he would never bow downto a bit of brains: and this highly-independent attitude is copied bypersons who fail to see that bowing to the bit of brains is the onlymode of securing genuine freedom. If our daring logicians would grantthat every man should have liberty to lead his life as he chooses, solong as he hurts neither himself nor any other individual nor the State, then one might follow their argument; but a plain homespun proposal likethat of mine is not enough for your advanced thinker. In England hesays, "Let us have deliverance from all restrictions;" in Russia hesays, "Anarchy is the only cure for existing evils. " For centuries pastthe earth has been deluged with blood and the children of men have beenscourged by miseries unspeakable, merely because powerful men andpowerful bodies of men have not chosen to learn the meaning of the word"liberty. " "How miserable you make the world for one another, O feeblerace of men!" So said our own melancholy English cynic; and he hadsingularly good reason for his plaint. Rapid generalization is nearlyalways mischievous; unless we learn to form correct and swift judgmentson every faculty of life as it comes before us, we merely stumble fromerror to error. No cut-and-dried maxim ever yet was fit to guide menthrough their mysterious existence; the formalist always ends bybecoming a bungler, and the most highly-developed man, if he is contentto be no more than a thinking-machine, is harmful to himself and harmfulto the community which has the ill-luck to harbour him. If we take casesfrom history, we ought to find it easy enough to distinguish between themen who sought liberty wisely and those who were restive and turbulent. A wise man or a wise nation knows the kind of restraint which is good;the fool, with his feather-brained theories, never knows what is goodfor him--he mistakes eternal justice for tyranny, he rebels againstfacts that are too solid for him--and we know what kind of an end hemeets. Some peculiarly daring personages carry their spirit ofresistance beyond the bounds of our poor little earth. Only lately manyof us read with a shock of surprise the passionate asseveration of agifted woman who declared that it was a monstrous wrong and wickednessthat ever she had been born. Job said much the same thing in hisdelirium; but our great novelist put forth her complaint as the netoutcome of all her thought and culture. We only need to open an ordinarynewspaper to find that the famous writer's folly is shared by manyweaker souls; and the effect on the mind of a shrewd and contented manis so startling that it resembles the emotion roused by grotesque wit. The whole story of the ages tells us dismally what happens when unwisepeople choose to claim the measure of liberty which they think good; butsomehow, though knowledge has come, wisdom lingers, and the grim oldfollies rear themselves rankly among us in the age of reason. 

When we remember the Swiss mountaineers who took their deaths joyouslyin defence of their homes, when we read of the devoted brave one whoreceived the sheaf of spears in his breast and broke the oppressor'sarray, none of us can think of mere vulgar rebellion. The Swiss werefighting to free themselves from wrongs untold; and we should hold themless than men if they had tamely submitted to be caged like poultry. Again, we feel a thrill when we read the epitaph which says, "Gladly wewould have rested had we won freedom. We have lost, and very gladlyrest. " The very air of bravery, of steady self-abnegation seems toexhale from the sombre, triumphant words. Russia is the chosen home oftyranny now, but her day of brightness will come again. It is safe toprophesy so much, for I remember what happened at one time of supremeperil. Prussia and Austria and Italy lay crushed and bleeding under theawful power of Napoleon, and it seemed as though Russia must be wipedout from the list of nations when the great army of invaders poured inrelentless multitudes over the stricken land. The conqueror appeared tohave the very forces of nature in his favour, and his hosts moved onwithout a check and without a failure of organization. So perfectly hadhe planned the minutest details that, although his stations werescattered from the Beresina to the Seine, not so much as a letter waslost during the onward movement. How could the doomed country resist? Sothought all Europe. But the splendid old Russian, the immortalKoutousoff, had felt the pulse of his nation, and he was confident, while all the other chiefs felt as though the earth were rocking underthem. The time for the extinction of Russia had not come; a throb offierce emotion passed over the country; the people rose like one man, and the despot found himself held in check by rude masses of men forwhom death had scant terrors. Koutousoff had a mighty people to supporthim, and he would have swept back the horde of spoilers, even if thewinter had not come to his aid. Russia was but a dark country then, asnow, but the conduct of the myriads who dared to die gave a brightpresage for the future. Who can blame the multitudes of Muscovites whosealed their wild protest with their blood? The common soldiers werebut slaves, yet they would have suffered a degradation worse thanslavery had they succumbed, while, as to the immense body ofpeople--that nation within a nation--which answered to our upper andmiddle classes, they would have tasted the same woes which at lengthdrove Germany to frenzy and made simple burghers prefer bitter death tothe tyranny of the French. The rulers of Russia have stained her recordsfoully since the days of 1812, but their worst sins cannot blot out thememory of the national uprising. Years are but trivial; seventy-six ofthem seem a long time; but those who study history broadly know that thedawn of a better future for Russia showed its first gleam when thearoused and indignant race rose and went forward to die before theFrench cannon. When next Russia rises, it will be against a tyranny onlysecond to Napoleon's in virulence--it will be against the terror thatrules her now from within; and her success will be applauded by theworld. 

The Italians, who first waited and plotted, and then fought desperatelyunder Garibaldi, had every reason to cry out for freedom. If they hadremained merely whimpering under the Bourbon and Austrian whips, theywould have deserved to be spurned by all who bear the hearts of men. They were denied the meanest privileges of humanity; they lived in afashion which was rather like the violent, oppressed, hideous existencewhich men imagine in evil dreams, and at length they struck, anddeclared for liberty or annihilation. Perhaps they did not gain much inthe way of immediate material good, but that only makes their splendidmovement the more admirable. They fought for a magnificent idea, andeven now, though the populace have to bear a taxation three times asgreat as any known before in their history, the ordinary Italian willsay, "Yes, signor--the taxes are very heavy; we toil very hard and paymuch money; but who counts money? We are a nation now--a real nation;Italy is united and free. " That is the gist of the matter. The peoplewere bitterly ground down, and they are content to suffer privation inthe present so long as they can ensure freedom from alien rule in thefuture. Nothing that the most hardly-entreated Briton suffers in anycircumstances could equal the agonies of degradation borne by the peopleof the Peninsula, and their emancipation was hailed as if it had been apersonal benefaction by all that was wisest and best in Europeansociety. The millions who turned out to welcome Garibaldi as if he hadbeen an adored sovereign all had a true appreciation of real liberty;the masses were right in their instinct, and it was left for hysterical"thinkers" to shriek their deluded ideas in these later days. 

"But surely the Irish rose for freedom in 1641?" I can almost imaginesome clever correspondent asking me that question with a view to takingme in a neat trap. It is true enough that the Irish rose; but here againwe must learn to discriminate between cases. How did the wild folk rise?Did they go out like the Thousand of Marsala and pit themselves againstodds of five and six to one? Did they show any chivalry? Alas for thewicked story! The rebels behaved like cruel wild beasts; they were worsethan polecats in an aviary, and they met with about the same resistanceas the polecats would meet. They stripped the Ulster farmers and theirfamilies naked, and sent them out in the bitter weather; they hung onthe skirts of the agonized crowd; the men cut down the refugeeswholesale, and even the little boys of the insurgent party were taughtto torture and kill the unhappy children of the flying farmers. Poorlittle infants fell in the rear of the doomed host, but no mother wasallowed to succour her dying offspring, and the innocents expired inunimaginable suffering. The stripped fugitives crowded into Dublin, andthere the plague carried them off wholesale. The rebels had gainedliberty with a vengeance, and they had their way for ten years and more. Their liberty was degraded by savagery; they ruled Ireland at their ownsweet will; they dwelt in anarchy until the burden of their iniquitygrew too grievous for the earth to bear. Then their villainous freedomwas suddenly ended by no less a person than Oliver Cromwell, and thecurses, the murders, the unspeakable vileness of ten bad years all wereatoned for in wild wrath and ruin. Now is it not marvellous that, whilethe murderers were free, they were poverty-stricken and most wretched?As soon as Cromwell's voice had ceased to pronounce the doom on theunworthy, the great man began his work of regeneration; and under hisiron hand the country which had been miserable in freedom becameprosperous, happy, and contented. There is no mistaking the facts, formen of all parties swore that the six years which followed the storm ofDrogheda were the best in all Ireland's history. Had Cromwell only livedlonger, or had there been a man fit to follow him, then England andIreland would be happier this day. 

In our social life the same conditions hold for the individual as holdfor nations in the assembly of the world's peoples. Freedom--truefreedom--means liberty to live a beneficent and innocent life. As soonas an individual chooses to set up as a law to himself, then we have aright--nay, it is our bounden duty--to examine his pretensions. If thesense of the wisest in our community declares him unfit to issue dictafor the guidance of men, then we must promptly suppress him; if we donot, our misfortunes are on our own heads. The "independent" man may cryout about liberty and the rest as much as he likes, but we cannot affordto heed him. We simply say, "You foolish person, liberty, as you arepleased to call it, would be poison to you. The best medicines for youruneasy mind are reproof and restraint; if those fail to act on you, thenwe must try what the lash will do for you. "

Let us have liberty for the wise and the good--we know them well enoughwhen we see them; and no sophist dare in his heart declare that anycharlatan ever mastered men permanently. Liberty for the wise andgood--yes, and wholesome discipline for the foolish andfroward--sagacious guidance for all. Of course, if a man or a communityis unable to choose a guide of the right sort, then that man orcommunity is doomed, and we need say no more of either. I keep warilyout of the muddy conflict of politics; but I will say that the cries ofcertain apostles of liberty seem woful and foolish. Unhappy shriekers, whither do they fancy they are bound? Is it to some Land of Beulah, where they may gambol unrestrained on pleasant hills? The shriekers areall wrong, and the best friend of theirs, the best friend of humanity, is he who will teach them--sternly if need be--that liberty and licenseare two widely different things. 

_August, 1888. _

_EQUALITY_. 

One of the strangest shocks which the British traveller can experienceoccurs to him when he makes his first acquaintance with the Americanservant--especially the male servant. The quiet domineering European isstung out of his impassivity by a sort of moral stab which disturbsevery faculty, unless he is absolutely stunned and left gasping. InEngland, the quiet club servant waits with dignity and reserve, but heis obedient to the last degree, and his civility reaches the point ofabsolute polish. When he performs a service his air is impassive, but ifhe is addressed his face assumes a quietly good-humoured expression, andhe contrives to make his temporary employer feel as though it was apleasure to attend upon him. All over our country we find thatpoliteness between employer and servant is mutual. Here and there wefind a well-dressed ruffian who thinks he is doing a clever thing whenhe bullies a servant; but a gentleman is always considerate, quiet, respectful; and he expects consideration, quietness, and respect fromthose who wait upon him. The light-footed, cheerful young women whoserve in hotels and private houses are nearly always charmingly kind andobliging without ever descending to familiarity; in fact, I believethat, if England be taken all round, it will be found that femalepost-office clerks are the only servants who are positively offensive. They are spoiled by the hurried, captious, tiresome persons who hauntpost-offices at all hours, and in self-defence they are apt to convertthemselves into moral analogues of the fretful porcupine. Perhaps thequeenly dames in railway refreshment-rooms are almost equalto the post-office damsels; but both classes are growing moregood-natured--thanks to Charles Dickens, Mr. Sullivan, and Mr. _Punch_. 

But the American servant exhibits no such weakness as civility; he isresolved to let you know that you are in the country of equality, and, in order to do that effectually, he treats you as a grovelling inferior. You ask a civil question, and he flings his answer at you as he wouldfling a bone at a dog. Every act of service which he performs comes mostungraciously from him, and he usually contrives to let you plainly seetwo things--first, he is ashamed of his position; secondly, he means totake a sort of indirect revenge on you in order to salve his lacerateddignity. A young English peer happened to ask a Chicago servant to cleana pair of boots, and his tone of command was rather pronounced anddefinite. That young patrician began to doubt his own identity when hewas thus addressed--"Ketch on and do them yourself!" There was noredress, no possible remedy, and finally our compatriot humbled himselfto a negro, and paid an exorbitant price for his polish. 

Here we have an absurdity quite fairly exposed. The young Americanstudent who acts as a reporter or waiter during his college vacation isnearly always a respectful gentleman who neither takes nor allows aliberty; but the underbred boor, keen as he is about his gratuities, will take even your gifts as though he were an Asiatic potentate, andthe traveller a passing slave whose tribute is condescendingly received. In a word, the servant goes out of his way to prove that, in his ownidea, he is quite fit to be anybody's master. The Declaration ofIndependence informs us that all men are born equal; the transatlanticservant takes that with a certain reservation, for he implies that, though men may be equal in a general way, yet, so far as he isconcerned, he prefers to reckon himself the superior of anybody withwhom business brings him into contact. 

It was in America that I first began to meditate on the problem ofequality, and I have given it much thought at intervals during severalyears. The great difficulty is to avoid repeating stale commonplaces onthe matter. The robust Briton bellows, "Equality! Divide up all theproperty in the world equally among the inhabitants, and there would berich and poor, just as before, within a week!" The robust man thinksthat settles the whole matter at once. Then we have the stock story ofthe three practical communists who forced themselves upon the society ofBaron Rothschild, and explained their views at some length. The Baronsaid: "Gentlemen, I have made a little calculation, and I find that, ifI divided my property equally among my fellow-citizens, your share wouldbe one florin each. Oblige me by accepting that sum at once, and permitme to wish you good-morning. " This was very neat in its way, but I wantto talk just a little more seriously of a problem which concerns thedaily life of us all, and affects our mental health, our placidity, andour self-respect very intimately. In the first place, we have toconsider the deplorable exhibitions made by poor humanity wheneverequality has been fairly insisted on in any community. The Frenchmen of1792 thought that a great principle had been asserted when the Presidentof the Convention said to the king, "You may sit down, Louis. " It seemedfine to the gallery when the queenly Marie Antoinette was addressed asthe widow Capet; but what a poor business it was after all! The howlingfamiliarity of the mob never touched the real dignity of the royalwoman, and their brutality was only a murderous form of Yankee servant'smean "independence. " I cannot treat the subject at all without goinginto necessary subtleties which never occurred to an enraged mob or abloodthirsty and insolent official; I cannot accept the bald jeers of acomfortable, purse-proud citizen as being of any weight, and I am justas loath to heed the wire-drawn platitudes of the average philosopher. If we accept the very first maxim of biology, and agree that no twoindividuals of any living species are exactly alike, we have astarting-point from which we can proceed to argue sensibly. We may passover the countless millions of inequalities which we observe in thelower orders of living things: and there is no need to emphasizedistinctions which are plain to every child. When we come to speak ofthe race of men we reach the only concern which has a passionate andvital interest for us; even the amazing researches and conclusions ofthe naturalists have no attraction for us unless they throw a light, nomatter how oblique, on our mysterious being and our mysterious fate. Thelaw which regulates the differentiation of species applies withespecial significance when we consider the birth of human individuals;the law which ordains that out of countless millions of animalculaewhich once shed their remains on the floor of the deep sea, or that nowswarm in any pond, there shall be no two alike, holds accurately for themyriads of men who are born and pass away. The type is the same; thereare fixed resemblances, but exact similarity never. The struggle forexistence, no matter what direction it may take, always ends in thesingling out of individuals who, in some respect or other, are worthy tosurvive, while the weak perish and the elements of their bodies go toform new individuals. It soon becomes plain that the crazy cry forequality is really only a weak protest against the hardships of thebattle for existence. The brutes have not attained to our complexity ofbrain; ideas are only rudimentary with them, and they decide thequestion of superiority by rude methods. Two lions fight until one islaid low; the lioness looks calmly on until the little problem ofsuperiority is settled, and then she goes off with the victor. Thehorses on the Pampas have their set battles until one has asserted hismastery over the herd, and then the defeated ones cower away abjectly, and submit themselves meekly to their lord. All the male animals aregiven to issuing challenges in a very self-assertive manner, and theobject is the same in every case. But we are far above the brutes; wehave that mysterious, immaterial ally of the body, and our struggles aresettled amid bewildering refinements and subtleties and restrictions. Inone quarter, power of the soul gives its possessor dominion; in another, only the force of the body is of any avail. If we observe the strugglesof savages, we see that the idea of equality never occurs tohalf-developed men; the chief is the strong man, and his authority canbe maintained only by strength or by the influence that strength gives. As the brute dies out of man, the conditions of life's warfare become socomplex that no one living could frame a generalization without findinghimself at once faced by a million of exceptions that seem to negativehis rule. Who was the most powerful man in England in Queen Anne's day?Marlborough was an unmatched fighter; Bolingbroke was an imaginative andmasterful statesman; there were thousands of able and strong warriors;but the one who was the most respected and feared was that tiny cripplewhose life was a long disease. Alexander Pope was as frail a creature asever managed to support existence; he rarely had a moment free frompain; he was so crooked and aborted that a good-hearted woman like LadyMary Wortley Montagu was surprised into a sudden fit of laughter when heproposed marriage to her. Yet how he was feared! The only one who couldmatch him was that raging giant who wrote "Gulliver, " and the two menwielded an essential power greater than that of the First Minister. Theterrible Atossa, Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, shrank from contact withPope, while for a long time the ablest men of the political setsapproached Swift like lackeys. One power was made manifest by thewaspish verse-maker and the powerful satirist, and each was acknowledgedas a sort of monarch. 

It would be like playing at paradoxes if I went on to adduce manymysteries and contradictions that strike us when we consider man'sdominion over man. We can only come to the same conclusion if we bringforward a million of instances; we can only see that the whole humanrace, individual by individual, are separated one from the other bydifferences more or less minute, and wherever two human beings areplaced together one must inevitably begin to assert mastery over theother. The method of self-assertion may be that of the athlete, or thatof the intriguer, or that of the clear-sighted over the purblind, orthat of the subtle over the simple; it matters not, the effort formastery may be made either roughly or gently, or subtly, or evenclownishly, but made it will be. 

Would it not be better to cease babbling of equality altogether, and totry to accept the laws of life with some submission? The mistake ofrabid theorists lies in their supposition that the assertion ofsuperiority by one person necessarily inflicts wrong on another, whereasit is only the mastery obtained by certain men over others that makesthe life of the civilized human creature bearable. The very servant whois insolent while performing his duty only dares to exhibit rudenessbecause he is sure of protection by law. All men are equal before thelaw. Yes--but how was the recognition of equality enforced? Simply bythe power of the strong. No monarch in the world would venture to dealout such measure to our rude servitor as was dealt by Clovis to one ofhis men. The king regarded himself as being affronted by his soldier, and he wiped out the affront to his own satisfaction by splitting hisfollower's head in twain. But the civilized man is secured by a bulwarkof legality built up by strong hands, and manned, like the great Romanwalls, by powerful legionaries of the law. In this law of England, if apeer and a peasant fight out a cause the peer has the advantage of thestrength given by accumulated wealth--that is one example of ourmultifarious complexities; but the judge is stronger than eitherlitigant, and it is the inequality personified by the judge that makesthe safety of the peasant. In our ordered state, the strong have forcedthemselves into positions of power; they have decided that thecoarseness of brutish conflict is not to be permitted, and one rulingagency is established which rests on force, and force alone, but whichuses or permits the use of force only in cases of extremity. We knowthat the foundation of all law is martial law, or pure force; we knowthat when a judge says, "You shall be hanged, " the convict feelsresistance useless, for behind the ushers and warders and turnkeys thereare the steel and bullet of the soldier. Thus it appears that even inthe sanctuary of equality--in the law court--the life and efficiency ofthe place depend on the assertion of one superior strength--that is, onthe assertion of inequality. 

If we choose to address each other as "Citizen, " or play any fooleriesof that kind, we make no difference. Citizen Jourdain may go outequipped in complete _carmagnole_, and he may refuse to doff his red capto any dignitary breathing; but all the while Citizen Barras is wieldingthe real power, and Citizen Buonaparte is awaiting his turn in thebackground. All the swagger of equality will avail nothing when CitizenBuonaparte gets his chance; and the very men who talked loudest aboutthe reign of equality are the most ready to bow down and worship thestrong. Instead of ostentatiously proclaiming that one man is as goodas another--and better, we should devote ourselves to finding out whoare our real superiors. When the true man is found he will not standupon petty forms; and no one will demand such punctilios of him. He willtreat his brethren as beings to be aided and directed, he will use hisstrength and his wisdom as gifts for which he must render an account, and the trivialities of etiquette will count as nothing. When the streetorator yells, "Who is our ruler? Is he not flesh and blood like us? Arenot many of us above him?" he may possibly be stating truth. It wouldhave been hard to find any street-lounger more despicable than Bomba ormore foolish than poor Louis XVI; but the method of oratory is purelydestructive, and it will be much more to the purpose if the streetfirebrand gives his audience some definite ideas as to the man who oughtto be chosen as leader. If we have the faculty for recognizing our bestman, all chatter about equalities and inequalities must soon drop intosilence. When the ragged Suwarrow went about among his men and talkedbluffly with the raw recruits, there was no question of equality in anysquad, for the tattered, begrimed man had approved himself the wisest, most audacious, and most king-like of all the host; and he could affordto despise appearances. No soldier ventured to think of taking aliberty; every man reverenced the rough leader who could think and planand dare. Frederick wandered among the camp-fires at night, and sat downwith one group after another of his men. He never dreamed of equality, nor did the rude soldiers. The king was greatest; the men were hiscomrades, and all were bound to serve the Fatherland--the sovereign byoffering sage guidance, the men by following to the death. No company ofmen ever yet did worthy work in the world when the notion of equalitywas tried in practice; and no kind of effort, for evil or for good, evercame to anything so long as those who tried did not recognize the ruleof the strongest or wisest. Even the scoundrel buccaneers of the SpanishMain could not carry on their fiendish trade without sinking the notionof equality, and the simple Quakers, the Society of Friends, with alltheir straitened ideas, have been constantly compelled to recognize onehead of their body, even though they gave him no distinctive title. Ourbusiness is to see that every man has his due as far as possible, andnot more than his due. The superior must perceive what is the degree ofdeference which must be rendered to the inferior; the inferior must putaway envy and covetousness, and must learn to bestow, without servility, reverence and obedience where reverence and obedience may be rightfullyoffered. 

_August, 1888. _

_FRATERNITY_. 

So far as we can see it appears plain that the wish for brotherhood wason the whole reasonable, and its fulfilment easier than the wild desirefor liberty and equality. No doubt Omar and Cromwell and Hoche andDumouriez have chosen in their respective times an odd mode of spreadingthe blessings of fraternity. It is a little harsh to say to a man, "Bemy brother or I will cut your head off;" but we fear that men of thestamp of Mahomet, Cromwell, and the French Jacobins were given tooffering a choice of the alternatives named. Perhaps we may be safe ifwe take the roughness of the mere proselytizers as an evidence ofdefective education; they had a dim perception of a beautiful principle, but they knew of no instrument with which they could carry convictionsave the sword. We, with our better light, can well understand thatbrotherhood should be fostered among men; we are all children of oneFather, and it is fitting that we should reverently acknowledge theuniversal family tie. The Founder of our religion was the earliestpreacher of the divine gospel of pity, and it is to Him that we owe theloveliest and purest conception of brotherhood. He claimed to be theBrother of us all; He showed how we should treat our brethren, and Hecarried His teaching on to the very close of His life. 

So far from talking puerilities about equality, we should all see thatthere are degrees in our vast family; the elder and stronger brethrenare bound to succour the younger and weaker; the young must look up totheir elders; and the Father of all will perhaps preserve peace among usif we only forget our petty selves and look to Him. Alas, it is so hardto forget self! The dullest of us can see how excellent and divine isbrotherhood, if we do assuredly carry out the conception of fraternitythoroughly; but again I say, How hard it is to banish self and followthe teaching of our divine Brother! If we cast our eyes over the worldnow, we may see--perhaps indistinctly--things that might make us weep, were it not that we must needs smile at the childish ways of men. In thevery nation that first chose to put forward the word "fraternity" as oneof the symbols for which men might die we see a strange spectacle. Halfthat nation is brooding incessantly on revenge; half the nation is bentonly on slaying certain brother human beings who happen to live on thenorth and east of a certain river instead of on the south and west. Thehome of the solacing doctrine of fraternity is also the home ofincessant preparations for murder, rapine, bitter and brutal vengeance. About a million of men rise every morning and spend the whole day inpractising so that they may learn to kill people cleverly; hideousinstruments, which must cause devastation, torture, bereavement, andwreck, should they ever be used in earnest, are lovingly handled by menwho hope to see blood flow before long. The Frenchman cannot yet ventureto smite his Teutonic brother, but he will do so when he has the chance;and thus two bands of brethren, who might have dwelt together amicably, may shortly end by inflicting untold agonies on each other. Both nationswhich so savagely await the beginning of a mad struggle are supposed tobe followers of the Brother whose sweet message is read and repeated bynearly all the men who live on our continent, yet they only utter bitterwords and think sullen thoughts, while the more acrid of the twoadversaries is the country which once inscribed "Brotherhood" on itsvery banners. All round the arena wherein the two great peoples defyeach other the nations wait anxiously for the delivery of the firststroke that shall give the signal for wrath and woe; and, strangely, noone can tell which of the onlookers is the more fervent professor of ourMaster's faith. "Let brotherly love continue!"--that was the behest laidon us all; and we manifest our brotherly love by invoking the spirit ofmurder. 

We know what exquisite visions floated around the twelve who firstfounded the Church on the principle of fraternity. No brother was to beleft poor; all were to hold goods in common; every man should work forwhat he could, and receive what he needed; but evil crept in, anddissension and heart-burning, and ever since then the best of our poorbesotted human race have been groping blindly after fraternity andfinding it never. I always deprecate bitter or despondent views, orexaggerating the importance of our feeble race--for, after all, thewhole time during which man has existed on earth is but as a briefswallow-flight compared with the abysmal stretches of eternity; but Iconfess that, when I see the flower of our race trained to becomekillers of men and awaiting the opportunity to exercise their murderousarts I feel a little sick at heart. Even they are compelled to hear thecommands of the lovely gospel of fraternity, and, unless they diequickly in the fury of combat, their last moments are spent in listeningto the same blessed words. It seems so mad and dreamlike that I havefound myself thinking that, despite all our confidence, the world may bebut a phantasmagoria, and ourselves, with our flesh that seems so solid, may be no more than fleeting wraiths. There is no one to rush betweenthe scowling nations, as the poor hermit did between the gladiators inwicked Rome; there is no one to say, "Poor, silly peasant from pleasantFrance, why should you care to stab and torment that other poorflaxen-haired simpleton from Silesia? Your fields await you; if you wereleft to yourselves, then you and the Silesian would be brothers, worshipping like trusting children before the common Father of us all. And now you can find nothing better to do than to do each other todeath!" Like the sanguine creatures who carried out the revolutionarymovements of 1789, 1830, 1848, and 1860, the weak among us are apt tocry out--"Surely the time of fraternity has come at last!" Then, whenthe murderous Empire, or the equally murderous Republic, or the grimmilitary despotism arrives instead of fraternity, the weak ones aresmitten with confusion. I pity them, for a bitterness almost as of deathmust be lived through before one learns that God indeed doeth all thingswell. The poor Revolutionists thought that they must have rapid changes, and their hysterical visions appeared to them like perfectly wise andaccurate glances into the future. They were in a hurry, forgetting thatwe cannot change our marvellous society on a sudden, any more than wecan change a single tissue of our bodies on a sudden--hence theirfrantic hopes and frantic despair. If we gaze coolly round, we see that, in spite of a muttering, threatening France and a watchful Germany, inspite of the huge Russian storm-cloud that lowers heavily over Europe, in spite of the venomous intrigues with which Austria is accredited, there are still cheerful symptoms to be seen, and it may happen that thevery horror of war may at last drive all men to reject it, and declarefor fraternity. Look at that very France which is now so electric withpassion and suspicion, and compare it with the France of long ago. TheGaul now thinks of killing the Teuton; but in the time of the good KingHenry IV. He delighted in slaying his brother Gaul. The race who nowonly care to turn their hands against a rival nation once fought amongthemselves like starving rats in a pit. Even in the most polishedsociety the men used to pick quarrels to fight to the death. In one yearof King Henry's reign nine thousand French gentlemen were killed induels! Bad as we are, we are not likely to return to such a state ofthings as then was seen. The men belonged to one nation, and they oughtto have banded together so that no foreign foe might take advantage ofthem; and yet they chose rather to slaughter each other at the rate ofnearly one hundred and ninety per week. Certainly, so far as France isconcerned, we can see some improvement; for, although the cowardly andabominable practice of duelling is still kept up, only one man waskilled during the past twelve months, instead of nine thousand. InEngland we have had nearly two hundred years of truce from civil wars;in Germany the sections of the populace have at any rate stoppedfighting among themselves; in Italy there are no longer the shamefulfeuds of Guelf and Ghibelline. It would seem, then, that civil strife ispassing away, and that countries which were once the prey ofbloodthirsty contending factions are now at least peaceful within theirown borders. 

If we reason from small things to great, we see that the squabblingnests of murderers, or would-be murderers, who peopled France, England, Germany, Austria, and Italy have given way to compact nations whichenjoy unbroken internal peace. The struggles of business go on; the weakare trampled under foot in the mad rush of the cities of men, but theactual infliction of pain and death is not now dreamed of by Frenchmanagainst Frenchman or German against German. We must remember that therenever was so deadly and murderous a spirit displayed as during theThirty Years' War, and yet the peoples who then wrestled and throttledeach other are now peaceful under the same yoke. May we not trust that atime will come when nations will see on a sudden the blank folly ofmaking war? Day by day the pressure of armaments is growing greater, andwe may almost hope that the very fiendish nature of modern weapons maybring about a blessed _reductio ad absurdum_, and leave war as a thingludicrous, and not to be contemplated by sane men! I find one gunspecially advertised in our Christian country, and warranted to kill asmany men in one minute as two companies of infantry could in five! Whatwill be the effect of the general introduction of this delightfulweapon? No force can possibly stand before it; no armour or works cankeep out the hail of its bullets. Supposing, then, that benevolentscience goes on improving the means of slaughter, must there not come atime when people will utterly refuse to continue the mad and miserablefolly of war? Over the whole of Britain we may find even now the marksof cannon-shot discharged by Englishmen against the castles of otherEnglishmen. Is there one man in Britain who can at this present momentbring his imagination to conceive such an occurrence as an artilleryfight between bodies of Englishmen? It is almost too absurd to be namedeven as a casual supposition. So far has fraternity spread. Now, if wego on perfecting dynamite shells which can destroy one thousand men byone explosion; if we increase the range of our guns from twelve miles totwenty, and fight our pieces according to directions signalled from aballoon, we shall be going the very best way to make all men rise withone spasm of disgust, and say, "No more of this!"

We cannot hope to do away with evil speaking, with verbal quarrelling, with mean grasping of benefits from less fortunate brethren. Alas, thereign of brotherhood will be long in eradicating the primeval combativeinstinct; but, when we compare the quiet urbanity of a modern gatheringwith the loud and senseless brawling which so often resulted from socialassemblies even at the beginning of this century we may take some heartand hope on for the best. Our Lord had a clear vision of a time whenbitterness and evil-doing should cease, and His words are more than ashadowy prediction. The fact is that, in striving gradually to introducethe third of the conditions of life craved by the poor feather-wittedFrenchmen, the nations have a comparatively easy task. We cannot haveequality, physical conditions having too much to do with giving thepowers and accomplishments of men; we can only claim liberty under thesupreme guidance of our Creator; but fraternity is quite a possibleconsummation. Our greatest hero held it as the Englishman's first dutyto hate a Frenchman as he hated the Devil; now that mad and cankeredfeeling has passed away, and why should not the spread of common sense, common honesty, bring us at last to see that our fellow-man is betterwhen regarded as a brother than as a possible assassin or thief?

Our corporate life and progress as nations, or even as a race of God'screatures, is much like the life and progress of the individual. Thechildren of men stumble often, fall often, despair often, and yet thegreat universal movement goes on, and even the degeneracy which mustalways go on side by side with progress does not appreciably stay ouradvance. The individual man cannot walk even twenty steps withoutactually saving himself by a balancing movement from twenty falls. Everystep tends to become an ignominious tumble, and yet our poor body mayvery easily move at the rate of four miles per hour, and we gain ourdestinations daily. The human race, in spite of many slips, will go onprogressing towards good--that is, towards kindness--that is, towardsfraternity--that is, towards the gospel, which at present seems sowildly and criminally neglected. The mild and innocent AnarcharsisClootz, who made his way over the continent of Europe, and who came toour little island, in his day always believed that the time for thefederation of mankind would come. Poor fellow--he died under themurderous knife of the guillotine and did little to further hisbeautiful project! He was esteemed a harmless lunatic; yet, notwithstanding the twelve millions of armed men who trample Europe, Ido not think that Clootz was quite a lunatic after all. Moreover, allmen know that right must prevail, and they know also that there is not ahuman being on earth who does not believe by intuition that the gospelof brotherhood is right, even as the life of its propounder was holy. The way is weary toward the quarter where the rays of dawn will firstbreak over the shoulder of the earth. We walk on hoping, and, even if wefall by the way, and all our hopes seem to be tardy of fruition, yetothers will hail the slow dawn of brotherhood when all now living aredead and still. 

_September, 1888. _

_LITTLE WARS_. 

Just at this present our troops are engaged in fighting various savagetribes in various parts of the world, and the humorous journalist speaksof the affairs as "little wars. " There is something rather gruesome inthis airy flippancy proceeding from comfortable gentlemen who are innice studies at home. The Burmese force fights, marches, toils in anatmosphere which would cause some of the airy critics to faint; theThibetan force must do as much climbing as would satisfy the averageAlpine performer; and all the soldiers carry their lives in their hands. What is a little war? Is any war little to a man who loses his life init? I imagine that when a wounded fighter comes to face his last hour heregards the particular war in which he is engaged as quite the mostmomentous affair in the world so far as he is concerned. To me the wholespectacle of the little wars is most grave, both as regards the nationand as regards the individual Britons who must suffer and fall. Ourdestiny is heavy upon us; we must "dree our weirde, " for we have begunwalking on the road of conquest, and we must go forward or die. The manwho has the wolf by the ears cannot let go his hold; we cannot slackenour grip on anything that once we have clutched. But it is terrible tosee how we are bleeding at the extremities. I cannot give the figuresdetailing our losses in little wars during the past forty years, butthey are far worse than we incurred in the world-shaking fight ofWaterloo. Incessantly the drip, drip of national blood-shedding goes on, and no end seems to be gained, save the grim consciousness that we mustsuffer and never flinch. The graves of our best and dearest--our hardyloved ones--are scattered over the ends of the earth, and the littlewars are answerable for all. England, in her blundering, half-articulatefashion, answers, "Yes, they had to die; their mother asked for theirblood, and they gave it. " So then from scores of punctures thelife-blood of the mother of nations drops, and each new bloodshed leadsto yet further bloodshed, until the deadly series looks endless. We sentBurnes to Cabul, and we betrayed him in the most dastardly way by themouth of a Minister. England, the great mother, was not answerable forthat most unholy of crimes; it was the talking men, the glib Parliamentcowards. Burnes was cut to pieces and an army lost. Crime brings forthcrime, and thus we had to butcher more Afghans. Every inch of India hasbeen bought in the same way; one war wins territory which must besecured by another war, and thus the inexorable game is played on. InAfrica we have fared in the same way, and thus from many veins the redstream is drained, and yet the proud heart of the mother continues tobeat strongly. It is so hard for men to die; it is as hard for the Zuluand the Afghan and the Ghoorka as it is for the civilized man, and thatis why I wish it were Britain's fortune to be allowed to cease from theshedding of blood. If the corpses of the barbarians whom we havedestroyed within the past ten years could only be laid out in any openspace and shown to our populace, there would be a shudder of horror feltthrough the country; yet, while the sweet bells chime to us about peaceand goodwill, we go on sending myriads of men out of life, and thenation pays no more heed to that steady ruthless killing than it does tothe slaughter of oxen. Alas!

Then, if we think of the lot of those who fight for us and slaughter ourhapless enemies by deputy as it were, their luck seems very hard. Whenthe steady lines moved up the Alma slope and the men were dropping sofast, the soldiers knew that they were performing their parts as in avast theatre; their country would learn the story of their deed, and thefeats of individuals would be amply recorded. But, when a man spendsmonths in a far-off rocky country, fighting day after day, watchingnight after night, and knowing that at any moment the bullet of aprowling Ghilzai or Afridi may strike him, he has very littleconsolation indeed. When one comes to think of the matter from thehumorous point of view--though there is more grim fact than fun init--it does seem odd that we should be compelled to spend two thousandpounds on an officer's education, and then send him where he may bewiped out of the world in an instant by a savage little above the levelof the Bushman. I pity the poor savages, but I certainly pity therefined and highly-trained English soldier more. The latest and mostdelightful of our Anglo-Indians has put the matter admirably in versewhich carries a sting even amidst its pathos. He calls his verses"Arithmetic on the Frontier. "

 A great and glorious thing it is To learn for seven years or so The Lord knows what of that or this, Ere reckoned fit to face the foe, The flying bullet down the pass, That whistles clear, "All flesh is grass. "

 Three hundred pounds per annum spent On making brain and body meeter For all the murderous intent Comprised in villainous saltpetre! And after--ask the Yusufzaies What comes of all our 'ologies. 

 A scrimmage in a border station, A canter down some dark defile-- Two thousand pounds of education Drops to a ten-rupee jezail! The crammer's boast, the squadron's pride Shot like a rabbit in a ride. 

 No proposition Euclid wrote, No formulae the text-book know, Will turn the bullet from your coat Or ward the tulwar's downward blow; Strike hard who cares--shoot straight who can-- The odds are on the cheaper man. 

 One sword-knot stolen from the camp Will pay for all the school expenses Of any Kurrum Valley scamp Who knows no word of moods and tenses, But, being blessed with perfect sight, Picks off our messmates left and right. 

 With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem; The troop-ships bring us one by one, At vast expense of time and steam, To slay Afridis where they run. The captives of our bow and spear Are cheap, alas, as we are dear!

There is a world of meaning in those half-sad, half-smiling lines, andmany an hour-long discourse might fail to throw more lurid light on oneof the strangest historical problems in the world. The flower ofEngland's manhood must needs go; and our most brilliant scholars, ourboldest riders, our most perfect specimens of physical humanity droplike rabbits to the fire of half-naked savages! The bright boy, the heroof school and college, the brisk, active officer, passes away intoobscurity. The mother weeps--perhaps some one nearer and dearer than allis stricken: but the dead Englishman's name vanishes from memory like afleck of haze on the side of the valley where he sleeps. England--cold, inexorable, indifferent--has other sons to take the dead man's place andperhaps share his obscurity; and the doomed host of fair gallant youthsmoves forward ever in serried, fearless lines towards the shadows. Thatis what it costs to be a mighty nation. It is sorrowful to think of thesacrificed men--sacrificed to fulfil England's imposing destiny; it issorrowful to think of the mourners who cannot even see their darling'sgrave; yet there is something grandiose and almost morbidly impressivein the attitude of Britain. She waves her imperial hand and says, "Seewhat my place in the world is! My bravest, my most skilful, may die in afight that is no more than a scuffling brawl; they go down to the dustof death unknown, but the others come on unflinching. It is hard that Ishould part with my precious sons in mean warfare, but the fates willhave it so, and I am equal to the call of fate. " Thus the sovereignnation. Those who have no very pompous notions are willing to recognizethe savage grandeur of our advance; but I cannot help thinking of thelonely graves, the rich lives squandered, the reckless casting away ofhuman life, which are involved in carrying out our mysterious mission inthe great peninsula. Our graves are spread thickly over the deadlyplains; our brightest and best toil and suffer and die, and they havehardly so much as a stone to mark their sleeping-place; our blood haswatered those awful stretches from the Himalayas to Comorin, and we maycall Hindostan the graveyard of Britain's noblest. People who see onlythe grizzled veterans who lounge away their days at Cheltenham orBrighton think that the fighting trade must be a very nice one afterall. To retire at fifty with a thousand a year is very pleasant nodoubt; but then every one of those war-worn gentlemen who returns totake his ease represents a score who have perished in fights asundignified as a street brawl. "More legions!" said Varus; "Morelegions!" says England; and our regiments depart without any manthinking of _Morituri te salittant!_ Yes; that phrase might well be inthe mind of every British man who fares down the Red Sea and enters theIndian furnace. Those about to die, salute thee, O England, our mother!Is it worth while? Sometimes I have my doubts. Moreover, I never talkwith one of our impassive, masterful Anglo-Indians without feeling sorrythat their splendid capacities should be so often cast into darkness, and their fame confined to the gossip of a clump of bungalows. Verilyour little wars use up an immense quantity of raw material in the shapeof intellect and power. A man whose culture is far beyond that of themouthing politicians at home and whose statesmanship is not to becompared to the ignorant crudities of the pigmies who strut and fret onthe English party stage--this man spends great part of a lifetime inruling and fighting; he gives every force of a great intellect and willto his labours, and he achieves definite and beneficent practicalresults; yet his name is never mentioned in England, and any vulgarvestryman would probably outweigh him in the eyes of the populace. Carlyle says that we should despise fame. "Do your work, " observes thesage, "and never mind the rest. When your duty is done, no furtherconcern rests with you. " And then the aged thinker goes on to snarl atpuny creatures who are not content to be unknown. Well, that is all verystoical and very grand, and so forth; but Carlyle forgot human nature. He himself raged and gnashed his teeth because the world neglected him, and I must with every humility ask forgiveness of his _manes_ if Iexpress some commiseration for the unknown braves who perish in ourlittle wars. Our callousness as individuals can hardly be called lordly, though the results are majestic; we accept supreme services, and weaccept the supreme sacrifice (Skin for skin: all that a man hath will hegive for his life), and we very rarely think fit to growl forth a chanceword of thanks. Luckily our splendid men are not very importunate, andmost of them accept with silent humour the neglect which befalls them. An old fighting general once remarked, "These fellows are in luck sincethe telegraph and the correspondents have been at work. We weren't sofortunate in my day. I went through the Crimea and the Mutiny, and therewas yet another affair in 1863 that was hotter than either, so far asclose fighting and proportional losses of troops were concerned. Aforce of three thousand was sent against the Afghans, and they nevergave us much rest night or day. They seemed determined to give theirlives away, and they wouldn't be denied. I've seen them come on and grabat the muzzles of the rifles. We did a lot of fighting behind roughbreastworks, but sometimes they would rush us then. We lost thirtyofficers out of thirty-four before we were finished. Well, when I camehome and went about among the clubs, the fellows used to say to me, 'What was this affair of yours up in the hills? We had no particularsexcept the fact that you were fighting. ' And that expedition cost tentimes as many men as your Egyptian one, besides causing six weeks ofalmost constant fighting; yet not a newspaper had a word to say aboutit! We never grumbled much--it was all in the day's work; but it showshow men's luck varies. "

There spoke the old fighter, "Duty first, and take your chance of therest. " True; but could not one almost wish that those forlorn heroes whosaved our frontier from savage hordes might have gained just a little ofthat praise so dear to the frivolous mind of man? It was not to be; thedead men's bones have long ago sunk into the kindly earth, the windflows down the valleys, and the fighters sleep in the unknown glens andon far-distant hillsides with no record save the curt clerk's mark inthe regimental list--"Dead. "

When I hear the merry pressman chatting about little wars and proudlylooking down on "mere skirmishes, " I cannot restrain a movement ofimpatience. Are our few dead not to be considered because they were few?Supposing they had swarmed forward in some great battle of the West anddied with thousands of others amid the hurricane music of hundreds ofguns, would the magnitude of the battle make any difference?

Honour to those who risk life and limb for England; honour to them, whether they die amid loud battle or in the far-away dimness of a littlewar!

_September, 1888. _

_THE BRITISH FESTIVAL_. 

Again and again I have talked about the delights of leisure, and Ialways advise worn worldlings to renew their youth and gain fresh ideasamid the blessed calm of the fields and the trees. But I lately watchedan immense procession of holiday-makers travelling mile after mile inlong-drawn sequence--and the study caused me to have many thoughts. There was no mistake about the intentions of the vast mob. They startedwith a steadfast resolution to be jolly--and they kept to theirresolution so long as they were coherent of mind. It was a strangesight--a population probably equal to half that of Scotland all plungedinto a sort of delirium and nearly all forgetting the serious side oflife. As I gazed on the frantic assembly, I wondered how the Englishever came to be considered a grave solid nation; I wondered, moreover, how a great percentage of men representing a nation of conquerors, explorers, administrators, inventors, should on a sudden decide to gomad for a day. Perhaps, after all, the catchword "Merry England" meantreally "Mad England"; perhaps the good days which men mourned for afterthe grim shade of Puritanism came over the country were neither more norless than periods of wild orgies; perhaps we have reason to be thankfulthat the national carnivals do not now occur very often. Our ancestorshad a very peculiar idea of what constituted a merry-making, and thereare many things in ancient art and literature which tempt us to fancythat a certain crudity distinguished the festivals of ancient days; butstill the latter-day frolic in all its monstrous proportions is not tobe studied by a philosophic observer without profoundly moving thoughtsarising. As I gazed on the endless flow of travellers, I could hardlyhelp wondering how the mob would conduct themselves during any greatsocial convulsion. Some gushing persons talk about the good humour andorderliness of the British crowd. Well, I allow that the better class ofholiday-makers exhibit a kind of rough good nature; but, whenever"sport" is in question, we find that a certain class come to thefront--a class who are not genial or merry, but purely lawless. Whilethe huge carnival is in progress during one delirious day, we have achance of seeing in a mild form what would happen if a complete nationaldisaster caused society to become fundamentally disordered. The beastsof prey come forth from their lairs, the most elementary rules ofconduct are forgotten or bluntly disregarded, and the law-abidingcitizen may see robbery and violence carried on in broad daylight. Insome cases it happens that organized bands of thieves rob one man afteranother with a brutal effrontery which quite shames the minor abilitiesof Macedonian or Calabrian brigands. Forty or fifty consummatescoundrels work in concert; and it often happens that even thebetting-men are seized, raised from the ground, and shaken until theirmoney falls and is scrambled for by eager rascaldom. Wherever there Issport the predatory animals flock together; and I thought, when last Isaw the crew, "If a foreign army were in movement against England and apanic arose, there would be little mercy for quiet citizens. " On a hastycomputation, I should say that an ordinary Derby Day brings together anarmy of wastrels and criminals strong enough to sack London if once theinitial impetus were given; and who can say what blind chance may supplythat impetus even in our day? There is not so much sheer foulnessnowadays as there used to be; the Yahoo element--male and female--is notobtrusive; and it is even possible for a lady to remain in certainquarters of the mighty Downs without being offended in any way. Ourgrandfathers--and our fathers, for that matter--had a somewhat acridconception of humour, and the offscourings of the city ministered tothis peculiar humorous sense in a singular way. But a leaven ofpropriety has now crept in, and the evil beings who were wont to pollutethe sweet air preserve some moderate measure of seemliness. I am willingto welcome every sign of improving manners; and yet I must say that thegreat British Festival is a sorry and even horrible spectacle. What isthe net result or purpose of the whole display? Cheery scribes babbleabout "Isthmian games" and the glorious air of the Surrey hills, andthey try to put on a sort of jollity and semblance of well-being; butthe sham is a poor one, and the laughing hypocrites know in their heartsthat the vast gathering of people means merely waste, idleness, thievery, villainy, vice of all kinds--and there is next to nocompensation for the horrors which are crowded together. I would fainpick out anything good from the whole wild spectacle; but I cannot, andso give up the attempt with a sort of sick despair. There is somethingrather pleasant in the sight of a merry lad who attends his first Derby, for he sees only the vivid rush and movement of crowds; but to aseasoned observer and thinker the tremendous panorama gives suggestionsonly of evil. I hardly have patience to consider the fulsome talk of thewriters who print insincerities by the column year by year. They knowthat the business is evil, and yet they persist in speaking as if therewere some magic influence in the reeking crowd which, they declare, gives health and tone to body and mind. The dawdling parties who lunchon the Hill derive no particular harm; but then how they waste money andtime! Plunderers of all sorts flourish in a species of blind whirl ofknavery; but no worthy person derives any good from the cruel waste ofmoney and strength and energy. The writers know all this, and yet theygo on turning out their sham cordiality, sham congratulations, shamjustifications; while any of us who know thoroughly the misery andmental death and ruin of souls brought on by racing and gambling arelabelled as un-English or churlish or something of the kind. Why shouldwe be called churlish? Is it not true that a million of men and womenwaste a day on a pursuit which brings them into contact with filthyintemperance, stupid debauch, unspeakable coarseness? The eruptivesportsman tells us that the sight of a good man on a good horse shouldstir every manly impulse in a Briton. What rubbish! What manliness canthere be in watching a poor baby-colt flogged along by a dwarf? If oneis placed at some distance from the course, then one may find theglitter of the pretty silk jackets pleasing; but, should one chance tobe near enough to see what is termed "an exciting finish, " one'sgeneral conception of the manliness of racing may be modified. From afaroff the movement of the jockeys' whip-hands is no more suggestive thanthe movement of a windmill's sails; but, when one hears the "flack, flack" of the whalebone and sees the wales rise on the dainty skin ofthe immature horse, one does not feel quite joyous or manly. I have seena long lean creature reach back with his right leg and keep on jobbingwith the spur for nearly four hundred yards of a swift finish; I sawanother manikin lash a good horse until the animal fairly curved itsback in agony and writhed its head on one side so violently that themanly sporting-men called it an ungenerous brute. Where does the funcome in for the onlookers? There is one good old thoroughbred whichremembers a fearful flogging that he received twenty-two years ago; ifhe hears the voice of the man who lashed him, he sweats profusely, andtrembles so much that he is like to fall down. How is the breed ofhorses directly improved by that kind of sport? No; the thousands ofwastrels who squander the day and render themselves unsettled and idlefor a week are not thinking of horses or of taking a healthy outing;they are obeying an unhealthy gregarious instinct which in certaincircumstances makes men show clear signs of acute mania. If we look atthe unadulterated absurdity of the affair, we may almost be tempted torage like Carlyle or Swift. For weeks there are millions of people whotalk of little else save the doings of useless dumb animals which canperform no work in the world and which at best are beautiful toys. Whenthe thoroughbreds actually engage in their contest, there is no man ofall the imposing multitude who can see them gallop for more than aboutthirty seconds; the last rush home is seen only by the interestingmortals who are on the great stand; and the entire performance whichinterests some persons for a year is all over in less than threeminutes. This is the game on which Englishmen lavish wild hopes, keenattention, and good money--this is the sport of kings which gluts thepockets of greedy knaves! A vast city--nay, a vast empire--is partiallydisorganized for a day in order that some dwarfish boys may be seenflogging immature horses during a certain number of seconds, and welearn that there is something "English, " and even chivalrous, in thefoolish wastrel proceedings. 

My conceptions of English virtues are probably rudimentary; but I quitefail to discover where the "nobility" of horse-racing and racecoursepicnicing appears. My notion of "nobility" belongs to a bygone time; andI was gratified by hearing of one very noble deed at the moment when theflashy howling mob were trooping forward to that great debauch whichtakes place around the Derby racecourse. A great steamer was flying overa Southern sea, and the sharks were showing their fins and prowlingaround with evil eyes. The _Rimutaka_ spun on her way, and all theship's company were cheerful and careless. Suddenly a poor crazy womansprang over the side and was drifted away by a surface-current; whilethe irresistible rush of the steamer could not of course be easilystayed. A good Englishman--honour for ever to his name!--jumped into thewater, swam a quarter of a mile, and, by heaven's grace, escaped thewicked sea-tigers and saved the unhappy distraught woman. That man'sname is Cavell: and I think of "nobility" in connection with him, andnot in connection with the manikins who rush over Epsom Downs. 

I like to give a thought to the nobility of those men who guard and rulea mighty empire; but I think very little of the creatures who merelyconsume food and remain at home in rascally security. What a farce totalk of encouraging "athletics"! The poor manikin who gets up on a raceris not an athlete in any rational sense of the term. He is a wiryemaciated being whose little muscles are strung like whipcord; but it isstrange to dignify him as an athlete. If he once rises above nine stonein weight, his life becomes a sort of martyrdom; but, abstemious andself-contained as he is, we can hardly give him the name which means somuch to all healthy Englishmen. For some time each day the wondrousspecimen of manhood must stew in a Turkish bath or between blankets; hetramps for miles daily if his feet keep sound; he starts at five in themorning and perhaps rides a trial or two; then he takes his weak tea andtoast, then exercise or sweating; then comes his stinted meal; and thenhe starves until night. To call such a famished lean fellow a followerof "noble" sport is too much. Other British men deny themselves; butthen think of the circumstances! Far away among the sea of mountains onour Indian frontier a gallant Englishman remains in charge of his lonelystation; his Pathans or Ghoorkas are fine fellows, and perhaps somebrave old warrior will use the privilege of age and stroll in to chatrespectfully to the Sahib. But it is all lonely--drearily lonely. Themountain partridge may churr at sunrise and sundown; the wily crows mayplay out their odd life-drama daily; the mountain winds may rushroaring through the gullies until the village women say they can hearthe hoofs of the brigadier's horse. But what are these desert sounds andsights for the laboriously-cultured officer? His nearest comrade ismiles off; his spirit must dwell alone. And yet such men hang on attheir dreary toil; and who can ever hear them complain, save in theirsemi-humorous letters to friends at home? They often carry their livesin their hands; but they can only hope to rest unknown if the chancegoes against them. I call those men noble. There are no excitedthousands for them to figure before; they scarcely have the honour ofmention in a despatch; but they go on in grim silence, working out theirown destiny and the destiny of this colossal empire. When I compare themwith the bold sportsmen, I feel something like disgust. The realhigh-hearted heroes do not crave rewards--if they did, they would reapvery little. The bold man who risked everything to save the _Calliope_will never earn as much in a year as a horse-riding manikin can in twomonths. That is the way we encourage our finest merit. And meantime atthe "Isthmian games" the hordes of scoundreldom who dwell at ease canenjoy themselves to their hearts' content in their own dreadful way;they break out in their usual riot of foulness; they degrade the shapeof man; and the burly moralists look on robustly, and say that it isgood. 

I never think of the great British carnival without feeling that thedregs of that ugly crowd will one day make history in a fashion whichwill set the world shuddering. I have no pity for ruined gamblers; but Iam indignant when we see the worst of human kind luxuriating inabominable idleness and luxury on the foul fringe of the hatefulracecourse. No sumptuary law will ever make any inroad on the cruelevil; and my feeling is one of sombre hopelessness. 

_July, 1889. _

_SEASONABLE NONSENSE_. 

The most hard-hearted of cynics must pity the poor daily journalist whois calmly requested nowadays to produce a Christmas article. For my ownpart I decline to meddle with holly and jollity and general goodwill, and I have again and again protested against the insane Beggars'Carnival which breaks out yearly towards the beginning of December. Aman may be pleased enough to hear his neighbour express goodwill, but hedoes not want his neighbour's hand held forth to grasp our Westernequivalent for "backsheesh. " In Egypt the screeching Arabs make lifemiserable with their ceaseless dismal yell, "_Backsheesh, Howaji!_" Theaverage British citizen is also hailed with importunate cries which arenone the less piercing and annoying from the fact that they aretranslated into black and white. The ignoble frivolity of the swarmingcirculars, the obvious insincerity of the newspaper appeals, thehouse-to-house calls, tend steadily to vulgarize an ancient and abeautiful institution, and alienate the hearts of kindly people who donot happen to be abject simpletons. The outbreak of kindness issometimes genuine on the part of the donors; but it is often merelysurface-kindness, and the gifts are bestowed in a bitter and grudgingspirit. Let me ask, What are the real feelings of a householder who isrequested to hand out a present to a turncock or dustman whom he hasnever seen? The functionaries receive fair wages for unskilled labour, yet they come smirking cheerfully forward and prefer a claim which hasno shadow of justification. If a flower-seller is rather too importunatein offering her wares, she is promptly imprisoned for seven days orfined; if a costermonger halts for a few minutes in a thoroughfare andcries his goods, his stock maybe confiscated; yet the privilegedChristmas mendicant may actually proceed to insolence if his claims areignored; and the meek Briton submits to the insult. I cannotsufficiently deplore the progress of this spirit of beggardom, for it isacting and reacting in every direction all over the country. Long ago welamented the decay of manly independence among the fishermen of thoseEast Coast ports which have become watering-places. Big bearded fellowswhose fathers would have stared indignantly at the offer of a gratuityare ready to hold out their hands and touch their caps to the mostvulgar dandy that ever swaggered. To any one who knew and loved thewhole breed of seamen and fishermen, a walk along Yarmouth sands inSeptember is among the most purely depressing experiences in life. Butthe demoralization of the seaside population is not so distressing asthat of the general population in great cities. We all know AdamBede--the very finest portrait of the old-fashioned workman ever done. If George Eliot had represented Adam as touching his cap for a sixpence, we should have gasped with surprise at the incongruity. Can we imaginean old-world stonemason like Hugh Miller begging coppers from a farmeron whose steading he happened to be employed? The thing ispreposterous! But now a strong London artizan will coolly ask for hisgratuity just as if he were a mere link-boy!

It is pleasant to turn to kindlier themes; it is pleasant to think ofthe legitimate rejoicings and kindnesses in which the most staid of usmay indulge. Far be it from me to emulate the crabbed person whoproposed to form a "Society for the Abolition of Christmas. " The eventto be commemorated is by far the greatest in the history of our planet;all others become hardly worthy of mention when we think of it; andnothing more momentous can happen until the last catastrophe, when achilled and tideless earth shall roll through space, and when no memoryshall remain of the petty creatures who for a brief moment disturbed itssurface. The might of the Empire of Rome brooded over the fairestportions of the known world, and it seemed as though nothing could shakethat colossal power; the pettiest officer of the Imperial staff was ofmore importance than all the natives of Syria; and yet we see that thefabric of Roman rule has passed away like a vision, while the faithtaught by a band of poor Syrian men has mastered the minds of thestrongest nations in the world. The poor disciples whom the Master leftbecame apostles; footsore and weary they wandered--they were scorned andimprisoned and tortured until the last man of them had passed away. Their work has subdued princes and empires, and the bells that ring outon Christmas Eve remind us not only of the most tremendous occurrence inhistory, but of the deeds of a few humble souls who conquered the fearof death and who resigned the world in order that the children of theworld might be made better. A tremendous Event truly! We are far, faraway from the ideal, it is true; and some of us may feel a thrill ofsick despair when we think of what the sects have done and what theyhave not done--it all seems so slow, so hopeless, and the powers of evilassert themselves ever and again with such hideous force. Some withdrawthemselves to fierce isolation; some remain in the world, mocking theways of men and treating all life as an ugly jest; some refuse to thinkat all, and drag themselves into oblivion; while some take one franticsudden step and leave the world altogether by help of bullet or barebodkin. A man of light mind who endeavoured to reconcile all the thingssuggested to him by the coming of Christmas would probably becomedemented if he bent his entire intellect to solve the puzzles. Thousands--millions--of books have been written about the Christiantheology, and half of European mankind cannot claim to have any fixedand certain belief which leads to right conduct. Some of the noblest andsweetest souls on earth have given way to chill hopelessness, and only avery bold or a very thick-sighted man could blame them; we must betender towards all who are perplexed, especially when we see howterrible are the reasons for perplexity. Nevertheless, dark as theoutlook may be in many directions, men are slowly coming to see that theservice of God is the destruction of enmity, and that the religion oftenderness and pity alone can give happiness during our dark pilgrimage. 

Far back in last winter a man was forcing his way across a dreary marshin the very teeth of a wind that seemed to catch his throat in an icygrip, stopping the breath at intervals and chilling the very heart. Coldly the grey breakers rolled under the hard lowering sky; coldly thewestern light flickered on the iron slopes of far-off hills; coldly thelast beams struck on the water and made chance wavelets flash with aterrible glitter. The night rushed down, and the snow descendedfiercely; the terrified cattle tried to find shelter from the scourge ofthe storm; a hollow roar rang sullenly amid the darkness; straysea-birds far overhead called weirdly, and it seemed as if the spirit ofevil were abroad in the night. In darkness the man fought onward, thinking of the unhappy wretches who sometimes lie down on the snow andlet the final numbness seize their hearts. Then came a friendlyshout--then lights--and then the glow of warmth that filled a broad roomwith pleasantness. All the night long the mad gusts tore at the wallsand made them vibrate; all night the terrible music rose into shrieksand died away in low moaning, and ever the savage boom of the waves madea vast under-song. Then came visions of the mournful sea that we allknow so well, and the traveller thought of the honest fellows who mustspend their Christmas-time amid warring forces that make the works ofman seem puny. What a picture that is--The Toilers of the Sea in Winter!Christmas Eve comes with no joyous jangling of bells; the sun stoops tothe sea, glaring lividly through whirls of snow, and the vessel roarsthrough the water; black billows rush on until their crests topple intoruin, and then the boiling white water shines fitfully like some strangelambent flame; the breeze sings hoarsely among the cordage; the wholesurface flood plunges on as if some immense cataract must soon appearafter the rapids are passed. Every sea that the vessel shatters sendsup a flying waterspout; and the frost acts with amazing suddenness, sothat the spars, the rigging, and the deck gather layer after layer ofice. Supposing the vessel is employed in fishing, then the men in theforecastle crouch round the little fire, or shiver on their soaked beds, and perhaps growl out a few words of more or less cheerful talk. Staywith the helmsman, and you may know what the mystery and horror of uttergloom are really like. There is danger everywhere--a sudden wave mayburst the deck or heave the vessel down on her side; a huge dim cloudmay start shapelessly from the murk, and, before a word of warning canbe uttered, a great ship may crash into the labouring craft. In thatcase hope is gone, for the boat is bedded in a mass of ice and all thedoomed seamen must take the deadly plunge to eternity. Ah, think ofthis, you who rest in the glow of beautiful homes! Then the morning--thegrey desolation! No words can fairly picture the utter cheerlessness ofa wintry dawn at sea. The bravest of men feel something like depressionor are pursued by cruel apprehensions. The solid masses of ice havegripped every block, and the ropes will not run; the gaunt masts standup like pallid ghosts in the grey light, and still the volleys of snowdescend at intervals. All the ships seem to be cowering away, scared andbeaten; even the staunch sea-gulls have taken refuge in fields and quietrivers; and only the seamen have no escape. The mournful red stretchesof the Asiatic deserts are wild enough, but there are warmth andmarvellous light, and those who well know the moaning wastes say thattheir fascination sinks on the soul. The wintry sea has nofascination--no consolation; it is hungry, inhospitable--sometimeshorrible. But even there Christ walks the waters in spirit. In anordinary vessel the rudest seaman is made to think of the great day, and, even if he goes on grumbling and swearing on the morrow, he is aptto be softened and slightly subdued for one day at least. The fishermenon the wild North Sea are cared for, and merry scenes are to bewitnessed even when landsmen might shudder in terror. Certain gallantcraft, like strong yachts, glide about among the plunging smacks; eachof the yachts has a brave blue flag at the masthead, and the vessels areladen with kindly tokens from thousands of gentle souls on shore. Surelythere is no irreverence in saying that the Master walks the waters tothis day?

We Britons must of course express some of our emotions by eating anddrinking freely. No political party can pretend to adjust the affairs ofthe Empire until the best-advertised members have met together at adinner-table; no prominent man can be regarded as having achieved thehighest work in politics, or art, or literature, or histrionics, untilhe has been delicately fed in company with a large number of brothermortals; and no anniversary can possibly be celebrated without animmense consumption of eatables and drinkables. The rough men of theNorth Sea have the national instinct, and their mode of recognizing thefestive season is quite up to the national standard. The North Seafisherman would not nowadays approve of the punch-bowls and ancient alewhich Dickens loved so much to praise, for he is given to the mostsevere forms of abstinence; but it is a noble sight when he proceeds toshow what he can do in the way of Christmas dining. If he is one of thesharers in a parcel from on shore, he is fortunate, for he may possiblypartake of a pudding which might be thrown over the masthead withoutremaining whole after its fall on deck; but it matters little if he hasno daintily-prepared provender. Jack Fisherman seats himself on a box oron the floor of the cabin; he produces his clasp-knife and prepares foraction. When his huge tin dish is piled with a miscellaneous assortmentof edibles, it presents a spectacle which might make all Bath andMatlock and Royat and Homburg shudder; but the seaman, despising themiserable luxuries of fork and spoon, attacks the amazing conglomerationwith enthusiasm. His Christmas pudding may resemble any geologicalformation that you like to name, and it may be unaccountably allied witha perplexing maze of cabbage and potatoes--nothing matters. Christmasmust be kept up, and the vast lurches of the vessel from sea to sea donot at all disturb the fine equanimity of the fellows who are bent onsolemnly testifying, by gastronomic evidence, to the loyalty with whichChristmas is celebrated among orthodox Englishmen. The poor lads toilhard, live hard, and they certainly feed hard; but, with all duerespect, it must be said also that they mostly pray hard; and, if anyone of the cynical division had been among the seamen during that awfultime five years ago, he would have seen that among the sea-toilers atleast the "glad" season is glad in something more than name--for thegladness is serious. Sights of the same kind may be seen on great shipsthat are careering over the myriad waterways that net the surface of theglobe; the smart man-of-war, the great liner, the slow deep-ladenbarque toiling wearily round the Horn, are all manned by crews that keepup the aged tradition more or less merrily; and woe betide the cook thatfails in his duty! That lost man's fate may be left to the eye ofimagination. Under the Southern Cross the fair summer weather glows; butthe good Colonists have their little rejoicings without the orthodoxadjuncts of snow and frozen fingers and iron roads. Far up in the bushthe men remember to make some kind of rude attempt at improvisingChristmas rites, and memories of the old country are present with many agood fellow who is facing his first hard luck. But the climate makes nodifference; and, apart from all religious considerations, there is nosocial event that so draws together the sympathies of the whole Englishrace all over the world. 

At Nainee Tal, or any other of our stations in our wondrous Indianpossession, the day is kept. Alas, how dreary it is for the hearts thatare craving for home! The moon rises through the majestic arch of thesky and makes the tamarisk-trees gorgeous; the warm air flows gently;the dancers float round to the wild waltz-rhythm; and the imitation ofhome is kept up with zeal by the stout general, the grave and scholarlyjudge, the fresh subaltern, and by all the bright ladies who are inexile. But even these think of the quiet churches in sweet Englishplaces; they think of the purple hedges, the sharp scent of frost-bittenfields, the glossy black ice, and the hissing ring of the skates. I knowthat, religiously as Christmas is kept up even on the frontier in India, the toughest of the men long for home, and pray for the time when theblessed regions of Brighton and Torquay and Cheltenham may receive theworn pensioner. One poet says something of the Anglo-Indian's longingfor home at Christmas-time; he speaks with melancholy of the folly ofthose who sell their brains for rupees and go into exile, and he appearsto be ready, for his own part, to give up his share in the glory of ourEmpire if only he can see the friendly fields in chill December. Isympathize with him. Away with the mendicants, rich and poor--away withthe gushing parasites who use a kindly instinct and a sacred name inorder to make mean profit--away with the sordid hucksters who play withthe era of man's hope as though the very name of the blessed time were acatchword to be used like the abominable party-cries of politicians! Butwhen I come to men and women who understand the real significance of theday--when I come to charitable souls who are reminded of One who was allCharity, and who gave an impulse to the world which two thousand yearshave only strengthened--when I come among these, I say, "Give us as muchYule-tide talk as ever you please, do your deeds of kindness, take yourfill of innocent merriment, and deliver us from the pestilence of quacksand mendicants!" It is when I think of the ghastly horror of our owngreat central cities that I feel at once the praiseworthiness and thehopelessness of all attempts to succour effectually the immense mass ofthose who need charity. Hopeless, helpless lives are lived by humancreatures who are not much above the brutes. Alas, how much may belearned from a journey through the Midlands! We may talk of merry frostydays and starlit nights and unsullied snow and Christmas cheer; but thepotter and the iron-worker know as much about cheeriness as they doabout stainless snow. Then there is London to be remembered. A cheerytime there will be for the poor creatures who hang about the dock-gatesand fight for the chance of earning the price of a meal! In that blankworld of hunger and cold and enforced idleness there is nothing that thegayest optimist could describe as joyful, and some of us will have toface the sight of it during the winter that is now at hand. What can bedone? Hope seems to have deserted many of our bravest; we hear the darknote of despair all round, and it is only the sight of the workers--thekindly workers--that enables us to bear up against deadly depression anddark pessimism. 

_December, 1888. _

_THE FADING YEAR_. 

Even in this distressed England of ours there are still districts wherethe simple reapers regard the harvest labour as a frolic; the dulness oftheir still lives is relieved by a burst of genuine but coarsemerriment, and their abandoned glee is not unpleasant to look upon. Thencome the harvest suppers--noble spectacles. The steady champ of resolutejaws sounds in a rhythm which is almost majestic; the fearsomedestruction wrought on solid joints would rouse the helpless envy of thedyspeptics of Pall Mall, and the playful consumption of ale--no smallbeer, but golden Rodney--might draw forth an ode from a teetotalChancellor of the Exchequer. August winds up in a blaze of gladness forthe reaper. On ordinary evenings he sits stolidly in the dingy parlourand consumes mysterious malt liquor to an accompaniment of grumbling andsolemn puffing of acrid tobacco, but the harvest supper is a wildlyluxurious affair which lasts until eleven o'clock. Are there not songstoo? The village tenor explains--with a powerful accent--that he onlydesires Providence to let him like a soldier fall. Of course he breaksdown, but there is no adverse criticism. Friendly hearers say, "Do yowetry back, Willum, and catch that up at start agin;" and Willum does tryback in the most excruciating manner. Then the elders compare theartist with singers of bygone days, and a grunting chorus of storiesgoes on. Then comes the inevitable poaching song. Probably the singerhas been in prison a dozen times over, but he is regarded as a moral andlaw-abiding character by his peers; and even his wife, who sufferedduring his occasional periods of seclusion, smiles as he drones out thejolting chorus. When the sportsman reaches the climax and tells how--

 We slung her on our shoulders, And went across the down; We took her to a neighbour's house, And sold her for a crown. 

 We sold her for a crown, my boys, But I 'on't tell ye wheer, For 'tis my delight of a shiny night In the season of the year

--then the gentlemen who have sold many a hare in their time exchangerapturous winks, and even a head-keeper might be softened by theprevailing enthusiasm. Hodge is a hunter by nature, and you can no morerestrain him from poaching than you can restrain a fox. The most popularman in the whole company is the much-incarcerated poacher, and nodisguise whatever is made of the fact. A theft of a twopenny cabbagefrom a neighbour would set a mark against a man for life; a mean actionperformed when the hob-nailed company gather in the tap-room would beremembered for years; but a sportsman who blackens his face and creepsout at night to net the squire's birds is considered to be a hero, andan honest man to boot. He mentions his convictions gaily, criticises theofficials of each gaol that he has visited in the capacity of prisoner, and rouses roars of sympathetic laughter as he tells of his sufferingson the tread-mill. No man or woman thinks of the facts that the squire'spheasants cost about a guinea apiece to rear, that a hare is worth aboutthree-and-sixpence, that a brace of partridges brings two shillings evenfrom the cunning receiver who buys the poachers' plunder. No; theyjoyously think of the fact that the keepers are diddled, and thatsatisfies them. 

Alas, the glad and sad times alike must die, and the dull prose ofOctober follows hard on the wild jollity of the harvest supper, whileWinter peers with haggard gaze over Autumn's shoulder! The hoarse windsblow now, and the tender flush of decay has begun to touch the leaveswith delicate tints. In the morning the gossamer floats in theglittering air and winds ropes of pearls among the stubble; the levelrays shoot over a splendid land, and the cold light is thrillinglysweet. But the evenings are chill, and the hollow winds moan, crying, "Summer is dead, and we are the vanguard of Winter. Soon the wild armywill be upon you. Steal the sunshine while you may. "

What is the source of that tender solemn melancholy that comes on us allas we feel the glad year dying? It is melancholy that is not painful, and we can nurse it without tempting one stab of real suffering. Eachseason brings its moods--Spring is hopeful; Summer luxurious; Autumncontented; and then comes that strange time when our thoughts run onsolemn things. Can it be that we associate the long decline of the yearwith the dark closing of life? Surely not--for a boy or girl feels thesame pensive, dreary mood, and no one who remembers childhood can failto think of the wild inarticulate thoughts that passed through theimmature brain. Nay, our souls are from God; they are bestowed by theSupreme, and they were from the beginning, and cannot be destroyed. FromPlato downwards, no thoughtful man has missed this strange suggestionwhich seems to present itself unprompted to every mind. Cicero argued itout with consummate dialectic skill; our scientific men come to the sameconclusion after years on years of labour spent in investigatingphenomena of life and laws of force; and Wordsworth formulated Plato'sreasoning in an immortal passage which seems to combine scientificaccuracy with exquisite poetic beauty--

 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The soul that rises with us--our life's star-- Hath had elsewhere its setting And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, Who is our home. Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows; He sees it in his joy. The youth who daily farther from the east Must travel still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away And fade into the light of coming day. 

Had Wordsworth never written another line, that passage would haveplaced him among the greatest. He follows the glorious burst with theseawful lines--

 But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized; High instincts before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised. 

That is like some golden-tongued utterance of the gods; and thousands ofEnglishmen, sceptics and believers, have held their breath, abashed, asits full meaning struck home. 

Yes; this mysterious thought that haunts our being as we gaze on thesaddened fields is not aroused by the immediate impression which thesight gives us; it is too complex, too profound, too mature andsignificant. It was framed before birth, and it proceeds direct from theFather of all souls, with whom we dwelt before we came to this lowearth, and with whom we shall dwell again. If any one ventures to denythe origin of our marvellous knowledge, our sweet, strange impressions, it seems to us that he must risk bordering on impiety. 

So far then I have wandered from the commonplace sweetness of the shornfields, and I almost forgot to speak about the birds. Watch the swallowsas they gather together and talk with their low pretty twitter. Theirparliament has begun; and surely no one who watches their proceedingscan venture to scoff at the transcendental argument which I have justnow stated. Those swift, pretty darlings will soon be flying throughthe pitchy gloom of the night, and they will dart over three or fourthousand miles with unerring aim till they reach the far-off spot wherethey cheated our winter last year. Some will nest amid the tombs ofEgyptian kings, some will find out rosy haunts in Persia, some will soonbe wheeling and twittering happily over the sullen breast of the rollingNiger. Who--ah, who guides that flight? Think of it. Man must find hisway by the stars and the sun. Day by day he must use elaborateinstruments to find out where his vessel is placed; and even hisinstruments do not always save him from miles of error. But the littlebird plunges through the high gulfs of air and flies like an arrow tothe selfsame spot where it lived before it last went off on the wildquest over shadowy continents and booming seas. "Hereditary instinct, "says the scientific man. Exactly so; and, if the swallow unerringlytraverses the line crossed by its ancestors, even though the old landhas long been whelmed in steep-down gulfs of the sea, does not that showus something? Does it, or does it not, make my saying about the soulseem reasonable?

I have followed the swallows, but the fieldfares and the buntings mustalso go soon. They will make their way South also, though some may go inleisurely fashion to catch the glorious burst of spring in Siberia. Ihave been grievously puzzled and partly delighted by Mr. Seebohm'saccount of the birds' pilgrimage, and it has given me hours of thought. We dwell amid mystery, and, as the leaves redden year by year, hererecurs one of the chiefest mysteries that ever perplexed the soul ofman. Indeed, we are shadowed around with mystery and there is not onered leaf whirled by the wind among those moaning woods which does notrepresent a miracle. 

We cannot fly from these shores, but our joys come each in its day. Forpure gladness and keen colour nothing can equal one of these gloriousOctober mornings, when the reddened fronds of the brackens are silveredwith rime, and the sun strikes flashes of delight from them. Then comethose soft November days when the winds moan softly amid the Aeolianharps of the purple hedgerows, and the pale drizzle falls ever andagain. Even then we may pick our pleasures discreetly, if we dwell inthe country, while, as for the town, are there not pleasant fires andmerry evenings? Then comes the important thought of the poor. Ah, it iswoful! "'Pleasant fires and merry evenings, ' say you?"--so I can fancysome pinched sufferer saying, "What sort of merry evenings shall wehave, when the fogs crawl murderously, or the sleet lashes the soddenroads?" Alas and alas! Those of us who dwell amid pleasant sights andsounds are apt in moments of piercing joy to forget the poor who rarelyknow joy at all. But we must not be careless. By all means let those whocan do so snatch their enjoyment from the colour, the movement, thepicturesque sadness of the fading year; but let them think with pity ofthe time that is coming, and prepare to do a little toward lifting thatghastly burden of suffering that weighs on so many of our fellows. Gazing around on the flying shadows driven by the swift wind, andlistening to the quivering sough amid the shaken trees, I have been ledfar and near into realms of strange speculation. So it is ever in thisfearful and wonderful life; there is not the merest trifle that canhappen which will not lead an eager mind away toward the infinite. Neverhas this mystic ordinance touched my soul so poignantly as during thehours when I watched for a little the dying of the year, and branchedswiftly into zigzag reflections that touched the mind with fear and joyin turn. Adieu, fair fields! Adieu, wild trees! Where will next year'sautumn find us? Hush! Does not the very gold and red of the leaves hintto us that the sweet sad time will return again and find us maybe riper?

_October, 1886. _

_BEHIND THE VEIL_. 

"Men of all castes, if they fulfil their assigned duties, enjoy inheaven the highest imperishable bliss. Afterwards, when a man who hasfulfilled his duties returns to this world, he obtains, by virtue of aremainder of merit, birth in a distinguished family, beauty of form, beauty of complexion, strength, aptitude for learning, wisdom, wealth, and the gift of fulfilling the laws of his caste or order. Therefore inboth worlds he dwells in happiness, rolling like a wheel from one worldto the other. " Thus the Brahmans have settled the problem of the lifethat follows the life on earth. Those strange and subtle men seem tohave reasoned themselves into a belief in dreams, and they speak withcool confidence, as though they were describing scenes as vivid andmaterial as are the crowds in a bazaar. There is no hesitation for them;they describe the features of the future existence with the dryminuteness of a broker's catalogue. The Wheel of Life rolls, and farabove the weary cycle of souls Buddha rests in an attitude ofbenediction; he alone has achieved Nirvana--he alone is aloof from godsand men. The yearning for immortality has in the case of the Brahmanpassed into certainty, and he describes his heavens and his hells asthough the All-wise had placed no dim veil between this world and theworld beyond. Most arithmetically minute are all the Brahman'spictures, and he never stops to hint at a doubt. His hells aretwenty-two in number, each applying a new variety of physical and moralpain. We men of the West smile at the grotesque dogmatism of theOrientals; and yet we have no right to smile. In our way we are as keenabout the great question as the Brahmans are, and for us the problem ofproblems may be stated in few words--"Is there a future life?" All ourphilosophy, all our laws, all our hopes and fears are concerned withthat paralyzing question, and we differ from the Hindoo only in that weaffect an extravagant uncertainty, while he sincerely professes anabsolute certainty. The cultured Western man pretends to dismiss theproblem with a shrug; he labels himself as an agnostic or by some othervague definition, and he is fond of proclaiming his idea that he knowsand can know nothing. That is a pretence. When the philosopher says thathe does not know and does not care what his future may be, he speaksinsincerely; he means that he cannot prove by experiment the fact of afuture life--or, as Mr. Ruskin puts it, "he declares that he never foundGod in a bottle"--but deep down in his soul there is a knowledge thatinfluences his lightest action. The man of science, the "advancedthinker, " or whatever he likes to call himself, proves to us by hisceaseless protestations of doubt and unbelief that he is incessantlypondering the one subject which he would fain have us fancy he ignores. At heart he is in full sympathy with the Brahman, with the rude Indian, with the impassioned English Methodist, with all who cannot shake offthe mystic belief in a life that shall go on behind the veil. When thepagan emperor spoke to his own parting soul, he asked the piercingquestion that our sceptic must needs put, whether he like it or no--

 Soul of me, floating and flitting and fond, Thou and this body were life-mates together! Wilt thou be gone now--and whither? Pallid and naked and cold, Not to laugh or be glad as of old!

Theology of any description is far out of my path, but I have the wishand the right to talk gravely about the subject that dwarfs all others. A logician who tries to scoff away any faith I count as almost criminal. Mockery is the fume of little hearts, and the worst and craziest ofmockers is the one who grins in presence of a mystery that strikes wiseand deep-hearted men with a solemn fear which has in it nothing ignoble. I would as lief play circus pranks by a mother's deathbed as try to findflippant arguments to disturb a sincere faith. 

First, then, let us know what the uncompromising iconoclasts have totell about the universal belief in immortality. They have a verypretentious line of reasoning, which I may summarise thus. Life appearedon earth not less than three hundred thousand years ago. First of allour planet hung in the form of vapour, and drifted with millions ofother similar clouds through space; then the vapour became liquid; thenthe globular form was assumed, and the flying ball began to rotate roundthe great attracting body. We cannot tell how living forms first came onearth; for they could not arise by spontaneous generation, in spite ofall that Dr. Bastian may say. Of the coming of life we can saynothing--rather an odd admission, by-the-way, for gentlemen who are sosure of most things--but we know that some low organism did appear--andthere is an end of that matter. No two organisms can possibly be exactlyalike; and the process of differentiation began in the very shrine. Thecenturies passed, and living organisms became more and more complex; theslowly-cooling ball of the earth was covered with greenery, but noflower was to be seen. Then insects were attracted by brightly-colouredleaves; then flowers and insects acted and reacted on each other. Butthere is no need to trace every mark on the scale. It is enough to saythat infinitely-diversified forms of life branched off from centralstocks, and the process of variation went on steadily. Last of all, in astrange environment, a certain small upright creature appeared. He wasnot much superior in development to the anthropoid apes that we nowknow--in fact, there is less difference between an orang and a Bosjesmanthan there is between the primitive man and the modern Caucasian man. This creature, hairy and brown as a squirrel, stunted in stature, skinnyof limb, was our immediate progenitor. So say the confident scientificmen. The owner of the queer ape-like skull found at Neanderthal belongedto a race that was ultimately to develop into Shakespeares and Newtonsand Napoleons. In all the enormous series that had its first term in theprimeval ooze and its last term in man, one supreme motive had actuatedevery individual. The desire of life, growing more intense with each newdevelopment, was the main influence that secured continuance of life. The beings that had the desire of life scantily developed were overcomein the struggle for existence by those in whom the desire of life wasstrong. Thus in man, after countless generations, the wish for life hadbecome the master-power holding dominion over the body. As the variousbranches of the human race moved upward, the passionate love of lifegrew so strong that no individual could bear to think of resigning thispleasing anxious being and proceeding to fall into dumb forgetfulness. Men saw their comrades stricken by some dark force that they could notunderstand. The strong limbs grew lax first, and then hopelessly stiff;the bright eye was dulled; and it soon became necessary to hide theinanimate thing under the soil. It was impossible for those who had thequick blood flowing in their veins to believe that a time would comewhen feeling would be known no more. This fierce clinging to life had atlast its natural outcome. Men found that at night, when the quicksilvercurrent of sleep ran through their veins and their bodies werequiescent, they had none the less thoughts as of life. The body laystill; but something in alliance with the body gave them impressions ofvivid waking vigour and action. Men fancied that they fought, hunted, loved, hated; and yet all the time their limbs were quiet. What could itbe that forced the slumbering man to believe himself to be in fullactivity? It must be some invisible essence independent of the bones andmuscles. Therefore when a man died it followed that the body which wasburied must have parted permanently from the mystic "something" thatcaused dreams. That mystic "something" therefore lived on after thedeath of the body. The bodily organs were mere accidental encumbrances;the real "man" was the viewless creature that had the visions of thenight. The body might go; but the thing which by and by was named"soul" was imperishable. 

I can see the drift of foggy argument. The writer means to say that thebelief in immortality sprang up because the wish was father to thethought. Men longed to live, and thus they persuaded themselves thatthey would live; and, one refinement after another having been added tothe vague-minded savage's animal yearning, we have the elaborate systemof theology and the reverential faith that guide the lives of civilizedhuman entities. Very pretty! Then the literary critic steps in and showshow the belief in immortality has been enlarged and elaborated since thedays of Saul, the son of Kish. When the witch of Endor saw godsascending from the earth, she was only anticipating the experience ofsorcerers who ply their trade in the islands of the Pacific. ProfessorHuxley admires the awful description of Saul's meeting with the witch;but the Professor shows that the South Sea islanders also see godsascending out of the earth, and he thinks that the Eastern natives inSaul's day encouraged a form of ancestor-worship. The literary criticsays ancestor-worship is one of the great branches of the religion ofmankind. Its principles are not difficult to understand, for theyplainly keep up the social relations of the living world. The deadancestor, now passed into a deity, goes on protecting his family andreceiving suit and service from them as of old. The dead chief stillwatches over his own tribe, still holds his authority by helping friendsand harming enemies, still rewards the right and sharply punishes thewrong. That, then, was the kind of worship prevalent in the time ofSaul, and the gods were only the ancestors of the living. Well, thismay be admirable as science, but, as I summarized the long argument, Ifelt as though something must give way. 

Then we are told that our sacred book, the Old Testament, contains noreference to the future life--rather ignores the notion, in fact. Itappears that, when Job wrote about the spirit that passed before him andcaused all the hair of his flesh to stand up, he meant an enemy, or agoat, or something of that species. Moreover, when it is asserted thatEnoch "was not, for God took him, " no reference is made to Enoch'sfuture existence. The whole of the thesis regarding the Shadow Land hasbeen built up little by little, just as our infinitely perfect bodilyorganization has been gradually formed. It took at least thirty thousandyears to evolve the crystalline lens of the human eye, and it requiredmany thousands of years to evolve from the crude savagery of the earlyJews the elaborate theories of the modern Buddhists, Islamites, andChristians. 

Certainly this same evolution has much to answer for. I utterly fail tosee how a wish can give rise to a belief that comes before the wish isframed in the mind. More than this, I know that, even when human beingscrave extinction most--when the prospect of eternal sleep is more thansweet, when the bare thought of continued existence is a horror--thebelief in, or rather the knowledge of, immortality is still there, andthe wretch who would fain perish knows that he cannot. 

As for the mathematically-minded thinkers, I must give them up. Theysay, "Here are two objects of consciousness whose existence can beverified; one we choose to call the body, the other we call the soul ormind or spirit, or what you will. The soul may be called a 'function' ofthe body, or the body may be called a 'function' of the soul--at anyrate, they vary together. The tiniest change in the body causes acorresponding change in the soul. As the body alters from the days whenthe little ducts begin to feed the bones with lime up to the days whenthe bones are brittle and the muscles wither away, so does the soulalter. The infant's soul is different from the boy's, the boy's from theadolescent man's, the young man's from the middle-aged man's, and so onto the end. Now, since every change in the body, no matter howinfinitesimally small, is followed by a corresponding change in thesoul, then it is plain that, when the body becomes extinct, its'function, ' the soul, must also become extinct. "

This is even more appalling than the reasoning of the biologist. But isthere not a little flaw somewhere? We take a branch from a privet-hedgeand shake it; some tiny eggs fall down. In time a large ugly caterpillarcomes from each egg; but, according to the mathematical men, thecaterpillar does not exist, since the egg has become naught. Good! Thecaterpillar wraps itself in a winding thread, and we have an egg-shapedlump which lies as still as a pebble. Then presently from that bundle ofthread there comes a glorious winged creature which flies away, leavingcertain ragged odds and ends. But surely the bundle of threads and themoth were as much connected as the body and the soul? Logically, then, the moth does not exist after the cocoon is gone, any more than the soulexists after the body is gone! I feel very unscientific indeed as we putforth this proposition, and yet perhaps some simple folk will followme. 

God will not let the soul die; it is a force that must act throughoutthe eternity before us, as it acted throughout the eternity thatpreceded our coming on earth. No physical force ever dies--each forcemerely changes its form or direction. Heat becomes motion, motion istransformed into heat, but the force still exists. It is not possiblethen that the soul of man--the subtlest, strongest force of all--shouldever be extinguished. Every analogy that we can see, every fact ofscience that we can understand, tells us that the essence which each ofus calls "I" must exist for ever as it has existed from eternity. Let usthink of a sweet change that shall merely divest us of the husk of thebody, even as the moth is divested of the husk of the caterpillar. Spacewill be as nothing to the soul--can we not even now transport ourselvesin an instant beyond the sun? We can see with the soul's eye the surfaceof the stars, we know what they are made of, we can weigh them, and wecan prove that our observation is rigidly accurate even though millionsof miles lie between us and the object which we describe so confidently. When the body is gone, the soul will be more free to traverse space thanit is even now. 

_February, 1888. _

Extracts from Reviews of the First Edition. 

"Mr. Runciman is terribly in earnest in the greater part of this volume, especially in the several articles on 'Drink. ' He is eminentlypractical, withal; and not satisfied with describing and deploring theeffects of drunkenness, he gives us a recipe which he warrants to curethe most hardened dipsomaniac within a week. We have not quoted even thetitles of all Mr. Runciman's essays; but they are all wholesome in tone, and show a hearty love of the open air and of outdoor amusement, inspite of his well-deserved strictures on various forms of so-called'sport, ' while sometimes, notably in the Essay on 'Genius andRespectability, ' he touches the higher notes of feeling. "--_SaturdayReview_. 

"Mr. Runciman is intensely earnest, and directs his arrows with forceand precision against those 'joints in our social armour' which his keenvision detects. There is a purpose in all Mr. Runciman says; andalthough one cannot always share his enthusiasm or accept hisconclusions, it is impossible to doubt his sincerity as a moral reformerand his zeal in the cause of philanthropy. "--_Academy_. 

"Few sermons, one would fancy, could do more good than this book, honestly considered. It speaks plain sense on faults and follies thatare usually gently satirised; and makes fine invigorating reading. Thebook warmly deserves success. "--_Scotsman_. 

"Mr. Runciman expresses himself with a vigour which leaves nothing to bedesired. He leaves no doubt of what he thinks, --and he thinks, anyhow, on the right side.... Altogether a very vigorousdeliverance. "--_Spectator_. 

"No one can read these pleasant thoughtful essays without being thebetter for it; all being written with the vigour and grace for which Mr. Runciman is distinguished. "--_Newcastle Daily Chronicle_. 

"Essays which form a most important contribution to the literature ofsocial reform. "--_Methodist Times_. 

"Mr. Runciman has produced a book which will compel people to read, andit has many pages which ought to compel them to think, and to act aswell. "--_Manchester Examiner. _

"Mr. Runciman is endowed with a vigorous and pleasing style, and hisfacile pen has obviously been made expert by much use. In dealing withsome of the more threadbare problems, such as the drink question and thesporting mania, he brings considerable novelty and freshness to theirtreatment, and when fairly roused he hits out at social abuses with avigour and indignant sincerity which are very refreshing to the jadedreader ... He has been successful in producing a delightfully readablebook, and even when he does not produce conviction, he will certainlysucceed in securing attention and inspiring interest. "--_BradfordObserver_. 

"The essays are a fine contribution in the cause of manly self-cultureand elevation of moral tone. "--_Pall Mall Gazette_. 

"To those who enjoy essays on current topics, this will be found anacceptable and instructive volume. "--_Public Opinion_. 

"His essays are always entertaining and suggestive ... Mr. Runciman, asis well-known, has a forcible and effective style. "--_Star_. 

"Mr. Runciman is a bard hitter, and evidently speaks from conviction, and there is such an honest and clear-minded tone about these papers, that even those who do not agree with all the conclusions drawn in themwill not regret having read what Mr. Runciman has to say on socialquestions. "--_Graphic_.