{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_13365/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_13365","id":"gutenberg_13365","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13365","summary":null,"tags":["Alcoholism -- Great Britain","Category: British Literature","Category: Drugs/Alcohol/Pharmacology","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Social problems","Temperance"],"text":"THE ETHICS OF DRINK AND OTHER SOCIAL QUESTIONS\n_OR_\n_JOINTS IN OUR SOCIAL ARMOUR_\n\nBY JAMES RUNCIMAN\n_Author of \"A Dream of the North Sea,\" \"Skippers and Shellbacks,\" Etc_\n\nLondon\nHODDER AND STOUGHTON\n27, PATERNOSTER ROW\nMDCCCXCII [1892]\n\n\n\n\n_THE ETHICS OF THE DRINK QUESTION_.\n\n\nAll the statistics and formal statements published about drink are no\ndoubt impressive enough to those who have the eye for that kind of\nthing; but, to most of us, the word \"million\" means nothing at all, and\nthus when we look at figures, and find that a terrific number of gallons\nare swallowed, and that an equally terrific amount in millions sterling\nis spent, we feel no emotion. It is as though you told us that a\nthousand Chinamen were killed yesterday; for we should think more about\nthe ailments of a pet terrier than about the death of the Chinese, and\nwe think absolutely nothing definite concerning the \"millions\" which\nappear with such an imposing intention when reformers want to stir the\npublic. No man's imagination was ever vitally impressed by figures, and\nI am a little afraid that the statistical gentlemen repel people instead\nof attracting them. The persons who screech and abuse the drink sellers\nare even less effective than the men of figures; their opponents laugh\nat them, and their friends grow deaf and apathetic in the storm of\nwhirling words, while cool outsiders think that we should be better\nemployed if we found fault with ourselves and sat in sackcloth and ashes\ninstead of gnashing teeth at tradesmen who obey a human instinct. The\npublican is considered, among platform folk in the temperance body, as\neven worse than a criminal, if we take all things seriously that they\nchoose to say, and I have over and over again heard vague blather about\nconfiscating the drink-sellers' property and reducing them to the state\nto which they have brought others. Then there is the rant regarding\nbrewers. Why forget essential business only in order to attack a class\nof plutocrats whom we have made, and whom our society worships with\nodious grovellings? The brewers and distillers earn their money by\nconcocting poisons which cause nearly all the crime and misery in broad\nBritain; there is not a soul living in these islands who does not know\nthe effect of the afore-named poisons; there is not a soul living who\ndoes not very well know that there never was a pestilence crawling over\nthe earth which could match the alcoholic poisons in murderous power.\nThere is a demand for these poisons; the brewer and distiller supply the\ndemand and gain thereby large profits; society beholds the profits and\nadores the brewer. When a gentleman has sold enough alcoholic poison to\ngive him the vast regulation fortune which is the drink-maker's\ninevitable portion, then the world receives him with welcome and\nreverence; the rulers of the nation search out honours and meekly bestow\nthem upon him, for can he not command seats, and do not seats mean\npower, and does not power enable talkative gentry to feed themselves fat\nout of the parliamentary trough? No wonder the brewer is a personage.\nHonours which used to be reserved for men who did brave deeds, or\nthought brave thoughts, are reserved for persons who have done nothing\nbut sell so many buckets of alcoholized fluid. Observe what happens when\nsome brewer's wife chooses to spend \u00a35000 on a ball. I remember one\nexcellent lady carefully boasting (for the benefit of the Press) that\nthe flowers alone that were in her house on one evening cost in all\n\u00a32000. Well, the mob of society folk fairly yearn for invitations to\nsuch a show, and there is no meanness too despicable to be perpetrated\nby women who desire admission. So through life the drink-maker and his\nfamily fare in dignity and splendour; adulation surrounds them; powerful\nmen bow to the superior force of money; wealth accumulates until the\namount in the brewer's possession baffles the mind that tries to\nconceive it--and the big majority of our interesting race say that all\nthis is good. Considering, then, how the English people directly and\nindirectly force the man of drink onward until he must of necessity\nfancy there is something of the moral demi-god about him; considering\nhow he is wildly implored to aid in ruling us from Westminster;\nconsidering that his aid at an election may procure him the same honour\nwhich fell to the share of William Pitt, Earl of Chatham--may we not say\nthat the community makes the brewer, and that if the brewer's stuff mars\nthe community we have no business to howl at him. We are answerable for\nhis living, and moving, and having his being--the few impulsive people\nwho gird at him should rather turn in shame and try to make some\nimpression on the huge, cringing, slavering crowd who make the\nplutocrat's pompous reign possible.\n\nBut for myself, I cannot be bothered with bare figures and vague abuse\nnowadays; abstractions are nothing, and neat arguments are less than\nnothing, because the dullest quack that ever quacked can always clench\nan argument in a fashion. Every turn that talk can take on the drink\nquestion brings the image of some man or woman, or company of men and\nwomen, before me, and that image is alive to my mind. If you pelt me\nwith tabular forms, and tell me that each adult in Britain drank so many\npints last year, you might just as well recite a mathematical proof. I\nfix on some one human figure that your words may suggest and the image\nof the bright lad whom I saw become a dirty, loafing, thievish sot is\nmore instructive and more woeful than all your columns of numerals.\n\nBefore me passes a tremendous procession of the lost: I can stop its\nmarch when I choose and fix on any given individual in the ranks, so\nthat you can hardly name a single fact concerning drink, which does not\nrecall to me a fellow-creature who has passed into the place of wrecked\nlives and slain souls. The more I think about it the more plainly I see\nthat, if we are to make any useful fight against drink, we must drop the\npreachee-preachee; we must drop loud execrations of the people whose\nexistence the State fosters; we must get hold of men who _know_ what\ndrinking means, and let them come heart to heart with the victims who\nare blindly tramping on to ruin for want of a guide and friend. My\nhideous procession of the damned is always there to importune me; I\ngathered the dolorous recruits who form the procession when I was\ndwelling in strange, darkened ways, and I know that only the magnetism\nof the human soul could ever have saved one of them. If anybody fancies\nthat Gothenburg systems, or lectures, or little tiresome tracts, or\nsloppy yarns about \"Joe Tomkins's Temperance Turkey,\" or effusive\nharangues by half-educated buffoons, will ever do any good, he must run\nalong the ranks of my procession with me, and I reckon he may learn\nsomething. The comic personages who deal with the subject are cruelly\nuseless; the very notion of making jokes in presence of such a mighty\nliving Terror seems desolating to the mind; I could not joke over the\npest of drink, for I had as lief dance a hornpipe to the blare of the\nlast Trumpet.\n\nI said you must have men who _know_, if you care to rescue any tempted\ncreature. You must also have men who address the individual and get fast\nhold of his imagination; abstractions must be completely left alone, and\nyour workers must know so much of the minute details of the horror\nagainst which they are fighting that each one who comes under their\ninfluence shall feel as if the story of his life were known and his soul\nlaid bare. I do not believe that you will ever stop one man from\ndrinking by means of legislation; you may level every tavern over twenty\nsquare miles, but you will not thereby prevent a fellow who has the\n_bite_ of drink from boozing himself mad whenever he likes. As for\nstopping a woman by such merely mechanical means as the closing of\npublic-houses, the idea is ridiculous to anybody who knows the foxy\ncunning, the fixed determination of a female soaker. It is a great moral\nand physical problem that we want to solve, and Bills and clauses are\nonly so much ink and paper which are ineffective as a schoolboy's\ncopybook. If a man has the desire for alcohol there is no power known\nthat can stop him from gratifying himself; the end to be aimed at is to\nremove the desire--to get the drinker past that stage when the craving\npresses hardly on him, and you can never bring that about by rules and\nregulations. I grant that the clusters of drink-shops which are stuck\ntogether in the slums of our big towns are a disgrace to all of us, but\nif we closed 99 per cent. of them by Statute we should have the same\ndrunken crew left. While wandering far and wide over England, nothing\nhas struck me more than the steady resolution with which men will obtain\ndrink during prohibited hours; the cleverest administrator in the world\ncould not frame a network of clauses that could stop them; one might\nclose every drink-selling place in Britain, and yet those folks that had\na mind would get drink when they wanted it. You may ply bolts and bars;\nyou may stop the working of beer-engines and taps; but all will be\nfutile, for I repeat, that only by asserting power over hearts, souls,\nimaginations, can you make any sort of definite resistance to the\nawe-striking plague that envenoms the world. With every humility I am\nobliged to say that many of the good people who aim at reform do not\nknow sufficiently well the central facts regarding drink and drinkers.\nIt is beautiful to watch some placid man who stands up and talks gently\nto a gathering of sympathizers. The reposeful face, the reposeful voice,\nthe refinement, the assured faith of the speaker are comforting; but\nwhen he explains that he has always been an abstainer, I am inclined to\nwonder how he can possibly exchange ideas with an alcoholized man. How\n_can_ he know where to aim his persuasions with most effect? Can he\nreally sympathize with the fallen? He has never lived with drunkards or\nwastrels; he is apart, like a star, and I half think that he only has a\nblurred vision of the things about which he talks so sweetly. He would\nbe more poignant, and more likely to draw people after him, if he had\nliving images burned into his consciousness. My own set of pictures all\nstand out with ghastly plainness as if they were lit up by streaks of\nfire from the Pit. I have come through the Valley of the Shadow into\nwhich I ventured with a light heart, and those who know me might point\nand say what was said of a giant: \"There is the man who has been in\nhell.\" It was true. Through the dim and sordid inferno, I moved as in a\ntrance for awhile, and that is what makes me so keen to warn those who\nfancy they are safe; that is what makes me so discontented with the\npeculiar ethical conceptions of a society which bows down before the\nconcocter of drink and spurns the lost one whom drink seizes. I have\nlearned to look with yearning pity and pardon on all who have been\nblasted in life by their own weakness, and gripped by the trap into\nwhich so many weakly creatures stumble. Looking at brutal life, catching\nthe rotting soul in the very fact, have made me feel the most careless\ncontempt for Statute-mongers, because I know now that you must conquer\nthe evil of evils by a straight appeal to one individual after another\nand not by any screed of throttling jargon. One Father Mathew would be\nworth ten Parliaments, even if the Parliaments were all reeling off\ncurative measures with unexampled velocity. You must not talk to a\ncounty or a province and expect to be heard to any purpose; you must\naddress John, and Tom, and Mary. I am sure that dead-lift individual\neffort will eventually reduce the ills arising from alcohol to a\nminimum, and I am equally sure that the blind groping of half-informed\nmen who chatter at St. Stephen's will never do more good than the\nchatter of the same number of jackdaws. It is impossible to help\nadmiring Sir Wilfrid Lawson's smiling courage, but I really do not\nbelieve that he sees more than the faint shadows of the evils against\nwhich he struggles; he does not know the true nature of the task which\nhe has attacked, and he fancies that securing temperance is an affair of\nbolts, and bars, and police, and cackling local councils. I wish he had\nlived with me for a year.\n\nIf you talk with strong emotion about the dark horror of drink you\nalways earn plenty of jibes, and it is true that you do give your hand\naway, as the fighting men say. It is easy to turn off a light paragraph\nlike this: \"Because A chooses to make a beast of himself, is that any\nreason why B, and C, and D should be deprived of a wholesome article of\nliquid food?\"--and so on. Now, I do not want to trouble B, and C, and D\nat all; A is my man, and I want to get at him, not by means of a\npoliceman, or a municipal officer of any kind, but by bringing my soul\nand sympathy close to him. Moreover, I believe that if everybody had\ndefinite knowledge of the wide ruin which is being wrought by drink\nthere would be a general movement which would end in the gradual\ndisappearance of drinking habits. At this present, however, our state is\ntruly awful, and I see a bad end to it all, and a very bad end to\nEngland herself, unless a great emotional impulse travels over the\ncountry. The same middle class which is envenomed by the gambling\nmadness is also the heir of all the more vile habits which the\naristocrats have abandoned. Drinking--conviviality I think they call\nit--is not merely an excrescence on the life of the middle class--it\n_is_ the life; and work, thought, study, seemly conduct, are now the\nexcrescences. Drink first, gambling second, lubricity third--those are\nthe chief interests of the young men, and I cannot say that the\ninterests of mature and elderly men differ very much from those of the\nfledglings. Ladies and gentlemen who dwell in quiet refinement can\nhardly know the scenes amid which our middle-class lad passes the span\nof his most impressionable days. I have watched the men at all times and\nin all kinds of places; every town of importance is very well known to\nme, and the same abomination is steadily destroying the higher life in\nall. The Chancellors of the Exchequer gaily repeat the significant\nfigures which give the revenue from alcohol; the optimist says that\ntimes are mending; the comfortable gentry who mount the pulpits do not\ngenerally care to ruffle the fine dames by talking about unpleasant\nthings--and all the while the curse is gaining, and the betting,\nscoffing, degraded crew of drinkers are sliding merrily to destruction.\nSome are able to keep on the slide longer than others, but I have seen\nscores--hundreds--stop miserably, and the very faces of the condemned\nmen, with the last embruted look on them, are before me. My subject has\nso many thousands of facets that I am compelled to select a few of the\nmost striking. Take one scene through which I sat not very long ago, and\nthen you may understand how far the coming regenerator will have to go.\nA great room was filled by about 350 men and lads, all of the middle\nclass; a concert was going on, and I was a little curious to know the\nkind of entertainment which the well-dressed company liked. Of course\nthere was drink in plenty, and the staff of waiters had a busy time; a\nloud crash of talk went on between the songs, and, as the drink gathered\npower on excited brains, this crash grew more and more discordant. Nice\nlads, with smooth, pleasant faces, grew flushed and excited, and I am\nafraid that I occupied myself in marking out possible careers for a good\nmany of them as I studied their faces. There was not much fun of the\nhealthy kind; fat, comfortable, middle-aged men laughed so heartily at\nthe faintest indecent allusion that the singers grew broader and\nbroader, and the hateful music-hall songs grew more and more risky as\nthe night grew onward. By the way, can anything be more loathsomely\nidiotic than the average music-hall ditty, with its refrain and its\nquaint stringing together of casual filthiness? If I had not wanted to\nfix a new picture on my mind I should have liked better to be in a\ntap-room among honestly brutal costers and scavengers than with that\nsniggering, winking gang. The drink got hold, glasses began to be broken\nhere and there, the time was beaten with glass crushers, spoons, pipes,\nand walking-sticks; and then the bolder spirits felt that the time for\ngood, rank, unblushing blackguardism had come. A being stepped up and\nfaced a roaring audience of enthusiasts who knew the quality of his\ndirtiness; he launched out into an unclean stave, and he reduced his\nadmirers to mere convulsions. He was encored, and he went a trifle\nfurther, until he reached a depth of bestiality below which a gaff in\nShoreditch could net descend. Ah! Those bonny lads, how they roared with\nlaughter, and how they exchanged winks with grinning elders! Not a\nsingle obscure allusion to filth was lost upon them, and they took more\nand more drink under pressure of the secret excitement until many of\nthem were unsteady and incoherent. I think I should shoot a boy of mine\nif I found him enjoying such a foul entertainment. It was l\u00e9ze-Humanity.\nThe orgie rattled on, to the joy of all the steaming, soddened company,\nand I am not able to guess where some of the songs and recitations came\nfrom. There are deeps below deeps, and I suppose that there are skilled\nliterary workmen who have sunk so far that they are ready to supply the\nunspeakable dirt which I heard.\n\nThere was a merry crowd at the bar when this astounding function ceased,\nand the lively lads jostled, and laughed, and quoted some of the more\nspicy specimens of nastiness which they had just heard.\n\nNow, I should not have mentioned such an unsavoury business as this, but\nthat it illustrates in a curious way the fact that one is met and\ncountered by the power of Drink at every turn in this country. Among\nthat unholy audience were one or two worthies who ought by rights to\nhave called the police, and forced the promoters of the fun to appear\nbefore the Bench in the morning. But then these magistrates had an\ninterest in Beer, and Brewery shares were pretty well represented in the\nodious room, and thus a flagrant scandal was gently passed aside. The\nworst of it is that, after a rouse like this, the young men do not care\nto go to bed, so they adjourn to some one's rooms and play cards till\nany hour. In the train next morning there are blotchy faces, dull eyes,\ntongues with a bitter taste, and there is a general rush for \"liveners\"\nbefore the men go to office or warehouse; and the day drags on until the\njoyous evening comes, when some new form of debauch drowns the memory of\nthe morning's headache. Should you listen to a set of these men when the\nroar of a long bar is at its height at night, you will find that the\nlife of the intellect has passed away from their midst. The fellows may\nbe sharp in a small way at business, and I am sure I hope they are; but\ntheir conversation is painful in the extreme to any one who wishes to\nretain a shred of respect for his own species. If you listen long, and\nthen fix your mind so that you can pick out the exact significance of\nwhat you have heard, you become confounded. Take the scraps of \"bar\"\ngabble. \"So I says, 'Lay me fours.' And he winks and says, 'I'll give\nyou seven to two, if you like.' Well, you know, the horse won, and I\nstood him a bottle out of the three pound ten, so I wasn't much in.\"\n\"'What!' says I; 'step outside along o' me, and bring your pal with you,\nand I'll spread your bloomin' nose over your face.'\" \"_That_ corked\nhim.\" \"I tell you Flyaway's a dead cert. I know a bloke that goes to\nNewmarket regular, and he's acquainted with Reilly of the Greyhound, and\nReilly told him that he heard Teddy Martin's cousin say that Flyaway was\ntried within seven pounds of Peacock. Can you have a better tip than\nthat?\" \"I'll give you the break, and we'll play for a bob and the\ngames.\" \"Thanks, deah boy, I'll jest have one with you. Lor! wasn't I\nchippy this morning? I felt as if the pavement was making rushes at me,\nand my hat seemed to want a shoehorn to get it on or off for that\nmatter. Bill's whisky's too good.\" \"I'm going out with a Judy on Sunday,\nor else you'd have me with you. The girls won't leave me alone, and the\nblessed dears can't be denied.\" So the talk goes steadily forward. What\ncan a bright lad learn there? Many of the assembly are very young, and\ntheir features have not lost the freshness and purity of skin which give\nsuch a charm to a healthy lad's appearance. Would any mother like to\nsee her favourite among that hateful crowd? I do not think that mothers\nrightly know the sort of places which their darlings enter; I do not\nthink they guess the kind of language which the youths hear when the\nchimes sound at midnight; they do not know the intricacies of a society\nwhich half encourages callow beings to drink, and then kicks them into\nthe gutter if the drink takes hold effectually. The kindly, seemly woman\nremains at home in her drawing-room, papa slumbers if he is one of the\nstay-at-home sort; but Gerald, and Sidney, and Alfred are out in the\ndrink-shop hearing talk fit to make Rabelais turn queasy, or they are in\nthe billiard-room learning to spell \"ruin\" with all convenient speed, or\nperhaps they have \"copped it\"--that is the correct phrase--rather early,\nand they are swaggering along, shadowed by some creature--half girl,\nhalf tiger-cat--who will bring them up in good time. If the women knew\nenough, I sometimes think they would make a combined, nightly raid on\nthe boozing-bars, and bring their lads out.\n\nSome hard-headed fellows may think that there is something grandmotherly\nin the regrets which I utter over the cesspool in which so many of our\nmiddle-class seem able to wallow without suffering asphyxia; but I am\nonly mournful because I have seen the plight of so many and many after\ntheir dip in the sinister depths of the pool. I envy those stolid people\nwho can talk so contemptuously of frailty--I mean I envy them their\nself-mastery; I quite understand the temperament of those who can be\ncontent with a slight exhilaration, and who fiercely contemn the\ncrackbrain who does not know when to stop. No doubt it is a sad thing\nfor a man to part with his self-control, but I happen to hold a brief\nfor the crackbrain, and I say that there is not any man living who can\nafford to be too contemptuous, for no one knows when his turn may come\nto make a disastrous slip.\n\nMost strange it is that a vice which brings instant punishment on him\nwho harbours it should be first of all encouraged by the very people who\nare most merciless in condemning it. The drunkard has not to wait long\nfor his punishment; it follows hard on his sin, and he is not left to\nthe justice of another world. And yet, as we have said, this vice, which\nentails such scathing disgrace and suffering, is encouraged in many\nseductive ways. The talk in good company often runs on wine; the man who\nhas the deadly taint in his blood is delicately pressed to take that\nwhich brings the taint once more into ill-omened activity; but, so long\nas his tissues show no sign of that flabbiness and general\nunwholesomeness which mark the excessive drinker, he is left unnoticed.\nThen the literary men nearly always make the subject of drink attractive\nin one way or other. We laugh at Mr. Pickwick and all his gay set of\nbrandy-bibbers; we laugh at John Ridd, with his few odd gallons of ale\nper day; but let any man be seen often in the condition which led to Mr.\nPickwick's little accident, and see what becomes of him. He is soon\nshunned like a scabbed sheep. One had better incur penal servitude than\nfall into that vice from which the Government derives a huge\nrevenue--the vice which is ironically associated with friendliness, good\ntemper, merriment, and all goodly things. There are times when one is\nminded to laugh for very bitterness.\n\nAnd this sin, which begins in kindness and ends always in utter\nselfishness--this sin, which pours accursed money into the\nExchequer--this sin, which consigns him who is guilty of it to a doom\nworse than servitude or death--this sin is to be fought by Act of\nParliament! On the one hand, there are gentry who say, \"Drink is a\ndreadful curse, but look at the revenue.\" On the other hand, there are\nthose who say, \"Drink is a dreadful thing; let us stamp it out by means\nof foolscap and printers' ink.\" Then the neutrals say, \"Bother both your\nparties. Drink is a capital thing in its place. Why don't you leave it\nalone?\" Meantime the flower of the earth are being bitterly blighted. It\nis the special examples that I like to bring out, so that the jolly lads\nwho are tempted into such places as the concert-room which I described\nmay perhaps receive a timely check. It is no use talking to me about\nculture, and refinement, and learning, and serious pursuits saving a man\nfrom the devouring fiend; for it happens that the fiend nearly always\nclutches the best and brightest and most promising. Intellect alone is\nnot worth anything as a defensive means against alcohol, and I can\nconvince anybody of that if he will go with me to a common lodging-house\nwhich we can choose at random. Yes, it is the bright and powerful\nintellects that catch the rot first in too many cases, and that is why I\nsmile at the notion of mere book-learning making us any better. If I\nwere to make out a list of the scholars whom I have met starving and in\nrags, I should make people gape. I once shared a pot of fourpenny ale\nwith a man who used to earn \u00a32000 a year by coaching at Oxford. He was\nin a low house near the Waterloo Road, and he died of cold and hunger\nthere. He had been the friend and counsellor of statesmen, but the vice\nfrom which statesmen squeeze revenue had him by the throat before he\nknew where he was, and he drifted toward death in a kind of constant\ndream from which no one ever saw him wake. These once bright and\nsplendid intellectual beings swarm in the houses of poverty: if you pick\nup with a peculiarly degraded one you may always be sure that he was one\nof the best men of his time, and it seems as if the very rich quality of\nhis intelligence had enabled corruption to rankle through him so much\nthe more quickly. I have seen a tramp on the road--a queer, long-nosed,\nshort-sighted animal--who would read Greek with the book upside-down. He\nwas a very fine Latin scholar, and we tried him with Virgil; he could go\noff at score when he had a single line given him, and he scarcely made a\nslip, for the poetry seemed ingrained. I have shared a pennyworth of\nsausage with the brother of a Chief Justice, and I have played a piccolo\nwhile an ex-incumbent performed a dance which he described, I think, as\nPyrrhic. He fell in the fire and used hideous language in Latin and\nFrench, but I do not know whether that was Pyrrhic also. Drink is the\ndainty harvester; no puny ears for him, no faint and bending stalks: he\nreaps the rathe corn, and there is only the choicest of the choice in\nhis sheaves. That is what I want to fix on the minds of young\npeople--and others; the more sense of power you have, the more pride of\nstrength you have, the more you are likely to be marked and shorn down\nby the grim reaper; and there is little hope for you when the reaper\nonce approaches, because the very friends who followed the national\ncraze, and upheld the harmlessness of drink, will shoot out their lips\nat you and run away when your bad moment comes.\n\nThe last person who ever suspects that a wife drinks is always the\nhusband; the last person who ever suspects that any given man is bitten\nwith drink is that man himself. So stealthily, so softly does the evil\nwind itself around a man's being, that he very often goes on fancying\nhimself a rather admirable and temperate customer--until the crash\ncomes. It is all so easy, that the deluded dupe never thinks that\nanything is far wrong until he finds that his friends are somehow\nbeginning to fight shy of him. No one will tell him what ails him, and I\nmay say that such a course would be quite useless, for the person warned\nwould surely fly into a passion, declare himself insulted, and probably\nperform some mad trick while his nerves were on edge. Well, there comes\na time when the doomed man is disinclined for exertion, and he knows\nthat something is wrong. He has become sly almost without knowing it,\nand, although he is pining for some stimulus, he pretends to go without,\nand tries by the flimsiest of devices, to deceive those around him. Now\nthat is a funny symptom; the master vice, the vice that is the pillar of\nthe revenue, always, without any exception known to me, turns a man into\na sneak, and it generally turns him into a liar as well. So sure as the\nhabit of concealment sets in, so surely we may be certain that the\ndry-rot of the soul has begun. The drinker is tremulous; he finds that\nlight beverages are useless to him, and he tries something that burns:\nhis nerve recovers tone; he laughs at himself for his early morning\nfears, and he gets over another day. But the dry-rot is spreading; body\nand soul react on each other, and the forlorn one soon begins to be\nfatally false and weak in morals, and dirty and slovenly in person. Then\nin the dead, unhappy nights he suffers all the torments that can be\nendured if he wakes up while his day's supply of alcohol lies stagnant\nin his system. No imagination is so retrospective as the drunkard's, and\nthe drunkard's remorse is the most terrible torture known. The wind\ncries in the dark and the trees moan; the agonized man who lies waiting\nthe morning thinks of the times when the whistle of the wind was the\ngladdest of sounds to him; his old ambitions wake from their trance and\ncome to gaze on him reproachfully; he sees that fortune (and mayhap\nfame) have passed him by, and all through his own fault; he may whine\nabout imaginary wrongs during the day when he is maudlin, but the night\nfairly throttles him if he attempts to turn away from the stark truth,\nand he remains pinned face to face with his beautiful, dead self. Then,\nwith a start, he remembers that he has no friends. When he crawls out in\nthe morning to steady his hand he will be greeted with filthy\npublic-house cordiality by the animals to whose level he has dragged\nhimself, but of friends he has none. Now, is it not marvellous? Drink is\nso jolly; prosperous persons talk with such a droll wink about vagaries\nwhich they or their friends committed the night before; it is all so\nvery, very lightsome! The brewers and distillers who put the\nmirth-inspiring beverages into the market receive more consideration,\nand a great deal more money, than an average European prince;--and yet\nthe poor dry-rotted unfortunate whose decadence we are tracing is like a\nleper in the scattering effects which he produces during his shaky\npromenade. He is indeed alone in the world, and brandy or gin is his\nonly counsellor and comforter. As to character, the last rag of that\ngoes when the first sign of indolence is seen; the watchers have eyes\nlike cats, and the self-restrained men among them have usually seen so\nmany fellows depart to perdition that every stage in the process of\ndegradation is known to them. No! there is not a friend, and dry, clever\ngentlemen say, \"Yes. Good chap enough once on a day, but can't afford to\nbe seen with him now.\" The soaker is amazed to find that women are\nafraid of him a little, and shrink from him--in fact, the only people\nwho are cordial with him are the landlords, among whom he is treated as\na sort of irresponsible baby. \"I may as well have his money as anybody\nelse. He shan't get outrageously drunk here, but he may as well moisten\nhis clay and keep himself from being miserable. If he gets the jumps in\nthe night that's his look-out.\" That is the soaker's friend. The man is\nnot unkind; he is merely hardened, and his morals, like those of nearly\nall who are connected with the great Trade, have suffered a twist. When\nthe soaker's last penny has gone, he will receive from the landlord many\na contemptuously good-natured gift--pity it is that the lost wastrel\ncannot be saved before that weariful last penny huddles in the corner of\nhis pocket.\n\nWhile the harrowing descent goes on our suffering wretch is gradually\nchanging in appearance: the piggish element that is latent in most of us\ncomes out in him; his morality is sapped; he will beg, borrow, lie, and\nsteal; and, worst of all, he is a butt for thoughtless young fellows.\nThe last is the worst cut of all, for the battered, bloodless, sunken\nne'er-do-well can remember only too vividly his own gallant youth, and\nthe thought of what he was drives him crazed.\n\nThere is only one end; if the doomed one escapes _delirium tremens_ he\nis likely to have cirrhosis, and if he misses both of these, then dropsy\nor Bright's disease claims him. Those who once loved him pray for his\ndeath, and greet his last breath with an echoing sigh of thankfulness\nand relief: he might have been cheered in his last hour by the graceful\nsympathy of troops of friends; but the State-protected vice has such a\nwithering effect that it scorches up friendship as a fiery breath from a\nfurnace might scorch a grass blade. If one of my joyous, delightful lads\ncould just watch the shambling, dirty figure of such a failure as I have\ndescribed; if he could see the sneers of amused passers-by, the timid\nglances of women, the contemptuous off-hand speech of the children--\"Oh!\nhim! That's old, boozy Blank;\" then the youths might well tremble, for\nthe woebegone beggar that snivels out thanks for a mouthful of gin was\nonce a brave lad--clever, handsome, generous, the delight of friends,\nthe joy of his parents, the most brilliantly promising of all his\ncircle. He began by being jolly; he was well encouraged and abetted; he\nfound that respectable men drank, and that Society made no demur. But he\nforgot that there are drinkers and drinkers, he forgot that the\ncool-headed men were not tainted by heredity, nor were their brains so\ndelicately poised that the least grain of foreign matter introduced in\nthe form of vapour could cause semi-insanity. And thus the sacrifice of\nSociety--and the Exchequer--goes to the tomb amid contempt, and hissing,\nand scorn; while the saddest thing of all is that those who loved him\nmost passionately are most glad to hear the clods thump on his coffin.\nI believe, if you let me keep a youngster for an hour in a room with me,\nI could tell him enough stories from my own shuddery experience to\nfrighten him off drink for life. I should cause him to be haunted.\n\nThere is none of the rage of the convert in all this; I knew what I was\ndoing when I went into the base and sordid homes of ruin during years,\nand I want to know how any justification _not_ fitted for the libretto\nof an extravaganza can be given by certain parliamentary gentlemen in\norder that we may be satisfied with their conduct. My wanderings and\nfreaks do not count; I was a Bohemian, with the tastes of a Romany and\nthe curiosity of a philosopher; I went into the most abominable company\nbecause it amused me and I had only myself to please, and I saw what a\nfearfully tense grip the monster, Drink, has taken of this nation; and\nlet me say that you cannot understand that one little bit, if you are\ncontent to knock about with a policeman and squint at signboards. Well,\nI want to know how these legislators can go to church and repeat certain\nprayers, while they continue to make profit by retailing Death at so\nmuch a gallon; and I want to know how some scores of other godly men go\nout of their way to back up a traffic which is very well able to take\ncare of itself. A wild, night-roaming gipsy like me is not expected to\nbe a model, but one might certainly expect better things from folks who\nare so insultingly, aggressively righteous. One sombre and thoughtful\nRomany of my acquaintance said, \"My brother, there are many things that\nI try to fight, and they knock me out of time in the first round.\" That\nis my own case exactly when I observe comfortable personages who deplore\nvice, and fill their pockets to bursting by shoving the vice right in\nthe way of the folks most likely to be stricken with deadly precision by\nit.\n\nIt is not easy to be bad-tempered over this saddening business; one has\nto be pitiful. As my memory travels over England, and follows the tracks\nthat I trod, I seem to see a line of dead faces, that start into life if\nI linger by them, and mop and mow at me in bitterness because I put out\nno saving hand. So many and many I saw tramping over the path of\nDestruction, and I do not think that ever I gave one of them a manly\nword of caution. It was not my place, I thought, and thus their bones\nare bleaching, and the memory of their names has flown away like a\nmephitic vapour that was better dispersed. Are there many like me, I\nwonder, who have not only done nothing to battle with the mightiest\nmodern evil, but have half encouraged it through cynical recklessness\nand pessimism? We entrap the poor and the base and the wretched to their\ndeaths, and then we cry out about their vicious tendencies, and their\nimprovidence, and all the rest. Heaven knows I have no right to\nsermonize; but, at least, I never shammed anything. When I saw some\nspectacle of piercing misery caused by Drink (as nearly all English\nmisery is) I simply choked down the tendency to groan, and grimly\nresolved to see all I could and remember it. But now that I have had\ntime to reflect instead of gazing and moaning, I have a sharp conception\nof the thing that is biting at England's vitals. People fish out all\nsorts of wondrous and obscure causes for crime. As far as England is\nconcerned I should lump the influences provocative of crime and\nproductive of misery into one--I say Drink is the root of almost all\nevil. It is heartbreaking to know what is going on at our own doors,\nfor, however we may shuffle and blink, we cannot disguise the fact that\nmany millions of human beings who might be saved pass their lives in an\nobscene hell--and they live so in merry England. Durst any one describe\na lane in Sandgate, Newcastle-on-Tyne, a court off Orange Street or\nLancaster Street, London, an alley in Manchester, a four-storey tenement\nin the Irish quarter of Liverpool? I think not, and it is perhaps best\nthat no description should be done; for, if it were well done it would\nmake harmless people unhappy, and if it were ill done it would drive\naway sympathy. I only say that all the horrors of those places are due\nto alcohol alone. Do not say that idleness is answerable for the\ngruesome state of things; that would be putting cause for effect. A man\nfinds the pains of the world too much for him; he takes alcohol to bring\non forgetfulness; he forgets, and he pays for his pleasure by losing\nalike the desire and capacity for work. The man of the slums fares\nexactly like the gentleman: both sacrifice their moral sense, both\nbecome idle; the bad in both is ripened into rankness, and makes itself\nvillainously manifest at all seasons; the good is atrophied, and finally\ndies. Goodness may take an unconscionable time a-dying, but it is\nsentenced to death by the fates from the moment when alcoholism sets in,\nand the execution is only a matter of time.\n\nEngland, then, is a country of grief. I never yet knew one family which\nhad not lost a cherished member through the national curse; and thus at\nall times we are like the wailing nation whereof the first-born in every\nhouse was stricken. It is an awful sight, and as I sit here alone I can\nsend my mind over the sad England which I know, and see the army of the\nmourners. They say that the calling of the wounded on the field of\nBor\u00f3dino was like the roar of the sea: on my battle-field, where drink\nhas been the only slayer, there are many dead; and I can imagine that I\nhear the full volume of cries from those who are stricken but still\nliving. The vision would unsettle my reason if I had not a trifle of\nHope remaining. The philosophic individual who talks in correctly frigid\nphrases about the evils of the Liquor Trade may keep his reason balanced\ndaintily and his nerve unhurt. But I have images for company--images of\nwild fearsomeness. There is the puffy and tawdry woman who rolls along\nthe street goggling at the passengers with boiled eye. The little pretty\nchild says, \"Oh! mother, what a strange woman. I didn't understand what\nshe said.\" My pretty, that was Drink, and you may be like that one of\nthese days, for as little as your mother thinks it, if you ever let\nyourself touch the Curse carelessly. Bless you, I know scores who were\nonce as sweet as you who can now drink any costermonger of them all\nunder the stools in the Haymarket bar. The young men grin and wink as\nthat staggering portent lurches past: I do not smile; my heart is too\nsad for even a show of sadness. Then there are the children--the\nchildren of Drink they should be called, for they suck it from the\nbreast, and the venomous molecules become one with their flesh and\nblood, and they soon learn to like the poison as if it were pure\nmother's milk. How they hunger--those little children! What obscure\ncomplications of agony they endure and how very dark their odd\nconvulsive species of existence is made, only that one man may buy\nforgetfulness by the glass. If I let my imagination loose, I can hear\nthe immense army of the young crying to the dumb and impotent sky, and\nthey all cry for bread. Mercy! how the little children suffer! And I\nhave seen them by the hundred--by the thousand--and only helped from\ncaprice; I could do no other. The iron winter is nearing us, and soon\nthe dull agony of cold will swoop down and bear the gnawing hunger\ncompany while the two dire agencies inflict torture on the little ones.\nWere it not for Drink the sufferers might be clad and nourished; but\nthen Drink is the support of the State, and a few thousand of\nraw-skinned, hunger-bitten children perhaps do not matter. Then I can\nsee all the ruined gentlemen, and all the fine fellows whose glittering\npromise was so easily tarnished; they have crossed my track, and I\nremember every one of them, but I never could haul back one from the\nfate toward which he shambled so blindly; what could I do when Drink was\ndriving him? If I could not shake off the memories of squalor, hunger,\npoverty--well-deserved poverty--despair, crime, abject wretchedness,\nthen life could not be borne. I can always call to mind the wrung hands\nand drawn faces of well-nurtured and sweet ladies who saw the dull mask\nof loathsome degradation sliding downward over their loved one's face.\nOf all the mental trials that are cruel, that must be the worst--to see\nthe light of a beloved soul guttering gradually down into stench and\nuncleanness. The woman sees the decadence day by day, while the blinded\nand lulled man who causes all the indescribable trouble thinks that\neverything is as it should be. The Drink mask is a very scaring thing;\nonce you watch it being slowly fitted on to a beautiful and spiritual\nface you do not care over-much about the revenue.\n\nAnd now the famous Russian's question comes up: What shall we do? Well,\nso far as the wastrel poor are concerned, I should say, \"Catch them when\nyoung, and send them out of England so long as there is any place abroad\nwhere their labour is sought.\" I should say so, because there is not a\nshadow of a chance for them in this country: they will go in their turn\nto drink as surely as they go to death. As to the vagabond poor whom we\nhave with us now I have no hope for them; we must wait until death weeds\nthem out, for we can do nothing with them nor for them.\n\nAmong the classes who are better off from the worldly point of view, we\nshall have sacrifices offered to the fiend from time to time. Drink has\nwound like some ubiquitous fungus round and round the tissues of the\nnational body, and we are sure to have a nasty growth striking out at\nintervals. It tears the heart-strings when we see the brave, the\nbrilliant, the merry, the wise, sinking under the evil clement in our\nappalling dual nature, and we feel, with something like despair, that we\ncannot be altogether delivered from the scourge yet awhile. I have stabs\nof conscience when I call to mind all I have seen and remember how\nlittle I have done, and I can only hope, in a shame-faced way, that the\nuse of intoxicants may be quietly dropped, just as the practice of\ngambling, and the habit of drinking heavy, sweet wines, have passed away\nfrom the exclusive society in which cards used to form the main\ndiversion. Frankly speaking, I have seen the degradation, the\nabomination, and the measureless force of Drink so near at hand that I\nam not sanguine. I can take care of myself, but I am never really sure\nabout many other people, and I had good reason for not being sure of\nmyself. One thing is certain, and that is that the creeping enemy is\nsure to attack the very last man or woman whom you would expect to see\nattacked. When the first symptoms are seen, the stricken one should be\ndelivered from _ennui_ as much as possible, and then some friend should\ntell, in dull, dry style, the slow horror of the drop to the Pit. Fear\nwill be effective when nothing else will. Many are stronger than I am\nand can help more. By the memory of broken hearts, by the fruitless\nprayers of mothers and sorrowing wives, for the sake of the children who\nare forced to stay on earth in a living death, I ask the strong to help\nus all. Blighted lives, wrecked intellects, wasted brilliancy, poisoned\nmorality, rotted will--all these mark the road that the King of Evils\ntakes in his darksome progress. Out of the depths I have called for aid\nand received it, and now I ask aid for others, and I shall not be\ndenied.\n\n_October, 1889._\n\n\n\n\n_VOYAGING AT SEA_\n\n\nA philosopher has described the active life of man as a continuous\neffort to forget the facts of his own existence. It is vain to pin such\nphilosophers to a definite meaning; but I think the writer meant vaguely\nto hint in a lofty way that the human mind incessantly longs for change.\nWe all crave to be something that we are not; we all wish to know the\nfacts concerning states of existence other than our own; and it is this\ncraving curiosity that produces every form of social and spiritual\nactivity. Yet, with all this restless desire, this uneasy yearning, only\na few of us are ever able to pass beyond one piteously narrow sphere,\nand we rest in blank ignorance of the existence that goes on without the\nbounds of our tiny domain. How many people know that by simply going on\nboard a ship and sailing for a couple of days they would pass\npractically into another moral world, and change their mental as well as\ntheir bodily habits? I have been moved to these reflections by observing\nthe vast amount of nautical literature which appears during the holiday\nseason, and by seeing the complete ignorance and misconception which are\npalmed off upon the public. It is a fact that only a few English people\nknow anything about the mightiest of God's works. To them life on the\nocean is represented by a series of phrases which seem to have been\ntransplanted from copy-books. They speak of \"the bounding main,\" \"the\nraging billows,\" \"seas mountains high,\" \"the breath of the gale,\" \"the\nseething breakers,\" and so on; but regarding the commonplace, quiet\neveryday life at sea they know nothing. Strangely enough, only Mr. Clark\nRussell has attempted to give in literary form a vivid, veracious\naccount of sea-life, and his thrice-noble books are far too little\nknown, so that the strongest maritime nation in the whole world is\nignorant of vital facts concerning the men who make her prosperity. Let\nany one who is well informed enter a theatre when a nautical drama is\npresented; he will find the most ridiculous spectacle that the mind of\nman can conceive. On one occasion, when a cat came on to the stage at\nDrury Lane and ran across the heaving billows of the canvas ocean, the\naudience roared with laughter; but to the judicious critic the real\ncause for mirth was the behaviour of the nautical persons who figured in\nthe drama. The same ignorance holds everywhere. Seamen scarcely ever\nthink of describing their life to people on shore, and the majority of\nlandsmen regard a sea-voyage as a dull affair, to be begun with regret\nand ended with joy. Dull! Alas, it is dull for people who have dim eyes\nand commonplace minds; but for the man who has learned to gaze aright at\nthe Creator's works there is not a heavy minute from the time when the\ndawn trembles in the gray sky until the hour when, with stars and\nsea-winds in her raiment, night sinks on the sea. Dull! As well describe\nthe rush of the turbulent Strand or the populous splendour of Regent\nStreet by that word! I have always held that a man cannot be considered\nas educated if he is unable to wait an hour in a railway-station for a\ntrain without _ennui_. What is education good for if it does not give us\nresources which may enable us to gather delight or instruction from\nevery sight and sound that may fall on our nerves? The most melancholy\nspectacle in the world is presented by the stolid citizen who yawns over\nhis _Bradshaw_ while the swift panoramas of Charing Cross or Euston are\ngliding by him. Men who are rightly constituted find delight in the very\nquietude and isolation of sea-life; they know how to derive pure\nentertainment from the pageant of the sky and the music of winds and\nwaters, and they experience a piquant delight by reason of the contrast\nbetween the loneliness of the sea and the eager struggling life of the\nCity. Proceeding, as is my custom, by examples, I shall give precise\ndescriptions of specimen days which anybody may spend on the wandering\nwastes of the ocean. \"All things pertaining to the life of man are of\ninterest to me,\" said the Roman; and he showed his wisdom by that\nsaying.\n\nDawn. Along the water-line a pale leaden streak appears, and little\ntremulous ripples of gray run gently upwards, until a broad band of\nmingled white and scarlet shines with cold radiance. The mystery of the\nsea is suddenly removed, and we can watch the strange serpentine belts\nthat twine and glitter all round from our vessel to the horizon. The\nlight is strong before the sun appears; and perhaps that brooding hour,\nwhen Nature seems to be turning in her sleep, is the best of the whole\nday. The dew lies thickly on deck, and the chill of the night hangs in\nthe air; but soon a red arc looms up gorgeously at the sea-line; long\nrays spread out like a sheaf of splendid swords on the blue; there is,\nas it were, a wild dance of colour in the noble vault, where cold green\nand pink and crimson wind and flush and softly glide in mystic mazes;\nand then--the sun! The great flaming disc seems to poise for a little,\nand all around it--pierced here and there by the steely rays--the clouds\nhang like tossing scarlet plumes.\n\n     Like a warrior-angel sped\n       On a mighty mission,\n     Light and life about him shed--\n       A transcendent vision!\n\n     Mailed in gold and fire he stands,\n       And, with splendours shaken,\n     Bids the slumbering seas and lands\n       Quicken and awaken.\n\n     Day is on us. Dreams are dumb,\n       Thought has light for neighbour;\n     Room! The rival giants come--\n       Lo, the Sun and Labour!\n\nAfter witnessing that lordly spectacle, who can wonder at Zoroaster? As\nthe lights from east and west meet and mingle, and the sky rears its\nblue immensity, it is hard to look on for very gladness.\n\nI shall suppose that we are on a small vessel--for, if we sail in a\nliner, or even in an ordinary big steamer, it is somewhat like moving\nabout on a floating factory. The busy life of a sailor begins, for Jack\nrarely has an idle minute while he is on deck. Landsmen can call in help\nwhen their house needs repairing, but sailors must be able to keep every\npart of _their_ house in perfect order; and there is always something to\nbe done. But we are lazy; we toil not, neither do we tar ropes, and our\nmain business is to get up a thoroughly good appetite while we watch the\ndeft sailor-men going about their business. It is my belief that a\nlandsman might spend a month without a tedious hour, if he would only\ntake the trouble to watch everything that the men do and find out why it\nis done. Ages on ages of storm and stress are answerable for the most\ntrifling device that the sailor employs. How many and many lives were\nlost before the Norsemen learned to support the masts of their winged\ndragons by means of bull's-hide ropes! How many shiploads of men were\nlaid at the mercy of the travelling seas before the Scandinavians\nlearned to use a fixed rudder instead of a huge oar! Not a bolt or rope\nor pulley or eyelet-hole has been fixed in our vessel save through the\nbitter experience of centuries; one might write a volume about that\nmainsail, showing how its rigid, slanting beauty and its tremendous\npower were gradually attained by evolution from the ugly square lump of\nmatting which swung from the masthead of Mediterranean craft. But we\nmust not philosophise; we must enjoy. The fresh morning breeze runs\nmerrily over the ripples and plucks off their crests; our vessel leans\nprettily, and you hear a tinkling hiss as she shears through the lovely\ngreen hillocks. Sometimes she thrusts away a burst of spray, and in the\nmidst of the white spurt there shines a rainbow. It may happen that the\nrainbows come thickly for half an hour at a time, and then we seem to be\npassing through a fairy scene. Go under the main-yard and look away to\nleeward. The wind roars out of the mainsail and streams over you in a\ncold flood; but you do not mind that, for there is the joyous expanse\nof emerald and snow dancing under the glad sun. There is something\nunspeakably delightful in the rushing never-ending procession of waves\nthat passes away, away in merry ranks to the shining horizon; and all\ntrue lovers of the sea are exhilarated by the sweet tumult. Remember I\nam talking about a fine day; I shall come to the bad weather in good\ntime. On this ineffable morning a lady may come up and walk briskly in\nthe crisp air; but indeed women are the best and coolest of sailors in\nany weather when once their preliminary troubles are over. The hours fly\npast, and we hail the announcement of breakfast with a sudden joy which\ntells of gross materialism. I may say, by-the-way, that our lower\nnature, or what sentimental persons call our lower nature, comes out\npowerfully at sea, and men of the most refined sort catch themselves in\nthe act of wondering time after time when meals will be ready. For me I\nthink that it is no more gross to delight in flavours than it is to\ndelight in colours or harmonies, and one of my main reasons for dwelling\non the delights of the sea lies in the fact that the voyager learns to\ntake an exquisite, but quite rational, delight in the mere act of\neating. I know that I ought to speak as though dinner were an ignoble\ninstitution; I know that the young lady who said, \"Thanks--I rarely\neat,\" represented a class who pretend to devote themselves to higher\njoys; but I decline to talk cant on any terms, and I say that the\nhealthy, hearty hunger bestowed by the open sea is one of God's good\ngifts.\n\nThe sweet morning passes away, and somehow our thoughts run in bright\ngrooves. That is the strange thing about the sea--its moods have an\ninstant effect on the mind; and, as it changes with wild and swift\ncaprice, the seafarer finds that his views of life alter with\ntantalizing but pleasant suddenness. Just now I am speaking only of\ncontent and exhilaration; but I may soon see another side of the\npicture. The afternoon glides by like the morning; no churlish houses\nand chimney-pots hide the sun, and we see him describe his magnificent\ncurve, while, with mysterious potency, he influences the wind. Dull!\nWhy, on shore we should gaze out on the same streets or fields or trees;\nbut here our residence is driven along like a flying cloud, and we gain\na fresh view with every mile! I confess that I like sailing in populous\nwaters, for indeed the lonely tropical seas and the brassy skies are not\nby any means to be regarded as delightful; but for the present we are\nsupposing ourselves to be in the track of vessels, and there is some new\nand poignant interest for every hour. Watch this vast pallid cloud that\nlooms up far away; the sun strikes on the cloud, and straightway the\nsnowy mass gleams like silver; on it comes, and soon we see a superb\nfour-masted clipper broadside on to us. A royal fabric she is; every\nsnowy sail is drawing, and she moves with resistless force and matchless\ngrace through the water, while a boiling wreath of milky foam rushes\naway from her bows, and swathes of white dapple the green river that\nseems to pour past her majestic sides. The emigrants lean over the rail,\nand gaze wistfully at us. Ah, how many thousands of miles they must\ntravel ere they reach their new home! Strange and pitiful it is to think\nthat so few of them will ever see the old home again; and yet there is\nsomething bright and hopeful in the spectacle, if we think not of\nindividuals, but of the world's future. Under the Southern Cross a\nmighty state is rising; the inevitable movement of populations is\nirresistible as the tides of mid-ocean; and those wistful emigrants who\nquietly wave their handkerchiefs to us are about to assist in working\nout the destiny of a new world. Dull! The passing of that great vessel\ngives matter for grave thought. She swings away, and we may perhaps try\nto run alongside for a while, but the immense drag of her four towers of\ncanvas soon draws her clear, and she speedily looms once more like a\ncloud on the horizon. Good-bye! The squat collier lumbers along, and her\nleisurely grimy skipper salutes as we near him. It is marvellous to\nreflect that the whole of our coal-trade was carried on in those queer\ntubs only sixty years ago. They are passing away, and the gallant,\nignorant, comical race of sailors who manned them has all but\ndisappeared; the ugly sordid iron box that goes snorting past us,\nbelching out jets of water from her dirty side--that is the agency that\ndestroyed the colliers, and, alas, destroyed the finest breed of seamen\nthat ever the world saw! So rapidly do new sights and sounds greet us\nthat the night steals down almost before we are aware of its approach.\nThe day is for joy; but, ah, the night is for subtle overmastering\nrapture, for pregnant gloom, for thoughts that lie too deep for tears!\nIf a wind springs up when the last ray of the sun shoots over the\nshoulder of the earth, then the ship roars through an inky sea, and the\nmysterious blending of terror and ecstasy cannot be restrained. Hoarsely\nthe breeze shrieks in the cordage, savagely the water roars as it darts\naway astern like a broad fierce white flame. The vessel seems to spring\nforward and shake herself with passion as the sea retards her, and the\nwhole wild symphony of humming ropes, roaring water, screaming wind,\nsets every pulse bounding. Should the moon shine out from the charging\nclouds, then earth has not anything to show more fair; the broad track\nof light looks like an immeasurable river peopled by fiery serpents that\ndart and writhe and interwind, until the eye aches with gazing on them.\nSleep seems impossible at first, and yet by degrees the poppied touch\nlulls our nerves, and we slumber without heeding the harrowing groans of\nthe timbers or the confused cries of the wind.\n\nSo much for the glad weather; but, when the sky droops low, and leaping\nwaves of mournful hue seem to rear themselves and mingle with the\nclouds, then the gladness is not so apparent. Still the exulting rush of\nthe ship through the gray seas and her contemptuous shudder as she\nshakes off the masses of water that thunder down on her are fine to\nwitness. Even a storm, when cataracts of hissing water plunge over the\nvessel and force every one to \"hang on anywhere,\" is by no means without\nits delights; but I must candidly say that a ship is hardly the place\nfor a woman when the wild winds try their strength against the works of\nman. On the whole, if we reckon up the pains and pleasures of life on\nboard ship, the balance is all in favour of pleasure. The sailors have a\ntoilsome life, and must endure much; but they have health. It is the\nsense of physical well-being that makes the mind so easy when one is on\nthe sea; and refined men who have lived in the forecastle readily\ndeclare that they were happy but for the invariable dirt. Instead of\ntrooping to stuffy lodgings, those of my readers who have the nerve\nshould, if not this year, then next summer, go right away and take a\ncheap and charming holiday on the open sea.\n\n_October, 1887._\n\n\n\n\n_WAR._\n\n\nThe brisk Pressmen are usually exceedingly busy in calculating the\nchances of a huge fight--indeed they spend a good part of each year in\nthat pleasing employment. Smug diplomatists talk glibly about \"war\nclearing the air;\" and the crowd--the rank and file--chatter as though\nwar were a pageant quite divorced from wounds and death, or a mere\nharmless hurly-burly where certain battalions receive thrashings of a\ntrifling nature. It is saddening to notice the levity with which the\nmost awful of topics is treated, and especially is it sad to see how\ncompletely the women and children are thrust out of mind by belligerent\npersons. We who have gazed on the monster of War, we who have looked in\nthe whites--or rather the reds--of his loathsome eyes, cannot let this\nburst of frivolity work mischief without one temperate word of warning\nand protest.\n\nPleasant it is to watch the soldiers as they march along the streets, or\nform in their superb lines on parade. No man or woman of any sensibility\ncan help feeling proudly stirred when a Cavalry regiment goes by. The\nclean, alert, upright men, with their sure seat; the massive war-horses\nchamping their bits and shaking their accoutrements: the rhythmic thud\nof hoofs, the keen glitter of steel, and the general air of power, all\ncombine to form a spectacle that sets the pulses beating faster. Then,\nagain, observe the strange elastic rhythm of the march as a battalion of\ntall Highlanders moves past. The fifes and drums cease, there is a\nsilence broken only by that sinuous beautiful onward movement of lines\nof splendid men, until the thrilling scream of the pipes shatters the\nair, and the mad tumult of warlike sound makes even a Southron's nerves\nquiver. Then, once more, watch the deadly, steady march of a regiment of\nGuards. The stalwart men step together, and, as the red ranks sway on,\nit seems as though no earthly power could stand against them. The gloomy\nbearskins are like a brooding dark cloud, and the glitter of the\nrifle-barrels carries with it certain sinister terrible suggestions. The\ngaiety and splendour of Cavalry and Infantry all gain increased power\nover the imagination since we know that each of those gaily clad fellows\nwould march to his doom without a tremor or a murmur if he received the\nword. Poor Tommy Atkins is surrounded by a sort of halo in the popular\nimagination, simply because it is known that he may one day have to deal\nforth death to an enemy, or take his own doom, according to the chances\nof combat. I need say little about the field-days and reviews which have\ncaused so many martially-minded young men to take the shilling. The\ncrash of the small-arm firing, the wild galloping of hasty\naides-de-camp, the measured movement of serried lines, the rapid flight\nof flocks of bedizened staff-officers, all make up a very exciting and\nconfusing picture, and many a youngster has fancied that war must be a\nglorious game. Let us leave the picturesque and theatrical business and\ncome to the dry prose.\n\nSo far from being an affair of glitter, excitement, fierce joy, fierce\ntriumph, war is but a round of hideous hours which bring memories of\nsqualor, filth, hunger, wretchedness, dull toil, unspeakable misery.\nTake it at its best, and consider what a modern engagement really means.\nRecollect, moreover, that I am about to use sentences accurate as a\nphotograph. The sportive Pressman says, \"Vernon began to find the\nenemy's cloud of sharp-shooters troublesome, so the 5th sought better\ncover on the right, leaving Brown free to develop his artillery fire.\"\n\"Troublesome!\" Translate that word, and it means this: Private Brown and\nPrivate Jones are lying behind the same low bank. Jones raises his head;\nthere comes a sound like \"Roo-o-osh--pht!\"--then a horrible thud. Jones\nglares, grasps at nothing with convulsed hands, and rolls sideways with\na long shudder. The ball took him in the temple. Serjeant Morrison says,\n\"Now, men, try for that felled log! Double!\" A few men make a short\nrush, and gain the solid cover; but one throws up his hands when half\nway, gives a choking yell, springs in the air, and falls down limp. The\nsame thing is going on over a mile of country, while the shell-fire is\ngradually gaining power--and we may be sure that the enemy are suffering\nat the hands of our marksmen. And now suppose that an infantry brigade\nreceives orders to charge. \"Charge!\" The word carries magnificent poetic\nassociations, but, alas, it is a very prosaic affair nowadays! The lines\nmove onward in short rushes, and it seems as if a swarm of ants were\nmigrating warily. The strident voices of the officers ring here and\nthere: the men edge their way onward: it seems as if there were no\nmethod in the advance; but somehow the loose wavy ranks are kept well\nin hand, and the main movement proceeds like machinery. \"I feel a bit\nqueer,\" says Bill Williams to a veteran friend. \"Never mind--'taint\nevery one durst say that,\" says the friend. \"Whoo-o-sh!\" a muffled\nthump, and the veteran falls forward, dropping his rifle. He struggles\nup on hands and knees, but a rush of blood chokes him, and he drops with\na groan. He will lie there for a long time before his burning throat is\nmoistened by a cup of water, and he knows only too well that the surgeon\nwill merely shake his head when he sees him. The brigade still advances;\ngradually the sputtering crackle in their front grows into a low steady\nroar; a stream of lead whistles in the air, and the long lurid line of\nflame glows with the sustained glare of a fire among furze. Men fall at\nevery yard, but the hoarse murmur of the dogged advance never ceases. At\nlast the time comes for the rush. The ranks are trimmed up by\nimperceptible degrees; the men set their teeth, and a strange eager look\ncomes over many a face. The eyes of the youngsters stare glassily; they\ncan see the wood from which the enemy must be dislodged at any price,\nbut they can form no definite ideas; they merely grip their rifles and\ngo on mechanically. The word is given--the dark lines dash forward; the\nfiring from the wood breaks out in a crash of fury--there is a long\nharsh rattle, then a chance crack like a thunder-clap, and then a\nwhirring like the spinning of some demoniac mill. Curses ring out amid a\nlow sound of hard breathing; the ranks are gapped here and there as a\nman wriggles away like a wounded rabbit, or another bounds upward with a\nfrantic ejaculation. Then comes the fighting at close quarters. Perhaps\nkind women who are misled by the newspaper-writer's brisk babblement\nmay like to know what that means, so I give the words of the best\neyewitness that ever gazed on warfare. He took down his notes by the\nlight of burning wood, and he had no time to think of grammar. All his\nwords were written like mere convulsive cries, but their main effect is\ntoo vivid to be altered. Notice that he rarely concludes a sentence, for\nhe wanted to save time, and the bullets were cutting up the ground and\nthe trees all round him. \"Patches of the wood take fire, and several of\nthe wounded, unable to move, are consumed. Quite large spaces are swept\nover, burning the dead also; some of the men have their hair and beards\nsinged, some burns on their faces and hands, others holes burnt in their\nclothing. The flashes of fire from the cannon, the quick glaring flames\nand smoke, and the immense roar--the musketry so general; the light\nnearly bright enough for each side to see the other; the crashing,\ntramping of men--the yelling--close quarters--hand-to-hand conflicts.\nEach side stands up to it, brave, determined as demons; and still the\nwood's on fire--still many are not only scorched--too many, unable to\nmove, are burned to death. Who knows the conflict, hand-to-hand--the\nmany conflicts in the dark--those shadowy, tangled, flashing,\nmoon-beamed woods--the writhing groups and squads--the cries, the din,\nthe cracking guns and pistols, the distant cannon--the cheers and calls\nand threats and awful music of the oaths, the indescribable mix, the\nofficers' orders, persuasions, encouragements--the devils fully roused\nin human hearts--the strong shout, 'Charge, men--charge!'--the flash of\nthe naked swords, and rolling flame and smoke? And still the broken,\nclear, and clouded heaven; and still again the moonlight pouring\nsilvery soft its radiant patches over all.\"\n\nThere is a description vivid as lightning, though there is not a\nproperly-constructed sentence in it. Gruesome, cruel, horrible! Is it\nnot enough to make the women of our sober sensible race declare for ever\nagainst the flaunting stay-at-homes who would egg us on to war? By all\nmeans let us hold to the old-fashioned dogged ways, but let us beware of\nrushing into the squalid vortex of war. And now let us see what follows\nthe brilliant charge and bayonet fight. How many ladies consider what\nthe curt word \"wounded\" means? It conveys no idea to them, and they are\ntoo apt to stray off into the dashing details that tell of a great\nwrestle of armies. One eminent man--whom I believe to have uttered a\nlibel--has declared that women like war, and that they are usually the\nmeans of urging men on. He is a very sedate and learned philosopher who\nwrote that statement, and yet I cannot believe it. Ah, no! Our ladies\ncan give their dearest up to death when the State calls on them, but\nthey will never be like the odious viragoes of the Roman circus. At any\nrate, if any woman acts according to the dictum of the philosopher after\nreading my bitterly true words, we shall hold that our influence is\ndeparted. Therefore with ruthless composure I follow my observer--a man\nwhose pure and holy spirit upheld him as he ministered to sufferers for\nyear after year.\n\n\"Then the camps of the wounded. Oh, heavens, what scene is this? Is this\nindeed humanity--these butchers' shambles? There are several of them.\nThere they lie, in the largest, in an open space in the woods--from two\nto three hundred poor fellows. The groans and screams, the odour of\nblood mixed with the fresh scent of the night, the grass, the\ntrees--that slaughter-house! Oh, well is it their mothers, their\nsisters, cannot see them, cannot conceive, and never conceived such\nthings! One man is shot by a shell both in the arm and leg; both are\namputated--there lie the rejected members. Some have their legs blown\noff, some bullets through the breast, some indescribably horrid wounds\nin the head--all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out, some in the\nabdomen, some mere boys.\" Alas, I have quoted enough--and may never such\na task come before me again! The picture is sharp as an etching; it is\ndrawn with a shudder of the soul. Is that grim sedate man right when he\nsays that women are the moving influence that drives men to such\ncarnage? Would you wantonly advocate war? Never! I reject the solemn\nphilosopher's saying, in spite of his logic and his sententiousness.\n\nWho shall speak of the awful monotony of the hospital camps, where men\ndie like flies, and where regret, sympathy, kindness are blotted from\nthe hardened soldier's breast? People are not cruel by nature, but the\nvague picturesque language of historians and other general writers\nprevents men and women from forming just opinions. I believe that, if\none hundred wounded men could be transported from a battle-field and\nlaid down in the public square of any town or city for the population to\nsee, then the gazers would say among themselves, \"So this is war, is it?\nWell, for our parts, we shall be very cautious before we raise any\nagitation that might force our Government into any conflict. We can die\nif our liberties are threatened, for there are circumstances in which\nit would be shameful to live, but we shall never do anything which may\nbring about results such as those before us.\" That would be a fair and\ntemperate mode of talking--far different from the airy babble of the\nwarlike scribe.\n\nAn argumentative person may stop us here and ask, \"Are you of opinion\nthat it is possible to abolish warfare?\" Unfortunately, we can cherish\nno such pleasing hope. I do emphatically believe that in time men will\ncome to see the wild folly of engaging in sanguinary struggles; but the\ngrowth of their wisdom will be slow. Action and reaction are equal; the\nfighting instinct has been impressed on our nature by hereditary\ntransmission for countless generations, and we cannot hope suddenly to\nmake man a peaceful animal any more than we can hope to breed setters\nfrom South African wild dogs. But the conditions of life are gradually\nchanging, and the very madness which has made Europe into a huge barrack\nmay work its own cure. The burden will probably grow so intolerable that\nthe most embruted of citizens will ask themselves why they bear it, and\na rapid revolution may undo the growth of centuries. The scientific men\npoint to the huge warfare that goes on from the summit of the Himalayas\nto the depths of the ocean slime, and they ask how men can be exempt\nfrom the universal struggle for existence. But it is by no means certain\nthat the pressure of population in the case of man will always force on\nstruggles--at any rate, struggles that can be decided only by death and\nagony. Little by little we are learning something of the laws that\ngovern our hitherto mysterious existence, and we have good hopes that by\nand by our race may learn to be mutually helpful, so that our span of\nlife may be passed with as much happiness as possible. Men will strive\nagainst each other, but the striving will not be carried on to an\naccompaniment of slaughter and torture. There are keen forms of\ncompetition which, so far from being painful, give positive pleasure to\nthose who engage in them; there are triumphs which satisfy the victor\nwithout mortifying the vanquished; and, in spite of the indiscreet\nwriters who have called forth this Essay, I hold that such harmless\nforms of competition will take the place of the brutal strife that adds\nsenselessly to the sum of human woe. Our race has outgrown so many forms\nof brutality, so many deliberate changes have taken place in the course\nof even two thousand years, that the final change which shall abolish\nwar is almost certain to come. We find that about one thousand nine\nhundred years ago a polished gentleman like Julius Caesar gravely\ncongratulates himself on the fact that his troops destroyed in cold\nblood forty thousand people--men, women, and children. No man in the\ncivilized world dare do such a deed now, even if he had the mind for the\ncarnage. The feeling with which we read Caesar's frigid recital measures\nthe arc of improvement through which we have passed. May the improvement\ngo on! We can continue to progress only through knowledge; if our\npeople--our women especially--are wantonly warlike, then our action will\nbe wantonly warlike; knowledge alone can save us from the guilt of\nblood, and that knowledge I have tried to set forth briefly. By wondrous\nways does our Master work out His ends. Let us pray that He may hasten\nthe time when nation shall not rise up against nation, neither shall\nthey draw the sword any more.\n\n_December, 1886._\n\n\n\n\n_DRINK_.\n\n\nI have no intention of imitating those intemperate advocates of\ntemperance who frighten people by their thunderous and extravagant\ndenunciations; I leave high moral considerations on one side for the\npresent, and our discussion will be purely practical, and, if possible,\nhelpful. The duty of helpful men and women is not to rave about horrors\nand failures and misfortunes, but to aim coolly at remedial measures;\nand I am firmly convinced that such remedial measures can be employed\nonly by private effort. State interference is always to be deprecated;\nindividual action alone has power to better the condition of our\nsorely-tempted race. With sorrow too keen for words, I hear of blighted\nhomes, intellects abased, children starved, careers wrecked, wives made\nwretched, crime fostered; and I fully sympathize with the men and women\nwho are stung into wild speech by the sight of a curse that seems\nall-powerful in Britain. But I prefer to cultivate a sedate and\nscientific attitude of mind; I do not want to repeat catalogues of\nevils; I want to point out ways whereby the intemperate may be cured.\nAbove all, I wish to abate the panic which paralyzes the minds of some\nafflicted people, and which causes them to regard a drunkard or even a\ntippler as a hopeless victim. \"Hopeless\" is a word used by ignorant\npersons, by cowards, and by fools. When I hear some mourner say, \"Alas!\nwe can do nothing with him--he is a slave!\" I feel impelled to reply,\n\"What do you know about it? Have you given yourself the trouble to do\nmore than preach? Listen, and follow the simple directions which I lay\ndown for you.\"\n\nFirst, I deal with the unhappy beings who are called periodical\ndrinkers. These are generally men who possess great ability and a\ncapacity for severe stretches of labour. They may be artists, writers,\nmen of business, mechanicians--anything; but in nearly every case some\nspecial faculty of brain is developed to an extraordinary degree, and\nthe man is able to put forth the most strenuous exertions at a pinch.\nLet us name some typical examples. Turner was a man of phenomenal\nindustry, but at intervals his temperament craved for some excitement\nmore violent and distracting than any that he could get from the steady\nstrain of daily work. He used to go away to Wapping, and spend weeks in\nthe filthiest debauch with the lowest characters in London. None of his\ncompanions guessed who he was; they only knew that he had more money\nthan they had, and that he behaved in a more bestial manner than any of\nthose who frequented the \"Fox under the Hill\" and other pleasing\nhostelries. Turner pursued his reckless career, till his money was gone,\nand then he returned to his gruesome den and proceeded to turn out\nartistic prodigies until the fit came upon him once more. Benvenuto\nCellini was subject to similar paroxysms, during which he behaved like a\nmaniac. Our own novelist Bulwer Lytton disappeared at times, and plunged\ninto the wildest excesses among wretches whom he would have loathed\nwhen he was in his normal state of mind. He used to dress himself as a\nnavvy, or as a sailor, and no one would have recognized the weird\nintellectual face when the great writer was clad in rags, and when the\nbrutal mask of intoxication had fallen over his face. It was during his\nrecovery from one of these terrible visitations that he drove the woman\nwhom he most loved from his house, and brought on that breach which\nresulted in irreparable misery. Poor George Morland, the painter, had\nwild spells of debauch, during which he spent his time in boxing-saloons\namong ruffianly prize-fighters and jockeys. His vice grew upon him, his\nmad fits became more and more frequent, and at last his exquisite work\ncould be produced only when his nerve was temporarily steadied by\ncopious doses of brandy. Keats, who \"worshipped Beauty,\" was afflicted\nby seizures like those of Turner and Morland. On one occasion he\nremained in a state of drunkenness for six weeks; and it is a wonder\nthat his marvellous mind retained its freshness at all after the poison\nhad passed from amid the delicate tissues of the brain. He conquered\nhimself at last; but I fear that his health was impaired by his few mad\noutbursts. Charles Lamb, who is dear to us all, reduced himself to a\npitiable state by giving way to outbreaks of alcoholic craving. When\nCarlyle saw him, the unhappy essayist was semi-imbecile from the effects\nof drink; and the savage Scotsman wrote some cruel words which will\nunfortunately cleave to Lamb's cherished memory for long. Lamb fought\nagainst his failing; he suffered agonies of remorse; he bitterly blamed\nhimself for \"buying days of misery by nights of madness;\" but the sweet\nsoul was enchained, and no struggles availed to work a blessed\ntransformation. Read his \"Confessions of a Drunkard.\" It is the most\nawful chapter in English literature, for it is written out of the agony\nof a pure and well-meaning mind, and its tortured phrases seem to cry\nout from the page that holds their misery. We are placed face to face\nwith a dread aspect of life, and the remorseless artist paints his own\npitiable case as though he longed to save his fellow-creatures even at\nthe expense of his own self-abasement. All these afflicted creatures\nsought the wrong remedy for the exhaustion and the nameless craving that\nbeset them when they were spent with toil. The periodic drinker takes\nhis dive into the sensual mud-bath just at the times when eager exertion\nhas brought on lassitude of body and mind. He begins by timidly drinking\na little of the deleterious stuff, and he finds that his mental images\ngrow bright and pleasant. A moment comes to him when he would not change\nplaces with the princes of the earth, and he endeavours to make that\nmoment last long. He fails, and only succeeds in dropping into\ndrunkenness. On the morning after his first day he feels depressed; but\nhis biliary processes are undisturbed, and he is able to begin again\nwithout any sense of nausea. His quantity is increased until he\ngradually reaches the point when glasses of spirits are poured down with\nfeverish rapidity. His appetite is sometimes voracious, sometimes\ncapricious, sometimes absent altogether. His stomach becomes ulcerated,\nand he can obtain release from the grinding uneasiness only by feeding\nthe inflamed organ with more and more alcohol. The liver ceases to act\nhealthily, the blood becomes charged with bile, and one morning the\nwretch awakes feeling that life is not worth having. He has slept like a\nlog; but all night through his outraged brain has avenged itself by\ncalling up crowds of hideous dreams. The blood-vessels of the eye are\ncharged with bilious particles, and these intruding specks give rise to\nfearful, exaggerated images of things that never yet were seen on sea or\nland. Grim faces leer at the dreamer and make mock of him; frightful\nanimals pass in procession before him; and hosts of incoherent words are\njabbered in his ear by unholy voices. He wakes, limp, exhausted,\ntrembling, nauseated, and he feels as if he must choose between suicide\nand--more drink. If he drinks at this stage, he is lost; and then is the\ntime to fix upon him and draw him by main force from the slough.\n\nNow some practitioners say, \"Let him drop it gradually;\" and they\nproceed to stir every molecule of alcohol in the system into vile\nactivity by adding small doses of wine or spirit to the deadly\naccumulation. The man's brain is impoverished, and the mistaken doctors\nproceed to impoverish it more, so that a patient who should be cured in\nforty-eight hours is kept in dragging misery for a month or more. The\nproper mode of treatment is widely different. You want to nourish the\nbrain speedily, and at any cost, ere the ghastly depression drives the\nagonized wretch to the arms of Circe once more. First, then, give him\nmilk. If you try milk alone, the stomach will not retain it long, so you\nmust mix the nourishing fluid with soda-water. Half an hour afterwards\nadminister a spoonful of meat-essence. Beware of giving the patient any\nhot fluid, for that will damage him almost as much as alcohol. Continue\nwith alternate half-hourly instalments of milk and meat-essence; supply\nno solid food whatever; and do not be tempted by the growing good\nspirits of your charge to let him go out of doors amid temptation. At\nnight, after some eight hours of this rapid feeding, you must take a\nrisky step. Make sure that the drinker is calm, and then prepare him for\nsleep. That preparation is accomplished thus. Get a draught of hydrate\nof chloral made up, and be sure that you describe your man's\nphysique--this is most important--to the apothecary who serves you. A\nvery light dose will suffice, and, when it is swallowed, the drugged man\nshould be left in quietude. He will sleep heavily, perhaps for as much\nas twelve hours, and no noise must be allowed to come near him. If he is\nwaked suddenly, the consequences may be bad, so that those who go to\nlook at him must use precautions to ensure silence. In the morning he\nwill awake with his brain invigorated, his muscles unagitated, and his\ncraving utterly gone. It is like magic; for a man who was prostrate on\nSunday morning is brisk and eager for work on Monday at noon. Whenever\nthe cured man feels his craving arise after a spell of labour, he should\nat once recuperate his brain by rapidly-repeated doses of the\neasily-assimilated meat-essence, and this, with a little strong black\ncoffee taken at short intervals, will tide him over the evil time. He\nsaves money, he keeps his working power, and he gives no shock to his\nhealth. Since a beneficent doctor first described this cure to the\nBritish Medical Association, hundreds have been restored and ultimately\nreclaimed.\n\nAnd now as to the persons who are called \"soakers.\" Scattered over the\ncountry are thousands of men and women who do not go to bestial\nexcesses, but who steadily undermine their constitutions by persistent\ntippling. Such a man as a commercial traveller imbibes twenty or thirty\nnips in the course of the day; he eats well in the evening, though he is\nusually repelled by the sight of food in the morning, and he preserves\nan outward appearance of ruddy health. Then there are the female\nsoakers, whom doctors find to be the most troublesome of all their\npatients. There is not a medical man in large practice who has not a\nshocking percentage of lady inebriates on his list, and the cases are\nhard to manage. An ill-starred woman, whose well-to-do husband is\nengaged in business all day, finds that a dull life-weariness overtakes\nher. If she has many children, her enforced activity preserves her from\ndanger; but, if she is childless, the subtle temptation is apt to\novercome her. She seeks unnatural exaltation, and the very secrecy which\nis necessary lends a strange zest to the pursuit of a numbing vice. Then\nwe have such busy men as auctioneers, ship-brokers, water-clerks,\nship-captains, buyers for great firms--all of whom are more or less a\nprey to the custom of \"standing liquors.\"\n\nThe soaker goes on without meeting any startling check for a good while;\nbut, by slow degrees, the main organs of the body suffer, and a chronic\nstate of alcoholic irritation is set up. A man becomes suspected by his\nemployers and slighted by his abstemious friends; he loses health,\ncharacter, prospects; and yet he is invariably ready to declare that no\none ever saw him the worse for drink. The tippling goes on till the\nresultant irritation reaches an acute stage, and the faintest disturbing\ncause brings on _delirium tremens_. There is only one way with people\nthus afflicted. They must be made to loathe alcohol, and their nerves\nmust at the same time be artificially stimulated. The cure is not\nprecisely easy, but it is certain. If my directions are followed out,\nthen a man who is in the last stage of alcoholic debility will not only\nregain a certain measure of health, but he will turn with horror from\nthe stuff that fascinated him. In the case of the soaker a little wine\nmay be given at meal-times during the first stages of the cure; but he\n(or she) will soon reject even wine. Strong black coffee, or tea, should\nbe given as often as possible--the oftener the better--and iced\nsoda-water should be administered after a heavy meal. Take this\nprescription and let it be made up--Rx Acid. Acet. eight ounces. Sponge\ndown the patient's spine with this fluid until the parts moistened\ntingle smartly; and let this be done night and morning. Also get the\nfollowing from your chemist--Rx Ext. Cinch. Rub. Liq. four ounces--and\ngive one teaspoonful in water after each meal. In a week the drinker\nwill cease to desire alcohol, and in a month he will refuse it with\ndisgust. His nerves will resume their healthy action, and, if he has not\nreached the stage of cirrhosis of the liver, he will become well and\nclear-headed. Recollect that this remedy is almost infallible, and then\neven the most greedy of literary students will hardly reproach me for\nplacing a kind of medical chapter in the quarter usually devoted to\ndisquisitions of another kind. From every side rises the bitter cry of\nthose who see their loved ones falling victims to the seductive scourge;\nfrom all quarters the voices of earnest men are raised in passionate\npleading; and in every great city there are noble workers who strive to\nrescue their fellow-creatures from drink as from a gulf of doom. My\nwords are not addressed to the happy beings who can rejoice in the\ncheerfulness bestowed by wine; I have before me only the fortunes of\nthose to whom wine is a mocker. Far be it from me to find fault with the\ngood and sound-hearted men and women who are never scathed by their\ninnocent potations; my attempt is directed toward saving the wreckages\nof civilization who perish in the grasp of the destroyer.\n\n_March, 1886._\n\n\n\n\n_CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO KNOW THEY ARE GOING WRONG_.\n\n\nSome five years ago a mere accident gave to the world one of the most\ngruesome and remarkable pieces of literature that has ever perhaps been\nseen. A convict named Fury confessed to having committed a murder of an\natrocious character. He was brought from prison, put on his trial at\nDurham, and condemned to death. Every chance was given him to escape his\ndoom; but he persisted in providing the authorities with the most\nminutely accurate chain of evidence against himself; and, in the end,\nthere was nothing for it but to cast him for death. Even when the police\nblundered, he carefully set them right--and he could not have proved his\nown guilt more clearly had he been the ablest prosecuting counsel in\nBritain. He held in his hand a voluminous statement which, as it seems,\nhe wished to read before sentence of death was passed. The Court could\nnot permit the nation's time to be thus expended; so the convict handed\nhis manuscript to a reporter--and we thus have possibly the most\nabsolutely curious of all extant thieves' literature. Somewhere in the\nrecesses of Fury's wild heart there must have been good concealed; for\nhe confessed his worst crime in the interests of justice, and he went to\nthe scaffold with a serious and serene courage which almost made of him\na dignified person. But, on his own confession, he must have been all\nhis life long an unmitigated rascal--a predatory beast of the most\ndangerous kind. From his youth upward he had lived as a professional\nthief, and his pilferings were various and extensive. The glimpses of\nsordid villainy which he frankly gives are so poignantly effective that\nthey put into the shade the most dreadful phases in the life of Villon.\nHe was a mean sneaking wretch who supported a miserable existence on the\nfruits of other people's industry, and he closed his list of crimes by\nbrutally stabbing an unhappy woman who had never harmed him. The fellow\nhad genuine literary skill and a good deal of culture; his confession is\nvery different from any of those contained in the _Newgate\nCalendar_--infinitely different from the crude horror of the statement\nwhich George Borrow quotes as a masterpiece of simple and direct\nwriting. Here is Borrow's specimen, by-the-way--\"So I went with them to\na music-booth, where they made me almost drunk with gin and began to\ntalk their flash language, which I did not understand\"--and so on. But\nthis dry simplicity is not in Fury's line. He has studied philosophy; he\nhas reasoned keenly; and, as one goes on through his terrible narrative,\none finds that he has mental capacity of a high order. He was as mean a\nrascal as Noah Claypole: and yet he had a fine clear-seeing intellect.\nNow what does this gallows-bird tell us? Why, his whole argument is\nintended to prove that he was an ill-used victim of society! Such a\nperversion has probably never been quite equalled; but it remains there\nto show us how firmly my theory stands--that the real scoundrel never\nknows himself to be a scoundrel. Had Fury settled down in a back street\nand employed his genius in writing stories, he could have earned a\nlivelihood, for people would have eagerly read his experiences; but he\npreferred thieving--and then he turned round and blamed other people for\nhounding him on to theft.\n\nThere are wrong-doers and wrong-doers; there are men who do ill in the\nworld because they are entirely harmful by nature, and they seek to hurt\ntheir fellows--there are others who err only from weakness of will. I\nmake no excuse for the weaklings; a man or woman who is weak may do more\nharm than the vilest criminal, and, when I hear any one talk about that\nnice man who is nobody's enemy but his own, I am instantly forced to\nremember a score or thereabouts of beings whom I know to have been the\ndeadliest foes of those whom they should have cherished. Let us help\nthose who err; but let us have no maudlin pity.\n\nMoralists in general have made a somewhat serious error in supposing\nthat one has only to show a man the true aspect of any given evil in\norder to make sure of his avoiding it. Of late so many sad things have\nbeen witnessed in public and private life that one is tempted to doubt\nwhether abstract morality is of any use whatever in the world. One may\ntell a man that a certain course is dangerous or fatal; one may show by\nevery device of logic and illustration that he should avoid the said\ncourse, and he will fully admit the truth of one's contentions; yet he\nis not deterred from his folly, and he goes on toward ruin with a sort\nof blind abandonment. \"Blind,\" I say. That is but a formal phrase; for\nit happens that the very men and women who wreck their lives by doing\nfoolish things are those who are keenest in detecting folly and wisest\nin giving advice to others. \"Educate the people, and you will find that\na steady diminution of vice, debauchery, and criminality must set in.\" I\nam not talking about criminality at present; but I am bound to say that\nno amount of enlightenment seems to diminish the tendency toward forms\nof folly which approach criminality. It is almost confounding to see how\nlucid of mind and how sane in theoretical judgment are the men who\nsometimes steep themselves in folly and even in vice. A wicked man\nboasted much of his own wickedness to some fellow-travellers during a\nbrief sea-voyage. He said, \"I like doing wrong for the sake of doing it.\nWhen you know you are outraging the senses of decent people there is a\nkind of excitement about it.\" This contemptible cynic told with glee\nstories of his own vileness which made good men look at him with scorn;\nbut he fancied himself the cleverest of men. With the grave nearly ready\nfor him, he could chuckle over things which he had done--things which\nproved him base, although none of them brought him within measurable\ndistance of the dock. But such instances are quite rare. The man whose\nvision is lucid, but who nevertheless goes wrong, is usually a prey to\nconstant misery or to downright remorse. Look at Burns's epitaph,\ncomposed by himself for himself. It is a dreadful thing. It is more than\nverse; it is a sermon, a prophecy, a word of doom; and it tells with\nmatchless terseness the story of many men who are at this hour passing\nto grim ruin either of body or soul or both. Burns had such magnificent\ncommon sense that in his last two lines he sums up almost everything\nthat is worth saying on the subject; and yet that fatal lack of will\nwhich I have so often lamented made all his theoretical good sense as\nnaught He could give one every essential of morality and conduct--in\ntheory--and he was one of the most convincing and wise preachers who\never lived; but that mournful epitaph summarises the results of all his\nmighty gifts; and I think that it should be learned by all young men, on\nthe chance that some few might possibly be warned and convinced. Advice\nis of scanty use to men of keen reason who are capable of composing\nprecepts for themselves; but to the duller sort I certainly think that\nthe flash of a sudden revelation given in concise words is beneficial.\nHere is poor Burns's saying--\n\n     Is there a man whose judgment clear\n     Can others teach the course to steer,\n     Yet runs himself life's mad career\n         Wild as the wave?\n     Here pause, and through the starting tear\n         Survey this grave.\n\n     The poor inhabitant below\n     Was quick to learn and wise to know,\n     And keenly felt the kindly glow\n         And softer flame;\n     But thoughtless follies laid him low\n         And stained his name.\n\n     Reader, attend! Whether thy soul\n     Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole;\n     Or, darkling, grubs this earthly hole\n         In low pursuit,\n     Know--prudent cautious self-control\n         Is wisdom's root.\n\nWhen I ponder that forlorn masterpiece, I cannot help a tendency to\ndespair; for I know, by multifarious experience of men, that the curt\nlines hint at profundities so vast as to baffle the best powers of\ncomprehension. As I think of the hundreds of men who are minor copies of\nBurns, I have a passionate wish to call on the Power that sways us all\nand pray for pity and guidance. A most wise--should I say \"wise\"?--and\nbrilliant man had brought himself very low through drink, and was dying\nsolely through the effects of a debauch which had lasted for years with\nscarcely an interval of pure sanity. He was beloved by all; he had a\nmost sweet nature; he was so shrewd and witty that it seemed impossible\nfor him to be wrong about anything. On his deathbed he talked with\nlovely serenity, and he seemed rather like some thrice-noble disciple of\nSocrates than like one who had cast away all that the world has worth\nholding. He knew every folly that he had committed, and he knew its\nexact proportions; he was consulted during his last days by young and\nold, who recognized the well-nigh superhuman character of his wisdom;\nand yet he had abundantly proved himself to be one of the most unwise\nmen living. How strange! How infinitely pathetic! Few men of clearer\nvision ever came on this earth; but, with his flashing eyes open, he\nwalked into snare after snare, and the last of the devil's traps caught\nhim fatally. Even when he was too weak to stir, he said that, if he\ncould move, he would be sure to take the old path again. Well may the\nwarning devotees cry, \"Have mercy upon us!\" Well may they bow themselves\nand wail for the weakness of man! Well may they cast themselves humbly\non the bosom of the Infinite Pity! For, of a truth, we are a feeble\nfolk, and, if we depended only on ourselves, it would be well that\nGeorge Eliot's ghastly thought of simultaneous universal suicide should\nbe put into practice speedily.\n\nHark to the appalling words of wisdom uttered by the good man whose name\nI never miss mentioning because I wish all gentle souls to refresh\nthemselves with his ineffable sweetness and tender fun! \"Could the youth\nto whom the flavour of his first wine is delicious as the opening scenes\nof life or the entering upon some newly-discovered paradise look upon my\ndesolation, and be made to understand what a dreary thing it is when a\nman shall feel himself going down a precipice with open eyes and a\npassive will--to see his destruction and have no power to stop it, and\nyet to feel it all the way emanating from himself--to perceive all\ngoodness emptied out of him, and yet not be able to forget a time when\nit was otherwise--to hear about the piteous spectacle of his own\nself-ruin--could he see my fevered eye, feverish with last night's\ndrinking and feverishly looking for this night's repetition of the\nfolly--could he feel the body of the death out of which I cry hourly,\nwith feebler and feebler outcry, to be delivered--it were enough to make\nhim dash the sparkling beverage to the earth in all the pride of its\nmantling temptation, to make him clasp his teeth,\n\n                              And not undo 'em\n     To suffer wet damnation to run thro' 'em.\"\n\nCan that be beaten for utter lucidity and directness? Not by any master\nof prose known to us--not by any man who ever wrote in prose or in\nverse. The vision is so completely convincing, the sense of actuality\ngiven by the words is so haunting, that, not even Dickens could have\nequalled it. The man who wrote those searing words is to this day\nremembered and spoken of with caressing gentleness by all men of\nintellect, refinement, quick fancy, genial humour; the editing of his\nworks has occupied a great part of the lifetime of a most distinguished\necclesiastic. Could he avoid the fell horror against which he warned\nothers? No. With all his dread knowledge, he went on his sorrowful\nway--and he remained the victim of his vice until the bitter end. It was\nCharles Lamb.\n\nA gambler is usually the most prodigal of men in the matter of promises.\nIf he is clever, he is nearly always quite ready to smile mournfully at\nhis own infatuation, and he will warn inexperienced youngsters--unless\nhe wants to rob them.\n\nIn sum, intellect, wit, keenness, lucidity of vision, perfect reasoning\npower, are all useless in restraining a man from proceeding to ruin\nunless some steadying agency is allied with them. After much sad\nbrooding, I cannot but conclude that a fervent religious faith is the\nonly thing that will give complete security; and it will be a bitter day\nfor England and the world if ever flippancy and irreligion become\ngeneral.\n\n_June, 1889._\n\n\n\n\n_THE SOCIAL INFLUENCE OF THE \"BAR.\"_\n\n\nA great American writer has lately given a terrible account of \"The\nSocial Influence of the Saloon\" in his country. The article is very\ngrave, and every word is weighed, but the cold precision of the paper\nattracts the reader with a horrible fascination. The author does not so\nmuch regret the enormous waste of money, though he allows that about two\nhundred millions of pounds sterling are spent yearly in the States on\nstrong drink; but he mourns most because of the steady ruin which he\nsees overtaking the social happiness of his country. The saloon is\nsubtly corrupting the men of America, and the ghastly plagues of\nselfishness, brutality, and immorality are spreading with cruel\nswiftness. The great author's conclusion is more than startling, and I\nconfess to having caught my breath when I read it. He says in effect,\n\"We sacrificed a million men in order to do away with slavery, but we\nnow have working in our midst a curse which is infinitely worse than\nslavery. One day we shall be obliged to save ourselves from ruin, even\nif we have to stamp out the trade in alcohol entirely, and that by means\nof a civil war.\" Strong words--and yet the man speaks with intense\nconviction: and his very quietude only serves to emphasise the awful\nnature of his disclosures. As I read on I saw with horror that the\ndescription of the state of things in America accurately fits our own\ncountry. We do not talk of a \"saloon\" here, but \"bar\" means the same\nthing; and the \"bar\" is crushing out the higher life of the English\nmiddle-class as surely as the saloon is destroying American manhood.\nAmid all our material prosperity, amid all the complexities of our\namazing community, an evil is at work which gathers power daily and\nwhich is actually assassinating, as it were, every moral quality that\nhas made England strong and beneficent. Begin with a picture. The long\ncurved counter glistens under the flare of the gas; the lines of gaudy\nbottles gleam like vulgar, sham jewelry; the glare, the glitter, the\ngarish refulgence of the place dazzle the eye, and the sharp acrid\nwhiffs of vile odour fall on the senses with a kind of mephitic\ninfluence. The evening is wearing away, and the broad space in front of\nthe bar is crowded. A hoarse crashing babble goes steadily on, forming\nthe ground-bass of an odious symphony; shrill and discordant laughter\nrises by fits and starts above the low tumult; a coarse joke sets one\ngroup sniggering; a vile oath rings out from some foul-mouthed\nroysterer; and at intervals some flushed and bleared creature breaks\ninto a slavering laugh which has a sickly resemblance to weeping. At one\nof the side-tables a sodden brute leans forward and wags his head to and\nfro with ignoble solemnity; another has fallen asleep and snores at\nintervals with a nauseous rattle; smart young men, dressed fashionably,\nfling chance witticisms at the busy barmaids, and the nymphs answer with\nglib readiness. This is the home of Jollity and Good-fellowship; this is\nthe place from which Care is banished; this is the happy corner where\nthe social glass is dispensed. Alas for the jollity and the sociability\nand all the rest of it! Force yourself to study the vile spectacle, and\nyou will soon harbour a brood of aching reflections. The whole of that\nchattering, swilling mob are employing their muddled minds on frivolity\nor obscenity, or worse things still. You will hear hardly an intelligent\nword; you will not catch a sound of sensible discussion; the scraps of\nconversation that reach you alternate between low banter, low\nsquabbling, objectionable narrative, and histories of fights or swindles\nor former debauches.\n\nMiddle-aged men tell interminable stories about money or smart strokes\nof business; youngsters wink and look unspeakably wise as they talk on\nthe subject of the spring handicaps; wild spirits tell of their\nexperiences at a glove-fight in some foul East-end tavern; amorous\nexploits are detailed with a fulness and freedom which would extremely\namaze the ladies who form the subject of the conversation. In all the\nnasty confusion you never hear a word that can be called manly, unless\nyou are prepared to allow the manliness of pugilism. Each quarter-hour\nsees the company grow more and more incoherent; the laughter gradually\nbecomes senseless, and loses the last indication of pure merriment; the\nreek thickens; the dense air is permeated with queasy smells which rise\nfrom the fusel oil and the sugared beer; the shrewd landlord looks on\nwith affected jollity, and hails casual friends with effusive imitation\nof joy; and last of all \"time\" is called, and the host of men pour into\nthe street. They are ready for any folly or mischief, and they are all\nmore or less unfitted for the next day's work. Strangely enough, many of\nthose wretched fellows who thus waste time amid sordid surroundings come\nfrom refined homes; but music and books and the quiet pleasant talk of\nmothers and sisters are tame after the delirious rattle of the bar, and\nthus bright lads go home with-their wits dulled and with a complete\nincapacity for coherent speech. Now let it be remembered that no real\nfriendships are contracted in those odious drinking-shops--something in\nthe very atmosphere of the place seems to induce selfishness, and a\ndrinker who goes wrong is never pitied; when evil days come, the smart\nlandlord shuns the failure, the barmaids sneer at him, and his boon\ncompanions shrink away as though the doomed man were tainted. Monstrous\nit is to hear the remarks made about a lost soul who is plunging with\naccelerated speed down the steep road to ruin. His companions compare\nnotes about him, and all his bodily symptoms are described with\ntruculent glee in the filthy slang of the bar. So long as the wretch has\nmoney he is received with boisterous cordiality, and encouraged to rush\nyet faster on the way to perdition; his wildest feats in the way of\nmawkish generosity are applauded; and the very men who drink at his\nexpense go on plucking him and laughing at him until the inevitable\ncrash comes. I once heard with a kind of chilled horror a narrative\nabout a fine young man who had died of _delirium tremens_. The narrator\ngiggled so much that his story was often interrupted; but it ran\nthus--\"He was very shaky in the morning, and he began on brandy; he took\nabout six before his hand was steady, and I saw him looking over his\nshoulder every now and again. In the afternoon a lot of fellows came in,\nand he stood champagne like water to the whole gang. At six o'clock I\nwanted him to have a cup of tea, but he said, 'I've had nothing but\nbooze for three days.' Then he got on to the floor, and said he was\ncatching rats--so we knew he'd got 'em on.[1] At night he came out and\ncleared the street with his sword-bayonet; and it's a wonder he didn't\nmurder somebody. It took two to hold him down all night, and he had his\nlast fit at six in the morning. Died screaming!\" A burst of laughter\nhailed the climax, and then one appreciative friend remarked, \"He was a\nfool--I suppose he was drunk eleven months out of the last twelve.\" This\nwas the epitaph of a bright young athlete who had been possessed of\nhealth, riches, and all fair prospects. No one warned him; none of those\nwho swilled expensive poisons for which he paid ever refused to accept\nhis mad generosity; he was cheered down the road to the gulf by the\ninane plaudits of the lowest of men; and one who was evidently his\ncompanion in many a frantic drinking-bout could find nothing to say but\n\"He was a fool!\" At this moment there are thousands of youths in our\ngreat towns and cities who are leading the heartless, senseless,\nsemi-delirious life of the bar, and every possible temptation is put in\ntheir way to draw them from home, from refinement, from high thoughts,\nfrom chaste and temperate modes of life. Horrible it is to hear fine\nlads talking familiarly about the \"jumpy\" sensations which they feel in\nthe morning. The \"jumps\" are those involuntary twitchings which\nsometimes precede and sometimes accompany _delirium tremens_; the\nfrightful twitching of the limbs is accompanied by a kind of depression\nthat takes the very heart and courage out of a man; and yet no one who\ntravels over these islands can avoid hearing jokes on the dismal\nsubject made by boys who have hardly reached their twenty-fifth\nyear. The bar encourages levity, and the levity is unrelieved\nby any real gaiety--it is the hysterical feigned merriment of\nlost souls.\n\n[Footnote 1: This is the elegant public-house mode of describing\n_delirium tremens_.]\n\nThere are bars of a quieter sort, and there are rooms where middle-aged\ntopers meet, but these are, if possible, more repulsive than the\nclattering dens frequented by dissipated youths. Stout staid-looking\nmen--fathers of families--gather night after night to sodden themselves\nquietly, and they make believe that they are enjoying the pleasures of\ngood-fellowship. Curious it is to see how the fictitious assertion of\ngoodwill seems to flourish in the atmosphere of the bar and the parlour.\nThose elderly men who sit and smoke in the places described as \"cosy\"\nare woeful examples of the effects of our national curse. They are not\nriotous; they are only dull, coarse, and silly. Their talk is confused,\ndogmatic, and generally senseless; and, when they break out into\ndownright foulness of speech, their comparatively silent enjoyment of\ndetestable stories is a thing to make one shiver. Here again\ngood-fellowship is absent. Comfortable tradesmen, prosperous dealers,\nsharp men who hold good commercial situations, meet to gossip and\nexchange dubious stories. They laugh a good deal in a restrained way,\nand they are apparently genial; but the hard selfishness of all is plain\nto a cool observer. The habit of self-indigence has grown upon them\nuntil it pervades their being, and the corruption of the bar subtly\nenvenoms their declining years. If good women could only once hear an\nevening's conversation that passes among these elderly citizens, they\nwould be a little surprised. Thoughtful ladies complain that women are\nnot reverenced in England, and Americans in particular notice with\nshame the attitude which middle-class Englishmen adopt towards ladies.\nIf the people who complain could only hear how women are spoken of in\nthe homes of Jollity, they would feel no more amazement at a distressing\nsocial phenomenon. The talk which is chuckled over by men who have\ndaughters of their own is something to make an inexperienced individual\nredden. Reverence, nobility, high chivalry, common cleanliness, cannot\nflourish in the precincts of the bar, and there is not an honest man who\nhas studied with adequate opportunities who will deny that the social\nglass is too often taken to an accompaniment of sheer uncleanness. Why\nhave not our moral novelists spoken the plain truth about these things?\nWe have many hideous pictures of the East-end drinking-bars, and much\nreproachful pity is expended on the \"residuum;\" but the evil that is\neating at the very heart of the nation, the evil that is destroying our\nonce noble middle-class, finds no assailant and no chronicler. Were it\nnot for the athletic sports which happily engage the energies of\nthousands of young men, our middle-class would degenerate with appalling\nrapidity. But, in spite of athletics, the bar claims its holocaust of\nmanhood year by year, and the professional moralists keep silence on the\nmatter. Some of them say that they cannot risk hurting the sensibilities\nof innocent maidens. What nonsense! Those maidens all have a chance of\nbecoming the wives of men who have suffered deterioration in the reek\nand glare of the bar. How many sorrowing wives are now hiding their\nheart-break and striving to lure their loved ones away from the curse of\ncurses! If the moralists could only look on the mortal pathos of the\nletters which I receive, they would see that the maidens about whom\nthey are so nervous are the very people who should be summoned as allies\nin our fight against a universal enemy. If our brave sweet English girls\nonce learn the nature of the temptations to which their brothers and\nlovers are exposed, they will use every force of their pure souls to\nsave the men whom they can influence from a doom which is death in life.\n\n_May, 1887._\n\n\n\n\n_FRIENDSHIP_.\n\n\nThe memoirs that are now poured into the book-market certainly tend to\nbreed cynicism in the minds of susceptible persons, for it appears that\nto many eminent men and women of our generation friendship was almost an\nunknown sentiment. As we read one spiteful paragraph after another, we\nbegin to wonder whether the living men around us resemble the dead\npurveyors of scandal. The fashionable mode of proceeding nowadays is to\nleave diaries crammed with sarcasm, give some unhappy friend orders to\nwait until you are settled in the grave, and then confound your friends\nand foes by attacks which come to the light long after your ears are\ndeaf to praise and blame. Samuel Wilberforce went into the choicest\nsociety that Britain could show; he was the confidant of many people,\nand he contrived to charm all but a few cross-grained critics. His good\nhumour seemed inexhaustible; and those who saw his cherubic face beaming\nsweetly on the company at banquets or assemblies fancied that so\ndelightful a man was never known before. But this suave, unctuous\ngentleman, who fascinated every one, from Queen to cottager, spent a\npretty fair share of his life in writing vicious witticisms and scandals\nconcerning the folk with whom he seemed to be on affectionate terms. At\nnights, after spending his days in working and bowing and smiling and\nwinning the hearts of men, he went home and poured out all the venom\nthat was in his heart. When his memoirs appeared, all the most select\nsocial circles in the country were driven into a serious flutter. No one\nwas spared; and, as some of the statements made by Wilberforce were, to\nsay the least, a little sweeping, a violent paper warfare began, which\nhas hardly ceased raging even now. Happy and contented men who believed\nthat the Bishop loved and admired them were surprised to find that he\nhad disliked and despised them. Moreover, the naughty diarist had an\nugly habit of recording men's private conversations; and thus a good\nmany sayings which should have been kept secret became public property.\nA very irreverent wag wrote--\n\n     How blest was he who'd ne'er consent\n       With Wilberforce to walk,\n     Nor dined with Soapy Sam, nor let\n       The Bishop hear him talk!\n\nand this crude epigram expressed the feelings of numbers of enraged and\nscandalized individuals. The wretched book gave us an ugly picture of a\nhollow society where kindness seemed non-existent, and where every man\nwalked with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. As more memoirs\nappeared, it was most funny to observe that, while Wilberforce was\noccupied in scarifying his dear friends, some of his dear friends were\noccupied in scarifying him. Thus we find Abraham Hayward, a polished\nleader of society, writing in the following way of Wilberforce, with\nwhom ostensibly his relations were of the most affectionate\ndescription--\"Wilberforce is really a low fellow. Again and again the\ncommittee of the Athenaeum Club have been obliged to reprove him for\nhis vulgar selfishness.\" This is dreadful! No wonder that petty cynics\nsnarl and rejoice; they say, \"Look at your great men, and see what mean\nbackbiters they are!\" Alas!\n\nThomas Carlyle's memoirs are a kind of graveyard of reputations; and we\ncan well understand the rage and horror with which many individuals\nprotested against the fierce Scotchman's strictures. In the hearts of\nthousands of noble young people Carlyle's memory was cherished like that\nof some dear saint; and it was terrible to find that the strong prophet\nhad been penetrated by such a virus of malice. Carlyle met all the best\nmen and women in England; but the only ones whom he did not disparage\nwere Tennyson, the Duke of Wellington, Mr. Froude, and Emerson. He\ncould not talk even of Charles Darwin without calling him an imbecile;\nand his all-round hitting at his closest intimates is simply merciless.\nThe same perversity which made him talk of Keats's \"maudlin weak-eyed\nsensibility\" caused him to describe his loyal, generous, high-bred\nfriend Lord Houghton as a \"nice little robin-redbreast of a man;\" while\nMrs. Basil Montagu, who cheered him and spared no pains to aid him in\nthe darkest times, is now immortalized by one masterly venomous\nparagraph. Carlyle was great--very great--but really the cultivation of\nloyal friendships seems hardly to have been in his line. Men who know\nhis works by heart, and who derived their noblest inspiration from him,\ncannot bear to read his memoirs twice over, for it sadly appears as\nthough the Titan had defiled the very altar of friendship.\n\nWhat shall we say of the cunning cat-like Charles Greville, who crept\non tiptoe through the world, observing and recording the littleness of\nmen? His stealthy eye missed nothing; and the men whom he flattered and\nused little thought that the wizened dandy who pleased them with his\nold-world courtesy was chronicling their weakness and baseness for all\ntime. A nobly patriotic Ministry came before the world with a flourish\nof trumpets, and declared that England must fight Russia in defence of\npublic law, freedom, and other holy things. But the wicked diarist had\nwatched the secret proceedings of his dear friends; and he informs us\nthat those beloved intimates were all sound asleep when a single\nMinister decided on the movement which cost us forty thousand men and\none hundred millions of treasure. That close sly being used--to worm out\nthe secrets of men's innermost hearts; and his impassive mask never\nshowed a sign of emotion. To illustrate his mode of extracting the\ninformation of which he made such terrible use, I may tell one trivial\nanecdote which has never before been made public. When Greville was very\nold, he went to see a spiritualistic \"medium\" who was attracting\nfashionable London. The charlatan looked at the gray worn old man and\nthought himself safe; four other visitors attended the _s\u00e9ance_, but the\n\"medium\" bestowed all his attention on Greville. With much emotion he\ncried, \"There is an aged lady behind your chair!\" Greville remarked\nsweetly, \"How interesting!\" \"She is very, very like you!\" \"Who can it\nbe?\" murmured Greville. \"She lifts her hands to bless you. Her hands are\nnow resting over your head!\" shouted the medium; and the pallid\nemotionless man said, with a slight tremor in his voice, \"Pray tell me\nwho this mysterious visitant may be!\" \"It is your mother.\" \"Oh,\" said\nGreville, \"I am delighted to hear that!\" \"She says she is perfectly\nhappy, and she watches you constantly.\" \"Dear soul!\" muttered the\nimperturbable one. \"She tells me you will join her soon, and be happy\nwith her.\" Then Greville said gravely, in dulcet tones, \"That is\nextremely likely, for I am going to take tea with her at five o'clock!\"\nHe had led on the poor swindler in his usual fashion; and he never\nhinted at the fact that his mother was nearly a century old. His friends\nwere \"pumped\" in the same subtle manner; and the immortally notorious\nmemoirs are strewn with assassinated characters.\n\nAs we study the phenomena indicated by these memoirs, we begin to wonder\nwhether friendship is or is not extinct. Men are gregarious, and flocks\nof them meet together at all hours of the day and night. They exchange\nconventional words of greeting, they wear happy smiles, they are\napparently cordial and charming' one with another; and yet a rigidly\naccurate observer may look mournfully for signs of real friendship. How\ncan it exist? The men and women who pass through the whirl of a London\nseason cannot help regarding their fellow-creatures rather as lay\nfigures than as human beings. They go to crowded balls and seething\n\"receptions,\" not to hold any wise human converse, but only to be able\nto say that they were in such and such a room on a certain night. The\nglittering crowds fleet by like shadows, and no man has much chance of\nknowing his neighbour's heart.\n\n     How fast the flitting figures come--\n       The mild, the fierce, the stony face;\n     Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some\n       Where secret tears have left their trace!\n\nAh, it is only the faces that the tired pleasure-seeker sees and knows;\nthe real comrade, the human soul, is hidden away behind the mask!\n\nGenuine heroic friendship cannot flourish in an artificial society; and\nthat perhaps accounts for the fact that the curled darlings of our\nmodern community spend much of their leisure in reading papers devoted\nto tattle and scandal. It seems as though the search after pleasure\npoisoned the very sources of nobleness in the nature of men. In our\nmonstrous city a man may live without a quarrel for forty years; he may\nbe popular, he may be received with genial greetings wherever he\ngoes--and yet he has no friend. He lingers through his little day; and,\nwhen he passes away, the change is less heeded than would be the removal\nof a chair from a club smoking-room. When I see the callous indifference\nwith which illness, misfortune, and death are regarded by the dainty\nclasses, I can scarcely wonder when irate philosophers denounce polite\nsociety as a pestilent and demoralizing nuisance. Among the people\nairily and impudently called \"the lower orders\" noble friendships are by\nno means uncommon. \"I can't bear that look on your face, Bill. I'm\ncoming to save you or go with you!\" said a rough sailor as he sprang\ninto a raging sea to help his shipmate. \"I'm coming, old fellow!\"\nshouted the mate of a merchant-vessel; and he dived overboard among the\nmountainous seas that were rolling south of Cape Horn one January. For\nan hour this hero fought with the blinding water, and he saved his\ncomrade at last. Strange to say, the lounging impassive dandies who\nregard the universe with a yawn, and who sneer at the very notion of\nfriendship, develop the kindly and manly virtues when they are removed\nfrom the enervating atmosphere of Society and forced to lead a hard\nlife. A man to whom emotion, passion, self-sacrifice, are things to be\nmentioned with a curl of the lip, departs on a campaign, and amid\nsqualor, peril, and grim horrors he becomes totally unselfish. Men who\nhave watched our splendid military officers in the field are apt to\nthink that a society which converts such generous souls into\nself-seeking fribbles must be merely poisonous. The more we study the\nsubject the more clearly we can see that where luxury flourishes\nfriendship withers. In the vast suffering Russian nation friendships are\nat this very moment cherished to the heroic pitch. A mighty people are\nawakening, as it were, from sleep; the wicked and corrupt still sit in\nhigh places, but among the weltering masses of the populace purity and\nnobleness are spreading, and such friendships are fostered as never have\nbeen shadowed forth in story or song. Sophie Peroffsky mounts the\nscaffold with four other doomed mortals; she never thinks of her own\napproaching agony--she only longs to comfort her friends and she kisses\nthem and greets them with cheering words until the last dread moment\narrives. Poor little Marie Soubotine--sweetest of perverted children,\nnoblest of rebels--refuses to purchase her own safety by uttering a word\nto betray her sworn friend. For three years she lingers on in an\nunderground dungeon, and then she is sent on the wild road to Siberia;\nshe dies amid gloom and deep suffering, but no torture can unseal her\nlips; she gladly gives her life to save another's. Antonoff endures the\ntorture, but no agony can make him prove false to his friends. When his\ncaptors give him a respite from the thumbscrews and the red-hot wires\nthat are thrust under his nails, he forgets his own torment, and\nscratches on his plate his cipher signals to his comrades. Those men and\nwomen in that awful country are lawless and dangerous, but they are\nheroic, and they are true friends one to another.\n\nHow far we proud islanders must have forsaken for a time the road to\nnobleness when we are able to exalt the saying \"A full purse is the only\ntrue friend\" into a representative English proverb! We do not rage and\nfoam as Timon did--that would be ill-bred and ludicrous; we simply smile\nand utter delicate mockeries. In the plays that best please our golden\nyouth nothing is so certain to win applause and laughter as a sentence\nabout the treachery or greed of friends. Do those grinning,\nsuperlatively insolent cynics really represent the mighty Mother of\nNations? Ah, no! If even the worst of them were thrust away into some\nregion where life was hard for him, he would show something like\nnobility and manliness; it is the mephitic airs of ease and luxury that\nbreed selfishness and scorn in his soul. At any rate, those effeminate\npeople are not typical specimens of our steadfast friendly race. When\nthe folk in the colliery village hear that deadly thud and feel the\nshudder of the earth which tell of disaster, Jack the hewer rushes to\nthe pit's mouth and joins the search-party. He knows that the gas may\ngrip him by the throat, and that the heavy current of dissolution may\ncreep through his veins; but his mate is down there in the workings,\nand he must needs save him or die in the attempt. Greater love hath no\nman than this. Ah, yes--the poor collier is indeed ready to lay down his\nlife for his friend! The fiery soldier, William Beresford, sees a\ncomrade in peril; a horde of infuriated savages are rushing up, and\nthere is only one pony to carry the two Englishmen. Beresford calls,\n\"Jump up behind me!\" but the friend answers, \"No; save yourself! I can\ndie, and I won't risk your life.\" Then the undignified but decidedly\ngallant Beresford observes, \"If you don't come, I'll punch your head!\"\nThe pony canters heavily off; one stumble would mean death, but the\ndauntless fighting man brings in his friend safely, though only by the\nskin of his teeth. It is absolutely necessary for the saving of our\nmoral health that we should turn away from the dreary flippancy of an\neffete society to such scenes as those. If we regarded only the pampered\nclasses, then we might well think that true human fellowship had\nperished, and a starless darkness--worse almost than Atheism--would fall\non the soul. But we are not all corrupt, and the strong brave heart of\nour people still beats true. Young men cherish manly affection for\nfriends, and are not ashamed to show it; sweet girls form friendships\nthat hold until the maidens become matrons and till the shining locks\nhave turned to silver white. Wherever men are massed together the\nstruggle for existence grows keen, and selfishness and cynicism thrust\nup their rank growths. \"Pleasure\" blunts the moral sense and converts\nthe natural man into a noxious being; but happily our people are sound\nat the core, and it will be long ere cynicism and corruption are\nuniversal. The great healthy middle-class is made up of folk who would\nregard a writer of spiteful memoirs as a mere bravo; they have not\nperhaps the sweetness and light which Mr. Arnold wished to bestow on\nthem, but at any rate they have a certain rough generosity, and they\nhave also a share of that self-forgetfulness which alone forms the basis\nof friendship. Having that, they can do without Carlyle's learning and\nWilberforce's polish, and they can certainly do without the sour malice\nof the historian and the prelate.\n\n_July, 1887._\n\n\n\n\n_DISASTERS AT SEA_.\n\n\nDuring last year the register of slaughter on the ocean was worse than\nany ever before seen since the _Royal Charter_ took her crew to\ndestruction; and it seems as though matters were growing worse and\nworse. One dismal old story is being repeated week in, week out. In\nthick weather or clear weather--it does not seem to matter which--two\nvessels approach each other, and the presiding officers on board of each\nare quite satisfied and calm; then, on a sudden, one vessel shifts her\ncourse, there are a few hurried and maddened ejaculations, and then\ncomes a crash. After that, the ugly tale may be continued in the same\nterms over and over again; the boats cannot be cleared away, the vessels\ndrift apart, and both founder, or one is left crippled. I shall have\nsomething to say about the actual effects of a collision presently, but\nI may first go on to name some other kinds of disaster. A heavy sea is\nrolling, and occasionally breaking, and a vessel is lumbering along from\ncrest to hollow of the rushing seas; a big wall of water looms over her\nfor a second, and then comes crashing down; the deck gives way--there\nare no water-tight compartments--and the ship becomes suddenly as\nunmanageable as a mere cask in a seaway. Again, a plate is wrenched, and\nsome villainously-made rivets jump out of their places like buttons from\nan over-tight bodice; in ten minutes the vessel is wallowing, ready for\nher last plunge; and very likely the crew have not even the forlorn\nchance of taking to the boats. Once more--on a clear night in the\ntropics an emigrant ship is stealing softly through the water; the merry\ncrowd on deck has broken up, the women, poor creatures, are all locked\nup in their quarters, and only a few men remain to lounge and gossip.\nThe great stars hang like lamps from the solemn dome of the sky, and the\nripples are painted with exquisite serpentine streaks; the wind hums\nsoftly from the courses of the sails, and some of the men like to let\nthe cool breeze blow over them. Everything seems so delightfully placid\nand clear that the thought of danger vanishes; no one would imagine that\neven a sea-bird could come up unobserved over that starlit expanse of\nwater. But the ocean is treacherous in light and shade. The loungers\ntell their little stories and laugh merrily; the officer of the watch\ncarelessly stumps forward from abreast of the wheel, looks knowingly\naloft, twirls round like a teetotum, and stumps back again; and the\nsweet night passes in splendour, until all save one or two home-sick\nlingerers are happy. It never occurs to any of these passengers to\nglance forward and see whether a streak of green fire seems to strike\nout from the starboard--the right-hand side of the vessel--or whether a\nshaft of red shoots from the other side. As a matter of fact, the vessel\nis going on like a dark cloud over the flying furrows of the sea; but\nthere is very little of the cloud about her great hull, for she would\nknock a house down if she hit it when travelling at her present rate.\nThe captain is a thrifty man, and the owners are thrifty persons; they\nconsider the cost of oil; and thus, as it is a nice clear night, the\nside-lights are not lit, and the judgment of the tramping look-out man\non the forecastle-head is trusted. Parenthetically I may say that,\nwithout being in any way disposed to harbour exaggerated sentiment, I\nfeel almost inclined to advocate death for any sailor who runs in\nmid-ocean without carrying his proper lights out. I once saw a big iron\nbarque go grinding right from the bulge of the bow to the stern of an\nocean steamer--and that wretched barque had no lights. Half a yard's\ndifference, and both vessels would have sunk. Three hundred and fifty\npeople were sleeping peacefully on board the steamer, and the majority\nof them must have gone down, while those who were saved would have had a\nhard time in the boats. Strange to say, that very same steamer was\ncrossed by another vessel which carried no lights: but this time the\nresult was bad, for the steamer went clean through the other ship and\nsank her instantly.\n\nTo return to the emigrant vessel. The officer continues his tramp like\none of the caged animals of a menagerie; the spare man of the watch\nleans against the rail and hums--\n\n     We'll go no more by the light of the moon;\n     The song is done, and we've lost the tune,\n     So I'll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid--\n               A-roving, A-roving, &c.\n\n--the pipes glow in the clear air, and the flying water bubbles and\nmoans. Oh, yes, all is well--beautifully well--and we need no lights\nwhatever! Then the look-out man whistles \"Hist!\"--which is quite an\nunusual mode of signalling; the officer ceases his monotonous tramp and\nruns forward. \"Luff a little!\" \"He's still bearing up. Why doesn't he\nkeep away?\" \"Luff a little more! Stand by your lee-braces. Oh, he'll go\nclear!\" So the low clear talk goes, till at last with a savage yell of\nrage a voice comes from the other vessel--\"Where you coming to?\" \"Hard\ndown with it!\" \"He's into us!\" \"Clear away your boats!\" Then there is a\nsound like \"smack.\" Then comes a long scraunch, and a thunderous rattle\nof blocks; a sail goes with a report like a gun; the vessels bump a few\ntimes, and then one draws away, leaving the other with bows staved in. A\nwild clamour surges up from below, but there is no time to heed that;\nthe men toil like Titans, and the hideous music of prayers and curses\ndisturbs the night. Then the vessel that was hit amidships rolls a\nlittle, and there is a gurgle like that of an enormous, weir: a mast\ngoes with a sharp report; a man's figure appears on the taffrail and\nbounds far into the sea--it is an experienced hand who wants to escape\nthe down-draught; the hull shudders, grows steady, and then with one\nlurch the ship swashes down and the bellowing vortex throws up huge\nspirts of boiling spray. A few stray swimmers are picked up, but the\nrest of the company will be seen nevermore. Fancy those women in that\ndarkened steerage! Think of it, and then say what should be done to an\nowner who stints his officers in the matter of lamp-oil; or to a captain\nwho does not use what the owner provides! The huddled victims wake from\nconfused slumbers; some scream--some become insane on the instant; the\nchildren add their shrill clamour to the mad rout; and the water roars\nin. Then the darkness grows thick, and the agonized crowd tear and\nthrottle each other in fierce terror; and then approaches the\nslowly-coming end. Oh, how often--how wearily often--have such scenes\nbeen enacted on the face of this fair world! And all to save a little\nlamp-oil!\n\nYet again--a great vessel plunges away to sea bearing a precious freight\nof some one thousand souls. Perhaps the owners reckon the cargo in the\nhold as being worth more than the human burden; but of course opinions\ndiffer. The wild rush from one border of the ocean to the other goes on\nfor a few days and nights, and the tremendous structure of steel cleaves\nthe hugest waves as though they were but clouds. Down below the\nluxurious passengers live in their fine hotel, and the luckier ones are\nquite happy and ineffably comfortable. If a sunny day breaks, then the\npallid battalions in the steerage come up to the air, and the ship's\ndeck is like a long animated street. A thousand souls, we said? True!\nNow let some quiet observant man of the sailorly sort go round at night\nand count the boats. Twelve, and the gig aft makes thirteen! Allowing a\ntremendously large average, this set of boats might actually carry six\nhundred persons; but the six hundred would need to sit very carefully\neven in smooth water, and a rush might capsize any one boat.\n\nThe vast floating hotel spins on at twenty miles an hour--a speed that\nmight possibly shame some of the railways that run from London\nsuburbs--and the officers want to save every yard. No care is omitted;\nthree men are on the bridge at night, there is a starboard look-out, a\nport look-out, and the quartermaster patrols amidships and sees that the\nmasthead light is all right The officer and the look-out men pass the\nword every half-hour, and nothing escapes notice. If some unlucky\nsteerage passenger happens to strike a light forward, he stands a very\ngood chance of being put in irons; and, if there is a patient in the\ndeck-house, the windows must be darkened with thick cloths. Each\nofficer, on hazy nights, improvises a sort of hood for himself; and he\npeers forward as if life depended on his eyesight--as indeed it does.\nBut there comes a bright evening, and the monster liner's journey is all\nbut over; three hours more of steaming and she will be safe. A little\nschooner comes skimming up on the port side--and the schooner is to the\nliner as a chip is to a tree-trunk. The schooner holds on her course,\nfor she is not bound to give way at all; but the officer on the bridge\nof the steamer thinks, \"I shall lose a quarter of an hour if I edge away\nto starboard and let him fall astern of us. I shall keep right on and\nshave his bows.\" The liner is going at nineteen knots, the schooner is\nromping along at eight--yet the liner cannot clear the little vessel.\nThere comes a fresh gust of wind; the sailing vessel lies over to it,\nand just touches the floating hotel amidships--but the touch is enough\nto open a breach big enough for a coach and four to go through. The\nsteamer's head is laid for the land and every ounce of steam is put on,\nbut she settles and settles more and more. And now what about the\nthirteen boats for a thousand people? There is a wild scuffling, wild\noutcry. Women bite their lips and-try, with divine patience, to crush\ndown all appearance of fear, and to keep their limbs from trembling;\nsome unruly fellows are kept in check only by terror of the revolver;\nand the officers remember that their fair name and their hope of earthly\nredemption are at stake. In one case of this sort it took three mortal\nhours to ferry the passengers and crew over smooth water to the\nrescuing vessel; and those rescued folk may think themselves the most\nfortunate of all created souls, for, if the liner had been hit with an\nimpetus of a few more tons, very few on board of her would have lived to\ntell the tale. Unless passengers, at the risk of being snubbed and\nthreatened, criticise the boat accommodation of great steamers, there\nwill be such a disaster one day as will make the world shudder.\n\nThe pitiful thing is to know how easily all this might be prevented.\nUntil one has been on board a small vessel which has every spar, bolt,\niron, and plank sound, one can have no idea how perfectly safe a\nperfectly-built ship is in any sort of weather. A schooner of one\nhundred and fifty tons was caught in a hurricane which was so powerful\nthat the men had to hang on where they could, even before the flattened\nfoaming sea rose from its level rush and began to come on board. All\nround were vessels in distress; the scare caused many of the seamen to\nforget their lights, and the ships lumbered on, first to collision, and\nthen to that crashing plunge which takes all hands down. The little\nschooner was actually obliged to offer assistance to a big\nmail-steamer--and yet she might have been rather easily carried by that\nsame steamer. But the little vessel's lights were watched with sedulous\ncare; the blasts might tear at her scanty canvas, but there was not a\nrag or a rope that would give way; and, although the awful rush of the\ngale carried her within eight miles of a rocky lee-shore, her captain\nhad sufficient confidence in the goodness of his gear to begin sailing\nhis ship instead of keeping her hove to. One rope faulty, one light\nwrong, one hand out of his place at the critical time, and the bones of\na pleasant ship's company would have been strewn on a bleak shore: but\neverything was right, and the tiny craft drew away like a seagull when\nshe was made to sail. Of course the sea ran clean over her, but she\nforged quietly on until she was thirty miles clear of those foaming\nbreakers that roared on the cliffs. During that night more good seamen\nwere drowned than one would like to number; ships worth a king's ransom\nwere utterly lost. And why? Simply because they had not the perfect gear\nwhich saved the little schooner. Even had the little craft been sent\nover until she refused to rise again to the sea, the boats were ready,\nand everybody on board had a good chance. Care first of all is needed,\nand then fear may be banished. The smart agent reads his report glibly\nto the directors of a steamboat company--and yet I have seen such smart\nagents superintending the departure of vessels whereof the appearance\nwas enough to make a good judge quake for the safety of crew and cargo.\n\nWhat do I advise? Well, in the first place, I must remind shoregoing\nfolk that a sound well-found vessel will live through anything. Let\npassengers beware of lines which pay a large dividend and show nothing\non their balance-sheets to allow for depreciation. In the next place, if\nany passenger on a long voyage should see that the proper lights are not\nshown, he ought to wake up his fellow passengers at any hour of the\nnight, and go with his friends to threaten the captain. Never mind\nbluster or oaths--merely say, \"If your lights are not shown, you may\nregard your certificate as gone.\" If that does not bring the gentleman\nto his senses, nothing will. Again, take care in any case that no raw\nforeign seamen are allowed to go on the look-out in any vessel, for a\nmisunderstood shout at a critical moment may bring sudden doom on\nhundreds of unsuspecting fellow-creatures. Above all, see that the\nwater-casks in every boat are kept full. In this way the sea tragedies\nmay be a little lessened in their hateful number.\n\n_March, 1889._\n\n\n\n\n_A RHAPSODY OF SUMMER_.\n\n\nThere came into my life a time of strenuous effort, and I drank all the\njoys of labour to the lees. When the rich dark midnights of summer\ndrooped over the earth, I could hardly bear to think of the hours of\noblivion which must pass ere I felt the delight of work once more. And\nthe world seemed very beautiful; and, when I looked up to the solemn\nsky, so sweetly sown with stars, I could see stirring words like \"Fame\"\nand \"Gladness\" and \"Triumph\" written dimly across the vault; so that my\nheart was full of rejoicing, and all the world promised fair. In those\nimmortal midnights the sea spoke wonderful things to me, and the long\nrollers glittering under the high moon bore health and bright promise as\nthey hastened to the shore. And, when the ships stole--oh, so\nsilently!--out of the shadows and moved over the diamond track of the\nmoon's light, I sent my heart out to the lonely seamen and prayed that\nthey might be joyous like me. Then the ringing of the song of\nmultitudinous birds sounded in the hours of dawn, and the tawny-throated\nking of songsters made my pulses tremble with his wild ecstasy; and the\nblackbird poured forth mellow defiance, and the thrush shrilled in his\nlovely fashion concerning the joy of existence.\n\nPass, dreams! The long beams are drawn from the bosom of dawn. The gray\nof the quiet sea quickens into rose, and soon the glittering serpentine\nstreaks of colour quiver into a blaze; the brown sands glow, and the\nlittle waves run inward, showing milky curves under the gay light; the\nshoregoing boats come home, and their sails--those coarse tanned\nsails--are like flowers that wake with the daisies and the peonies to\nfeast on the sun. Happy holiday-makers who are wise enough to watch the\nfishers come in! The booted thickly-clad fellows plunge into the shallow\nwater; and then the bare-footed women come down, and the harvest of the\nnight is carried up the cliffs before the most of the holiday-folk have\nfairly awakened. The proud day broadens to its height, and the sands are\nblackened by the growing crowd; for the beach near a fashionable\nwatering-place is like a section cut from a turbulent city street, save\nthat the folk on the sands think of aught but business. I have never\nbeen able to sympathize with those who can perceive only vulgarity in a\nseaside crowd. It is well to care for deserted shores and dark moaning\nforests in the far North; but the average British holiday-maker is a\nsociable creature; he likes to feel the sense of companionship, and his\nspirits rise in proportion to the density of the crowd amid which he\ndisports himself. To me, the life, the concentrated enjoyment, the ways\nof the children who are set free from the trammels of town life, are all\nlike so much poetry. I learned early to rejoice in silent sympathy with\nthe rejoicing of God's creatures. Only to watch the languid pose of some\nsteady toiler from the City is enough to give discontented people a\ngoodly lesson. The man has been ground in the mill for a year; his\nmodest life has left him no time for enjoyment, and his ideas of all\npleasure are crude. Watch him as he remains passively in an ecstasy of\nrest. The cries of children, the confused jargon of the crowd, fall but\nfaintly on his nerves; he likes the sensation of being in company; he\nhas a dim notion of the beauty of the vast sky with its shining\nsnowy-bosomed clouds, and he lets the light breeze blow over him. I like\nto look on that good citizen and contrast the dull round of his\nwayfarings on many streets with the ease and satisfaction of his\nattitude on the sands. Then the night comes. The dancers are busy, the\ncommonplace music is made refined by distance, and the murmur of the sea\ngathers power over all other sounds, until the noon of night arrives and\nthe last merry voices are heard no more. Poor harmless revellers, so\ncondemned by men whose round of life is a search for pleasure! Many of\nyou do not understand or care for quiet refinements of dress and\ndemeanour; you lack restraint; but I have felt much gladness while\ndemurely watching your abandonment. I could draw rest for my soul from\nthe magnetic night long after you were aweary and asleep; but much of my\npleasure came as a reflection from yours.\n\nAs my memories of sweetness--yes, and of purifying sadness--gather more\nthickly, I am minded to wonder that so much has been vouchsafed me\nrather than to mourn over shadowy might-have-beens. The summer day by\nthe deep lovely lake--the lake within sound of the sea! All round the\nsteep walls that shut in the dark glossy water there hung rank festoons\nand bosses of brilliant green, and the clear reflections of the weeds\nand flowers hung so far down in the mysterious deeps that the height of\nthe rocky wall seemed stupendous. Far over in one tremendously deep\npool the lazy great fish wallowed and lunged; they would not show their\nspeckled sides very much until the evening; but they kept sleepily\nmoving all day, and sometimes a mighty back would show like a log for an\ninstant. In the morning the modest ground-larks cheeped softly among the\nrough grasses on the low hills, while the proud heaven-scaler--the\nlordly kinsman of the ground-lark--filled the sky with his lovely\nclamour. Sometimes a water-rail would come out from the sedges and walk\non the surface of the lake as a tiny ostrich might on the shifting sand;\npretty creatures of all sorts seemed to find their homes near the deep\nwonderful water, and the whole morning might be passed in silently\nwatching the birds and beasts that came around. The gay sun made streams\nof silver fire shoot from the polished brackens and sorrel, the purple\ngeraniums gleamed like scattered jewels, and the birds seemed to be\njoyful in presence of that manifold beauty--joyful as the quiet human\nbeing who watched them all. And the little fishes in the shallows would\nhave their fun as well. They darted hither and thither; the spiny\ncreatures which the schoolboy loves built their queer nests among the\nwaterweeds; and sometimes a silly adventurer--alarmed by the majestic\napproach of a large fish--would rush on to the loamy bank at the shallow\nend of the lake and wriggle piteously in hopeless failure. The\nafternoons were divinely restful by the varied shores of the limpid\nlake. Sometimes as the sun sloped there might come hollow blasts of wind\nthat had careered for a brief space over the woods; but the brooding\nheat, the mastering silence, the feeling that multifarious quiescent\nliving things were ready to start into action, all took the senses with\nsomnolence. That drowsy joy, that soothing silence which seemed only\nintensified by the murmur of bees and the faint gurgle of water, were\nlike medicine to the soul; and it seemed that the conception of Nirvana\nbecame easily understood as the delicious open-air reverie grew more and\nmore involved and vague. Then the last look of the sun, the creeping\nshadows that made the sea gray and turned the little lake to an inky\nhue, and then the slow fall of the quiet-coloured evening, and, last,\nthe fall of the mystic night!\n\nPoor little birds, moving uneasily in the darkness, threw down tiny\nfragments from the rocks, and each fragment fell with a sound like the\nclink of a delicate silver bell; softly the sea moaned, softly the\nnight-wind blew, and softly--so softly!--came whispering the spirits of\nthe dead. Joyous faces could be seen by that lake long, long ago. In\nsummer, when the lower rim was all blazing with red and yellow flowers,\nyoung lovers came to whisper and gaze. They are dead and gone. In\nwinter, when the tarn was covered with jetty glossy ice, there were\njovial scenes whereof the jollity was shared by a happy few. Round and\nround on the glossy surface the skaters flew and passed like gliding\nghosts under the gloom of the rocks; the hiss of the iron sounded\nmusically, and the steep wall flung back sharp echoes of harmless\nlaughter. Each volume of sound was magically magnified, and the gay\ncompany carried on their pleasant outing far into the chili winter\nnight. They are all gone! One was there oftenest in spring and summer,\nand the last sun-rays often made her golden hair shine in splendour as\nshe stood gazing wistfully over the solemn lake. She saw wonders there\nthat coarser spirits could not know; and all her gentle musings passed\ninto poetry--poetry that was seldom spoken. Those who loved her never\ncared to break her sacred stillness as she pondered by the side of the\nbeloved tarn; her language was not known to common folk, for she held\nhigh converse with the great of old time; and, when she chanced to speak\nwith me, I understood but dimly, though I had all the sense of beauty\nand mystery. A shipwrecked sailor said she looked as if she belonged to\nGod. Her Master claimed her early. Dear, your yellow hair will shine no\nmore in the sun that you loved; you have long given over your\nday-dreams--and you are now dreamless. Or perhaps you dwell amid the\nsilent glory of one last long dream of those you loved. The gorse on the\nmoor moans by your grave, the brackens grow green and tall and wither\ninto dead gold year by year, the lake gleams gloomily in fitful flashes\namid its borders of splendour; and you rest softly while the sea calls\nyour lullaby nightly. Far off, far off, my soul, by quiet seas where the\nlamps of the Southern Cross hang in the magnificence of the purple sky,\nthere is one who remembers the lake, and the glassy ice, and the blaze\nof pompous summer, and the shining of that yellow hair. Peace--oh,\npeace! The sorrow has passed into quiet pensive regret that is nigh akin\nto gladness.\n\nHow many other ineffable days and nights have I known? All who can feel\nthe thrilling of sea-winds, all who can have even one day amid grass and\nfair trees, grasp the time of delight, enjoy all beauties, do not pass\nin coarseness one single minute; and then, when the Guide comes to point\nyour road through the strange gates, you may be like me--you may repine\nat nothing, for you will have much good to remember and scanty evil. It\nis good for me now to think of the thundering rush of the yacht as, with\nthe great mainsail drawing heavily, she roared through the field of foam\nmade by her own splendid speed, while the inky waves on the dim horizon\nmoaned and the dark summer midnight brooded warmly over the dark sea. It\nis good to think of the strange days when the vessel was buried in\nwreaths of dark cloud, and the rush of the wind only drove the haze\nscreaming among the shrouds. The vast dim mountains might not be\npleasant to the eye of either seaman or landsman; but, when they poured\ntheir thundering deluge on a strong safe deck, we did not mind them.\nHappy hearts were there even in stormy warring afternoons; and men\nwatched quite placidly as the long grim hills came gliding on. Then in\nthe evenings there were chance hours when the dim forecastle was a\npleasant place in bad weather. The bow of the vessel swayed wildly; the\npitching seemed as if it might end in one immense supreme dive to the\ngulf, and the mad storming of the wind forced us to utter our simple\ntalk in loudest tones. Gruff kindly phrases, without much wit or point,\nwere good enough for us; perhaps even the appalling dignitary--yes, even\nthe mate--would crawl in; and we listened to lengthy disjointed stories.\nAnd all the while the tremendous howl of the storm went on, and the\nmerry lads who went out on duty had to rush wildly so as to reach the\nalley when a very heavy sea came over. The sense of strength was\nsupreme; the crash of the gale was nothing; and we rather hugged\nourselves on the notion that the fierce screaming meant us no harm. The\ncurls of smoke flitted softly amid the blurred yellow beams from the\nlamp, and our chat went on while the monstrous billows grew blacker and\nblacker and the spray shone like corpse-candles on the mystic and mighty\nhills. And then the hours of the terrible darkness! To leave the swept\ndeck while every vein tingled with the ecstasy of the gale! The dull\nwarmth below was exquisite; the sly creatures which crept from their,\ndens and let the lamplight shine on their weird eyes--even the gamesome\nrats--had something merrily diabolic about them. Their thuds on the\nfloor, their sordid swarming, their inexplicable daring--all gave a kind\nof minor current of _diablerie_ to the rush and hurry of the stormy\nnight; for they seemed to speak--and the creatures which on shore are\nodious appeared to be quite in place in the soaring groaning vessel. Ah,\nmy brave forecastle lads, my merry tan-faced favourites, I shall no more\nsee your quaint squalor, I shall no more see your battle with wind and\nsavage waves and elemental turmoil! Some of you have passed to the\nshadows before me; some of you have only the ooze for your graves; and\nthe others cannot ever hear my greeting again on the sweet mornings when\nthe waves are all gay with lily-hued blossoms of foam.\n\n     Pale beyond porch and portal,\n       Crowned with dark flowers she stands,\n     Who gathers all things mortal\n       With cold immortal hands.\n\nGathers! And Proserpina will strew the flowers of foam that I may never\nsee more--and then she will gather me.\n\nAll was good in the time of delight--all is good now that only a memory\nclings lovingly to the heart. Take my counsel. Rejoice in your day, and\nthe night shall carry no dread for you.\n\n_June, 1889._\n\n\n\n\n_LOST DAYS._\n\n\nI fully recognize the fact which the Frenchman flippantly stated--that\nno human beings really believe that death is inevitable until the last\nclasp of the stone-cold king numbs their pulses. Perhaps this\ninsensibility is a merciful gift; at any rate, it is a fact. If belief\ncame home with violence to our minds, we should suffer from a sort of\nvertigo; but the merciful dullness which the Frenchman perceived and\nmocked in his epigram saves us all the miseries of apprehension. This is\nvery curiously seen among soldiers when they know that they must soon go\ninto action. The soldiers chat together on the night before the attack;\nthey know that some of them must go down; they actually go so far as to\nexchange messages thus--\"If anything happens to me, you know, Bill, I\nwant you to take that to the old people. You give me a note or anything\nelse you have; and, if we get out of the shindy, we can hand the things\nback again.\" After confidences of this sort, the men chat on; and I\nnever yet knew or heard of one who did not speak of his own safe return\nas a matter of course. When a brigade charges, there may be a little\nanxiety at first; but the whistle of the first bullet ends all\nmisgivings, and the fellows grow quite merry, though it may be that half\nof them are certain to be down on the ground before the day is over. A\nman who is struck may know well that he will pass away: but he will\nrise up feebly to cheer on his comrades--nay, he will ask questions, as\nthe charging troops pass him, as to the fate of Bill or Joe, or the\nprobable action of the Heavies, or similar trifles.\n\nIn the fight of life we all behave much as the soldiers do in the crash\nand hurry of battle. If we reason the matter out with a semblance of\nlogic, we all know that we must move toward the shadows; but, even after\nwe are mortally stricken by disease or age, we persist in acting and\nthinking as if there were no end. In youth we go almost further; we are\ntoo apt to live as though we were immortal, and as though there were\nabsolutely nothing to result from human action or human inaction. To the\nyoung man and the young woman the future is not a blind lane with a\ngrave at the end; it is a spacious plain reaching away towards a far-off\nhorizon; and that horizon recedes and recedes as they move forward,\nleaving magnificent expanses to be crossed in joyous freedom. A pretty\ndelusion! The youth harks onward, singing merrily and rejoicing in\nsympathy with the mystic song of the birds; there is so much space\naround him--the very breath of life is a joy--and he is content to taste\nin glorious idleness the ecstasy of living. The evening closes in, and\nthen the horizon seems to be narrowing; like the walls of the deadly\nchamber in the home of the Inquisition, the skies shrink inward--and the\nyouth has misgivings. The next day finds his plain shrunken a little in\nexpanse, and his horizon has not so superb a sweep. Nevertheless he goes\ngaily on, and once more he raises his voice joyously, and tries to think\nthat the plain and the horizon can contract no more. Thus in foolish\nhopefulness he passes his days until the glorious plain of his dreams\nhas been traversed, and, lo, under his very feet is the great gulf\nfixed, and far below the tide--the tide of Eternity--laps sullenly\nagainst the walls of the deadly chasm. If the youth knew that the gulf\nand the rolling river were so near--if he not only knew, but could\nabsolutely picture his doom--would he be so merry? Ah, no!\n\nI repeat that, if men could be so disciplined as to believe in their\nsouls that death must come, then there would be no lost days. Is there\none of us who can say that he never lost a day amid this too brief, too\njoyous, too entrancing term of existence? Not one. The aged Roman--who,\nby-the-way, was somewhat of a prig--used to go about moaning, \"I have\nlost a day,\" if he thought he had not performed some good action or\nlearned something in the twenty-four hours. Most of us have no such\nqualms; we waste the time freely; and we never know that it is wasted\nuntil with a dull shock we comprehend that all must be left and that the\nsquandered hours can never be retrieved. The men who are strongest and\ngreatest and best suffer the acutest remorse for the lost days; they\nknow their own powers, and that very knowledge makes them suffer all the\nmore bitterly when they reckon up what they might have done and compare\nit with the sum of their actual achievement.\n\nIn a certain German town a little cell is shown on the walls of which a\nfamous name is marked many times. It appears that in his turbulent youth\nPrince Bismarck was often a prisoner in this cell; and his various\nappearances are registered under eleven different dates. Moreover, I\nobserve from the same rude register that he fought twenty-eight duels.\nLost days--lost days! He tells us how he drank in the usual insane\nfashion prevalent among the students. He \"cannot tell how much Burgundy\nhe could really drink.\" Lost days--lost days! And now the great old man,\nwith Europe at his feet and the world awaiting his lightest word with\neagerness, turns regretfully sometimes to think of the days thrown away.\nA haze seems to hang before the eyes of such as he; and it is a haze\nthat makes the future seem dim and vast, even while it obscures all the\nsharp outlines of things. The child is not capable of reasoning\ncoherently, and therefore its disposition to fritter away time must be\nregarded as only the result of defective organization; but the young man\nand young woman can reason, and yet we find them perpetually making\nexcuses for eluding time and eternity. Look at the young fellows who are\npreparing for the hard duties of life by studying at a University. Here\nis one who seems to have recognized the facts of existence; his hours\nare arranged as methodically as his heart beats; he knows the exact\nbalance between physical and intellectual strength, and he overtaxes\nneither, but body and mind are worked up to the highest attainable\npressure. No pleasures of the destructive sort call this youngster\naside; he has learned already what it is to reap the harvest of a quiet\neye, and his joys are of the sober kind. He rises early, and he has got\nfar through his work ere noon; his quiet afternoon is devoted to\nharmless merriment in the cricket-field or on the friendly country\nroads, and his evening is spent without any vain gossip in the happy\ncompanionship of his books. That young man loses no day; but unhappily\nhe represents a type which is but too rare. The steady man, economic of\ntime, is a rarity; but the wild youth who is always going to do\nsomething to-morrow is one of a class that numbers only too many on its\nrolls. To-morrow! The young fellow passes to-day on the river, or spends\nit in lounging or in active dissipation. He feels that he is doing\nwrong; but the gaunt spectres raised by conscience are always exorcised\nby the bright vision of to-morrow. To-morrow the truant will go to his\nbooks; he will bend himself for that concentrated effort which alone\nsecures success, and his time of carelessness and sloth shall be far\nleft behind. But the sinister influence of to-day saps his will and\nrenders him infirm; each new to-day is wasted amid thoughts of visionary\nto-morrows which take all the power from his soul; and, when he is\nnerveless, powerless, tired, discontented with the very sight of the\nsun, he finds suddenly that his feet are on the edge of the gulf, and he\nknows that there will be no more to-morrows.\n\nI am not entering a plea for hard, petrifying work. If a man is a\nhand-worker or brain-worker, his fate is inevitable if he regards work\nas the only end of life. The loss of which I speak is that incurred by\nengaging in pursuits which do not give mental strength or resource or\nbodily health. The hard-worked business-man who gallops twenty miles\nafter hounds before he settles to his long stretch of toil is not losing\nhis day; the empty young dandy whose life for five months in the year is\ngiven up to galloping across grass country or lounging around stables is\ndecidedly a spendthrift so far as time is concerned.\n\nI wish--if it be not impious so to wish--that every young man could\nhave one glimpse into the future. Supposing some good genius could say,\n\"If you proceed as you are now doing, your position in your fortieth\nyear will be this!\" what a horror would strike through many among us,\nand how desperately each would strive to take advantage of that kindly\n\"If.\" But there is no uplifting of the veil; and we must all be guided\nby the experience of the past and not by knowledge of the future. I\nobserve that those who score the greatest number of lost days on the\nworld's calendar always do so under the impression that they are\nenjoying pleasure. An acute observer whose soul is not vitiated by\ncynicism may find a kind of melancholy pastime in observing the hopeless\nattempts of these poor son's to persuade themselves that they are making\nthe best of existence. I would not for worlds seem for a moment to\ndisparage pleasure, because I hold that a human being who lives without\njoy must either become bad, mad, or wretched. But I speak of those who\ncheat themselves into thinking that every hour which passes swiftly to\neternity is wisely spent. Observe the parties of young men who play at\ncards even in the railway-train morning after morning and evening after\nevening. The time of the journey might be spent in useful and happy\nthought; it is passed in rapid and feverish speculation. There is no\nquestion of reviving the brain; it is not recreation that is gained, but\ndistraction, and the brain, instead of being ready to concentrate its\npower upon work, is enfeebled and rendered vague and flighty. Supposing\na youth spends but one hour per day in handling pieces of pasteboard and\ntrying to win his neighbour's money, then in four weeks he has wasted\ntwenty-four hours, and in one year he wastes thirteen days. Is there\nany gain--mental, muscular, or nervous--from this unhappy pursuit? Not\none jot or tittle. Supposing that a weary man of science leaves his\nlaboratory in the evening, and wends his way homeward, the very thought\nof the game of whist which awaits him is a kind of recuperative agency.\nWhist is the true recreation of the man of science; and the astronomer\nor mathematician or biologist goes calmly to rest with his mind at ease\nafter he has enjoyed his rubber. The most industrious of living\nnovelists and the most prolific of all modern writers was asked--so he\ntells us in his autobiography--\"How is it that your thirtieth book is\nfresher than your first?\" He made answer, \"I eat very well, keep regular\nhours, sleep ten hours a day, and never miss my three hours a day at\nwhist.\" These men of great brain derive benefit from their harmless\ncontests; the young men in the railway-carriages only waste brain-tissue\nwhich they do nothing-to repair. A very beautiful writer who was an\nextremely lazy man pictures his own lost days as arising before him and\nsaying, \"I am thy Self; say, what didst thou to me?\" That question may\nwell be asked by all the host of murdered days, but especially may it be\nasked of those foolish beings who try to gain distinction by recklessly\nlosing money on the Turf or in gambling-saloons. A heart of stone might\nbe moved by seeing the precious time that is hurled to the limbo of lost\ndays in the vulgar pandemonium by the racecourse. A nice lad comes out\ninto the world after attaining his majority, and plunges into that\nvortex of Hades. Reckon up the good he gets there. Does he gain health?\nAlas, think of the crowd, the rank odours, the straining heart-beats!\nDoes he hear any wisdom? Listen to the hideous badinage, the wild bursts\nof foul language from the betting-men, the mean, cunning drivel of the\ngamblers, the shrill laughter of the horsey and unsexed women? Does the\nyouth make friends? Ah, yes! He makes friends who will cheat him at\nbetting, cheat him at horse-dealing, cheat him at gambling when the\norgies of the course are over, borrow money as long as he will lend, and\nthrow him over when he has parted with his last penny and his last rag\nof self-respect. Those who can carry their minds back for twenty years\nmust remember the foolish young nobleman who sold a splendid estate to\npay the yelling vulgarians of the betting-ring. They cheered him when he\nall but beggared himself; they hissed him when he failed once to pay.\nWith lost health, lost patrimony, lost hopes, lost self-respect, he sank\namid the rough billows of life's sea, and only one human creature was\nthere to aid him when the great last wave swept over him. Lost\ndays--lost days! Youths who are going to ruin now amid the plaudits of\nthose who live upon them might surely take warning: but they do not, and\ntheir bones will soon bleach on the mound whereon those of all other\nwasters of days have been thrown. When I think of the lost days and the\nlost lives of which I have cognizance, then it seems as though I were\ngazing on some vast charnel-house, some ghoul-haunted place of skulls.\nMemories of those who trifled with life come to me, and their very faces\nflash past with looks of tragic significance. By their own fault they\nwere ruined; they were shut out of the garden of their gifts; their city\nof hope was ploughed and salted. The past cannot be retrieved, let\ncanting optimists talk as they choose; what has been has been, and the\neffects will last and spread until the earth shall pass away. Our acts\nour angels are, or good or ill; our fatal shadows that walk by us still.\nThe thing done lasts for eternity; the lightest act of man or woman has\nincalculably vast results. So it is madness to say that the lost days\ncan be retrieved. They cannot! But by timely wisdom we may save the days\nand make them beneficent and fruitful in the future. Watch those wild\nlads who are sowing in wine what they reap in headache and degradation.\nNight after night they laugh with senseless glee, night after night\ninanities which pass for wit are poured forth; and daily the nerve and\nstrength of each carouser grow weaker. Can you retrieve those nights?\nNever! But you may take the most shattered of the crew and assure him\nthat all is not irretrievably lost; his weakened nerve may be steadied,\nhis deranged gastric functions may gradually grow more healthy, his\ndistorted views of life may pass away. So far, so good; but never try to\npersuade any one that the past may be repaired, for that delusion is the\nvery source and spring of the foul stream of lost days. Once impress\nupon any teachable creature the stern fact that a lost day is lost for\never, once make that belief part of his being, and then he will strive\nto cheat death. Perhaps it may be thought that I take sombre views of\nlife. No; I see that the world may be made a place of pleasure, but only\nby learning and obeying the inexorable laws which govern all things,\nfrom the fall of a seed of grass to the moving of the miraculous brain\nof man.\n\n_April, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_MIDSUMMER DAYS AND MIDSUMMER NIGHTS._\n\n\nSoon, with pomp of golden days and silver nights, the dying Summer will\nwave the world farewell; but the precious time is still with us, and we\ncherish the glad moments gleefully. When the dawn swirls up in the\nsplendid sky, it is as though one gladsome procession of hours had begun\nto move. The breeze sighs cool and low, the trees rustle with vast\nwhisperings, and the conquering sun shoots his level volleys from rim to\nrim of the world. The birds are very, very busy, and they take no\nthought of the grim time coming, when the iron ground will be swept by\nchill winds and the sad trees will quiver mournfully in the biting air.\nA riot of life is in progress, and it seems as if the sense of pure joy\nbanished the very thought of pain and foreboding from all living things.\nThe sleepy afternoons glide away, the sun droops, and the quiet,\ncoloured evening falls solemnly. Then comes the hush of the huge and\nthoughtful night; the wan stars wash the dust with silver, and the brave\nday is over. Alas, for those who are pent in populous cities throughout\nthis glorious time! We who are out in the free air may cast a kindly\nthought on the fate of those to whom \"holiday\" must be as a word in an\nunknown tongue. Some of us are happy amid the shade of mighty hills:\nsome of us fare toward the Land of the Midnight Sun, where the golden\nlight steeps all the air by night as well as day; some of us rest beside\nthe sea, where the loud wind, large and free, blows the long surges out\nin sounding bars and thrills us with fresh fierce pleasure; some of us\nare able to wander in glowing lanes where the tender roses star the\nhedges and the murmur of innumerable bees falls softly on the senses.\nLet us thankfully take the good that is vouchsafed to us, and let those\nof us who can lend a helping hand do something towards giving the poor\nand needy a brief taste of the happiness that we freely enjoy.\n\nI do not want to dwell on ugly thoughts; and yet it seems selfish to\nrefrain from speaking of the fate of the poor who are packed in crowded\nquarters during this bright holiday season. For them the midsummer days\nand midsummer nights are a term of tribulation. The hot street reeks\nwith pungent odours, the faint airs that wander in the scorching alleys\nat noonday strike on the fevered face like wafts from some furnace, and\nthe cruel nights are hard to endure save when a cool shower has fallen.\nIf you wander in London byways, you find that the people are fairly\ndriven from their houses after a blistering summer day, and they sit in\nthe streets till early morning. They are not at all depressed; on the\ncontrary, the dark hours are passed in reckless merriment, and I have\noften known the men to rest quite contentedly on the pavement till the\ndawn came and the time of departure for labour was near. Even the young\nchildren remain out of doors, and their shrill treble mingles with the\ncoarse rattle of noisy choruses. Some of those cheery youngsters have\nan outing in the hopping season, and they come back bronzed and healthy;\nbut most of them have to be satisfied with one day at the most amid the\nfields and trees. I have spoken of London; but the case of those who\ndwell in the black manufacturing cities is even worse. What is Oldham\nlike on a blistering midsummer day? What are Hanley and St. Helen's and\nthe lower parts of Manchester like? The air is charged with dust, and\nthe acrid, rasping fumes from the chimneys seem to acquire a malignant\npower over men and brain. Toil goes steadily on, and the working-folk\ncertainly have the advantage of starting in the bright morning hours,\nbefore the air has become befouled; but, as the sun gains strength, and\nthe close air of the unlovely streets is heated, then the torment to be\nendured is severe. In Oldham and many other Lancashire towns a most\nadmirable custom prevails. Large numbers of people club their money\nduring the year and establish a holiday-fund; they migrate wholesale in\nthe summertime, and have a merry holiday far away from the crush of the\npavements and the dreary lines of ugly houses. A wise and beneficent\ncustom is this, and the man who first devised it deserves a monument. I\ncongratulate the troops of toilers who share my own pleasure; but, alas,\nhow many honest folk in those awful Midland places will pant and sweat\nand suffer amid grime and heat while the glad months are passing! Good\nmen who might be happy even in the free spaces of the Far West, fair\nwomen who need only rest and pure air to enable them to bloom in beauty,\nlittle children who peak and pine, are all crammed within the odious\nprecincts of the towns which Cobbett hated; and the merry stretches of\nthe sea, the billowy roll of the downs, the peace of soft days, are not\nfor them. Only last year I looked on a stretch of interminable brown\nsand, hard and smooth and broad, with the ocean perpetually rolling in\nupon it with slow-measured sweep, with rustle and hiss and foam, and\nmany a thump as of low bass drums. There before me was Whitman's very\nvision, and in the keen mystic joy of the moment I could not help\nthinking sadly of one dreadful alley where lately I had been. It seemed\nso sad that the folk of the alley could not share my pleasure; and the\nmurmur of vain regrets came to the soul even amid the triumphant clamour\nof the free wind. Poor cramped townsfolk, hard is your fate! It is hard;\nbut I can see no good in repining over their fortune if we aid them as\nfar as we can; rather let us speak of the bright time that comes for the\ntoilers who are able to escape from the burning streets.\n\nThe mathematicians and such-like dry personages confine midsummer to one\nday in June; but we who are untrammelled by science know a great deal\nbetter. For us midsummer lasts till August is half over, and we utterly\nrefuse to trouble ourselves about equinoxes and solstices and\ntrivialities of that kind. For us it is midsummer while the sun is warm,\nwhile the trees hold their green, while the dancing waves fling their\nblossoms of foam under the darting rays that dazzle us, while the sacred\nnight is soft and warm and the cool airs are wafted like sounds of\nblessings spoken in the scented darkness. For us the solstice is\nabolished, and we sturdily refuse to give up our midsummer till the\nfirst gleam of yellow comes on the leaves. We are not all lucky enough\nto see the leagues upon leagues of overpowering colour as the sun comes\nup on the Alps; we cannot all rest in the glittering seclusion of\nNorwegian fiords; but most of us, in our modest way, can enjoy our\nextravagantly prolonged midsummer beside the shore of our British\nwaters. Spring is the time for hope; our midsummer is the time for\nripened joy, for healthful rest; and we are satisfied with the beaches\nand cliffs that are hallowed by many memories--we are satisfied with\nsimple copses and level fields. They say that spring is the poet's\nseason; but we know better. Spring is all very well for those who have\nconstant leisure; it is good to watch the gradual bursting of early\nbuds; it is good to hear the thrush chant his even-song of love; it is\ngood to rest the eye on the glorious clouds of bloom that seem to float\nin the orchards. But the midsummer, the gallant midsummer, pranked in\nmanifold splendours, is the true season of poetry for the toilers. The\nbirds of passage who are now crowding out of the towns have had little\npleasure in the spring, and their blissful days are only now beginning.\nWhat is it to them that the seaside landlady crouches awaiting her prey?\nWhat is it to them that 'Arry is preparing to make night hideous? They\nare bound for their rest, and the surcease of toil is the only thing\nthat suggests poetry to them. Spring the season for poets! We wipe away\nthat treasonable suggestion just as we have wiped out the solstice. We\nholiday makers are not going to be tyrannized over by literary and\nscientific persons, and we insist on taking our own way. Our blood beats\nfully only at this season, and not even the extortioners' bills can\ndaunt us. Let us break into poetry and flout the maudlin enthusiasts who\nprate of spring.\n\n     With a ripple of leaves and a twinkle of streams\n       The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise,\n     And the winds are one with the clouds and beams--\n       Midsummer days! Midsummer days!\n       The dusks grow vast in a purple haze,\n     While the West from a rapture of sunset rights,\n       Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise--\n     Midsummer nights! O Midsummer nights!\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\n     The wood's green heart is a nest of dreams,\n       The lush grass thickens and springs and sways,\n     The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams--\n       Midsummer days! Midsummer days!\n       In the stilly fields, in the stilly way,\n     All secret shadows and mystic lights,\n       Late lovers, murmurous, linger and gaze--\n     Midsummer nights! O Midsummer nights!\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\n     There's a swagger of bells from the trampling teams,\n       Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze,\n     The rich ripe rose as with incense steams--\n       Midsummer days! Midsummer days!\n       A soul from the honeysuckle strays,\n     And the nightingale, as from prophet heights,\n       Speaks to the Earth of her million Mays--\n     Midsummer nights! O Midsummer nights!\n\n     And it's oh for my Dear and the charm that stays--\n       Midsummer days! Midsummer days!\n     And it's oh for my Love and the dark that plights--\n     Midsummer nights! O Midsummer nights!\n\nThere is a burst for you! And we will let the poets of spring, with\ntheir lambkins and their catkins and the rest, match this poem of\nWilliam Henley's if they can. The royal months are ours, and we love the\nreign of the rose.\n\nWhen the burnished tints of bronze shine on the brackens, and the\nnight-wind blows with a chilly moan from the fields of darkness, we\nshall have precious days to remember, and, ah, when the nights are long,\nand the churlish Winter lays his fell finger on stream and grass and\ntree, we shall be haunted by jolly memories! Will the memories be wholly\npleasant? Perchance, when the curtains are drawn and the lamp burns\nsoftly, we may read of bright and beautiful things. Out of doors the war\nof the winter fills the roaring darkness. It may be that\n\n     Hoarsely across the iron ground\n       The icy wind goes roaring past,\n     The powdery wreaths go whirling round\n       Dancing a measure to the blast.\n\n     The hideous sky droops darkly down\n       In brooding swathes of misty gloom,\n     And seems to wrap the fated town\n       In shadows of remorseless doom.\n\nThen some of us may find a magic phrase of Keats's, or Thomas Hardy's,\nor Black's, or Dickens's, that recalls the lovely past from the dead.\nMany times I have had that experience. Once, after spending the long and\nglorious summer amid the weird subdued beauty of a wide heath, I\nreturned to the great city. It had been a pleasant sojourn, though I had\nhad no company save a collie and one or two terriers. At evening the\ndogs liked their ramble, and we all loved to stay out until the pouring\nlight of the moon shone on billowy mists and heath-clad knolls. The\nfaint rustling of the heath grew to a wide murmur, the little bells\nseemed to chime with notes heard only by the innermost spirit, and the\ngliding dogs were like strange creatures from some shadowy underworld.\nAt times a pheasant would rise and whirl like a rocket from hillock to\nhollow, and about midnight a rapturous concert began. On one line of\ntrees a colony of nightingales had established themselves near the heart\nof the waste. First came the low inquiry from the leader; then two or\nthree low twittering answers; then the one long note that lays hold of\nthe nerves and makes the whole being quiver; and then--ah, the passion,\nthe pain, the unutterable delight of the heavenly jargoning when the\nwhole of the little choir begin their magnificent rivalry! The thought\nof death is gone, the wild and poignant issues of life are softened, and\nthe pulses beat thickly amid the blinding sweetness of the music. He who\nhas not heard the nightingale has not lived. Far off the sea called low\nthrough the mist, and the long path of the moon ran toward the bright\nhorizon; the ships stole in shadow and shine over the glossy ripples,\nand swung away to north and south till they faded in wreaths of delicate\ndarkness. Dominating the whole scene of beauty, there was the vast and\nsubtle mystery of the heath that awed the soul even when the rapture was\nat its keenest. Time passed away, and on one savage night I read Thomas\nHardy's unparalleled description of the majestic waste in \"The Return of\nthe Native.\" That superb piece of English is above praise--indeed\npraise, as applied to it, is half an impertinence; it is great as\nShakespeare, great almost as Nature--one of the finest poems in our\nlanguage. As I read with awe the quiet inevitable sentences, the vision\nof my own heath rose, and the memory filled me with a sudden joy.\n\nI know that the hour of darkness ever dogs our delight, and the shadow\nof approaching darkness and toil might affront me even now, if I were\nungrateful; but I live for the present only. Let grave persons talk\nabout the grand achievements and discoveries that have made this age or\nthat age illustrious; I hold that holidays are the noblest invention of\nthe human mind, and, if any philosopher wants to argue the matter, I\nflee from his presence, and luxuriate on the yellow sands or amid the\nkeen kisses of the salty waves. I own that Newton's discoveries were\nmeritorious, and I willingly applaud Mr. George Stephenson, through\nwhose ingenuity we are now whisked to our places of rest with the\nswiftness of an eagle's flight. Nevertheless I contend that holidays are\nthe crowning device of modern thought, and I hold that no thesis can be\nso easily proven as mine. How did our grandfathers take holiday? Alas,\nthe luxury was reserved for the great lords who scoured over the\nContinent, and for the pursy cits who crawled down to Brighthelmstone!\nThe ordinary Londoner was obliged to endure agonies on board a stuffy\nMargate hoy, while the people in Northern towns never thought of taking\na holiday at all. The marvellous cures wrought by Doctor Ozone were not\nthen known, and the science of holiday-making was in its infancy. The\nwisdom of our ancestors was decidedly at fault in this matter, and the\ngout and dyspepsia from which they suffered served them right. Read\nvolumes of old memoirs, and you will find that our forefathers, who are\nsupposed to have been so merry and healthy, suffered from all the ills\nwhich grumblers ascribe to struggling civilization. They did not know\nhow to extract pleasure from their midsummer days and midsummer nights;\nwe do, and we are all the better for the grand modern discovery.\n\nSeriously, it is a good thing that we have learned the value of leisure,\nand, for my own part, I regard the rushing yearly exodus from London,\nLiverpool, Birmingham, with serene satisfaction. It is a pity that so\nmany English folk persist in leaving their own most lovely land when our\nscenery and climate are at their best. In too many cases they wear\nthemselves with miserable and harassing journeys when they might be\nplacidly rejoicing in the sweet midsummer days at home. Snarling\naesthetes may say what they choose, but England is not half explored\nyet, and anybody who takes the trouble may find out languorous nooks\nwhere life seems always dreamy, and where the tired nerves and brain are\nunhurt by a single disturbing influence. There are tiny villages dotted\nhere and there on the coast where the flaunting tourist never intrudes,\nand where the British cad cares not to show his unlovable face. Still,\nif people like the stuffy Continental hotel and the unspeakable devices\nof the wily Swiss, they must take their choice. I prefer beloved\nEngland; but I wish all joy to those who go far afield.\n\n_June, 1886._\n\n\n\n\n_DANDIES_.\n\n\nPerhaps there is no individual of all our race who is quite insensible\nto the pleasures of what children call \"dressing-up.\" Even the cynic,\nthe man who defiantly wears old and queer clothes, is merely suffering\nfrom a perversion of that animal instinct which causes the peacock to\nswagger in the sun and flaunt the splendour of his train, the instinct\nthat makes the tiger-moth show the magnificence of his damask wing, and\nalso makes the lion erect the horrors of his cloudy mane and paw proudly\nbefore his tawny mate. We are all alike in essentials, and Diogenes with\nhis dirty clouts was only a perverted brother of Prince Florizel with\nhis peach-coloured coat and snowy ruffles. I intend to handle the\nsubject of dandies and their nature from a deeply philosophic\nstarting-point, for, like Carlyle, I recognize the vast significance of\nthe questions involved in the philosophy of clothes. Let no flippant\nindividual venture on a jeer, for I am in dead earnest. A mocking critic\nmay point to the Bond Street lounger and ask, \"What are the net use and\npurport of that being's existence? Look at his suffering frame! His\nlinen stock almost decapitates him, his boots appear to hail from the\nchambers of the Inquisition, every garment tends to confine his muscles\nand dwarf his bodily powers; yet he chooses to smile in his torments\nand pretends to luxuriate in life. Again, what are the net use and\npurport of his existence?\" I can only deprecate our critic's wrath by\ngoing gravely to first principles. O savage and critical one, that\nsuffering youth of Bond Street is but exhibiting in flaunting action a\nlaw that has influenced the breed of men since our forefathers dwelt in\ncaves or trees! Observe the conduct of the innocent and primitive beings\nwho dwell in sunny archipelagos far away to the South; they suffer in\nthe cause of fashion as the youth of the city promenade suffers. The\nchief longing of the judicious savage is to shave, but the paucity of\nmetals and sharp instruments prevents him from indulging his longing\nvery frequently. When the joyous chance does come, the son of the forest\npromptly rises to the occasion. No elderly gentleman whose feet are\nstudded with corns could bear the agony of patent leather boots in a\nheated ballroom with grander stoicism than that exhibited by our savage\nwhen he compasses the means of indulging in a thorough uncompromising\nshave. The elderly man of the ballroom sees the rosy-fingered dawn\ntouching the sky into golden fretwork; he thinks of his cool white bed,\nand then, by contrast, he thinks of his hot throbbing feet. Shooting\nfires dart through his unhappy extremities, yet he smiles on and bears\nhis pain for his daughters' sake. But the elderly hero cannot be\ncompared with the ambitious exquisite of the Southern Seas, and we shall\nprove this hypothesis. The careless voyager throws a beer-bottle\noverboard, and that bottle drifts to the glad shore of a glittering\nisle; the overjoyed savage bounds on the prize, and proceeds to announce\nhis good fortune to his bosom friend. Then the pleased cronies decide\nthat they will have a good, wholesome, thorough shave, and they will\nturn all rivals green with unavailing envy. Solemnly those children of\nnature go to a quiet place, and savage number one lies down while his\nfriend sits on his head; then with a shred of the broken bottle the\noperator proceeds to rasp away. It is a great and grave function, and no\nsavage worthy the name of warrior would fulfil it in a slovenly way.\nWhen the last scrape is given, and the stubbly irregular crop of\nbristles stands up from a field of gore, then the operating brave lies\ndown, and his scarified friend sits on _his_ head. These sweet and\nsatisfying idyllic scenes are enacted whenever a bottle comes ashore,\nand the broken pieces of the receptacles that lately held foaming Bass\nor glistening Hochheimer are used until their edge gives way, to the\ngreat contentment of true untutored dandies. The Bond Street man is at\none end of the scale, the uncompromising heathen barber at the other;\nbut the same principles actuate both.\n\nThe Maori is even more courageous in his attempts to secure a true\ndecorative exterior, for he carves the surface of his manly frame into\ndeep meandering channels until he resembles a walking advertisement of\ncrochet-patterns for ladies. Dire is his suffering, long is the time of\nhealing; but, when he can appear among his friends with a staring blue\nserpent coiled round his body from the neck to the ankle, when the rude\nfigure of the bounding wallaby ornaments his noble chest, he feels that\nall his pain was worth enduring and that life is indeed worth living.\nThe primitive dandy of Central Africa submits himself to the magician of\nthe tribe, and has his front teeth knocked out with joy; the Ashantee\nor the Masai has his teeth filed to sharp points--and each painful\nprocess enables the victim to pose as a leader of fashion in the tribe.\nAs the race rises higher, the refinements of dandyism become more and\nmore complex, but the ruling motive remains the same, and the Macaroni,\nthe Corinthian, the Incroyable, the swell, the dude--nay, even the\ncommon toff--are all mysteriously stirred by the same instinct which\nprompts the festive Papuan to bore holes in his innocent nose. Who then\nshall sneer at the dandy? Does he not fulfil a law of our nature? Let us\nrather regard him with toleration, or even with some slight modicum of\nreverence. Solemn historians affect to smile at the gaudy knights of the\nsecond Richard's Court, who wore the points of their shoes tied round\ntheir waists; they even ridicule the tight, choking, padded coats worn\nby George IV., that pattern father of his people; but I see in the\nstumbling courtier and the half-asphyxiated wearer of the padded\nPetersham coat two beings who act under the demands of inexorable law.\n\nOur great modern sage brooded in loneliness for some six years over the\nmoving problem of dandyism, and we have the results of his meditations\nin \"Sartor Resartus.\" We have an uneasy sense that he may be making fun\nof us--in fact, we are almost sure that he is; for, if you look at his\nsummary of the doctrines put forth in \"Pelham,\" you can hardly fail to\ndetect a kind of sub-acid sneer. Instead of being impressed by the\ndainty musings of the learned Bulwer, that grim vulturine sage chose to\ncurl his fierce lips and turn the whole thing to a laughing-stock. We\nmust at once get to that summary of what the great Thomas calls\n\"Dandiacal doctrine,\" and then just thinkers may draw their own\nconclusions.\n\nArticles of Faith.--1. Coats should have nothing of the triangle about\nthem; at the same time wrinkles behind should be carefully avoided. 2.\nThe collar is a very important point; it should be low behind, and\nslightly rolled. 3. No license of fashion can allow a man of delicate\ntaste to adopt the posterial luxuriance of a Hottentot. 4. There is\nsafety in a swallowtail. 5. The good sense of a gentleman is nowhere\nmore finely developed than in his rings. 6. It is permitted to mankind,\nunder certain restrictions, to wear white waistcoats. 7. The trousers\nmust be exceedingly tight across the hips.\n\nThen the sage observes, \"All which propositions I for the present\ncontent myself with modestly, but peremptorily and irrevocably,\ndenying.\" Wicked Scotchman, rugged chip of the Hartz rock, your seven\narticles of the Whole Duty of the Dandy are evidently solemn fooling!\nYou despised Lytton in your heart, and you thought that because you wore\na ragged duffel coat in gay Hyde Park you had a right to despise the\nhuman ephemera who appeared in inspiriting splendour. I have often\nlaughed at your solemn enumeration of childish maxims, but I am not\nquite sure that you were altogether right in sneering.\n\nSo far for the heroic vein. The Clothes Philosopher whose huge burst of\nliterary horse-laughter was levelled at the dandy does not always\nconfine himself to indirect scoffing; here is a plain statement--\"First,\ntouching dandies, let us consider with some scientific strictness what a\ndandy specially is. A dandy is a clothes-wearing man, a man whose trade\noffice, and existence consist in the wearing of clothes. Every faculty\nof his soul, spirit, purse, and person is heroically consecrated to this\none object--the wearing of clothes wisely and well; so that, as others\ndress to live, he lives to dress. The all-importance of clothes has\nsprung upon the intellect of the dandy without effort, like an instinct\nof genius; he is inspired with cloth--a poet of cloth. Like a generous\ncreative enthusiast, he fearlessly makes his idea an action--shows\nhimself in peculiar guise to mankind, walks forth a witness and living\nmartyr to the eternal worth of clothes. We called him a poet; is not his\nbody the (stuffed) parchment-skin whereon he writes, with cunning\nHuddersfield dyes, a sonnet to his mistress's eyebrow?\"\n\nThis is very witty and very trenchant in allusion, but I am obliged to\nsay seriously that Carlyle by no means reached the root of the matter.\nThe mere tailor's dummy is deplorable, despicable, detestable, but a\nreal man is none the worse if he gives way to the imperious human desire\nfor adornment, and some of the men who have made permanent marks on the\nworld's face have been of the tribe whom our Scotchman satirised. I have\nknown sensible young men turned into perfectly objectionable slovens by\nreading Carlyle; they thought they rendered a tribute to their master's\ngenius by making themselves look disreputable, and they found allies to\napplaud them. One youth of a poetic turn saw that the sage let his hair\nfall over his forehead in a tangled mass. Now this young man had very\nnice wavy hair, which naturally fell back in a sweep, but he devoted\nhimself with an industry worthy of a much better cause to the task of\nmaking his hair fall in unkempt style over his brow. When he succeeded,\nhe looked partly like a Shetland pony, partly like a street-arab; but\nhis own impression was that his wild and ferocious appearance acted as a\nliving rebuke to young men of weaker natures. If I had to express a\nblunt opinion, I should say he was a dreadful simpleton. Every man likes\nto be attractive in some way in the springtime and hey-day of life; when\nthe blood flushes the veins gaily and the brain is sensitive to joy,\nthen a man glories in looking well. Why blame him? The young officer\nlikes to show himself with his troop in gay trappings; the athlete likes\nto wear garments that set off his frame to advantage; and it is good\nthat this desire for distinction exists, else we should have but a grey\nand sorry world to live in. When the pulses beat quietly and life moves\non the downward slope, a man relies on more sober attractions, and he\nceases to care for that physical adornment which every young and healthy\nliving creature on earth appreciates. So long as our young men are\ngenuinely manly, good, strong, and courageous, I am not inclined to find\nfault with them, even if they happen to trip and fall into slight\nextravagances in the matter of costume. The creature who lives to dress\nI abhor, the sane and sound man who fulfils his life-duties gallantly\nand who is not above pleasing himself and others by means of reasonable\nadornments I like and even respect warmly. The philosophers may growl as\nthey chose, but I contend that the sight of a superb young Englishman\nwith his clean clear face, his springy limbs, his faultless habiliments\nis about as pleasant as anything can be to a discerning man. Moreover,\nit is by no means true that the dandy is necessarily incompetent when he\ncomes to engage in the severe work of life. Our hero, our Nelson, kept\nhis nautical dandyism until he was middle-aged. Who ever accused him of\nincompetence? Think of his going at Trafalgar into that pouring Inferno\nof lead and iron with all his decorations blazing on him! \"In honour I\nwon them and in honour I will wear them,\" said this unconscionable\ndandy; and he did wear them until he had broken our terrible enemy's\npower, saved London from sack, and worse, and yielded up his gallant\nsoul to his Maker. Rather an impressive kind of dandy was that wizened\nlittle animal. \"There'll be wigs on the green, boys--the dandies are\ncoming!\" So Marlborough's soldiers used to cry when the regiment of\nexquisites charged. At home the fierce Englishmen strutted around in\ntheir merry haunts and showed off their brave finery as though their one\ntask in life were to wear gaudy garments gracefully; but, when the\ntrumpet rang for the charge, the silken dandies showed that they had the\nstuff of men in them. The philosopher is a trifle too apt to say,\n\"Anybody who does not choose to do as I like is, on the face of it, an\ninferior member of the human race.\" I utterly refuse to have any such\ndoctrine thrust down my throat. No sage would venture to declare that\nthe handsome, gorgeous John Churchill was a fool or a failure. He beat\nEngland's enemies, he made no blunder in his life, and he survived the\nmost vile calumnies that ever assailed a struggling man; yet, if he was\nnot a dandy, then I never saw or heard of one. All our fine fellows who\nstray with the British flag over the whole earth belong more or less\ndistinctly to the dandy division. The velvet glove conceals the iron\nhand; the pleasing modulated voice can rise at short notice to tones of\ncommand; the apparent languor will on occasion start with electric\nsuddenness into martial vigour. The lounging dandies who were in India\nwhen the red storm of the Mutiny burst from a clear sky suddenly became\nheroes who toiled, fought, lavished their strength and their blood,\nperformed glorious prodigies of unselfish action, and snatched an empire\nfrom the fires of ruin.\n\nEven if a young fellow cannot afford fine clothes, he can be neat, and I\nalways welcome the slightest sign of fastidiousness, because it\nindicates self-respect. The awful beings who wear felt hats swung on one\nside, glaring ties, obtrusive checks, and carry vulgar little sticks,\nare so abhorrent that I should journey a dozen miles to escape meeting\none of them. The cheap, nasty, gaudy garments are an index to a vast\nvulgarity of mind and soul; the cheap \"swell\" is a sham, and, as a sham,\nhe is immoral and repulsive. But the modest youth need not copy the wild\nunrestraint of the gentleman known as \"'Arry\"; he can contrive to make\nhimself attractive without sullying his appearance by a trace of cheap\nand nasty adornment, and every attempt which he makes to look seemly and\npleasing tends subtly to raise his own character. Once or twice I have\nsaid that you cannot really love any one wholly unless you can sometimes\nlaugh at him. Now I cannot laugh at the invertebrate haunter of flashy\nbars and theatre-stalls, because he has not the lovable element in him\nwhich invites kindly laughter; but I do smile--not unadmiringly--at our\ndandy, and forgive him his little eccentricities because I know that\nwhat the Americans term the \"hard pan\" of his nature is sound. It is all\nvery well for unhandsome philosophers in duffel to snarl at our\nbutterfly youth. The dry dull person who devours blue-books and figures\nmay mock at their fribbles; but persons who are tolerant take large and\ngentle views, and they indulge the dandy, and let him strut for his day\nunmolested, until the pressing hints given by the years cause him to\nmodify his splendours and sink into unassuming sobriety of demeanour and\nraiment.\n\n_June, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_GENIUS AND RESPECTABILITY_.\n\n\nA very lengthy biography of Percy Bysshe Shelley appeared recently, and\nthe biographer thought it his duty to give the most minute and peculiar\ndetails concerning the poet's private life. In consequence, the book is\na deplorable one in many respects, and no plain-minded person can read\nit without feeling sorry that our sweet singer should be presented to us\nin the guise of a weak-minded hypocrite. One critic wrote a great many\npages in which he bemoans the dreary and sordid family-life of the man\nwho wrote the \"Ode to the West Wind.\" I can hardly help sympathizing\nwith the critic, for indeed Shelley's proceedings rather test the\npatience of ordinary mortals, who do not think that poetic--or rather\nartistic--ability licenses its possessor to behave like a scoundrel.\nShelley wrote the most lovely verse in praise of purity; but he tempted\na poor child to marry him, deserted her, insulted her, and finally left\nher to drown herself when brutal neglect and injury had driven her\ncrazy. Poor Harriet Westbrook! She did not behave very discreetly after\nher precious husband left her; but she was young, and thrown on a hard\nworld without any strength but her own to protect her. While she was\ndrifting into misery the airy poet was talking sentiment and ventilating\nhis theories of the universe to Mary Godwin. Harriet was too \"shallow\"\nfor the rhymester, and the penalty she paid for her shallowness was to\nbe deceived, enticed into a rash marriage, brutally insulted, and left\nto fare as well as she might in a world that is bitterly cruel to\nhelpless girls. The maker of rhymes goes off gaily to the Continent to\nenjoy himself heartily and write bewitching poems; Harriet stays at home\nand lives as best she can on her pittance until the time comes for her\ndespairing plunge into the Serpentine. It is true that the poet invited\nthe poor creature to come and stay with him; but what a piece of\nunparalleled insolence toward a wronged lady! The admirers of the rhymer\nsay, \"Ah, but Harriet's society was not congenial to the poet.\"\nCongenial! How many brave men make their bargain in youth and stand to\nit gallantly unto the end? A simple soul of this sort thinks to himself,\n\"Well, I find that my wife and I are not in sympathy; but perhaps I may\nbe in fault. At any rate, she has trusted her life to me, and I must try\nto make her days as happy as possible.\" It seems that supreme poets are\nto be exempt from all laws of manliness and honour, and a simple woman\nwho cannot babble to them about their ideals and so forth is to be\npitched aside like a soiled glove! Honest men who cannot jingle words\nare content with faith and honour and rectitude, but the poet is to be\napplauded if he behaves like a base fellow on finding that some unhappy\nloving creature cannot talk in his particular fashion. We may all be\nvery low Philistines if we are not prepared to accept rhymers for\nchartered villains; but some of us still have a glimmering of belief in\nthe old standards of nobility and constancy. Can any one fancy Walter\nScott cheating a miserable little girl of sixteen into marriage, and\nthen leaving her, only to many a female philosopher? How that noble soul\nwould have spurned the maundering sentimentalist who talked of truth and\nbeauty, and music and moonlight and feeling, and behaved as a mean and\nbad man! Scott is more to my fancy than is Shelley.\n\nAgain, this poet, this exquisite weaver of verbal harmonies, is\nrepresented to us by his worshippers as having a passion for truth;\nwhereas it happens that he was one of the most remarkable fibbers that\never lived. He would come home with amazing tales about assassins who\nhad waylaid him, and try to give himself importance by such blustering\ninventions. \"Imagination!\" says the enthusiast; but among commonplace\npersons another word is used. \"Your lordship knows what kleptomania is?\"\nsaid a counsel who was defending a thief. Justice Byles replied, \"Oh,\nyes! I come here to cure it.\" Some critical justice might say the same\nof Shelley's imagination. We are also told that Shelley's excessive\nnobility of nature prevented him from agreeing with his commonplace\nfather; and truly the poet was a bad and an ungrateful son. But, if a\npretty verse-maker is privileged to be an undutiful son, what becomes of\nall our old notions? I think once more of the great Sir Walter, and I\nremember his unquestioning obedience to his parents. Then we may also\nremember Gibbon, who was quite as able and useful a man as Shelley. The\nhistorian loved a young French lady, but his father refused consent to\ntheir marriage, and Gibbon quietly obeyed and accepted his hard fate.\nThe passion sanctified his whole life, and, as he says, made him more\ndear to himself; he settled his colossal work, and remained unmarried\nfor life. He may have been foolish: but I prefer his behaviour to that\nof a man who treats his father with contumely and ingratitude even while\nhe is living upon him. We hear much of Shelley's unselfishness, but it\ndoes not appear that he ever denied himself the indulgence of a whim.\nThe \"Ode to the West Wind,\" the \"Ode Written in Dejection near Naples,\"\nand \"The Skylark\" are unsurpassed and unsurpassable; but I can hardly\npardon a man for cruelty and turpitude merely because he produces a few\nmasterpieces of art.\n\nA confident and serene critic attacks Mr. Arnold very severely because\nthe latter writer thinks that poets should be amenable to fair and\nhonest social laws. If I understand the critic aright, we must all be so\nthankful for beautiful literary works that we must be ready to let the\nproducers of such works play any pranks they please under high heaven.\nThey are the children of genius, and we are to spoil them; \"Childe\nHarold\" and \"Manfred\" are such wondrous productions that we need never\nthink of the author's orgies at Venice and the Abbey; \"Epipsychidion\" is\nlovely, so we should not think of poor Harriet Westbrook casting herself\ninto the Serpentine. This is marvellous doctrine, and one hardly knows\nwhither it might lead us if we carried it into thorough practice.\nSuppose that, in addition to indulging the spoiled children of genius,\nwe were to approve all the proceedings of the clever children in any\nhousehold. I fancy that the dwellers therein would have an unpleasant\ntime. Noble charity towards human weakness is one thing; but blind\nadulation of clever and immoral men is another. We have great need to\npity the poor souls who are the prey of their passions, but we need not\nworship them. A large and lofty charity will forgive the shortcomings of\nRobert Burns; we may even love that wild and misguided but essentially\nnoble man. That is well; yet we must not put Burns forward and offer our\nadulation in such a way as to set him up for a model to young men. A man\nmay read--\n\n     The pale moon is setting beyont the white wave,\n           And Time is setting with me, oh!\n\nThe pathos will wring his heart; but he should not ask any youth to\nimitate the conduct of the great poet. Carlyle said very profoundly that\nnew morality must be made before we can judge Mirabeau; but Carlyle\nnever put his hero's excesses in the foreground of his history, nor did\nhe try to apologize for them; he only said, \"Here is a man whose stormy\npassions overcame him and drove him down the steep to ruin! Think of him\nat his best, pardon him, and imitate, in your weak human fashion, the\ninfinite Divine Mercy.\" That is good; and it is certainly very different\nfrom the behaviour of writers who ask us to regard their heroes'\nevil-doing as not only pardonable, but as being almost admirable.\n\nThis Shelley controversy raises several weighty issues. We forgive Burns\nbecause he again and again offers us examples of splendid self-sacrifice\nin the course of his broken life, and we are able to do so because the\nbalance is greatly on the good side; but we do not refrain from saying,\n\"In some respects Burns was a scamp.\" The fact is that the claims of\nweak-headed adorers who worship men of genius would lead to endless\nmischief if they were allowed. Men who were skilled in poetry and music\nand art have often behaved like scoundrels; but their scoundrelism\nshould be reprobated, and not excused. And my reason for this contention\nis very simple--once allow that a man of genius may override all\nsalutary conventions, and the same conventions will be overridden by\nvain and foolish mediocrities. Take, for example, the conventions which\nguide us in the matter of dress. Most people grant that in many respects\nour modern dress is ugly in shape, ugly in material, and calculated to\npromote ill-health. The hard hat which makes the brow ache must affect\nthe wearer's health, and therefore, when we see the greatest living poet\ngoing about in a comfortable soft felt, we call him a sensible man.\nCarlyle used to hobble about with soft shoes and soft slouch-hat, and he\nwas right But it is possible to be as comfortable as Lord Tennyson or\nCarlyle without flying very outrageously in the face of modern\nconventions; and many everyday folk contrive to keep their bodies at\nease without trying any fool's device. Charles Kingsley used to roam\nabout in his guernsey--most comfortable of all dresses--when he was in\nthe country; but when he visited the town he managed to dress easily and\nelegantly in the style of an average gentleman.\n\nBut some foolish creatures say in their hearts, \"Men of genius wear\nstrange clothing--Tennyson wears a vast Inverness cape, Carlyle wore a\nduffel jacket, Bismarck wears a flat white cap, Mortimer Collins wore a\nbig Panama; artists in general like velvet and neckties of various gaudy\nhues. Let us adopt something startling in the way of costume, and we\nmay be taken for men of genius.\" Thus it happened that very lately\nLondon was invested by a set of simpletons of small ability in art and\nletters; they let their hair grow down their backs; they drove about in\nthe guise of Venetian senators of the fifteenth century; they appeared\nin slashed doublets and slouched hats; and one of them astonished the\npublic--and the cabmen--by marching down a fashionable thoroughfare on a\nbroiling day with a fur ulster on his back and a huge flower in his\nhand. Observe my point--these social nuisances obtained for themselves a\ncertain contemptible notoriety by caricaturing the ways of able men. I\ncan forgive young Disraeli's gaudy waistcoats and pink-lined coats, but\nI have no patience with his silly imitators. This is why I object to the\npraise which is bestowed on men of genius for qualities which do not\ndeserve praise. The reckless literary admirer of Shelley or Byron goes\ninto ecstasies and cries, \"Perish the slave who would think of these\ngreat men's vices!\"--whereupon raw and conceited youngsters say, \"Vice\nand eccentricity are signs of genius. We will be vicious and eccentric;\"\nand then they go and convert themselves into public nuisances.\n\nThat vice and folly are not always associated with genius scarcely needs\ndemonstrating. I allow that many great men have been sensual fools, but\nwe can by no means allow that folly and sensuality are inseparable from\ngreatness. My point is to prove that littleness must be conquered before\na man can be great or good. Macaulay lived a life of perfect and\nexemplary purity; he was good in all the relations of life; those\nnearest to him loved him most dearly, and his days were passed in\nthinking of the happiness of others. Perhaps he was vain--certainly he\nhad something to be vain of--but, though he had such masterful talent,\nhe never thought himself licensed, and he wore the white flower of a\nblameless life until his happy spirit passed easily away. Wordsworth was\na poet who will be placed on a level with Byron when an estimate of our\ncentury's great men comes to be made. But Wordsworth lived his sweet and\npious life without in any way offending against the moral law. We must\nhave done with all talk about the privileges of irregular genius; a\nclever man must be made to see that, while he may be as independent as\nhe likes, he cannot be left free to offend either the sense or the\nsensibility of his neighbours. The genius must learn to conduct himself\nin accordance with rational and seemly custom, or he must be brought to\nhis senses. When a great man's ways are merely innocently different from\nthose of ordinary people, by all means let him alone. For instance,\nLeonardo da Vinci used often to buy caged wild-birds from their captors\nand let them go free. What a lovely and lovable action! He hurt no one;\nhe restored the joy of life to innocent creatures, and no one could find\nfault with his sweet fancy. In the same way, when Samuel Johnson chose\nto stalk ponderously along the streets, stepping on the edges of the\npaving-stones, or even when he happened to roar a little loudly in\nconversation, who could censure him seriously? His heart was as a little\nchild's: his deeds were saintly; and we perhaps love him all the more\nfor his droll little ways. But, when Shelley outrages decency and the\nhealthy sense of manliness by his peculiar escapades, it is not easy to\npardon him; the image of that drowned child rises before us, and we are\napt to forget the pretty verses. Calm folk remember that many peculiarly\nwicked and selfish gentry have been able to make nice rhymes and paint\ncharming pictures. The old poet Francois Villon, who has made men weep\nand sympathize for so many years, was a burglar, a murderer, and\nsomething baser, if possible, than either murderer or burglar. A more\ndespicable being probably never existed; and yet he warbles with angelic\nsweetness, and his piercing sadness thrills us after the lapse of four\ncenturies. Young men of unrestrained appetites and negative morality are\noften able to talk most charmingly, but the meanest and most unworthy\npersons whom I have met have been the wild and lofty-minded poets who\nperpetually express contempt of Philistines and cast the shaft of their\nscorn at what they call \"dross.\" So far as money goes, I fancy that the\noratorical, and grandiose poet is often the most greedy of individuals;\nand, when, in his infinite conceit, he sets himself up above common\ndecency and morality, I find it difficult to confine myself to moderate\nlanguage. A man of genius may very well be chaste, modest, unselfish,\nand retiring. Byron was at his worst when he was producing the works\nwhich made him immortal; I prefer to think of him as he was when he cast\nhis baser self away, and nobly took up the cause of Greece. When once\nhis matchless common sense asserted itself, and he ceased to contemplate\nhis own woes and his own wrongs, he became a far greater man than he had\never been before. I should be delighted to know that the cant about the\nlowering restrictions imposed by stupidity on genius had been silenced\nfor ever. A man of transcendent ability must never forget that he is a\nmember of a community, and that he has no more right wantonly to offend\nthe feelings or prejudices of that community than he has to go about\nbuffeting individual members with a club. As soon as he offends the\ncommon feelings of his fellows he must take the consequences; and\nhard-headed persons should turn a deaf ear when any eloquent and\nsentimental person chooses to whine about his hero's wrongs.\n\n_March, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_SLANG_.\n\n\nHas any one ever yet considered the spiritual significance of slang? The\ndictionaries inform us that \"slang is a conversational irregularity of a\nmore or less vulgar type;\" but that is not all. The prim definition\nrefers merely to words, but I am rather more interested in considering\nthe mental attitude which is indicated by the distortion and loose\nemployment of words, and by the fresh coinages which seem to spring up\nevery hour. I know of no age or nation that has been without its slang,\nand the study is amongst the most curious that a scholar can take up;\nbut our own age, after all, must be reckoned as the palmy time of slang,\nfor we have gone beyond mere words, and our vulgarizations of language\nare significant of degradation of soul. The Romans of the decadence had\na hideous cant language which fairly matched the grossness of the\npeople, and the Gauls, with their descendants, fairly matched the old\nconquerors. The frightful old Paris of Francois Villon, with all its\nbleak show of famine and death, had its constant changes of slang.\n\"_Tousjours vieil synge est desplaisant,\"_ says the burglar-poet, and he\nmeans that the old buffoon is tiresome; the young man with the newest\nphases of city slang at his tongue's end is most acceptable in merry\ncompany. Very few people can read Villon's longer poems at all, for they\nare almost entirely written in cant language, and the glossary must be\nin constant requisition. The rascal is a really great writer in his\nabominable way, but his dialect was that of the lowest resorts, and he\nlets us see that the copious _argot_ which now puzzles the stranger by\nits kaleidoscopic changes was just as vivid and changeable in the\nmiserable days of the eleventh Louis. In the Paris of our day the slang\nvaries from hour to hour; every one seems able to follow it, and no one\nknows who invents the constant new changes. The slang of the\nboarding-house in Balzac's \"Pere Goriot\" is quite different from that of\nthe novels done by the Goncourt brothers; and, though I have not yet\nmustered courage to finish one of M. Zola's outrages, I can see that the\nvulgarisms which he has learned are not at all like any that have been\nused in bygone days. The corruption of Paris seems to breed verbal\ndistortions rather freely, and the ordinary babble of the city workman\nis as hard to any Englishman as are the colloquialisms of Burns to the\naverage Cockney.\n\nIn England our slang has undergone one transformation after another ever\nsince the time of Chaucer. Shakespeare certainly gives us plenty; then\nwe have the slang of the Great War, and then the unutterable horrors of\nthe Restoration--even the highly proper Mr. Joseph Addison does not\ndisdain to talk of an \"old put,\" and his wags are given to \"smoking\"\nstrangers. The eighteenth century--the century of the gallows--gave us a\nwhole crop of queer terms which were first used in thieves' cellars, and\ngradually filtered from the racecourse and the cockpit till they took\ntheir place in the vulgar tongue. The sweet idyll of \"Life in London\" is\na perfect garden of slang; Tom the Corinthian and Bob Logic lard their\nphrases with the idiom of the prize-ring, and the author obligingly\nitalicises the knowing words so that one has no chance of missing them.\nBut nowadays we have passed beyond all that, and every social clique,\nevery school of art and literature, every trade--nay, almost every\nreligion--has its peculiar slang; and the results as regards morals,\nmanners, and even conduct in general are too remarkable to be passed\nover by any one who desires to understand the complex society of our\nera. The mere patter of thieves or racing-men--the terms are nearly\nsynonymous--counts for nothing. Those who know the byways of life know\nthat there are two kinds of dark language used by our nomad classes and\nby our human predatory animals. A London thief can talk a dialect which\nno outsider can possibly understand; for, by common agreement, arbitrary\nnames are applied to every object which the robbers at any time handle,\nand to every sort of underhand business which they transact. But this\ngibberish is not exactly an outcome of any moral obliquity; it is\nemployed as a means of securing safety. The gipsy cant is the remnant of\na pure and ancient language; we all occasionally use terms taken from\nthis remarkable tongue, and, when we speak of a \"cad,\" or \"making a\nmull,\" or \"bosh,\" or \"shindy,\" or \"cadger\" or \"bamboozling,\" or \"mug,\"\nor \"duffer,\" or \"tool,\" or \"queer,\" or \"maunder,\" or \"loafer,\" or\n\"bung,\" we are using pure gipsy. No distinct mental process, no process\nof corruption, is made manifest by the use of these terms; we simply\nhave picked them up unconsciously, and we continue to utter them in the\ncourse of familiar conversation.\n\nI am concerned with a degradation of language which is of an importance\nfar beyond the trifling corruption caused by the introduction of terms\nfrom the gipsy's caravan, the betting ring, or the thieves' kitchen; one\ncannot help being made angry and sad by observing a tendency to belittle\nall things that are great, to mock all earnestness, to vulgarize all\nbeauty. There is not a quarter where the subtle taint has not crept in,\nand under its malign influence poetry has all but expired, good\nconversation has utterly ceased to exist, art is no longer serious, and\nthe intercourse of men is not straightforward. The Englishman will\nalways be emotional in spite of the rigid reserve which he imposes upon\nhimself; he is an enthusiast, and he does truly love earnestness,\nveracity, and healthy vigour. Take him away from a corrupt and petty\nsociety and give him free scope, and he at once lets fall the film of\nshams from off him like a cast garment, and comes out as a reality. Shut\nthe same Englishman up in an artificial, frivolous, unreal society, and\nhe at once becomes afraid of himself; he fears to exhibit enthusiasm\nabout anything, and he hides his genuine nature behind a cloud of slang.\nHe belittles everything he touches, he is afraid to utter a word from\nhis inner heart, and his talk becomes a mere dropping shower of verbal\ncounters which ring hollow. The superlative degree is abhorrent to him\nunless he can misuse it for comic purposes; and, like the ridiculous\ndummy lord in \"Nicholas Nickleby,\" he is quite capable of calling\nShakespeare a \"very clayver man.\" I have heard of the attitude taken by\ntwo flowers of our society in presence of Joachim. Think of it! The\nunmatched violinist had achieved one of those triumphs which seem to\npermeate the innermost being of a worthy listener; the soul is\nentranced, and the magician takes us into a fair world where there is\nnothing but loveliness and exalted feeling. \"Vewy good fellow, that\nfiddle fellow,\" observed the British aristocrat. \"Ya-as,\" answered his\nfaithful friend. Let any man who is given to speaking words with a view\nof presenting the truth begin to speak in our faint, super-refined,\northodox society; he will be looked at as if he were some queer object\nbrought from a museum of curiosities and pulled out for exhibition. The\nshallowest and most impudent being that ever talked fooleries will\nassume superior airs and treat the man of intellect as an amusing but\ninferior creature. More than that--earnestness and reality are classed\ntogether under the head of \"bad form,\" the vital word grates on the\nemasculate brain of the society man, and he compensates himself for his\ninward consciousness of inferiority by assuming easy airs of insolence.\nA very brilliant man was once talking in a company which included\nseveral of the superfine division; he was witty, vivid, genial, full of\nknowledge and tact; but he had one dreadful habit--he always said what\nhe thought. The brilliant man left the company, and one sham-languid\nperson said to a sham-aristocratic person, \"Who is that?\" \"Ah, he's a\nspecies of over-educated savage!\" Now the gentleman who propounded this\npleasant piece of criticism was, according to trustworthy history, the\nmeanest, most useless, and most despicable man of his set; yet he could\nventure to assume haughty airs towards a man whose shoes he was not fit\nto black, and he could assume those airs on the strength of his slangy\nimpassivity--his \"good form.\" When we remember that this same fictitious\nindifference characterized the typical _grand seigneur_ of old France,\nand when we also remember that indifference may be rapidly transformed\ninto insolence, and insolence into cruelty, we may well look grave at\nthe symptoms which we can watch around us. The dreary _ennui_ of the\nheart, _ennui_ that revolts at truth, that is nauseated by earnestness,\nexpresses itself in what we call slang, and slang is the sign of mental\ndisease.\n\nI have no fault to find with the broad, racy, slap-dash language of the\nAmerican frontier, with its picturesque perversions and its droll\nexaggeration. The inspired person who chose to call a coffin an\n\"eternity box\" and whisky \"blue ruin\" was too innocent to sneer. The\nslang of Mark Twain's Mr. Scott when he goes to make arrangements for\nthe funeral of the lamented Buck Fanshawe is excruciatingly funny and\ntotally inoffensive. Then the story of Jim Baker and the jays in \"A\nTramp Abroad\" is told almost entirely in frontier slang, yet it is one\nof the most exquisite, tender, lovable pieces of work ever set down in\nour tongue. The grace and fun of the story, the odd effects produced by\nbad grammar, the gentle humour, all combine to make this decidedly\nslangy chapter a literary masterpiece. A miner or rancheman will talk to\nyou for an hour and delight you, because his slang somehow fits his\npeculiar thought accurately; an English sailor will tell a story, and he\nwill use one slang word in every three that come out of his mouth, yet\nhe is delightful, for the simple reason that his distorted dialect\nenables him to express and not to suppress truth. But the poison that\nhas crept through the minds of our finer folk paralyses their utterance\nso far as truth is concerned; and society may be fairly caricatured by a\nfigure of the Father of Lies blinking through an immense eyeglass upon\nGod's universe.\n\nMr. George Meredith, with his usual magic insight, saw long ago whither\nour over-refined gentry were tending; and in one of his finest books he\nshows how a little dexterous slang may dwarf a noble deed. Nevil\nBeauchamp was under a tremendous fire with his men: he wanted to carry a\nwounded soldier out of action, but the soldier wished his adored officer\nto be saved. At the finish the two men arrived safely in their own lines\namid the cheers of English, French, and even of the Russian enemy. This\nis how the votary of slang transfigures the episode; he wishes to make a\nlittle fun out of the hero, and he manages it by employing the tongue\nwhich it is good form to use. \"A long-shanked trooper bearing the name\nof John Thomas Drew was crawling along under fire of the batteries. Out\npops old Nevil, tries to get the man on his back. It won't do. Nevil\ninsists that it's exactly one of the cases that ought to be, and they\nremain arguing about it like a pair of nine-pins while the Moscovites\nare at work with the bowls. Very well. Let me tell you my story. It's\nperfectly true, I give you my word. So Nevil tries to horse Drew, and\nDrew proposes to horse Nevil, as at school. Then Drew offers a\ncompromise. He would much rather have crawled on, you know, and allowed\nthe shot to pass over his head; but he's a Briton--old Nevil's the same;\nbut old Nevil's peculiarity is that, as you are aware, he hates a\ncompromise--won't have it--_retro Sathanas!_--and Drew's proposal to\ntake his arm instead of being carried pick-a-or piggy-back--I am\nignorant how Nevil spells it--disgusts old Nevil. Still it won't do to\nstop where they are, like the cocoanut and pincushion of our friends\nthe gipsies on the downs; so they take arms and commence the journey\nhome, resembling the best friends on the evening of a holiday in our\nnative clime--two steps to the right, half a dozen to the left, &c. They\nwere knocked down by the wind of a ball near the battery. 'Confound it!'\ncries Nevil. 'It's because I consented to a compromise!'\"\n\nMost people know that this passage refers to Rear-Admiral Maxse, yet,\nwell as we may know our man, we have him presented like an awkward,\nsilly, comic puppet from a show. The professor of slang could degrade\nthe conduct of the soldiers on board the _Birkenhead_; he could make the\nchoruses from _Samson Agonistes_ seem like the Cockney puerilities of a\ncomic news-sheet. It is this high-sniffing, supercilious slang that I\nattack, for I can see that it is the impudent language of a people to\nwhom nothing is great, nothing beautiful, nothing pure, and nothing\nworthy of faith.\n\nThe slang of the \"London season\" is terrible and painful. A gloriously\nbeautiful lady is a \"rather good-looking woman--looks fairly well\nto-night;\" a great entertainment is a \"function;\" a splendid ball is a\n\"nice little dance;\" high-bred, refined, and exclusive ladies and\ngentlemen are \"smart people;\" a tasteful dress is a \"swagger frock;\" a\nnew craze is \"the swagger thing to do.\" Imbecile, useless, contemptible\nbeings, male and female, use all these verbal monstrosities under the\nimpression that they make themselves look distinguished. A\nmicrocephalous youth whose chief intellectual relaxation consists in\nsucking the head of a stick thinks that his conversational style is\nbrilliant when he calls a man a \"Johnnie,\" a battle \"a blooming slog,\"\nhis lodgings his \"show,\" a hero \"a game sort of a chappie,\" and so on.\nGirls catch the infection of slang; and thus, while sweet young ladies\nare leading beautiful lives at Girton and Newnham, their sisters of\nsociety are learning to use a language which is a frail copy of the\nrobust language of the drinking-bar and the racecourse. Under this\nblight lofty thought perishes, noble language also dies away, real wit\nis cankered and withered into a mere ghastly crackle of wordplay, humour\nis regarded as the sign of the savage, and generous emotion, manly love,\nwomanly tenderness are reckoned as the folly of people whom the smart\nyoung lady of the period would describe as \"Jugginses.\"\n\nAs to the slang of the juniors of the middle class, it is well-nigh past\ndescription and past bearing. The dog-collared, tight-coated, horsey\nyouth learns all the cant phrases from cheap sporting prints, and he has\nan idea that to call a man a \"bally bounder\" is quite a ducal thing to\ndo. His hideous cackle sounds in railway-carriages, or on breezy piers\nby the pure sea, or in suburban roads. From the time when he gabbles\nover his game of Nap in the train until his last villainous howl\npollutes the night, he lives, moves, and has his being in slang; and he\nis incapable of understanding truth, beauty, grandeur, or refinement. He\nis apt to label any one who does not wear a dog-collar and stableman's\ntrousers as a cad; but, ah, what a cad he himself is! In what a vast\nprofound gulf of vulgarity his being wallows; and his tongue, his slang,\nis enough to make the spirits of the pure and just return to earth and\nsmite him! Better by far the cunning gipsy with his glib chatter, the\nrough tramp with his incoherent hoarseness! All who wish to save our\ngrand language from deterioration, all who wish to retain some savour of\nsincerity and manhood among us, should set themselves resolutely to talk\non all occasions, great or trivial, in simple, direct, refined English.\nThere is no need to be bookish; there is much need for being natural and\nsincere--and nature and sincerity are assassinated by slang.\n\n_September, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_PETS._\n\n\nThat enterprising savage who first domesticated the pig has a good deal\nto answer for. I do not say that the moral training of the pig was a\ndistinct evil, for it undoubtedly saved many aged and respectable\npersons from serious inconvenience. The more practical members of the\nprimitive tribes were wont to club the patriarchs whom they regarded as\nhaving lived long enough; and an exaggerated spirit of economy led the\nsons of the forest to eat their venerable relatives. The domestication\nof the noble animal which is the symbol of Irish prosperity caused a\nremarkable change in primitive public opinion. The gratified savage,\nconscious of possessing pigs, no longer cast the anxious eye of the\nepicure upon his grandmother. Thus a disagreeable habit and a\ndisagreeable tradition were abolished, and one more step was made in the\ndirection of universal kindliness. But, while we are in some measure\ngrateful to the first pig-tamer, we do not feel quite so sure about the\nfirst person who inveigled the cat into captivity. Mark that I do not\nspeak of the \"slavery\" of the cat--for who ever knew a cat to do\nanything against its will? If you whistle for a dog, he comes with\nservile gestures, and almost overdoes his obedience; but, if a cat has\ngot into a comfortable place, you may whistle for that cat until you are\nspent, and it will go on regarding you with a lordly blink of\nindependence. No; decidedly the cat is not a slave. Of course I must be\nlogical, and therefore I allow, under reasonable reservations, that a\nboot-jack, used as a projectile, will make a cat stir; and I have known\na large garden-syringe cause a most picturesque exodus in the case of\nsome eloquent and thoughtful cats that were holding a conference in a\ngarden at midnight. Still I must carefully point out the fact that the\nboot-jack will not induce the cat to travel in any given direction for\nyour convenience; you throw the missile, and you must wait in suspense\nuntil you know whether your cat will vanish with a wild plunge through\nthe roof of your conservatory or bound with unwonted smartness into your\nfavourite William pear tree. The syringe is scarcely more trustworthy in\nits action than the boot-jack; the parting remarks of six drenched cats\nare spirited and harmonious; but the animals depart to different\nquarters of the universe, and your hydraulic measure, so far from\nbringing order out of chaos, merely evokes a wailing chaos out of\ncomparative order. These discursive observations aim at showing that a\ncat has a haughty spirit of independence which centuries of partial\nsubmission to the suzerainty of man have not eradicated. I do not want\nto censure the ancient personage who made friends with the creature\nwhich is a thing of beauty and a joy for ever to many estimable\npeople--I reserve my judgment. Some otherwise calm and moral men regard\nthe cat in such a light that they would go and jump on the tomb of the\nprimeval tamer; others would erect monuments to him; so perhaps it is\nbetter that we do not know whose memory we should revere--or\nanathematise--the processes are reversible, according to our\ndispositions. Man is the paragon of animals; the cat is the paradox of\nanimals. You cannot reason about the creature; you can only make sure\nthat it has every quality likely to secure success in the struggle for\nexistence; and it is well to be careful how you state your opinions in\npromiscuous company, for the fanatic cat-lover is only a little less\nwildly ferocious than the fanatical cat-hater.\n\nCats and pigs appear to have been the first creatures to earn the\nprotective affection of man; but, ah, what a cohort of brutes and birds\nhave followed! The dog is an excellent, noble, lovable animal; but the\npet-dog! Alas! I seem to hear one vast sigh of genuine anguish as this\nEssay travels round the earth from China to Peru. I can understand the\nartfulness of that wily savage who first persuaded the wolf-like animal\nof the Asiatic plains to help him in the chase; I understand the\nstatesmanship of the Thibetan shepherd who first made a wolf turn\ntraitor to the lupine race. But who first invented the pet-dog? This\nimpassioned question I ask with thoughts that are a very great deal too\ndeep for tears. Consider what the existence of the pet-dog means. You\nvisit an estimable lady, and you are greeted, almost in the hall, by a\npoodle, who waltzes around your legs and makes an oration like an\nobstructionist when the Irish Estimates are before the House. You feel\nthat you are pale, but you summon up all your reserves of base hypocrisy\nand remark, \"Poor fellow! Poo-poo-poo-ole fellow!\" You really mean, \"I\nshould like to tomahawk you, and scalp you afterwards!\"--but this\nsentiment you ignobly retain in your own bosom. You lift one leg in an\napologetic way, and poodle instantly dashes at you with all the\nvehemence of a charge of his compatriots the Cuirassiers. You shut your\neyes and wait for the shedding of blood; but the torturer has all the\nmalignant subtlety of an Apache Indian, and he tantalizes you. Presently\nthe lady of the house appears, and, finding that you are beleaguered by\nan ubiquitous foe, she says sweetly, \"Pray do not mind Moumou; his fun\ngets the better of him. Go away, naughty Moumou! Did Mr. Blank frighten\nhim then--the darling?\" Fun! A pleasing sort of fun! If the rescuer had\nseen that dog's sanguinary rushes, she would not talk about fun. When\nyou reach the drawing-room, there is a pug seated on an ottoman. He\nlooks like a peculiarly truculent bull-dog that has been brought up on a\nlowering diet of gin-and-water, and you gain an exaggerated idea of his\nsavagery as he uplifts his sooty muzzle. He barks with indignation, as\nif he thought you had come for his mistress's will, and intended to cut\nhim off with a Spratt's biscuit. Of course he comes to smell round your\nankles, and equally of course you put on a sickly smile, and take up an\nattitude as though you had sat down on the wrong side of a harrow. Your\nconversation is strained and feeble; you fail to demonstrate your\naffection; and, when a fussy King Charles comes up and fairly shrieks\ninjurious remarks at you, the sense of humiliation and desertion is too\nsevere, and you depart. Of course your hostess never attempts to control\nher satellites--they are quiet with her; and, even if one of them\nsampled the leg of a guest with a view to further business, she would be\nsecretly pleased at such a proof of exclusive affection. We suppose that\npeople must have something to be fond of; but why should any one be\nfond of a pug that is too unwieldy to move faster than a hedgehog? His\nface is, to say the least, not celestial--whatever his nose may be; he\ncannot catch a rat; he cannot swim; he cannot retrieve; he can do\nnothing, and his insolence to strangers eclipses the best performances\nof the finest and tallest Belgravian flunkeys. He is alive, and in his\nyouth he may doubtless have been comic and engaging; but in his obese,\nwaddling, ill-conditioned old age he is such an atrocity that one wishes\na wandering Chinaman might pick him up and use him instantly after the\nsensible thrifty fashion of the great nation.\n\nI love the St. Bernard; he is a noble creature, and his beautiful\nlife-saving instinct is such that I have seen a huge member of the breed\njump off a high bridge to save a puppy which he considered to be\ndrowning. The St. Bernard will allow a little child to lead him and to\nsmite him on the nose without his uttering so much as a whine by way of\nremonstrance. If another dog attacks him, he will not retaliate by\nbiting--that would be undignified, and like a mere bull-dog; he lies\ndown on his antagonist and waits a little; then that other dog gets up\nwhen it has recovered breath, and, after thinking the matter over, it\nconcludes that it must have attacked a sort of hairy traction-engine.\nAll these traits of the St. Bernard are very sweet and engaging, and I\nmust, moreover, congratulate him on his scientific method of treating\nburglars; but I do object with all the pathos at my disposal to the St.\nBernard considered as a pet. His master will bring him into rooms. Now,\nwhen he is bounding about on glaciers, or infringing the Licensing Act\nby giving travellers brandy without scrutinizing their return-tickets,\nor acting as pony for frozen little boys, or doing duty as special\nconstable when burglars pay an evening call, he is admirable; but, when\nhe enters a room, he has all the general effects of an earthquake\nwithout any picturesque accessories. His beauty is of course praised,\nand, like any other big lumbering male, he is flattered; his vast tail\nmakes a sweep like the blade of a screw-propeller, and away goes a vase.\nA maid brings in tea, and the St. Bernard is pleased to approve the\nexpression of Mary's countenance; with one colossal spring he places his\npaws on her shoulders, and she has visions of immediate execution. Not\nbeing equal to the part of an early martyr, she observes, \"Ow!\" The St.\nBernard regards this brief statement as a compliment, and, in an ecstasy\nof self-approval, he sends poor Mary staggering. Of course, when he is\nsent out, after causing this little excitement, he proceeds to eat\nanything that happens to be handy; and, as the cook does not wish to be\neaten herself, she bears her bitter wrong in silence, only hoping that\nthe two pounds of butter which the animal took as dessert may make him\nexcessively unwell.\n\nNow I ask any man and brother, or lady and sister, is a St. Bernard a\nlegitimate pet in the proper sense of the word? As to the bull-dog, I\nsay little. He at least is a good water-dog, and, when he is taught, he\nwill retrieve birds through the heaviest sea as long as his master cares\nto shoot. But his appearance is sardonic, to say the least of it; he\nputs me in mind of a prize-fighter coming up for the tenth round when he\nhas got matters all his own way. Happily he is not often kept as a pet;\nhe is usually taken out by fast young men in riverside places, for his\ncompany is believed to give an air of dash and fashion to his master;\nand he waddles along apparently engaged in thinking out some scheme of\nreform for sporting circles in general. In a drawing-room he looks\nunnatural, and his imperturbable good humour fails to secure him favour.\nDr. Jessopp tells a story of a clergyman's wife who usually kept from\nfifteen to twenty brindled bull-dogs; but this lady was an original\ncharacter, and her mode of using a red-hot iron bar when any of her pets\nhad an argument was marked by punctuality and despatch.\n\nThe genuine collie is an ideal pet, but the cross-grained fleecy brutes\nbred for the show-bench are good neither for one thing nor another. The\nreal, homely, ugly collie never snaps at friends; the mongrel brute with\nthe cross of Gordon setter is not safe for an hour at a time. The real\ncollie takes to sheep-driving by instinct; he will run three miles out\nand three miles in, and secure his master's property accurately after\nvery little teaching; the present champion of all the collies would run\naway from a sheep as if he had seen a troop of lions. In any case, even\nwhen a collie is a genuine affectionate pet, his place is not in the\nhouse. Let him have all the open air possible, and he will remain\nhealthy, delightful in his manners, and preternaturally intelligent. The\ndog of the day is the fox-terrier, and a charming little fellow he is.\nUnfortunately it happens that most smart youths who possess fox-terriers\nhave an exalted idea of their friends' pugilistic powers, and hence the\nsweet little black, white, and tan beauty too often has life concerted\ninto a battle and a march. Still no one who understands the fox-terrier\ncan help respecting and admiring him. If I might hint a fault, it is\nthat the fox-terrier lacks balance of character. The ejaculation\n\"Cats!\" causes him to behave in a way which is devoid of well-bred\nrepose, and his conduct when in presence of rabbits is enough to make a\nmeditative lurcher or retriever grieve. When a lurcher sees a rabbit in\nthe daytime, he leers at him from his villainous oblique eye, and seems\nto say, \"Shan't follow you just now--may have the pleasure of looking\nyou up this evening.\" But the fox-terrier converts himself into a kind\nof hurricane in fur, and he gives tongue like a stump-orator in full\ncry. I may say that, when once the fox-terrier becomes a drawing-room\npet, he loses all character--he might just as well be a pug at once. The\nBedlington is perhaps the best of all terriers, but his disreputable\naspect renders him rather out of place in a refined room. It is only\nwhen his deep sagacious eyes are seen that he looks attractive. He can\nrun, swim, dive, catch rabbits, retrieve, or do anything. I grieve to\nsay that he is a dog of an intriguing disposition; and no prudent lady\nwould introduce him among dogs who have not learned mischief. The\nBedlington seems to have the power of command, and he takes a fiendish\ndelight in ordering young dogs to play pranks. He will whisper to a\nyoung collie, and in an instant you will see that collie chasing sheep\nor hens, or hunting among flower-beds, or baiting a cow, or something\nequally outrageous. Decidedly the Bedlington does not shine as a pet;\nand he should be kept only where there are plenty of things to be\nmurdered daily--then he lives with placid joy, varied by sublime\nBerserker rage.\n\nAs to feathered pets, who has not suffered from parrots? You buy a grey\none at the docks, and pay four pounds for him on account of his manifold\naccomplishments. When he is taken home and presented to a prim lady, he\nof course gives her samples of the language used by the sailors on the\nvoyage home; and, even when his morals are cured and his language is\npurified by discipline, he is a terrible creature. The imp lurks in his\neye, and his beak--his abominable beak--is like a malicious vice. But I\nallow that Polly, when well behaved, gives a charming appearance to a\nroom, and her ways are very quaint. Lonely women have amused themselves\nfor many and many a weary hour with the antics of the pretty tropical\nbird; and I shall say nothing against Poll for the world.\n\nI started with the intention of merely skirting the subject; but I find\nI am involved in considerations deep as society--deep as the origins of\nthe human race. In their proper place I like all pets, with the\nexception of snakes. The aggressive pug is bad enough, but the snake is\na thousand times worse. When possible, all boys and girls should have\npets, and they should be made to tend their charges without any adult\nhelp whatever. No indirect discipline has such a humanizing effect. The\nunregenerate boy deprived of pets will tie kettles to dogs' tails, he\nwill shoot at cats with catapults, he is merciless to small birds, and\nno one can convince him that frogs or young nestlings can feel. When he\nhas pets, his mental horizon is widened and his kindlier instincts\nawaken. A boy or girl without a pet is maimed in sympathy.\n\nLet me plead for discrimination in choice of pets. A gentleman--like the\ncelebrated Mary--had a little lamb which he loved; but the little lamb\ndeveloped into a very big and vicious ram which the owner could not\nfind heart to kill. When this gentleman's friends were holding sweet and\nimproving converse with him, that sheep would draw up behind his\nmaster's companion; then he would shoot out like a stone from a sling,\nand you would see a disconcerted guest propelled through space in a\nmanner destructive alike to dignity and trousers. That sheep comes and\nbutts at the front-door if he thinks his master is making too long a\ncall; it is of no use to go and apologize for he will not take any\ndenial, and, moreover, he will as soon ram you with his granite skull as\nlook at you. Let the door be shut again, and the sheep seems to say, \"If\nI don't send a panel in, you may call me a low, common goat!\" and then\nhe butts away with an enthusiasm which arouses the street. A pet of that\nsort is quite embarrassing, and I must respectfully beg leave to draw\nthe line at rams. A ram is too exciting a personage for the owner's\nfriends.\n\nEvery sign that tells of the growing love for dumb animals is grateful\nto my mind; for any one who has a true, kindly love for pets cannot be\nwholly bad. While I gently ridicule the people who keep useless brutes\nto annoy their neighbours, I would rather see even the hideous, useless\npug kept to wheeze and snarl in his old age than see no pets at all.\nGood luck to all good folk who love animals, and may the reign of\nkindness spread!\n\n_March, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_THE ETHICS OF THE TURF_.\n\n\nWhen Lord Beaconsfield called the Turf a vast engine of national\ndemoralization, he uttered a broad general truth; but, unfortunately, he\ndid not go into particulars, and his vague grandiloquence has inspired a\nlarge number of ferocious imitators, who know as little about the\nessentials of the matter as Lord Beaconsfield did. These imitators abuse\nthe wrong things and the wrong people; they mix up causes and effects;\nthey are acrid where they should be tolerant; they know nothing about\nthe real evils; and they do no good, for the simple reason that racing\nblackguards never read anything, while cultured gentlemen who happen to\ngo racing smile quietly at the blundering of amateur moralists. Sir\nWilfrid Lawson is a good man and a clever man; but to see the kind of\ndisplay he makes when he gets up to talk about the Turf is very\nsaddening. He can give you an accurate statement concerning the evils of\ndrink, but as soon as he touches racing his innocence becomes woefully\napparent, and the biggest scoundrel that ever entered the Ring can\nafford to make game of the harmless, well-meaning critic. The subject is\nan intricate one, and you cannot settle it right off by talking of\n\"pampered nobles who pander to the worst vices of the multitude;\" and\nyou go equally wrong if you begin to shriek whenever that inevitable\nlarcenous shopboy whimpers in the dock about the temptations of betting.\nWe are poisoned by generalities; our reformers, who use press and\nplatform to enlighten us, resemble a doctor who should stop by a\npatient's bedside and deliver an oration on bad health in the abstract\nwhen he ought to be finding out his man's particular ailment. Let us\nclear the ground a little bit, until we can see something definite. I am\ngoing to talk plainly about things that I know, and I want to put all\nsentimental rubbish out of the road.\n\nIn the first place, then, horse-racing, in itself, is neither degrading\nnor anything else that is bad; a race is a beautiful and exhilarating\nspectacle, and quiet men, who never bet, are taken out of themselves in\na delightful fashion when the exquisite thoroughbreds thunder past. No\nsensible man supposes for a moment that owners and trainers have any\ndeliberate intention of improving the breed of horses, but,\nnevertheless, these splendid tests of speed and endurance undoubtedly\ntend indirectly to produce a fine breed, and that is worth taking into\naccount. The Survival of the Fittest is the law that governs racing\nstuds; the thought and observation of clever men are constantly\nexercised with a view to preserving excellence and eliminating defects,\nso that, little by little, we have contrived, in the course of a\ncentury, to approach equine perfection. If a twelve-stone man were put\nup on Bendigo, that magnificent animal could give half a mile start to\nany Arab steed that ever was foaled, and run away from the Arab at the\nfinish of a four-mile course. Weight need not be considered, for if the\nEastern-bred horse only carried a postage-stamp the result would be much\nabout the same. Minting could carry fourteen stone across a country,\nwhile, if we come to mere speed, there is really no knowing what horses\nlike Ormonde, Energy, Prince Charlie, and others might have done had\nthey been pressed. If the Emir of Ha\u00efl were to bring over fifty of his\nbest mares, the Newmarket trainers could pick out fifty fillies from\namong their second-rate animals, and the worst of the fillies could\ndistance the best of the Arabs on any terms; while, if fifty heats were\nrun off, over any courses from half a mile to four miles, the English\nhorses would not lose one. The champion Arab of the world was matched\nagainst one of the worst thoroughbreds in training; the English \"plater\"\ncarried about five stone more than the pride of the East, and won by a\nquarter of a mile.\n\nUnconsciously, the breeders of racers have been evolving for us the\nswiftest, strongest, and most courageous horse known to the world, and\nwe cannot afford to neglect that consideration, for people will not\nstrive after perfection unless perfection brings profit.\n\nAgain, we hear occasionally a good deal of outcry about the great\nnoblemen and gentlemen who keep up expensive studs, and the assumption\nis that racehorses and immorality go together; but what would the\ncritics have the racing nobleman do? He is born into a strange\nartificial society; his fate is ready-made for him; he inherits luxuries\nand pastimes as he inherits land and trees. Say that the stud is a\nuseless luxury: but then, what about the daubs for which plutocrats pay\nthousands of guineas? A picture costs, let us say, 2,000 guineas; it is\nthe slovenly work of a hurried master, and the guineas are paid for a\nname; it is stuck away in a private gallery, and, if its owner looks at\nit so often as once a week, it costs him \u00a32 per peep--reckoning only the\ninterest on the money sunk. Is that useless luxury? The fact is that we\nare living in a sort of guarded hothouse; our barbarian propensities\ncannot have an easy outlet; and luxury of all sorts tends to lull our\nbarbarian energy. If we blame one man for indulging a costly hobby, we\nmust blame almost every man and woman who belongs to the grades above\nthe lower middle-class. A rich trader who spends \u00a35,000 a year on\norchid-houses cannot very well afford to reprove a man who pays 50s. per\nweek for each of a dozen horses in training. Rich folk, whose wealth has\nbeen fostered during the long security of England, will indulge in\nsuperfluities, and no one can stop them. A country gentleman who\nsucceeds to a deer park cannot slaughter all the useless, pretty\ncreatures merely because they _are_ useless: he is bound by a thousand\ntraditions, and he cannot suddenly break away. A nobleman inherits a\ncolossal income, of which he cannot very well rid himself: he follows\nthe traditions of his family or his class, and employs part of his\nprofuse surplus riches in maintaining a racing stud; how can any one\nfind fault with him? Such a man as Lord Hartington would never dream of\nbetting except in a languid, off-hand way. He (and his like) are fond of\nwatching the superb rush of the glossy horses; they want the freedom,\nthe swift excitement of the breezy heath; our society encourages them to\namuse themselves, and they do so with a will. That is all. It may be\nwrong for A and B and C to own superfluous wealth, but then the fact is\nthere--that they have got it, and the community agree that they may\nexpend the superfluity as they choose. The rich man's stud gives\nwholesome employment to myriads of decent folks in various stations of\nlife--farmers, saddlers, blacksmiths, builders, corn dealers,\nroad-makers, hedgers, farriers, grooms, and half a score other sorts of\ntoilers derive their living from feeding, harnessing, and tending the\nhorses, and the withdrawal of such a sportsman as Mr. \"Abington\" from\nNewmarket would inflict a terrible blow on hundreds of industrious\npersons who lead perfectly useful and harmless lives. My point is, that\nracing (as racing) is in no way noxious; it is the most pleasant of all\nexcitements, and it gives bread to many praiseworthy citizens. I have\nseen 5,000 given for a Latin hymn-book, and, when I pondered on the\nghastly, imbecile selfishness of that purchase, I thought that I should\nnot have mourned very much if the money had been laid out on a dozen\nsmart colts and fillies, for, at least, the horses would have ultimately\nbeen of some use, even if they all had been put to cab-work. We must\nallow that when racing is a hobby, it is quite respectable--as hobbies\ngo. One good friend of mine, whose fortune has been made by shrewd\njudgment and constant work, always keeps five or six racers in training.\nHe goes from meeting to meeting with all the eagerness of a boy; his\nfriends sturdily maintain that his stud is composed of \"hair trunks,\"\nand the animals certainly have an impressively uniform habit of coming\nin last But the good owner has his pleasure; his hobby satisfies him;\nand, when he goes out in the morning to watch his yearlings frolicking,\nhe certainly never dreams that he is fostering an immoral institution.\nCould we only have racing--and none of the hideous adjuncts--I should\nbe glad, in spite of all the moralists who associate horse-flesh with\noriginal sin.\n\nAs to the bookmakers, I shall have much to say further on. At present I\nam content with observing that the quiet, respectable bookmaker is as\nhonourable and trustworthy as any trafficker in stocks and shares, and\nhis business is almost identical with that of the stockjobber in many\nrespects. No class of men adhere more rigidly to the point of honour\nthan bookmakers of the better sort, and a mere nod from one of them is\nas binding to him as the most elaborate of parchments. They are simply\nshrewd, audacious tradesmen, who know that most people are fools, and\nmake their profit out of that knowledge. It is painful to hear an\nignorant man abusing a bookmaker who does no more than use his\nopportunities skilfully. Why not abuse the gentry who buy copper to\ncatch the rise of the market? Why not abuse the whole of the thousands\nof men who make the City lively for six days of the week? Is there any\nrational man breathing who would scruple to accept profit from the rise\nof a stock or share? If I, practically, back South-Eastern Railway\nshares to rise, who blames me if I sell when my property has increased\nin value by one-eighth? My good counsellor, Mr. Ruskin, who is the most\nvirulent enemy of usury, is nevertheless very glad that his father\nbought Bank of England shares, which have now been converted into Stock,\nand stand at over 300; Ruskin senior was a shrewd speculator, who backed\nhis fancy; and a bookmaker does the same in a safer way. Bookmaking is a\nbusiness which is carried out in its higher branches with perfect\nsobriety, discretion, mid probity; the gambling element does not come\nin on the bookmaker's side, but he deals with gamblers in a fair way.\nThey know that he will lay them the shortest odds he can; they know that\nthey put their wits against his, and they also know that he will pay\nthem with punctilious accuracy if they happen to beat him in the\nencounter of brains. Three or four of the leading betting men \"turn\nover\" on the average about half a million each per annum; one firm who\nbet on commission receive an average of five thousand pounds per day to\ninvest, and the vouchers of all these speculators and agents are as good\nas bank notes. Mark that I grant the certainty of the bookmakers\nwinning; they can remain idle in their mansions for months in the year,\nand the great gambling public supply the means; but I do not find fault\nwith the bookmakers because they use their opportunities, or else I\nmight rave about the iniquity of a godly man who earns in a week 100,000\nfrom a \"corner\" in tin, or I might reprobate the quack who makes no less\nthan 7000 per cent on every box of pills that he sells. A good man once\nchatted with me for a whole evening, and all his talk ran on his own\nluck in \"spotting\" shares that were likely to move upward. Certainly his\nluck as a gambler had been phenomenal. I turned the conversation to the\nTurf case of Wood _v_. Cox, and the torrent of eloquence which met me\nwas enough to drown my intellect in its whirl and rush. My friend was\ngreat on the iniquity of gaming and racing, and I rather fancy that he\nproposed to play on the Betting Ring with a mitrailleuse if ever he had\nthe power. I know he was most sanguinary--and I smiled. He never for an\ninstant seemed to think that he was exactly like a backer of horses,\nand I have no doubt but that his density is shared by a few odd millions\nhere and there. The stockbroker is a kind of bookmaker, and the men and\nwomen who patronise both and make their wealth are fools who all may be\nlumped under the same heading. I knew of one outside-broker--a mere\nbucket-shop keeper--who keeps 600 clerks constantly employed. That seems\nto point out rather an extensive gambling business.\n\nAnd now I have tried to clear the ground on one hand a little, and my\nlast and uttermost good word has been said for the Turf. With sorrow I\nsay that, after all excuses are made, the cool observer must own that it\nis indeed a vast engine of national demoralization, and the subtle venom\nwhich it injects into the veins of the Nation creeps along through\nchannels of which Lord Beaconsfield never dreamed. I might call the Turf\na canker, but a canker is only a local ailment, whereas the evils of\nbetting have now become constitutional so far as the State is concerned.\nIf we cut out the whole tribe of bookmakers and betting-agents, and\napplied such cautery as would prevent any similar growth from arising in\nthe place wherefrom we excised them, we should do very little good; for\nthe life-blood of Britain is tainted, and no superficial remedy can cure\nher now. I shut my eyes on the bookmakers, and I only spare attention\nfor the myriads who make the bookmakers' existence possible--who would\nevolve new bookmakers from their midst if we exterminated the present\ntribe to-morrow. It is not the professional bettors who cause the\nexistence of fools; it is the insensate fools who cause the existence of\nprofessional bettors.\n\nGambling used to be mainly confined to the upper classes; it is now a\nraging disease among that lower middle-class which used to form the main\nelement of our national strength, and the tradesman whose cart comes to\nyour area in the morning gambles with all the reckless abandonment that\nused to be shown by the Hon. A. Deuceace or Lady Betty when George the\nThird was King. Your clerk, shopman, butcher, baker, barber--especially\nthe barber--ask their companions, \"What have you done on the Lincoln?\"\nor \"How do you stand for the Two Thousand?\" just as ordinary folks ask\nafter each other's health. Tradesmen step out of their shops in the\nmorning and telegraph to their bookmaker just as they might to one of\ntheir wholesale houses; there is not a town in broad England which has\nnot its flourishing betting men, and some very small towns can maintain\ntwo or three. The bookmakers are usually publicans, barbers, or\ntobacconists; but whatever they are they invariably drive a capital\ntrade. In the corner of a smoking-room you may see a quiet, impassive\nman sitting daily in a contemplative manner; he does not drink much; he\nsmokes little, and he appears to have nothing in particular to worry\nhim. If he knows you well, he will scarcely mind your presence; men (and\nboys) greet him, and little, gentle colloquies take place from time to\ntime; the smartest man could detect nothing, and yet the noiseless,\nplacid gentleman of the smoking-room registers thirty or forty bets in a\nday. That is one type which I have watched for hours, days, months.\nThere are dozens of other types, but I need not attempt to sketch them;\nit is sufficient to say that the poison has taken hard hold on us, and\nthat I see every symptom of a national decadence.\n\nSome one may say, \"But you excused the Turf and the betting men.\"\nExactly. I said that racing is a delightful pastime to those who go to\nwatch good horses gallop; the miserable thing to me is seeing the\nwretches who do not care for racing at all, but only care for gambling\non names and numbers. Let Lord Hartington, Lord Randolph Churchill, Mr.\nChaplin, Mr. Corlett, Mr. Rothschild, Lord Rosebery, and the rest, go\nand see the lovely horses shooting over the turf; by all means let them\nwatch their own colts and fillies come flying home. But the poor\ncreatures who muddle away brains, energy, and money on what _they_ are\npleased to term sport, do not know a horse from a mule; they gamble, as\nI have said, on names; the splendid racers give them no enjoyment such\nas the true sportsman derives, for they would not know Ormonde from a\nClydesdale. To these forlorn beings only the ignoble side of racing is\nknown; it is sacrilege to call them sportsmen; they are rotting their\nvery souls and destroying the remnants of their manhood over a game\nwhich they play blindfold. It is pitiful--most pitiful. No good-natured\nman will begrudge occasional holiday-makers their chance of seeing a\ngood race. Rural and industrial Yorkshire are represented by thousands\nat Doncaster, on the St. Ledger day, and the tourists get no particular\nharm; they are horsey to the backbone, and they come to see the running.\nThey criticize the animals and gain topics for months of conversation,\nand, if they bet an odd half-crown and never go beyond it, perhaps no\none is much the worse. When the Duke of Portland allowed his tenantry to\nsee St. Simon gallop five years ago at Newcastle, the pitmen and\nartisans thronged to look at the horse. There was no betting whatever,\nbecause no conceivable odds could have measured the difference between\nSt. Simon and his opponent, yet when Archer let the multitude see how\nfast a horse _could_ travel, and the great thoroughbred swept along like\na flash, the excitement and enthusiasm rose to fever-pitch. Those men\nhad an unaffected pleasure in observing the beauty and symmetry and\nspeed of a noble creature, and they were unharmed by the little treat\nwhich the good-natured magnate provided for them. It is quite otherwise\nwith the mob of stay-at-home gamblers; they do not care a rush for the\nhorses; they long, with all the crazy greed of true dupes, to gain money\nwithout working for it, and that is where the mischief comes in.\nCupidity, mean anxieties, unwholesome excitements, gradually sap the\nmorality of really sturdy fellows--the last shred of manliness is torn\naway, and the ordinary human intelligence is replaced by repulsive\nvulpine cunning. If you can look at a little group of the stay-at-homes\nwhile they are discussing the prospects of a race, you will see\nsomething that Hogarth would have enjoyed in his large, lusty fashion.\nThe fair human soul no longer shines through those shifty, deceitful\neyes; the men have, somehow, sunk from the level of their race, and they\nmake you think that Swift may-have been right after all. From long\nexperience I am certain that if a cultured gentleman, accustomed to high\nthinking, were suddenly compelled to live among these dismal beings, he\nwould be attacked by a species of intellectual paralysis. The affairs of\nthe country are nothing to them; poetry, art, and all beautiful things\nare contemptible in their eyes; they dwell in an obscure twilight of the\nmind, and their relaxation, when the serious business of betting is put\naside for awhile, mostly lies in the direction of sheer bawdry and\nabomination. It is curious to see the oblique effect which general\ndegradation has upon the vocabulary of these people; quiet words, or\nwords that express a plain meaning, are repugnant to them; even the\nold-fashioned full-mouthed oaths of our fathers are tame to their fancy,\nfor they must have something strongly spiced, and thus they have by\ndegrees fitted themselves up with a loathly dialect of their own which\ntranscends the comparatively harmless efforts of the Black Country\npotter. Foul is not the word for this ultra-filthy mode of talk--it\npasses into depths below foulness. I may digress for a little to\nemphasize this point. The latter-day hanger-on of the Turf has\nintroduced a new horror to existence. Go into the Silver Ring at a\nsuburban meeting, and listen while two or three of the fellows work\nthemselves into an ecstasy of vile excitement, then you will hear\nsomething which cannot be described or defined in any terms known to\nhumanity. Why it should be so I cannot tell, but the portentous symptom\nof putridity is always in evidence. As is the man of the Ring, so are\nthe stay-at-homes. The disease of their minds is made manifest by their\nmanner of speech; they throw out verbal pustules which tell of the rank\ncorruption which has overtaken their nature, and you need some seasoning\nbefore you can remain coolly among them without feeling symptoms of\nnausea. There is one peer of this realm--a hereditary legislator and a\npatron of many Church livings--who is famous for his skill in the use of\ncertain kinds of vocables. This man is a living exemplar of the\nmysterious effect which low dodging and low distractions have on the\nsoul. In five minutes he can make you feel as if you had tumbled into\none of Swedenborg's loathsome hells; he can make the most eloquent of\nturf thieves feel, envious, and he can make you awe-stricken as you see\nhow far and long God bears with man. The disease from which this\npleasing pillar of the State suffers has spread, with more or less\nvirulence, to the furthermost recesses of our towns, and you must know\nthe fringe of the Turf world before you can so much as guess what the\nsymptoms are like.\n\nHere is a queer kind of a world which has suddenly arisen! Faith and\ntrust are banished; real honesty is unknown; purity is less than a name;\nmanliness means no more than a certain readiness to use the fists. Most\nof the dwellers in this atmosphere are punctilious about money payments\nbecause they durst not be otherwise, but the fine flower of real probity\ndoes not flourish in the mephitic air. To lie, to dodge, to take mean\nadvantages--these are the accomplishments which an ugly percentage of\nmiddle-class youths cultivate, and all the mischief arises from the fact\nthat they persist in trying to ape the manners of the most unworthy\nmembers of an order to which they do not belong. It is bad enough when a\nrich and idle man is bitten with the taste for betting, but when he is\nimitated by the tailor's assistant who carries his clothes home, then we\nhave a still more unpleasant phenomenon to consider. For it is fatal to\na nation when any large and influential section of the populace once\nbegin to be confused in their notions of right and wrong. Not long ago I\nwas struck by noticing a significant instance of this moral dry rot. An\nold racing man died, and all the sporting papers had something to say\nabout him and his career. Now the best of the sporting journalists are\nclever and cultured gentlemen, who give refinement, to every subject\nthat they touch. But a certain kind of writing is done by pariahs, who\nare not much of a credit to our society, and I was interested by the\nstyle in which these scribbling vermin spoke of the dead man. Their gush\nwas a trifle nauseating; their mean worship of money gave one a shiver,\nand the relish with which they described their hero's exploits would\nhave been comic were it not for the before-mentioned nausea.\n\nIt seemed that the departed turfite had been--to use blunt English--a\nvery skilful and successful swindler. He would buy a horse which took\nhis fancy, and he would run the animal again and again, until people got\ntired of seeing such a useless brute taken down to the starting-point.\nThe handicappers finally let our schemer's horse in at a trifling\nweight, and then he prepared for business. He had trustworthy agents at\nManchester, Nottingham, and Newcastle, and these men contrived, without\nrousing suspicion, to \"dribble\" money into the market in a stealthy way,\nuntil the whole of their commission was worked on very advantageous\nterms. The arch-plotter did not show prominently in the transaction, and\nhe contrived once or twice to throw dust in the eyes of the very\ncleverest men. One or two neatly arranged strokes secured our acute\ngentleman a handsome fortune. He missed \u00a370,000 once, by a short head,\nbut this was the only instance in which his plans seriously failed; and\nhe was looked up to as an epitome of all the virtues which are most\nacceptable in racing circles. Well, had this dodger exhibited the\nheroism of Gordon, the benevolence of Lord Shaftesbury, the probity of\nHenry Fawcett, he could not have been more bepraised and bewailed by the\nsmall fry of sporting literature. All he had done in life was to deceive\npeople by making them fancy that certain good horses were bad ones:\nstrictly speaking, he made money by false pretences, and yet, such is\nthe twist given by association with genuine gamblers, that educated men\nwrote of him as if he had been a saint of the most admirable order. This\ndisposition is seen all through the piece: successful roguery is\nglorified, and our young men admire \"the Colonel,\" or \"the Captain,\" or\nJack This and Tom That, merely because the Captain and the Colonel and\nJack and Tom are acute rascals who have managed to make money.\nDecidedly, our national ideals are in a queer way. Just think of a\nlittle transaction which occurred in 1887. A noble lord ordered a\nmiserable jockey boy to pull a horse, so that the animal might lose a\nrace: the exalted guide of youth was found out, and deservedly packed\noff the Turf; but it was only by an accident that the Stewards were able\nto catch him. That legislator had funny notions of the duty which he\nowed to boyhood: he asked his poor little satellite to play the\nscoundrel, and he only did what scores do who are _not_ found out.\n\nA haze hangs about the Turf, and all the principles which should guide\nhuman nature are blurred and distorted; the high-minded, honourable\nracing men can do nothing or next to nothing, and the scum work their\nwill in only too many instances. Every one knows that the ground is\npalpitating with corruption, but our national mental disease has so\ngained ground that some regard corruption in a lazy way as\nbeing inevitable, while others--including the stay-at-home\nhorse-racers--reckon it as absolutely admirable.\n\nSome years ago, a pretty little mare was winning the St. Leger easily,\nwhen a big horse cut into her heels and knocked her over. About two\nmonths afterwards, the same wiry little mare was running in an important\nrace at Newmarket, and at the Bushes she was hauling her jockey out of\nthe saddle. There were not many spectators about, and only a few noticed\nthat, while the mare was fighting for her head, she was suddenly pulled\nuntil she reared up, lost her place, and reached the post about seventh\nin a large field. The jockey who rode the mare, and who made her exhibit\ncircus gambols, received a thousand pounds from the owner of the winning\nhorse. Now, there was no disguise about this transaction--nay, it was\nrather advertised than otherwise, and a good many of the sporting prints\ntook it quite as a matter of course. Why? Simply because no prominent\nracing man raked up the matter judicially, and because the ordinary Turf\nscramblers accept suspicious proceedings as part of their environment.\nMr. Carlyle mourned over the deadly virus of lying which was emitted by\nLoyola and his crew; he might mourn now over the deadly virus of\ncheating which is emitted from the central ganglia of the Turf. The\nupright men who love horses and love racing are nearly powerless; the\nthieves leaven the country, and they have reduced what was once the\nfinest middle-class in the world to a condition of stark putridity.\n\nBefore we can rightly understand the degradation which has befallen us\nby reason of the Turf, we must examine the position of jockeys in the\ncommunity. Lord Beaconsfield, in one of his most wicked sentences, said\nthat the jockey is our Western substitute for the eunuch; a noble duke,\nwho ought to know something about the matter, lately informed the world\nthrough the medium of a court of law with an oath that \"jockeys are\nthieves.\" Now, I know one jockey whose character is not embraced by the\nduke's definition, and I have heard that there are two, but I am not\nacquainted with the second man. The wonder is, considering the\nharebrained, slavering folly of the public, that any of the riding\nmanikins are half as honest as they are; the wonder is that their poor\nlittle horsey brains are not led astray in such fashion as to make every\nrace a farce. They certainly do try their best on occasion, and I\nbelieve that there are many races which are _not_ arranged before the\nstart; but you cannot persuade the picked men of the rascals' corps that\nany race is run fairly. When Melton and Paradox ran their tremendous\nrace home in the Derby, I heard quite a number of intelligent gentry\nsaying that Paradox should have won but for the adjectived and\nparticipled propensities of his jockey. Nevertheless, although most\ndevout turfites agree with the emphatic duke, they do not idolize their\ndiminutive fetishes a whit the less; they worship the manikin with a\ntouching and droll devotion, and, when they know him to be a confirmed\nscamp, they admire his cleverness, and try to find out which way the\nlittle rogue's interest lies, so that they may follow him. So it comes\nabout that we have amidst us a school of skinny dwarfs whose leaders are\npaid better than the greatest statesmen in Europe. The commonest\njockey-boy in this company of manikins can usually earn more than the\naverage scholar or professional man, and the whole set receive a good\ndeal more of adulation than has been bestowed on any soldier, sailor,\nexplorer, or scientific man of our generation. And what is the\nlife-history of the jockey? A tiny boy is bound apprentice, and\nsubmitted to the discipline of a training stable; he goes through the\nlong routine of morning gallops, trials, and so forth, and when he\nbegins to show signs of aptitude he is put up to ride for his master in\npublic. If he is a born horseman, like Archer or Robinson, he may make\nhis mark long before his indentures are returned to him, and he is at\nonce surrounded by a horde of flatterers who do their best to spoil him.\nThere is no cult so distinguished by slavishness, by gush, by\nlavishness, as jockey-worship, and a boy needs to have a strong head and\nsound, careful advisers, if he is to escape becoming positively\ninsufferable. When the lad Robinson won the St. Leger, after his horse\nhad been left at the post, he was made recipient of the most frantic and\nsilly toadyism that the mind can conceive; the clever trainer to whom he\nwas apprenticed received \u00a31,500 for transferring the little fellow's\nservices, and he is now a celebrity who probably earns a great deal more\nthan Professor Owen or Mr. Walter Besant. The tiny boy who won the\nCesarevitch on Don Juan received \u00a31,000 after the race, and it must be\nremembered that this child had not left school. Mr. Herbert Spencer has\nnot earned \u00a31,000 by the works that have altered the course of modern\nthought; the child Martin picked up the amount in a lump, after he had\nscurried for less than five minutes on the back of a feather-weighted\nthoroughbred. As the jockey grows older and is freed from his\napprenticeship he becomes a more and more important personage; if his\nweight keeps well within limits he can ride four or five races every day\nduring the season; he draws five guineas for a win, and three for the\nmount, and he picks up an infinite number of unconsidered trifles in the\nway of presents, since the turfite, bad or good, is invariably a\ncheerful giver. The popular jockey soon has his carriages, his horses,\nhis valet, and his sumptuous house; noblemen, millionaires, great dames,\nand men and women of all degrees conspire to pamper him: for\njockey-worship, when it is once started, increases in intensity by a\nsort of geometrical progression. A shrewd man of the world may smile\ngrimly when he hears that a popular rider was actually received with\nroyal honours and installed in the royal box when he went to the theatre\nduring his honeymoon, but there are the facts. It was so, and the best\npeople of the fine town in which this deplorable piece of toadyism was\nperpetrated were tolerably angry at the time. If the sporting\njournalists perform their work of puffery with skill and care, the\nworship of the jockey reaches a pitch that borders on insanity. If\nGeneral Gordon had returned and visited such a place as Liverpool or\nDoncaster during a race-meeting, he would not have been noticed by the\ndiscriminating crowd if Archer had passed along the street. If the Prime\nMinister were to visit any place of public resort while Watts or Webb\nhappened to be there, it is probable that his lordship would learn\nsomething useful concerning the relative importance of Her Majesty's\nsubjects. I know for a fact that a cleverly executed cartoon of Archer,\nFordham, Wood, or Barrett will have at least six times as many buyers as\na similar portrait of Professor Tyndall, Mr. James Payn, M. Pasteur,\nLord Salisbury, Mr. Chamberlain, or any one in Britain excepting Mr.\nGladstone. I do not know how many times the _Vanity Fair_ cartoon of\nArcher has been reprinted, but I learn on good authority that, for\nyears, not a single day has been known to pass on which the caricature\nwas not asked for. And now let us bring to mind the plain truth that\nthese jockeys are only uneducated and promoted stable-boys after all. Is\nit not a wonder that we can pick out a single honest man from their\nmidst? Vast sums depend on their exertions, and they are surrounded by a\nhuge crowd of moneyed men who will stand at nothing if they can gain\ntheir ends; their unbalanced, sharp little minds are always open to\ntemptation; they see their brethren amassing great fortunes, and they\nnaturally fall into line and proceed, when their turn comes, to grab as\nmuch money as they can. Not long ago the inland revenue officials, after\nminute investigation, assessed the gains of one wee creature at \u00a39,000\nper year. This pigmy is now twenty-six years of age, and he earned as\nmuch as the Lord Chancellor, and more than any other judge, until a jury\ndecided his fate by giving him what the Lord Chief Justice called \"a\ncontemptuous verdict.\" Another jockey paid income-tax on \u00a310,000 a year,\nand a thousand pounds is not at all an uncommon sum to be paid merely as\na retainer. Forty or fifty years ago a jockey would not have dreamed of\nfacing his employer otherwise than cap in hand, but the value of\nstable-boys has gone up in the market, and Lear's fool might now say,\n\"Handy-Dandy! Who is your jockey now and who is your master?\" The little\nmen gradually gather a kind of veneer of good manners, and some of them\ncan behave very much like pocket editions of gentlemen, but the scent of\nthe stable remains, and, whether the jockey is a rogue or passably\nhonest, he remains a stable-boy to the end. Half the mischief on the\nTurf arises from the way in which these overpaid, spoilt menials can be\nbribed, and, certes, there are plenty of bribers ready. Racing men do\nnot seem able to shake off the rule of their stunted tyrants. When the\ngentleman who paid income-tax on nine thousand a year brought the action\nwhich secured him the contemptuous verdict, the official handicapper to\nthe Jockey Club declared on oath that the jockey's character was \"as bad\nas bad can be.\" The starter and a score of other witnesses followed in\nthe same groove, and yet this man was freely employed. Why? We may\nperhaps explain by inference presently.\n\nWith this cynically corrupt corps of jockeys and their hangers-on, it\nmay easily be seen that the plutocrats who manipulate the Turf wires\nhave an admirable time of it, while the great gaping mob of zanies who\ngo to races, and zanies who stay at home, are readily bled by the\nfellows who have the money and the \"information\" and the power. The rule\nof the Turf is easily formulated:--\"Get the better of your neighbour.\nPlay the game outwardly according to fair rules. Pay like a man if your\ncalculations prove faulty, but take care that they shall be as seldom\nfaulty as possible. Never mind what you pay for information if it gives\nyou a point the better of other men. Keep your agents honest if you can,\nbut, if they happen to be dishonest under pressure of circumstances,\ntake care at any rate that you are not found out.\" In short, the Ring is\nmainly made up of men who pay with scrupulous honesty when they lose,\nbut who take uncommonly good care to reduce the chances of losing to a\nminimum. Are they in the wrong? It depends. I shall not, at the present\nmoment, go into details; I prefer to pause and ask what can be expected\nto result from the wolfish scheme of Turf morality which I have\nindicated. I do not compare it with the rules which guide our host of\ncommercial middlemen, because, if I did, I should say that the betting\nmen have rather the best of the comparison: I keep to the Turf, and I\nwant to know what broad consequences must emanate from a body which\norganizes plans for plunder and veils them under the forms of honesty.\nAn old hand--the Odysseus of racing--once said to me: \"No man on earth\nwould ever be allowed to take a hundred thousand pounds out of the Ring:\nthey wouldn't allow it, they wouldn't That young fool must drop all he's\ngot.\" We were speaking about a youthful madman who was just then being\nplucked to the last feather, and I knew that the old turfite was right.\nThe Ring is a close body, and I have only known about four men who ever\nmanaged to beat the confederacy in the long run. There is one astute,\ntaciturn, inscrutable organizer whom the bookmakers dread a little,\nbecause he happens to use their own methods; he will scheme for a year\nor two if necessary until he succeeds in placing a horse advantageously,\nand he usually brings off his _coup_ just at the time when the Ring\nleast like it. \"They don't yell like that when one of mine rolls home,\"\nhe once said, while the bookmakers were clamouring with delight over the\ndownfall of a favourite; and indeed this wily master of deceptions has\nvery often made the pencillers draw long faces. But the case of the Turf\nOdysseus is not by any means typical; the man stands almost alone, and\nhis like will not be seen again for many a day. The rule is that the\nbacker must come to grief in the long run, for every resource of\nchicanery, bribery, and resolute keenness is against him. He is there to\nbe plundered; it is his mission in life to lose, or how could the\nbookmakers maintain their mansions and carriages? It matters little what\nthe backer's capital may be at starting, he will lose it all if he is\nidiot enough to go on to the end, for he is fighting against\nunscrupulous legions. One well-known bookmaker coolly announced in 1888\nthat he had written off three hundred thousand pounds of bad debts.\nConsider what a man's genuine business must be like when he can jauntily\nallude to three hundred thousands as a bagatelle by the way. That same\nman has means of obtaining \"information\" sufficient to discomfit any\npoor gambler who steps into the Ring and expects to beat the bookmakers\nby downright above-board dealing. As soon as he begins to lay heavily\nagainst a horse the animal is regarded as doomed to lose by all save the\nimbeciles who persist in hoping against hope. In 1889 this betting man\nmade a dead set at the favourite for the Two Thousand Guineas. The colt\nwas known to be the best of his year; he was trained in a stable which\nhas the best of reputations; his exercise was uninterrupted, and mere\namateurs fancied they had only to lay heavy odds _on_ him in order to\nput down three pounds and pick up four. Yet the inexorable bookmaker\nkept on steadily taking the odds; the more he betted, the more money was\npiled on to the unbeaten horse, and yet few took warning, although they\nmust have seen that the audacious financier was taking on himself an\nappalling risk. Well, the peerless colt was pulled out, and, on his way\nto the starting post, he began to shake blood and matter from his jaws;\nhe could hardly move in the race, and when he was taken to his quarters\na surgeon let out yet another pint of pus from the poor beast's jaw.\nObserve that the shrewdest trainer in England, a crowd of stable-boys,\nthe horse's special attendant, the horse-watchers at Kingsclere, and the\ncasual strangers who saw the favourite gallop--all these knew nothing\napparently about that monstrous abscess, and no one suspected that the\ncolt's jaw had been splintered. But \"information\"--always\ninformation--evidently reached one quarter, and the host of outsiders\nlost their money. Soon afterwards a beautiful colt that had won the\nDerby was persistently backed for the City and Suburban Handicap. On\npaper it seemed as if the race might be regarded as over, for only the\nlast year's Derby winner appeared to have a chance; but our prescient\npenciller cared nothing about paper. Once more he did not trouble\nhimself about betting to figures; he must have laid his book five times\nover before the flag fell. Then the nincompoops who refused to attend to\ndanger-signals saw that the beautiful colt which had spun over the same\ncourse like a greyhound only ten months before was unable to gallop at\nall. The unhappy brute tried for a time, and was then mercifully eased;\nthe bookmaker would have lost \u00a3100,000 if his \"information\" had not been\naccurate, but that is just the crux--it _was_. So admirably do the\nbookmakers organize their intelligence department that I hardly know\nmore than three instances in which they have blundered after they really\nbegan to lay fiercely against a horse. They contrive to buy jockeys,\nstablemen, veterinary surgeons--indeed, who can tell whom they do _not_\nsubsidize? When Belladrum came striding from the fateful hollow in front\nof Pretender, there was one \"leviathan\" bookmaker who turned green and\nbegan to gasp, for he stood to lose \u00a350,000; but the \"leviathan\" was\nspared the trouble of fainting, for the hill choked the splendid\nStockwell horse, and \"information\" was once more vindicated, while\nBelladrum's backers paid copious tribute. Just two years before the\nleviathan had occasion to turn green our Turf Odysseus really did manage\nto deceive the great betting corporation with consummate skill. The\nwhole business throws such a clear light on Turf ethics that I may\nrepeat it for the benefit of those who know little about our great\nnational sport--the Sport of Kings. It was rumoured that Hermit had\nbroken a blood-vessel, and the animal was stopped for a little in his\nwork. Then Odysseus and his chief confederate proceeded to seize their\nchance. The horse started at 1000 to 15, and it seemed like a million to\none against him, for his rough coat had been left on him, and he looked\na ragged equine invalid. The invalid won, however, by a neck, the\nMarquis of Hastings was ruined, and the confederates won about \u00a3150,000.\n\nAs we go over these stories of plot and counterplot, it is hardly\npossible to avoid thinking what a singularly high-souled set of gentry\nwe have got amongst. What ambitions! To trick money out of somebody's\npocket! To wager when you know that you have made winning certain! The\noutcome of it all is that, in the unequal battle between the men who\nback and the men who lay, the latter must win; they _will_ win, even if\nthey have to cog the dice on a pinch; and, moreover, they will not be\nfound out officially, even though their \"secret\" is as open as if it\nwere written across the sky. A strange, hard, pitiless crew are these\nsame bookmakers. Personally, strange to say, they are, in private life,\namong the most kindly and generous of men; their wild life, with its\nexcitement and hurry, and keen encounters of wits, never seems to make\nthem anything but thoughtful and liberal when distress has to be aided;\nbut the man who will go far out of his way to perform a charitable\naction will take your very skin from you if you engage him in that\nenclosure which is his battle-ground, and he will not be very particular\nas to whether he wins your skin by fair means or foul.\n\nAbout two years ago, an exasperating, soft-headed boy brought a colossal\nfortune into the Ring. I never pitied him much; I only longed to see him\nplaced in the hands of a good schoolmaster who knew how to use a birch.\nThis piteous wretch, with his fatuous airs of sharpness, was exactly the\nkind of game that the bookmakers cared to fly at; he was cajoled and\nstimulated; he was trapped at every turn; the vultures flapped round\nhim; and there was no strong, wise man to give the booby counsel or to\ndrag him by main force from his fate. There was no pity for the boy's\nyouth; he was a mark for every obscene bird of prey that haunts the\nTurf; respectable betting men gave him fair play, though they exacted\ntheir pound of flesh; the birds of Night gave him no fair play at all.\nIn a few short months he had poured a quarter of a million into the\nbursting pockets of the Ring, and he was at last \"posted\" for the paltry\nsum of \u00a31,400. This tragic farce was not enacted in a corner; a hundred\njournals printed every act as it was played; the victim never received\nthat one hearty flogging which might have saved him, and the curtain was\nat last rung down on a smug, grinning group of bookmakers, a deservedly\nruined spendthrift, and a mob of indifferent lookers-on. So minutely\ncircumstantial were the newspapers, that we may say that all England saw\na gigantic robbery being committed, and no man, on the Turf or off,\ninterfered by so much as a sign. Decidedly, the Ethics of the Turf offer\nan odd study for the moralist; and, in passing, I may say that the\nnational ethics are also a little queer. We ruin a tradesman who lets\ntwo men play a game at billiards for sixpence on licensed premises, and\nwe allow a silly boy to be rooked of a quarter of a million in nine\nmonths, although the robbery is as well-known as if it were advertised\nover the whole front page of _The Times_ day by day.\n\nIn sum, then, we have an inner circle of bookmakers who take care either\nto bet on figures alone, or on perfectly accurate and secret\ninformation; we have another circle of sharp owners and backers, who, by\nmeans of modified (or unmodified) false pretences, succeed at times in\nbeating the bookmakers; we have then an outer circle, composed partly of\nstainless gentlemen who do not bet and who want no man's money, partly\nof perfectly honest fellows who have no judgment, no real knowledge, and\nno self-restraint, and who serve as prey on which the bookmakers batten.\n\nAnd then we have circle on circle showing every shade of vice, baseness,\ncupidity, and blank folly. First, I may glance--and only glance--at the\nunredeemed, hopeless villains who are the immediate hangers-on of the\nTurf. People hardly believe that there are thousands of sturdy,\nable-bodied men scattered among our great towns and cities who have\nnever worked, and who never mean to work. In their hoggish way they feed\nwell and lie warm--the phrase is their own favourite--and they subsist\nlike odious reptiles, fed from mysterious sources. Go to any suburban\nrace meeting (I don't care which you pick) and you will fancy that\nHell's tatterdemalions have got holiday. Whatsoever things are vile,\nwhatsoever things are roguish, bestial, abominable, belong to the\nracecourse loafers. To call them thieves is to flatter them, for their\nimpudent knavery transcends mere thieving; they have not a virtue; they\nare more than dangerous, and, if ever there comes a great social\nconvulsion, they will let us know of their presence in an awkward\nfashion, for they are trained to riot, fraud, bestiality, and theft, on\nthe fringe of the racecourse.\n\nThen comes the next line of predatory animals who suck the blood of the\ndupes. If you look at one of the daily sporting papers you will see, on\nthe most important page, a number of flaming announcements, which will\nmake very comic reading for you if you have any sense of humour at all.\nGentlemen, who usually take the names of well-known jockeys or trainers,\noffer to make your fortune on the most ridiculously easy terms. You\nforward a guinea or half-a-guinea, and an obliging prophet will show you\nhow to ruin the bookmakers. Old Tom Tompkins has a \"glorious success\"\nevery week; Joe, and Bill, and Harry, and a good score more, are always\nready to prove that they named the winner of any given race; one of\nthese fellows advertises under at least a dozen different names, and he\nis able to live in great style and keep a couple of secretaries,\nalthough he cannot write a letter or compose a circular. The _Sporting\nTimes_ will not allow one of these vermin to advertise in its columns,\nand it has exposed all their dodges in the most conclusive and trenchant\nset of articles that I ever saw; but other journals admit the\nadvertisements at prices which seem well-nigh prohibitive, and they are\ncontent to draw from \u00a315 to \u00a320 per day by blazoning forth false\npretences. I have had much fun out of these \"tipsters,\" for they are\ndeliciously impudent blackguards. A fellow will send you the names of\nsix horses--all losers; in two days he will advertise--\"I beg to\ncongratulate all my patrons. This week I was in great form on the whole,\nand on Thursday I sent all six winners. A thousand pounds will be paid\nto any one who can disprove this statement.\" Considering that the sage\nsent you six losers on the Thursday, you naturally feel a little\nsurprised at his tempestuously confident challenge. All the seers are\nalike; they pick names at haphazard from the columns of the newspapers,\nand then they pretend to be in possession of the darkest stable secrets.\nIf they are wrong, and they usually are, they advertise their own\ninfallibility all the more brazenly. I do not exactly know what getting\nmoney under false pretences may be if the proceedings which I have\ndescribed do not come under that heading, and I wonder what the police\nthink of the business. They very soon catch a poor Rommany wench who\ntells fortunes, and she goes to gaol for three months. But I suppose\nthat the Rommany rawnee does not contribute to the support of\ninfluential newspapers. A sharp detective ought to secure clear cases\nagainst at least a dozen of these parasites in a single fortnight, for\nthey are really stupid in essentials. One of the brotherhood always sets\nforth his infallible prophecies from a dark little public-house bar near\nFountain Court. I have seen him, when I came off a journey, trying to\nsteady his hand at seven in the morning; his twisted, tortured fingers\ncould hardly hold the pencil, and he was fit for nothing but to sit in\nthe stinking dusk and soak whisky; but no doubt many of his dupes\nimagined that he sat in a palatial office and received myriads of\nmessages from his ubiquitous corps of spies. He was a poor, diseased,\ncunning rogue; I found him amusing, but I do not think that his patrons\nalways saw the fun of him.\n\nAnd last there comes the broad outer circle, whereof the thought makes\nme sad. On that circle are scattered the men who should be England's\nbackbone, but they are all suffering by reason of the evil germs wafted\nfrom the centre of contagion. Mr. Matthew Arnold often gave me a good\ndeal of advice; I wish I could sometimes have given him a little. I\nshould have told him that all his dainty jeers about middle-class\ndenseness were beside the mark; all the complacent mockery concerning\nthe deceased wife's sister and the rest, was of no use. If you see a man\nwalking right into a deadly quicksand, you do not content yourself with\ninforming him that a bit of fluff has stuck to his coat. Mr. Arnold\nshould have gone among the lower middle-class a trifle more instead of\ntrusting to his superfine imagination, and then he might have got to\nknow whither our poor, stupid folks are tending. I have just ended an\nunpleasantly long spell which I passed among various centres where\nmiddle-class leisure is spent, and I would not care to repeat the\nexperience for any money. Any given town will suit a competent observer,\nfor I found scarcely any vital differences in passing from place to\nplace. It is tragical and disheartening to see scores of fine lads and\nmen, full of excellent faculties and latent goodness--and all under the\nspell of the dreary Circe of the Turf. I have been for a year, on and\noff, among a large circle of fellows whom I really liked; and what was\ntheir staple talk? Nothing but betting. The paralysis at once of\nintellect and of the sense of humour which attacks the man who begins\nflirting with the gambling Enchantress struck me with a sense of\nhelplessness. I like to see a race when it is possible, and I can always\nkeep a kind of picture of a horse in my eye. Well, I have known a very\nenthusiastic gentleman say, \"The Bard, sir, The Bard; the big horse, the\nmighty _bay_. He'll smother 'em all.\" I modestly said, \"Do you think he\nis big enough?\" \"Big enough! a giant, sir! Mark my words, sir, you'll\nsee Bob Peck's colours in triumph on the bay.\" I mildly said: \"I thought\nThe Bard was a very little one when I saw him, and he didn't seem bay.\nHe was rather like the colour you might get by shaking a flour-dredger\nover a mulberry. Have you had a look at him?\" As usual, I found that my\nlearned friend had never seen that horse nor any other; he was\nneglecting his business, loafing with wastrels, and trying, in a small\nway, to imitate the fine strategy of the Colonel and the Captain and\nOdysseus. Amongst these bewitched unfortunates, the life of the soul\nseems to die away. Once I said to a nice lad, \"Do none of your set ever\nread anything?\" and he made answer, \"I don't think any of them read\nvery much except the _Sportsman_.\" That was true--very true and rather\nshocking. The _Sportsman_ is bright enough and good enough in its way,\nand I read it constantly; but to limit your literature to the\n_Sportsman_ alone--well, it must be cramping. But that is what our fine\nyoung men are mostly doing nowadays; the eager, intellectual life of\nyoung Scotchmen and of the better sort of Englishmen is unknown: you may\nwait for a year and you will never hear a word of talk which is\nessentially above the intelligence of a hog; and a man of whom you are\nfond, purely because of his kindliness, may bore you in the deadliest\nmanner by drawling on by the hour about names and weights, the shifting\nof the odds, and the changes of luck. The country fairly swarms with\nclubs where betting goes on all day, and sometimes all night: the\ndespicable dupes are drawn in one after another, and they fall into\nmanifold varieties of mischief; agonized parents pray for help;\nemployers chafe at the carelessness and pre-occupation of their\nservants; the dupes sink to ruin unpitied, and still the crowd steps\nonward to the gulf of doom. To think that by merely setting certain\nnoble creatures to exhibit their speed and staunchness, we should have\nended by establishing in our midst a veritable Inferno! Our faith, our\nhonour, our manhood, our future as a nation, are being sacrificed, and\nall because Circe has read her spell over our best and most promising\nsouls. And our legislators amuse themselves with recriminations! We\nfoster a horde of bloodsuckers who rear their strength on our weakness\nand our vices. Why should a drink-seller be kept in check by his having\nto pay for a license, while the ruin-seller needs no license, and is\nnot even required to pay income tax. If licenses to bet were issued at\nvery heavy prices, and if a crushing fine were inflicted on any man who\nmade a book without holding a license, we might stamp out the villainous\nsmall fry who work in corners at all events. But Authority is supreme;\nthe peer and the plutocrat go on unharmed, while the poor men who copy\nfollies which do not hurt the rich go right on to the death of the soul.\n\n_April, 1889._\n\n\n\n\n_DISCIPLINE_.\n\n\nOf the ancestor generally assigned to us by gentlemen who must be\nright--because they say so--we have very few records save the odd\nscratches found on bones and stones, and the remnants of extremely\nfrugal meals eaten ages ago. We gather that the revered ancestor hunted\nlarge game with an audacity which must have pleased the Rider Haggard of\nancient days; at any rate, some simple soul certainly scratched the\nrecord of a famous mammoth-fight on a tusk, and we can now see a furious\nbeast charging upon a pigmy who awaits the onset with a coolness quite\nsuperior to Mr. Quatermain's heroics. That Siberian hunter evidently\nwent out and tried to make a bag for his own hand, and I have no doubt\nthat he carried out the principle of individualism until his last\nmammoth reduced him to pulp. There is no indication of organization,\nand, although the men of the great deltas were able to indulge in\noysters with a freedom which almost makes me regret the advance of\ncivilization and the decay of Whitstable, yet I cannot trace one record\nof an orderly supper-party. This shows how the heathen in his blindness\nneglects his natural advantages. Long after the savage of the tundras\npassed away we find vestiges of the family; and thenceforward discipline\nadvances steadily, though with occasional relapses toward anarchy, until\nwe see the ordered perfection which enables us to have West-end riots\nand all-night sittings of the House of Commons without any trouble\nwhatever. I do not care much to deal with the times when the members of\nthe families elected each other promiscuously according to the success\nwith which they managed to club their neighbours--in fact, I wish to\ncome as soon as possible to the period when discipline, as understood by\nus, was gradually allowed to sway the lives of men, and when the\nsections of the race recognized tacitly the law of the strongest by\nappointing their best man as chief. At present we in England are passing\nthrough a dangerous and critical transition stage; a very strong party\ninclines to abolish discipline of all sorts, the views of the\nContinental anarchists are slowly filtering into our great towns, and,\nas soon as such a move is safe, we shall have a large number of people\nwho will not scruple to cry out for free land, no taxation, free\neverything. We have heard so much about rights lately that some of us\nare beginning to question within ourselves as to what rights really are.\nIf a gentleman, no matter how bookish or eloquent he may be, desires to\ndo away with discipline altogether, I will give him credit for all the\ntongue-power which he happens to possess; but I must ask leave to think\nfor myself in old-fashioned grooves just a little longer. After all, a\nsystem which--for civilized countries--has been growing gradually for\nmore thousands of years than we dare compute cannot be entirely bad, no\nmatter what chance faults we may see. The generations that have flown\ninto the night may not have possessed complete wisdom, but they adapted\ntheir social systems step by step to the needs of each new generation,\nand it requires very little logic to tell that they would not be likely\nalways to cast out the good. The noisy orator who gets up and addresses\na London crowd at midnight, yelling \"Down with everything!\" can hardly\nknow what he means to destroy. We have come a long way since the man of\nthe swamps hunted the hairy elephant and burrowed in caves; that very\nstructure in which the anarchists have taken to meeting represents sixty\nthousand years of slow progression from savagery towards seemliness and\nrefinement and wisdom; and therefore, bitterly as we may feel the\nsuffering of the poor orator, we say to him, \"Wait a little, and talk to\nus. I do not touch politics--I loathe place-hunters and talkers as much\nas you do; but you are speaking about reversing the course of the ages,\nand you cannot quite manage that. Let us forget the windy war of the\nplace-hunters, and speak reasonably and in a broad human way.\"\n\nI do not by any means hold with those very robust literary characters\nwho want to see the principle of stern Drill carried into the most\nminute branchings of our complex society. (By-the-way, these robust\ngentry always put a capital \"D\" to the word \"Drill,\" as though they\nwould have their precious principle enthroned as an object of reverence,\nor even of worship.) And I am inclined to think that not a few of them\nmust have experienced a severe attack of wrath when they found Carlyle\nsuggesting that King Friedrich Wilhelm would have laid a stick across\nthe shoulders of literary men had he been able to have his own way. The\nunfeeling old king used to go about thumping people in the streets with\na big cudgel; and Carlyle rather implies that the world would not have\nbeen much the worse off if a stray literary man here and there could\nhave been bludgeoned. The king flogged apple-women who did not knit and\nloafers who were unable to find work; and our historian apparently\nfancies that the dignity of kingship would have been rather enhanced\nthan otherwise had his hero broken the head of a poet or essayist. This\nis a clear case of a disciplinarian suffering from temporary\nderangement. I really cannot quite stomach such heroic and sweeping\nwork. Carlyle, who was a Scotch peasant by birth, raised himself until\nhe was deservedly regarded as the greatest man of his day, and he did\nthis by means of literature; yet he coolly sets an ignorant, cruel,\ncrowned drill-serjeant high above the men of the literary calling. It is\na little too much! Suppose that Carlyle had been flogged back to the\nplough-tail by some potentate when he first went to the University;\nshould we not have heard a good deal of noise about the business sooner\nor later? Again, we find Mr. Froude writing somewhat placidly when he\ntells us about the men who were cut to pieces slowly in order that their\nagony might be prolonged. The description of the dismemberment of\nBallard and the rest, as given in the \"Curiosities of Literature,\" is\ntoo gratuitously horrible to be read a second time; but Mr. Froude is\nconvinced that the whole affair was no more than a smart and salutary\nlesson given to some obtrusive Papists, and he commends the measures\nadopted by Elizabeth's ministers to secure proper discipline. Similarly\nthe wholesale massacre of the people in the English northern counties is\nnot at all condemned by the judicious Mr. Freeman. The Conqueror left a\ndesert where goodly homesteads and farms had flourished; but we are not\nany the less to regard him as a great statesman. I grow angry for a\ntime with these bold writers, but I always end by smiling, for there is\nsomething very feminine about such shrill expressions of admiration for\nforce. I like to figure to myself the troubles which would have ensued\nhad Carlyle lived under the sway of his precious Friedrich. It was all\nvery well to sit in a comfortable house in pleasant Chelsea, and enlarge\nupon the beauties of drill and discipline; but, had the sage been cast\ninto one of the noisome old German prisons, and kept there till he was\ndying, merely because the kingly disciplinarian objected to a phrase in\na pamphlet, we should have heard a very curious tune from our great\nhumourist. A man who groaned if his bed was ill-made or his bacon\nill-fried would not quite have seen the beauty of being disciplined in a\nfoul cellar among swarming vermin.\n\nThe methods of certain other rulers may no doubt appear very fine to our\nrobust scribblers, but I must always enter my own slight protest. Ivan\nthe Terrible was a really thorough-paced martinet who preserved\ndiscipline by marvellously powerful methods. He did not mind killing a\nfew thousands of men at a time; and he was answerable for several\npyramids of skulls which remained long after his manly spirit had passed\naway. He occasionally had prisoners flayed alive or impaled merely by\nway of instituting a change; and I think that some graphic British\nhistorian should at once give us a good life of this remarkable and\nroyal man. The massacre of the revolted peasants would afford a fine\nopening to a stern rhetorician; he might lead off thus--\"Dost thou think\nthat this king cared for noble sentiment? Thou poor creature who canst\nnot look on a man without turning green with feminine terror, this\nwriter begs to inform you and all creatures of your sort that law is law\nand discipline is discipline, and the divine origin of both is\nundeniable even in an age of advertised soap and interminable spouting.\nIvan had no parliamentary eloquence under his control, but he had cold\nsteel and whips and racks and wheels, and he employed them all with\nvigour for the repression of undisciplined scoundrels. He butchered some\nthousands of innocent men! Ah, my sentimental friend, an anarchic mob\ncannot be ruled by sprinkling rose-water; the lash and the rope and the\nstern steel are needed to bring them to order! When my Noble One, with a\nglare in his lion eyes, watched the rebels being skinned alive, he was\nperforming a truly beneficent function and preparing the way for that\nvast, noble, and expansive Russia which we see to-day. The poor\nlong-eared mortals who were being skinned did not quite perceive the\nbeneficence at the time. How should they, unhappy long-eared creatures\nthat they were? Oh, Dryasdust, does any long-eared mortal who is being\nskinned by a true King--a Canning, K\u00f6niglich, Able Man--does the\nlong-eared one amid his wriggles ever recognize the scope and\ntranscendent significance of Kingship? Answer me that, Dryasdust, or\nshut your eloquent mouth and go home to dinner.\"\n\nThat is quite a proper style for a disciplinarian, but I have not got\ninto the way of using it yet. For, to my limited intelligence, it\nappears that, if you once begin praising Friedrichs and Charlemagnes and\nIvans at the rate of a volume or so per massacre, you may as well go on\nto Cetewayo and Timour and Attila--not to mention Sulla and Koffee\nKalkalli. I abhor the floggers and stranglers and butchers; and when I\nspeak of discipline, I leave them out of count. My business is a little\nmore practical, and I have no time to refute at length the vociferations\nof persons who tell us that a man proves his capacity of kingship by\ncommanding the extinction or torture of vast numbers of human creatures.\nMy thoughts are not bent on the bad deeds--the deeds of blood--wrought\nout in bitterness and anguish either long ago or lately; I am thinking\nof the immense European fabric which looks so solid outwardly, but which\nis being permeated by the subtle forces of decay and disease. Discipline\nis being outwardly preserved, but the destroying forces are creeping\ninto every weak place, and the men of our time may see strange things.\nGradually a certain resolute body of men are teaching weaker people that\neven self-discipline is unnecessary, and that self-reverence,\nself-knowledge, self-control are only phrases used by interested people\nwho want to hold others in slavery. In our England it is plainer every\nday that the character of the people is changing. Individual men are\nobedient, brave to the death, self-sacrificing, just as they always were\neven in our darkest times; but, none the less, it is too plain that\nauthority ordained by law is dying, and that authority which rests on\nvague and fluctuating sentiment gains power with steady swiftness. The\njudges sit and retain all their old confidence; the magistrates sentence\ndaily their batches of submissive culprits; the policeman rules supreme\nover the streets--he scares the flower-girl, and warns the pensive\nburglar with the staccato thunder of his monarchical foot. All seems\nvery firm and orderly; and our largest crowds maintain their attitude of\nharmless good-humour when no inflammatory talkers are there. But the\nhand has written, and true discipline cannot survive very much longer\nunless we rouse ourselves for a dead-lift effort. Take Parliament at the\ncrown of the social structure, and the School--the elementary school--at\nthe foundation, and we cannot feel reassured. All between the highest\nand the lowest is moderately sound; the best of the middle-classes are\ndecent, law-abiding, and steady; the young men are good fellows in a\nway; the girls and young women are charming and virtuous. But the\nextremities are rotten, and sentiment has rotted them both. Parliament\nhas become a hissing and a scorn. No man of any party in all broad\nEngland could be found to deny this, and many would say more. The\nsentimentalist has said that loutishness shall not be curbed, that a\nbawling ruffian who is silenced is martyred, that every man shall talk\nas he likes, and the veto of the Polish Assembly which enabled any one\nman to ruin the work of a session is revived in sober, solid England. So\nit is that all has gone to wreck; and an assembly once the noblest on\nearth is treated with unhidden contempt by the labourer in his field and\nthe mechanic at his bench. And all this has arisen from lack of\ndiscipline.\n\nIn the School--the lower-class school--things are much worse. The lowest\nof the low--the beings who should be kept in order by sharp, firm\nkindness and justice--have been taught to mock at order and justice and\nto treat kindness as a sign of weakness. The lads will all soon be ready\nto aid in governing the country. May the good powers defend us! What a\nset of governors! The son of the aristocrat is easily held in order,\nbecause he knows that any infraction of discipline will be surely\npunished; the son and daughter of the decent artizan cause little\ntrouble to any teacher, because they know that their parents are on the\nside of order, and, even if the children are inclined to be rebellious,\nthey dare not defy the united authority of parents and teacher. But the\nchild of the thief, the costermonger, the racecourse swindler, the\nthriftless labourer, is now practically emancipated through the action\nof sentimental persons. He may go to school or not, as he likes; and,\nwhile the decent and orderly poor are harried by School Board\nregulations, the rough of the slum snaps his fingers without fear at all\nregulations. If one of the bad boys from the \"rookeries\" does go to\nschool, he soon learns that he may take his own way. If he is\nfoul-mouthed, thievish, indecent, or insolent, and is promptly punished,\nhe drags his teacher into a police-court, and the sentimentalists secure\na conviction. No one can tell the kind of anarchy that reigns in some\nparts of England excepting men who dwell amidst it; and, to make matters\nworse, a set of men who may perhaps be charitably reckoned as insane\nhave framed a Parliamentary measure which may render any teacher who\ncontrols a young rough liable at once to one hundred pounds fine or six\nmonths' imprisonment. This is no flight of inventive humour on our part;\nit is plain fact which may probably be seen in action as law before\ntwelve months are over.\n\nTyranny I abhor, cruelty I abhor--above all, cruelty to children. But we\nare threatened at one pole of the State-world with a tyranny of\nfactioneers who cultivate rudeness and rowdyism as a science, while at\nthe other pole we are threatened with the uncontrolled tyranny of the\n\"residuum.\" We must return to our common sense; the middle-classes must\nmake themselves heard, and we must teach the wild spirits who aim at\nwrecking all order that safety depends upon the submission of all to the\nexpressed will of the majority. Debate is free enough--too free--and no\nman is ever neglected ultimately if he has anything rational to say, so\nthat a minority has great power; but, when once a law is made, it must\nbe obeyed. England is mainly sound; our movement is chiefly to the good;\nbut this senseless pampering of loutishness in high and low places is a\nbad symptom which tends to such consequences as can be understood only\nby those who have learned to know the secret places. If it is not\nchecked--if anarchists, young and old, are not taught that they must\nobey or suffer--there is nothing ahead but tumult, heart-burning, and\nwreck.\n\n_March, 1889._\n\n\n\n\n_BAD COMPANY_.\n\n\nThere has been much talk about the insensate youth who boasted that he\nhad squandered half-a-million on the Turf in a year. The marvellous\njournalists who frequent betting resorts printed hundreds of paragraphs\nevery week explaining the wretched boy's extravagances--how he lost ten\nthousand pounds in one evening at cards; how he lost five thousand on\none pigeon-shooting match; how he kept fifty racehorses in training; how\nhe made little presents of jewelry to all and sundry of his friends; how\nhe gaily lost fifteen thousand on a single race, though he might have\nsaved himself had he chosen; how he never would wear the same shirt\ntwice. Dear boy! Every day those whose duty compels them to read\nnewspapers were forced to see such nauseous stuff, so that a lad's\nprivate business became public property, and no secret was made of\nmatters which were a subject for grief and scorn. Hundreds of grown men\nstood by and saw that boy lose a fortune in two hours, and some forty\nparagraphs might have been collected in which the transaction was\ndescribed in various terms as a gross swindle. A good shot was killing\npigeons--gallant sport--and the wealthy schoolboy was betting. When a\nsign was given by a bookmaker the shooting-man obeyed, and won or lost\naccording to orders; and every man in the assembly knew what foul work\nwas being carried on. Did one man warn the victim? The next day the\nwhole country knew what had happened, and the names of the thieves were\ngiven in almost every sporting print; but the mischief was done, and the\nlookers-on contented themselves with cheap wrath. A few brief months\nflew by, and every day saw the usual flock of tributes to the mad boy's\nvanity; and now the end has come--a colossal fortune, amassed by half a\ncentury's toil, has gone into the pockets of all sorts of knaves, and\nthe fatal _Gazette_ showed the end. The princely fortune that might have\ndone so much good in the world has gone to fatten the foulest flock of\npredatory birds that ever cumbered the earth. Where are the glib\nparasites who came to fawn on the poor dolt? Where are the swarms of\nbegging dandies who clustered around him? Where are the persons who sold\nhim useless horses? Any one who has eyes can see that they point their\nfingers and shrug. Another victim gone--that is all.\n\nAnd now our daily moralizers declare that bad company alone brought our\nunhappy subject down. Yes, bad company! The boy might have grown up into\nbeneficent manhood; he might have helped to spread comfort and culture\nand solid happiness among the people; but he fell into bad company, and\nhe is now pitied and scorned by the most despicable of the human race;\nand I observe that one of his humorous Press patrons advises him to\ndrive a cab. Think of Gordon nobly spending his pittance among the poor\nmudlarks; think of the good Lord Shaftesbury ekeing out his scanty means\namong the poor; think of all the gallant souls that made the most of\npoverty; and then think of that precious half-million gone to light\nfresh fuel under the hotbeds of vice and villainy! Should I be wrong if\nI said that the contrast rouses me to indignation and even horror? And\nnow let us consider what bad company means. Paradoxical as it may seem,\nI do not by any means think that bad company is necessarily made up of\nbad men. I say that any company is bad for a man if it does not tempt\nhim to exert his higher faculties. It is as certain as death that a\nbodily member which is left unused shrinks and becomes aborted. If one\narm is hung for a long time in a sling, the muscles gradually fade until\nthe skin clings closely round the bone. The wing of the huge penguin\nstill exists, but it is no bigger than that of a wren, and it is hidden\naway under the skin. The instances might be multiplied a thousandfold.\nIn the same way then any mental faculty becomes atrophied if it is\nunused. Bad company is that which produces this atrophy of the finer\npowers; and it is strange to see how soon the deadly process of\nshrinkage sets in. The awful thing to think of is that the cramp may\ninsensibly be set in action by a company which, as I have said, is\ncomposed of rather estimable people. Who can forget Lydgate in\n\"Middlemarch\"? There is a type drawn by a woman of transcendent genius;\nand the type represents only too many human wrecks. Lydgate was thrown\ninto a respectable provincial society; he was mastered by high ambition,\nhe possessed great powers, and he felt as though he could move the\nmocking solidities of the world. Watch the evolution of his long\nhistory; to me it is truly awful in spite of its gleams of brightness.\nThe powerful young doctor, equipped in frock-coat and modern hat, plays\na part in a tragedy which is as moving as any ever imagined by a\nbrooding, sombre Greek. As you read the book and watch the steady,\ninexorable decline of the strong man, you feel minded to cry out for\nsome one to save him--he is alive to you, and you want to call out and\nwarn him. When the bitter end comes, you cannot sneer as Lydgate\ndoes--you can hardly keep back the tears. And what is it all about? It\nsimply comes to this, that a good strong man falls into the bad company\nof a number of fairly good but dull people, and the result is a tragedy.\nRosamund Vincy is a pattern of propriety; Mrs. Vincy is a fat, kindly\nsoul; Mr. Vincy is a blustering good-natured middle-class man. There is\nno particular harm among the whole set, yet they contrive to ruin a\ngreat man; they lower him from a great career, and convert him into a\nmere prosperous gout-doctor. Every high aspiration of the man dies away.\nHis wife is essentially a commonplace pretty being, and she cannot\nunderstand the great heart and brain that are sacrificed to her; so the\ngenius is forced to break his heart about furniture and carpets and\nrespectability, while the prim pretty young woman who causes the ghastly\ndeath of a soul goes on fancying herself a model of good sense and\nvirtue and all the rest. \"Of course I should like you to make\ndiscoveries,\" she says; but she only shudders at the microscopic work.\nWhen the financial catastrophe comes, she has the great soul at her\nmercy, and she stabs him--stabs him through and through--while he is too\nnoble and tender to make reply. Ah, it is pitiful! Lydgate is like too\nmany others who are stifling in the mud of respectable dullness. The\nfate of those men proves what we have asserted, that bad company is that\nwhich does not permit the healthful and fruitful development of a soul.\nTake the case of a brilliant young man who leaves the University and\ndives into the great whirlpool of London. Perhaps he goes to the Bar,\nand earns money meantime by writing for the Press. The young fellows who\nswarm in the London centres--that is, the higher centres--are gentlemen,\npolished in manner and strict as to the code of honour, save perhaps as\nregards tradesmen's bills; no coarse word or accent escapes them, and\nthere is something attractive about their merry stoicism. But they make\nbad company for a young and high-souled man, and you may see your young\nenthusiast, after a year of town-life, converted into a cynic who tries\nto make game of everything. He talks lightly of women, because that is\nconsidered as showing a spirit of superiority; he is humorous regarding\nthe state of his head on the morning after a late supper; he can give\nyou slangy little details about any one and every one whom you may meet\nat a theatre or any other public place; he is somewhat proud when some\nbellowing, foul-mouthed bookmaker smiles suavely and inquires, \"Doing\nanything to-day, sir?\" Mark you, he is still a charming young fellow;\nbut the bloom has gone from his character. He has been in bad company.\n\nLet it be remembered that bad company may be pleasant at first; and I\ncan easily give the reason for that, although the process of thinking\nout the problem is a little complicated. The natural tendency of our\nlower nature is toward idleness; our higher nature drives us to work.\nBut no man ever attained the habit of work without an effort. If once\nthat effort is slackened, then the lower nature gains sway by degrees\nand idleness creeps in. Idleness is the beginning of almost every form\nof ill, and the idlest man dashes down the steep to ruin either of body\nor soul, perhaps of both. Now the best of us--until our habits are\nformed--find something seductive in the notion of idleness; and it is\nmost marvellous to observe how strongly we are apt to be drawn by a\nfascinating idle man. By-the-way, no one would accuse the resident\nCambridge professors of being slothful, yet one brilliant idle man of\ngenius said, \"When I go to Cambridge, I affect them all with a murrain\nof idleness. I should paralyze the work of the place if I were\nresident.\" To return--it appears that the best of men, especially of\nyouthful men, feel the subtle charm of an invitation to laziness. The\nman who says, \"It's a sin to be indoors to-day; let us row up to the\nbackwater and try a smoke among the willows;\" or the one who says,\n\"Never mind mathematics to-night; come and have a talk with me,\" is much\nmore pleasing than the stern moralist. Well, it happens that the most\ndangerous species of bad company is the species Idler. Look round over\nthe ranks of the hurtful creatures who spoil the State, corrupt and sap\nthe better nature of young men, and disgrace the name of our race. What\nare they all but idlers pure and simple? Idleness, idleness, the\ntap-root of misery, sin, villainy! Note the gambler at Monte Carlo,\nwatching with tense but impassive face as the red and the black take the\nadvantage by turns--he is an idler. The roaring bookmaker who\ncontaminates the air with his cries, and who grows wealthy on the spoil\nof fools--he is an idler. The silly beings who crowd into the\nbetting-shops and lounge till morning in the hot air; the stout florid\nperson who passes from bar to bar in a commercial town; the greasy\nscoundrel who congregates with his mates at street corners; the\nunspeakable dogs who prowl at night in London and snatch their prey in\nlonely thoroughfares; the \"jolly\" gangs of young men who play cards till\ndawn in provincial club-rooms; even the slouching poacher who passes his\nafternoons in humorous converse at the ale-house--they are all idlers,\nand they all form bad company for anybody who comes within range of\ntheir influences. We are nearing the point of our demonstration. The\nyouth is at first attracted by the charm of mere laziness, but he does\nnot quite know it. Look at the case of the lad who goes fresh from\nschool to the city, and starts life at seventeen years of age. We will\nsay that he lives in a suburb of some great town. At first he returns\nhome at night full of quite admirable resolves; he intends to improve\nhimself and advance himself in the world. But on one fine evening a\ncompanion suggests a stroll, and it happens that billiards are\nsuggested. Away goes the youngster into that flash atmosphere through\nwhich sharp, prematurely-aged features loom so curiously; he hears the\nlow hum, he sees the intense eagerness and suspense of the strikers, and\nhe learns to like the place. After a while he is found there nightly;\nhis general style is low, his talk is that of the music-hall--the\nineffable flash air has taken the place of his natural repose. He ought\nto be studying as many languages as possible, he ought to be watching\nthe markets abroad, or he should be reading the latest science if he is\nengaged in practical work. But no--he is in bad company, and we find him\nat eight-and-twenty a disappointed, semi-competent man who grumbles\nvery much about the Germans.\n\nIf we go to the lower classes, we observe the same set of phenomena. A\nyoung workman is chatting with his friends in a public-house on Saturday\nnight; he rises to go at half-past nine, but his comrades pull him down.\n\"Make it eleven o'clock,\" they say. He drinks fast in the last hour, and\nis then so exhilarated that he probably conveys a supply of beer home.\nOn Sunday morning he feels muddled, heavy, a little troubled with\nnausea; his mates hail him joyously, and then the company wait with\nanxiety until the public-houses are open; then the dry throats are eased\nand the low spirits raised, and the game goes on till three. In the\nafternoon the young workman sleeps, and when he wakes up he is so\ndepressed that he goes out and meets his mates again. Once more he is\npersuaded to exceed, but he reckons on having a good long sleep. With\naching head and fevered hands he makes a wild rush next morning, and\narrives at the shop only to find himself shut out. He is horrified and\ndoleful, when up come a few of his friends. They laugh the matter off.\n\"It's only a quarter lost! There's time for a pint before we go in.\" So\nthe drinking is begun again, and the men have none of the delicacy and\nsteadiness of hand that are needed. Is it not an old story? The loss of\n\"quarters,\" half-days, and days goes on; then Saint Monday comes to be\nobserved; then the spoiled young man and his merry crew begin to draw\nvery short wages on Saturdays; then the foreman begins to look askance\nas the blinking uneasy laggard enters; and last comes the fatal quiet\nspeech, \"You won't be required on Monday.\" Bad company! As for the\nheartbreaking cases of young men who go up to the Universities full of\nbright hope and equipped at all points splendidly, they are almost too\npitiful. Very often the lads who have done so well that subscriptions\nare raised for them are the ones who go wrong soonest. A smart student\nwins a scholarship or two, and his parents or relatives make a dead-lift\neffort to scrape money so that the clever fellow may go well through his\ncourse. At the end of a year the youth fails to present any trophies of\ndistinction; he comes home as a lounger; this is \"slow\" and the other is\n\"slow,\" and the old folk are treated with easy contempt. Still there is\nhope--so very brilliant a young gentleman must succeed in the end. But\nthe brilliant one has taken up with rich young cads who affect\nbull-terriers and boxing-gloves; he is not averse from a street-brawl in\nthe foggy November days; he can take his part in questionable choruses;\nhe yells on the tow-path or in the pit of the theatre, and he is often\nshaky in the morning after a dose of very bad wine. All the idleness and\nrowdyism do not matter to Brown and Tomkins and the rest of the raffish\ncompany, for they only read for the pass degree or take the poll; but\nthe fortunes--almost the lives--of many folk depend on our young\nhopeful's securing his Class, and yet he fritters away time among bad\ntalk, bad habits, bad drink, and bad tobacco. Then come rumours of\nbills, then the crash, and the brilliant youth goes down, while Brown\nand Tomkins and all the rowdies say, \"What a fool he was to try going\nour pace!\" Bad company!\n\nI should therefore say to any youth--\"Always be doing something--bad\ncompany never do anything; and thus, if you are resolved to be always\ndoing something useful, it follows that you will not be among the bad\ncompany.\" This seems to me to be conclusive; and many a broken heart and\nbroken life might have been kept sound if inexperienced youths were only\ntaught thus much continually.\n\n_October, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_GOOD COMPANY_.\n\n\nLet it be understood that I do not intend to speak very much about the\nexcellent people who are kind enough to label themselves as \"Society,\"\nfor I have had quite enough experience of them at one time and another,\nand my impressions are not of a peculiarly reverential kind. \"Company\"\namong the set who regard themselves as the cream of England's--and\nconsequently of the world's--population is something so laborious, so\nuseless, so exhausting that I cannot imagine any really rational person\nattending a \"function\" (that is the proper name) if Providence had left\nopen the remotest chance of running away; at any rate, the rational\nperson would not endure more than one experience. For, when the\nclear-seeing outsider looks into \"Society,\" and studies the members who\nmake up the little clique, he is smitten with thoughts that lie too deep\nfor tears--or laughter. A perfectly fresh mind, when brought to bear on\nthe \"Society\" phenomenon, asks, \"What are these people? What have they\ndone? What are they particularly fitted for? Is there anything noble\nabout them? Is their conversation at all charming? Are any of them\nreally happy?\" And to all of these queries the most disappointing\nanswers must be returned. Take the men. Here is a marquis who is a\nKnight of the Garter. He has held offices in several Cabinets; he can\ncontrol the votes spread over a very large slice of a county, and his\nincome amounts to some trifle like one hundred and eighty thousand\npounds per year. We may surely expect something of the superb\naristocratic grace here, and surely a chance word of wit may drop from a\nman who has been in the most influential of European assemblies! Alas!\nThe potentate crosses his hand over his comfortable stomach, and his\ncontributions to the entertainment of the evening amount to occasional\nejaculations of \"Ugh! Ugh!\" \"Hah!\" \"Hey!\" \"Exactly!\" \"Ugh! Ugh!\" In the\nhigher spheres of intellect and breeding I have no doubt but that \"Ugh!\nUgh!\" \"Hah!\" \"Hey!\" may have some profound significance; but, to say the\nleast, it is not obviously weighty. The marchioness is sweet in manner,\ngrave, reposeful, and with a flash of wit at disposal--not too obvious\nwit--that would offend against the canon which ordains restraint; but\nshe might, one thinks, become tiresome in an hour. No one could say that\nher manners were anything but absolutely simple, yet the very simplicity\nis so obviously maintained as a sort of gymnastic effort that it tires\nus only to study it. Then here is a viscount, graceful, well-set, easy\nin his pose, talking with a deep voice, and lisping to the faintest\ndegree. He has owned some horses, caused some scandals, waltzed some\nwaltzes, and eaten a very large number of good dinners: he has been\nadmired by many, hated by many, threatened by many, and he would not be\nadmitted to any refined middle-class home; yet here he is in his\nelement, and no one would think of questioning his presence. He never\nuttered a really wise or helpful word in his life, he never did anything\nsave pamper himself--his precious self--and yet he is in \"Society,\" and\nreckoned as rather an authority too! These are only types, but, if you\nrun through them all, you must discover that only the sweet and splendid\ngirls who have not had time to be spoilt and soured are worth thinking\nabout. If there is dancing, it is of course carried out with perfect\ngrace and composure; if there is merely an assembly, every one looks as\nwell as possible, and every one stares at every one else with an air as\nindifferent as possible. But the child of nature asks in wild\nbewilderment, \"Where on earth does the human companionship come in?\"\nYoung girls are nowadays beginning to expect bright talk from their\npartners, and the ladies have a singularly pretty way of saying the most\nbiting things in a smooth and unconcerned fashion when they find a dunce\nbeginning to talk platitudes or to patronize his partner; but the middle\ngeneration are unspeakably inane; and the worst is that they regard\ntheir inanity as a decided sign of distinction. A grave man who adds a\nsense of humour to his gravity may find a sort of melancholy\nentertainment if he listens to a pair of thorough-paced \"Society\"\ngentry. He will learn that you do not go to a \"function\" to please\nothers or to be pleased yourself; you must not be witty--that is bad\nform; you must not be quietly in earnest--that is left to literary\npeople; you must not speak plain, direct truth even in the most\nrestrained fashion--that is to render yourself liable to be classified\nas a savage. No. You go to a \"function\" in order, firstly, to see who\nelse is there; secondly, to let others see you; thirdly, to be able to\nsay to absentees that you saw they were not there; fourthly, to say,\nwith a liquid roll on the \"ll,\" \"She's looking remarkably wellll.\"\nThese are the great and glorious duties of the Society person. A little\nfunny creature was once talking to a writer of some distinction. The\nlittle funny man would have been like a footman if he had been eight\ninches taller, for his manners savoured of the pantry. As it was, he\nsucceeded in resembling a somewhat diminutive valet who had learnt his\nstyle and accent from a cook. The writer, out of common politeness,\nspoke of some ordinary topic, and the valet observed with honest pride,\n\"_We_ don't talk about that sort of thing.\" The writer smiled grimly\nfrom under his jutting brows, and he repeated that valet's terrific\nrepartee for many days. The actual talk which goes on runs in this way,\n\"Quite charming weather!\" \"Yes, very.\" \"I didn't see you at Lady Blank's\non Tuesday?\" \"No; we could hardly arrange to suit times at all.\" \"She\nwas looking uncommonly well. The new North-Country girl has come out.\"\n\"So I've heard.\" \"Going to Goodwood?\" \"Yes. We take Brighton this time\nwith the Sendalls.\" And so on. It dribbles for the regulation time, and,\nafter a sufficient period of mortal endurance, the crowd disperse, and\nproceed to scandalize each other or to carry news elsewhere about the\nladies who were looking \"remarkably well-l-l.\"\n\nAs for the dreadful crushes, what can one say? The absurd rooms where\nsix hundred people try to move about in a space meant for three hundred;\nthe staircase a Black-Hole tempered by flowers; the tired smile of the\nhostess; the set simper of long-recked shaven young men; the patient,\ntortured hypocrisy of hustled and heated ladies; the babble of scrappy\nnothings; the envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness; the\nmagnificence turned into meanness; the lack of all feeling of home, and\nthe discontented dispersal of ungrateful people--are these the things to\noccupy life? Are these the things to interest any manly man who is free\nto act for himself? Hardly.\n\nBut our \"company\" refers to the meeting of human souls and hearts, and\nnot to the meeting of a fortuitous concourse of male and female\nevening-dresses. I have now before me a very brilliant published account\nof a reception at George Eliot's house. Those assemblies were company,\nand company of the finest kind. The exaggerated fuss made by the sibyl's\nhusband in order to secure silence while she was speaking sometimes\nbecame a little embarrassing when men of a humorous turn were there; but\nnevertheless the best in England met in that drawing-room, and all that\nwas highest in literature, science, and art was talked over in graceful\nfashion. The sniffing drawl of Society and the impudent affectation of\ncynicism were not to be found; and grave men and women--some of them\nmournful enough, it may be--agreed to make the useful hours fleet to\nsome profit. No man or woman in England--or in Europe for that\nmatter--was unwilling to enter that modest but brilliant assemblage, and\nI wish some one could have taken minute notes, though that of course\nwould have been too entirely shocking. When I think of that little\ndeep-voiced lady gathering the choicest spirits of her day together, and\nkeeping so many notes in tuneful chime, I hardly know whether to use\nsuperlatives of admiration about her or superlatives of contempt about\nthe fribbles who crush each other on staircases and babble like parrots\nin an aviary. If we cast back a little, we have another example of an\nalmost perfect company. People have talked of Johnson, Burke, Boswell,\nBeauclerc, and Goldsmith until the subject is growing a thought stale;\nbut, unless a reader takes Boswell and reads the book attentively after\nhe has come to maturity, he can hardly imagine how fine was that\nadmirable company. They were men of high aims and strong sense; they\ntalked at their very best, and they talked because they wished to attain\nclear views of life and fate. The old gladiator sometimes argued for\nvictory, but that was only in moments of whim, and he was always ready\nto acknowledge when he was in error. Those men may sometimes have drunk\ntoo much wine; they may have spoken platitudes on occasion; but they\nwere good company for each other, and the hearty, manly friendship which\nall but poor Goldsmith and Boswell felt for every one else was certainly\nexcellent. Assemblies like the Club are impossible nowadays; but surely\nwe might find some modification suited even to our gigantic intellects\nand our exaggerated cleverness! I have defined bad company; I may define\ngood company as that social intercourse which tends to bring out all\nthat is best in man. I have said my bitter word about the artificial\nsociety of the capital; but I never forget the lovely quiet circles\nwhich meet in places far away from the blare of the city. In especial I\nmay refer to the beautiful family assemblies which are almost\nself-centred. The girls are all at home, but the boys are scattered.\nHarry writes from India, with all sorts of gossip from Simla, and many\nlongings for home; a neighbour calls, and the Indian letter gives matter\nfor pleasant half-melancholy chat. Then the quiet evening passes with\nbooks and placid casual talk; the nerves from the family stretch perhaps\nall over the world, but all the threads converge on one centre. This\nlife is led in many places, and the folk who so live are good company\namong themselves, and good company for all who meet them.\n\nThe very thought of the men who are usually described in set slang\nphrases is enough to arouse a shudder. The loud wit who cracks his\nprepared witticisms either at the head of a tavern-table or in private\nsociety is a mere horror. The tavern men of the commercial traveller\nclass are very bad, for their mirth is prepared; their jokes have run\nthe length and breadth of the United Kingdom, and they are not always\nprepared to sacrifice the privilege of being coarse which used to be\nregarded as the joker's prerogative. In moving about the world I have\nalways found that the society of the great commercial room set up for\nbeing jolly, but I could never exactly perceive where the jollity\nentered. Noise, sham gentility, the cackle of false laughter were there;\nbut the strong, sincere cheerfulness of friendly men--never! Yet the\ntavern humourist, or even the club joker, is as nothing compared with\nthe true professional wit. Who can remember that story about Theodore\nHook and the orange? Hook wrote a note to the hostess, saying, \"Ask me\nat dinner if I will venture on an orange.\" The lady did so, and then the\nbrilliant wit promptly made answer, \"I'm afraid I should tumble off.\" A\nwhole volume of biography is implied in that one gruesome and vulgar\nanecdote. In truth, the professional wit is no company at all; he has\nthe effect of a performing monkey suddenly planted on the table, and\nhis efforts are usually quite on a level with the monkey's.\n\nAmong the higher Bohemian sets--Bohemian they call themselves, as if\nthere ever was a Bohemian with five hundred a year!--good company is\ncommon. I may say, with fear and much trembling, that the man of\nletters, the man who can name you all the Restoration comedies or tell\nyou the styles of the contemporaries of Alan Chartier is a most terrible\nbeing, and I should risk sharks rather than remain with him on a\ndesolate island; but a mixed set of artists, musicians, verse-makers,\nnovelists, critics--yea, even critics--contrive usually to make an\nunusually pleasant company. They are all so clever that the professional\nwit dares not raise his voice lest some wielder of the bludgeon should\nsmite him; no long-winded talk is allowed, and, though a bore may once\nbe admitted to the company, he certainly will never be admitted more\nthan once. The talk ranges loosely from point to point, and yet a\ncertain sequence is always observed; the men are freed from conventions;\nthey like each other and know each other's measure pretty well; so the\nhours fly in merry fashion, and the brethren who carried on the\nsymposium go away well pleased with themselves and with each other.\nThere can be no good company where the capacity for general agreement is\ncarried too far in any quarter. Unity of aim, difference of\nopinion--those are the elements that make men's conversations valuable.\nLast of all, I must declare that there can be no good company unless\nwomen are present. The artists and authors and the rest are all very\nwell in their way, but the dexterous unseen touch of the lady is\nneeded; and no man can reckon himself fit to converse at all unless he\nhas been taught by women's care, and gently reproved by women's\nimpalpable skill. Young men of our day are beginning to think it\nchildish or tedious to mix much in women's society; the consequence is\nthat, though many of them go a long way toward being gentlemen, too many\nare the merest cubs that ever exhibited pure loutishness in\nconversation. The subtle blending, the light give-and-take of chat\nbetween men and women is the true training which makes men graceful of\ntongue, kindly in the use of phrases, and, I believe, pure in heart.\n\n_October, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_GOING A-WALKING._\n\n\nOne of the most pestilent of all social nuisances is the athlete who\nmust be eternally performing \"feats,\" and then talking about them. He\ngoes to the Alps, and, instead of looking at the riot of sunset colour\nor the immortal calm of the slumbering peaks, he attempts performances\nwhich might be amusing in a circus of unlimited size, but which are not\nin the least interesting when brought off on the mighty declivities of\nthe great hills. One of these gentlemen takes up a quarter of a volume\nin telling us how he first of all climbed up a terrible peak, then fell\nbackwards and slid down a slope of eight hundred feet, cutting his head\nto the bone, and losing enough blood to make him feel faint The same\ngentleman had seen two of his companions fly into eternity down the grim\nsides of the same mountain; but he must needs climb to the top, not in\norder to serve any scientific purpose, or even to secure a striking\nview, but merely to say he had been there. After an hour on the summit\nof the enormous mass of stone, he came down; and I should have liked to\nask him what he reckoned to be the net profit accruing to him for his\nlittle exploit. Wise men do not want to clamber up immense and dangerous\nAlps; there is a kind of heroic lunacy about the business, but it is not\nuseful, and it certainly is not inviting. If a thoughtful man goes even\nin winter among the mountains, their vast repose sinks on his soul; his\nlove of them never slackens, and he returns again and again to his\nhaunts until time has stiffened his joints and dulled his eyes, and he\nprepares to go down into the dust of death. But the wise man has a\nsalutary dislike of break-neck situations; he cannot let his sweet or\nmelancholy fancies free while he is hanging on for dear life to some\ninhospitable crag, so he prefers a little moderate exercise of the\nmuscles, and a good deal of placid gazing on scenes that ennoble his\nthoughts and make his imagination more lofty. One of the\nmountain-climbing enthusiasts could not contrive to break his neck in\nEurope, so, with a gallantry worthy of a better cause, he went to South\nAmerica and scaled Chimborazo. He could not quite break his neck even in\nthe Andes, but he no doubt turned many athletic friends yellow with\nenvy. Yet another went to the Caucasus, and found so many charming and\nalmost deadly perils there that he wants numbers of people to go out and\nshare his raptures.\n\nThe same barren competitive spirit breaks out in other directions. Men\nwill run across the North Sea in a five-ton boat, though there are\nscores of big and comfortable steamers to carry them: they are cramped\nin their tiny craft; they can get no exercise; their limbs are pained;\nthey undergo a few days of cruel privation--and all in order that they\nmay tell how they bore a drenching in a cockboat. On the roads in our\nown England we see the same disposition made manifest. The bicyclist\ntears along with his head low and his eyes fixed just ahead of the tyre\nof his front wheel; he does not enjoy the lovely panorama that flits\npast him, he has no definite thought, he only wants to cover so many\nmiles before dark; save for the fresh air that will whistle past him,\nthrilling his blood, he might as well be rolling round on a cinder track\nin some running-ground. But the walker--the long-distance walker--is the\nmost trying of all to the average leisurely and meditative citizen. He\nfits himself out with elaborate boots and ribbed stockings; he carries\nresin and other medicaments for use in case his feet should give way;\nhis knapsack is unspeakably stylish, and he posts off like a spirited\nthoroughbred running a trial. His one thought is of distances; he gloats\nover a milestone which informs him that he is going well up to five and\na half miles per hour, and he fills up his evening by giving spirited\nbut somewhat trying accounts of the pace at which he did each stage of\nhis pilgrimage. In the early morning he is astir, not because he likes\nto see the diamond dew on the lovely trees or hear the chant of the\nbirds as they sing of love and thanksgiving--he wants to make a good\nstart, so that he may devour even more of the way than he did the day\nbefore. In any one lane that he passes through there are scores of\nsights that offer a harvest to the quiet eye; but our insatiable athlete\ndoes not want to see anything in particular until the sight of his\nevening steak fills him with rapture. If the most patient and urbane of\nmen were shut up with one of these tremendous fellows during a storm of\nrain, he would pray for deliverance before a couple of hours went by;\nfor the competitive athlete's intelligence seems to settle in his\ncalves, and he refers to his legs for all topics which he kindly\nconceives to possess human interest. Of course the swift walker may\nbecome a useful citizen should we ever have war; he will display the\nsame qualities that were shown by the sturdy Bavarians and\nBrandenburgers who bore those terrible marches in 1870 and swept\nMacMahon into a deadly trap by sheer endurance and speed of foot; but he\nis not the ideal companion.\n\nPersons who are wise proceed on a different plan; they wish to make the\nmost of every moment, and, while they value exercise, they like to make\nthe quickened currents of their blood feed a receptive and perhaps\nsomewhat epicurean brain. To the judicious man our lovely country\naffords a veritable harvest of delights--and the delights can be gained\nwith very little trouble. I let the swift muscular men hurry away to the\nTyrol or the Caucasus or the Rocky Mountains, or whithersoever else they\ncare to go, and I turn to our own windy seashore or quiet lanes or\nflushed purple moorlands. I do not much care for the babble of talk at\nmy elbow; but one good companion who has cultivated the art of keeping\nsilent is a boon. Suppose that you follow me on a roundabout journey.\nSay we run northward in the train and resolve to work to the south on\nfoot; we start by the sea, and foot it on some fine gaudy morning over\nthe springy links where the grass grows gaily and the steel-coloured\nbent-grass gleams like the bayonets of some vast host. The fresh wind\nsings from the sea and flies through the lungs and into the pores with\nan exhilarating effect like that of wine; the waves dance shoreward,\nglittering as if diamonds were being pelted down from the blue arch\nabove; the sea-swallows sweep over the bubbling crests like flights of\nsilver arrows. It is very joyous. You have set off early, of course, and\nthe rabbits have not yet turned into their holes for their day-long\nsnooze. Watch quietly, and you may perhaps see how they make their fairy\nrings on the grass. One frolicsome brown rogue whisks up his white tail,\nand begins careering round and round; another is fired by emulation and\njoins; another and another follow, and soon there is a flying ring of\nmerry little creatures who seem quite demented with the very pleasure of\nliving. One bounds into the air with a comic curvet, and comes down with\na thud; the others copy him, and there is a wild maze of coiling bodies\nand gleaming white tails. But let the treacherous wind carry the scent\nof you down on the little rascals and you will see a change. An old\nfellow sits up like a kangaroo for an instant, looking extremely wise\nand vigilant; he drops and kicks the ground with a sharp thud that can\nbe heard a long way off; the terror of man asserts itself in the midst\nof that pure, peaceful beauty, and the whole flock dart off in agitated\nfashion till they reach their holes; then they seem to look round with a\nsarcastic air, for they know that you could not even raise a gun to your\nshoulder in time to catch one of them before he made his lightning dive\ninto the darksome depths of the sand-hill. How strange it is that\nmeditative men like to watch the ways of wild things! White of Selborne\ndid not care much for killing anything in particular; he enjoyed himself\nin a beautiful way for years, merely because he had learned to love the\npretty creatures of fen and meadow and woodland. Mr. Russell Lowell can\nspend a happy day in watching through his glass the habits of the birds\nthat haunt his great garden; he does not want a gun; he only cares to\nobserve the instincts which God has implanted in the harmless children\nof the air. On our walking tour we have hundreds of chances to see the\nmystic mode of life pursued by the creatures that swarm even in our\ncrowded England; and if we use our eyes we may see a score of genuine\nmiracles every day.\n\nOn the pleasant \"links\" there is always something new to draw the eye.\nOut on the flashing sea a ship rolls bravely away to north or south; her\nsails are snowy in certain lights, and then in an instant she stands up\nin raiment of sooty black. You may make up a story about her if you are\nfanciful. Perhaps she is trailing her way into the deep quiet harbour\nwhich you have just left, and the women are waiting until the rough\nbearded fellows come lumbering up the quay. Perhaps she was careering\nover the rushing mountain waves to the southward of the desolate Horn\nonly a few weeks ago, and the men were counting the days wearily, while\nthe lasses and wives at home sighed as the wind scourged the sea in the\ndreary night and set all the rocks thundering with the charges of mad\nsurges. A little indulgence of the fancy does you no harm even though\nyou may be all wrong; very likely the skipper of the glad-looking vessel\nis tipsy, maybe he has just been rope's-ending his cabin-boy or engaging\nin some equally unpoetic pursuit; still no one is harmed by idealizing a\nlittle, and so, by your leave, we will not alter our crude romance of\nthe sailor-men. Meantime, as you go on framing poetic fancies, there is\na school of other poets up above you, and they are composing their\nfantasies at a pretty rate. The modest brown lark sits quietly amid the\nsheltering grass, and will hardly stir, no matter how near her you may\ngo; but her mate, the glorious singer, is far away up toward the sun,\nand he shouts in his joyous ecstasy until the heaven is full of his\nexquisite joyance. Imagine how he puts his heart into his carol! He is\nat least a mile above you, and you can hear him over a radius of half a\nmile, measured from the place where he will drop. The little poets chant\none against the other, and yet there is no discord, for the magic of\ndistance seems to harmonize song with song, and the tumult soothes\ninstead of exciting you. Who is the poet who talks of \"drawing a thread\nof honey through your heart\"? It is a quaint, conceited phrase, and yet\nsomehow it gives with absurd felicity some idea of the lark's song. They\nmassacre these innocents of the holy choir by thousands, and put them in\npuddings for Cockneys to eat. The mere memory of one of those beatified\nmornings makes you want to take the blood of the first poulterer whom\nyou find exposing a piteous string of the exquisite darlings. But we\nmust not think of blood, or taxes, or German bands, or political\nspeeches, or any other abomination, for our walk takes us through\nflowery regions of peace.\n\nYour muscles tighten rarely as you stump on over the elastic herbage;\ntwo miles an hour is quite enough for your modest desires, especially as\nyou know you can quicken to four or five whenever you choose. As the day\nwears on, the glorious open-air confusion takes possession of your\nsenses, your pulses beat with spirit, and you pass amid floating visions\nof keen colour, soft greenery, comforting shades. The corn rustles on\nthe margin where the sandy soil ceases; the sleepy farmhouses seem to\n'give you a lazy greeting, and the figures of the labourers are like\nnatural features of the landscape. Everything appears friendly; it may\nbe that the feeling of kindness and security arises from your physical\nwell-being, but it is there all the same, and what can you do more than\nenjoy? Perhaps in the midst of your confused happiness your mind begins\nacting on its own account, and quite disregards its humble companion,\nthe body. Xavier de Maistre's mind always did so, and left what Xavier\ncalled the poor _b\u00eate_ of a carcass to take care of itself; and all of\nus have to experience this double existence at times. Then you find the\nadvantages of knowing a great deal of poetry. I would not give a rush\nfor a man who merely pores over his poets in order to make notes or\ncomments on them; you ought to have them as beloved companions to be\nnear you night and day, to take up the parable when your own independent\nthought is hazy with delight or even with sorrow. As you tramp along the\nwhistling stretches amid the blaze of the ragworts and the tender\npassing glances of the wild veronica, you can take in all their\nloveliness with the eye, while the brain goes on adding to your pleasure\nby recalling the music of the poets. Perhaps you fall into step with the\nquiver and beat of our British Homer's rushing rhymes, and Marmion\nthunders over the brown hills of the Border, or Clara lingers where\nmingles war's rattle with groans of the dying. Perhaps the wilful brain\npersists in crooning over the \"Belle Dame Sans Merci;\" your mood\nflutters and changes with every minute, and you derive equal\nsatisfaction from the organ-roll of Milton or the silvery flageolet\ntones of Thomas Moore. If culture consists in learning the grammar an\netymologies of a poet's song, then no cultured man will ever get any\npleasure from poetry while he is on a walking tour; but, if you absorb\nyour poets into your being, you have spells of rare and unexpected\ndelight.\n\nThe halt is always pleasant. On our sand-hills the brackens grow to an\nimmense height, and, if you lie down among them, you are surrounded by a\npale green gleam, as if you had dived beneath some lucent sun-smitten\nwater. The ground-lark sways on a frond above you; the stonechat lights\nfor an instant, utters his cracking cry, and is off with a whisk; you\nhave fair, quiet, and sweet rest, and you start up ready to jog along\nagain. You come to a slow clear stream that winds seaward, lilting to\nitself in low whispered cadences. Over some broad shallow pool paven\nwith brown stones the little trout fly hither and thither, making a weft\nand woof of dark streaks as they travel; the minnows poise themselves,\nand shiver and dart convulsively; the leisurely eel undulates along, and\nperhaps gives you a glint of his wicked eye; you begin to understand the\nangler's fascination, for the most restive of men might be lulled by the\nlight moan of that wimpling current. Cruel? Alas, yes!\n\n     That quaint old cruel coxcomb in his gullet\n     Should have a hook, with a small trout to pull it.\n\nThat was the little punishment which Byron devised for Izaak Walton. But\nof course, if you once begin to be supersensitive about cruelty, you\nfind your way blocked at every cross-road of life, and existence ceases\nto be worth having.\n\nOn, as the sun slopes, and his beams fall slant over solemn mounds of\ncool gray hue and woody fields all pranked in gold. Look to the north,\nand you see the far-away hills in their sunset livery of white and\npurple and rose. On the clear summits the snow sometimes lies; and, as\nthe royal orb sinks, you will see the snow blush for a minute with\nthrobbing carnation tints that shift and faint off slowly into cold\npallid green. The heart is too full of ecstasy to allow even of thought.\nYou live--that is all! You may continue your wanderings among all the\nmystic sounds and sights of the night, but it is better to rest long and\nwell when you can. Let the village innkeeper put down for you the\ncoarsest fare that can be conceived, and you will be content; for, as a\nmatter of fact, any food and drink appeal gratefully to the palate of a\nman who has been inhaling the raciest air at every pore for eight or ten\nhours. If the fare does not happen to be coarse--if, for example, the\nlandlord has a dish of trout--so much the better; you do not envy any\ncrowned personage in Christendom or elsewhere. And how much does your\nday of Paradise cost you? At the utmost, half-a-crown. Had you been away\non the Rhine or in Switzerland or in some German home of brigands, you\nwould have been bleeding at the purse all day, while in our own\nmatchless land you have had merriment, wild nature, air that is like the\nessence of life--and all for thirty pence. When night falls heavily, you\npass your last hour in listening to the under-song of the sea and the\nwhisper of the roaming winds among the grass. Then, if you are wise and\ngrateful, you thank the Giver of all, and go to sleep.\n\nIn the jolly greenwoods of the Midlands you may have enjoyment of\nanother kind. Some men prefer the sleepy settled villages, the sweeping\nfens with their bickering windmills, the hush and placidity of old\nmarket-towns that brood under the looming majesty of the castle. The\ntruth is that you cannot go anywhere in England outside of the blighted\nhideous manufacturing districts without finding beauty and peace. In the\nfirst instance you seek health and physical well-being--that goes\nwithout saying; but the walking epicure must also have dainty thoughts,\nfull banquets of the mind, quiet hours wherein resolutions may be framed\nin solitude and left in the soul to ripen. When the epicure returns to\nthe din of towns, he has a safeguard in his own breast which tends to\nkeep him alike from folly and melancholy. Furthermore, as he passes the\nreeking dens where human beings crowd who never see flower or tree, he\nfeels all churlishness depart from him, and he is ready to pity and help\nhis less happy brethren. After he has settled to labour again, his hours\nof rest are made calmly contented by the chance visions that come to him\nand show him the blown sea, the rustling whiteness of fretted surges,\nthe painted meadows, and the solemn colours of the dying day. And all\nthis talk we have got only through letting our minds go wandering away\non the subject of going a-walking. I have always said that the sweetest\npleasures are almost costless. The placid \"look of the bay mare\" took\nall the silliness out of Walt Whitman; and there is more in his queer\nphrase than meets the eye. One word. When you go a-walking, do not try\nto be obtrusively merry. Meet a group of tramping gentlemen who have\nbeen beer-drinking at noon; they are surprisingly vivacious until the\ngaze of the sun becomes importunate; they even sing as they go, and\ntheir hearty laughter resounds far and near. See them in the afternoon,\nand ask where the merriment is; their eyes are glazed, their nerves\ncrave slumber, their steps are by no mean sprightly, and they probably\nform a doleful company, ready to quarrel or think pessimistic thoughts.\nBe calm, placid, even; do not expect too much, and your reward will be\nrich.\n\n_June, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_\"SPORT.\"_\n\n\nSimple folk fancy that \"sport\" must be a joyous pursuit, and that a\nsportsman is a jovial, light-hearted, and rather innocent person. It may\nbe useful to many parents, and perhaps to some young people, if I let\nthem know what \"sport\" really means nowadays. Those who have their\nimaginations filled with pictures of merry red-coated riders, or of\nsturdy gaitered squires tramping through stubble behind their dogs, are\nquite welcome to their agreeable visions. The hounds of course meet in\nhundreds of places in winter-time, and the bold riders charge gaily\nacross meadows and over fences. It is a splendid, exhilarating sight;\nand no one can find much fault with the pursuit, for it gives health to\nthousands. The foxes may perhaps object a little; but, if a philosopher\ncould explain to them that, if they were not preserved for hunting\npurposes, they would soon be exterminated, we have no doubt that they\nwould choose the alternative which gives them a chance. Shooting is\nengaged in with more enthusiasm now than ever it was before; and\ndoubtless the gentlemen who sit in snug corners and knock down tame\npheasants derive benefit--physical and moral--from the lively exercise.\nBut the word \"sport\" in England does not now refer to hunting and\nshooting; it has a wide application, and it describes in a generic way\na number of pursuits which are, to say the least, not improving to those\nwho engage in them.\n\nThe royal sport is of course horse-racing; and about that amusement--in\nits present aspect--I may have something profitable to say. The\nadvocates of racing inform us that the noble sport improves the breed of\nhorses, and affords wholesome relaxation to men; they grow quite\nindignant with the narrow Puritans who talk \"stuff\" about\ndemoralization, and they have numerous fine phrases referring to old\nEngland and the spirit of our fathers. All the talk concerning the\nimproving influence of the Turf on horses and men is pernicious\nnonsense, and there is an end of the matter. The English thoroughbred is\na beautiful creature, and it is pleasant enough to see him make his\nsplendid rush from start to finish; amusing also is it to watch the\nskill of the wiry manikins who ride; the jockeys measure every second\nand every yard, and their cleverness in extracting the last ounce of\nstrength from their horses is quite curious. The merest novice may enjoy\nthe sight of the gay colours, and he cannot help feeling a thrill of\nexcitement when the thud, thud of the hoofs sounds near him as the\nexquisite slender animals fly past. But the persons who take most\ninterest in races are those who hardly know a horse from a mule. They\nmay make a chance visit to a racecourse, but the speed and beauty of the\nanimals do not interest them in any way; they cannot judge the skill of\na rider; they have no eye for anything but money. To them a horse is\nmerely a name; and, so far from their racing pursuits bringing them\nhealth, they prefer staying in a low club or lower public-house, where\nthey may gamble without being obliged to trouble themselves about the\nnobler animals on which they bet.\n\nThe crowd on a racecourse is always a hideous spectacle. The class of\nmen who swarm there are amongst the worst specimens of the human race,\nand, when a stranger has wandered among them for an hour or so, he feels\nas though he had been gazing at one huge, gross, distorted face. Their\nlanguage is many degrees below vulgarity; in fact, their coarseness can\nbe understood only by people who have been forced to go much amongst\nthem--and that perhaps is fortunate. The quiet stoical aristocrats in\nthe special enclosures are in all ways inoffensive; they gamble and\ngossip, but their betting is carried on with still self-restraint, and\ntheir gossip is the ordinary polished triviality of the country-house\nand drawing-room. But what can be said of the beings who crowd the\nbetting-ring? They are indeed awful types of humanity, fitted to make\nsensitive men shudder. Their yells, their profanity, their low cunning,\ntheir noisy eagerness to pounce upon a simpleton, their infamous\nobscenity, all combine to make them the most loathsome collection of\nhuman beings to be found on the face of the broad earth.\n\nObserve that all of this betting crew appear to be what is called\nrolling in money. They never do a stroke of useful work; they merely\nhowl and make bets--that is their contribution to the prosperity of the\nState. Yet they are dressed with vulgar richness, they fare sumptuously,\nand they would not condescend to taste any wine save the finest\nvintages; they have servants and good horses, and in all ways they\nresemble some rank luxurious growth that has sprung from a putrid soil.\nMark that these bookmakers, as they are called, are not gentlemen in\nany sense of the word; some of them are publicans, some look like\nprize-fighters, some like promoted costermongers, some like common\nthieves. There is not a man in the company who speaks with a decently\nrefined accent--in short, to use plain terms, they are the scum of the\nearth. Whence then comes the money which enables them to live in riotous\nprofusion? The explanation is a sad one, and I trust that these words\nmay warn many young people in time. Here is the point to be weighed\nupon--these foul-mouthed persons in the betting-ring are able to travel\nabout all spring, summer, and autumn, staying in the best hotels and\nlacking nothing; in winter they can loll away their time in\nbilliard-rooms. Once more, who supplies the means? It is the senseless\noutside public who imagine they know something about \"sport.\"\n\nEvery town in England contains some centre--generally a public-house or\na barber's shop--where men meet to make wagers; the evil influence of\nthe Turf is almost everywhere apparent, for it is probable that at least\ntwo millions of men are interested in betting. London swarms with vile\nclubs which are merely gambling saloons; professional men, tradesmen,\nclerks, and even artizans crowd into these horrid holes, and do business\nwith the professional gamblers. In London alone there are some\nhalf-dozen papers published daily which are entirely devoted to \"sport,\"\nand these journals are of course bought by the gudgeons who seek\ndestruction in the betting-rooms. In the provinces there are several\ntowns which easily support a daily sporting journal; and no ordinary\npaper in the North of England could possibly survive unless at least\none-eighth of its space were devoted to racing matters of various sorts.\nThere are hundreds of thousands of our population who read absolutely\nnothing save lists of weights and entries, quotations which give the\nodds against horses, and reports of races. Not 5 per cent, of these\nindividuals ever see a horse from year's end to year's end, yet they\ntalk of nothing else but horses, horses, horses, and every effort of\ntheir intellects is devoted to the task of picking out winners.\nIncredible as it may seem, these poor souls call themselves sportsmen,\nand they undoubtedly think that their grubbing about in malodorous\ntap-rooms is a form of \"sport\"; it is their hopeless folly and greed\nthat fill the pockets of the loud-mouthed tenants of the Ring. Some one\nmust supply the bookmakers' wealth, and the \"some one\" is the senseless\namateur who takes his ideas from newspapers. The amateur of the tap-room\nor the club looks down a list of horses and chooses one which he\nfancies; perhaps he has received private advice from one of the beings\nwho haunt the training-grounds and watch the thoroughbreds at exercise;\nperhaps he is influenced by some enthusiast who bids him risk all he has\non certain private information. The fly enters the den and asks the\nspider, \"What price Flora?\"--that means, \"What odds are you prepared to\nlay against the mare named Flora?\" The spider answers--say seven to one;\nthe fly hands one pound to the spider, and the bet is made. The\npeculiarity of this transaction is that one of the parties to it is\nalways careful to arrange so that he cannot lose. Supposing that there\nare seven horses entered in a race, it is certain that six must be\nlosers. The bookmaker so makes his wagers that no matter which of the\nseven wins he at least loses nothing; the miserable amateur has only one\nchance. He may possibly be lucky; but the chances in the long run are\ndead against him, for he is quite at the mercy of the sharp capitalist\nwho bets with him. The money which the rowdies of the Ring spend so\nlavishly all comes from the pockets of dupes who persist in pursuing a\nkind of _ignis fatuus_ which too often leads them into a bog of ruin.\n\nThis deplorable business of wagering has become universal. We talk of\nthe Italians as a gambling nation, but they are not to be compared with\nthe English for recklessness and purblind persistence. I know almost\nevery town in England, and I say without fear that the main topic of\nconversation in every place of entertainment where the traveller stays\nis betting. A tourist must of course make for hotel after hotel where\nthe natives of each place congregate; and, if he keeps his ears open, he\nwill find the gambling venom has tainted the life-blood of the people in\nevery town from Berwick to Hastings. It may be asked, \"How do these\nsilly creatures who bet manage to obtain any idea of a horse?\" They have\nnot the faintest notion of what any given horse is like, but they\nusually follow the advice of some sharper who pretends to know what is\ngoing to win. There are some hundreds of persons who carry on a kind of\nsecret trade in information, and these persons profess their ability to\nenable any one to win a fortune. The dupes write for advice, enclosing a\nfee, and they receive the name of a horse; then they risk their money,\nand so the shocking game goes on.\n\nI receive only too many letters from wives, mothers, and sisters whose\nloved ones are being drawn into the vortex of destruction. Let me give\nsome rough colloquial advice to the gamblers--\"You bet on horses\naccording to the advice of men who watch them. Observe how foolish you\nare! The horse A is trained in Yorkshire; the horse B at Newmarket. The\nman who watches A thinks that the animal can gallop very fast, and you\nrisk your money according to his report. But what means has he of\nknowing the speed of B? If two horses gallop towards the winning-post\nlocked together, it often happens that one wins by about six inches.\nThere is no real difference in their speed, but the winner happens to\nhave a neck slightly longer than the other. Observe that one\nrace-horse--Buccaneer--has been known to cover a mile at the rate of\nfifty-four feet per second; it is therefore pretty certain that at his\nvery highest speed he could move at sixty feet per second. Very good; it\nhappens then that a horse which wins a race by one foot is about\none-sixtieth of a second faster, than the beaten animal. What a dolt you\nmust be to imagine that any man in the world could possibly tell you\nwhich of those two brutes was likely to be the winner! It is the merest\nguess-work; you have all the chances against you and you might as well\nbet on the tossing of halfpence. The bookmaker does not need to care,\nfor he is safe whatever may win; but you are defying all the laws of\nchance; and, although you may make one lucky hit, you must fare ill in\nthe end.\" But no commonsensical talk seems to have any effect on the\ninsensate fellows who are the betting-man's prey, and thus this precious\nsport has become a source of idleness, theft, and vast misery. One\nwretch goes under, but the stock of human folly is unlimited, and the\nshoal of gudgeons moves steadily into the bookmaker's net. One\nbetting-agent in France receives some five thousand letters and\ntelegrams per day, and all this huge correspondence comes from persons\nwho never take the trouble to see a race, but who are bitten with the\ngambler's fever. No warning suffices--man after man goes headlong to\nruin, and still the doomed host musters in club and tavern. They lose\nall semblance of gentle humanity; they become mere blockheads--for\ncupidity and stupidity are usually allied--and they form a demoralizing\nleaven that is permeating the nation and sapping our manhood.\n\nWe have only to consider the position of the various dwarfs who bestride\nthe racehorses in order to see how hard a hold this iniquity has on us.\nA jockey is merely a stable-boy after all; yet a successful jockey\nreceives more adulation than does the greatest of statesmen. A\ntheatrical manager has been known to prepare the royal box for the\nreception of one of these celebrities; some of the manikins earn five\nthousand a year, one of them has been known to make twenty thousand\npounds in a year; and that same youth received three thousand pounds for\nriding in one race. As to the flattery--the detestable flattery--which\nthe mob bestows on good horsemen, it cannot be mentioned with patience.\nIn sum, then, a form of insanity has attacked England, and we shall pay\nbitterly for the fit. The idle host who gather on the racecourse add\nnothing to the nation's wealth; they are poisonous parasites whose\ninfluence destroys industry, honesty, and common manliness. And yet the\nwhole hapless crew, winners and losers, call themselves \"sportsmen.\" I\nhave said plainly enough that every villainous human being seems to take\nnaturally to the Turf; but unfortunately the fools follow on the same\ntrack as that trodden by the villains, and thus the honest gentlemen who\nstill support a vile institution have all their work set out in order to\nprevent the hawks from making a meal of the pigeons. One of the honest\nguardians of racing morality resigned in bitter despair some time ago,\ngiving as his reason the assertion that he could trust nobody. Nobody!\nThe man was a great lord, he was totally disinterested and utterly\ngenerous, he never betted a penny, and he only preferred to see the\nsuperb thoroughbreds gallop. Lavish he was to all about him--and he\ncould trust nobody. It seems that this despairful nobleman had tolerably\ngood reasons for his hasty departure, for we have had such a crop of\nvillainies to reap this year as never was gathered before in the same\ntime, and it appears plain that no animal will be allowed to win any\nprize unless the foul crew of betting-men accord their kind approval,\nand refrain from poisoning the brute.\n\nI address myself directly, and with all the earnestness of which I am\ncapable, to those young simpletons who think that it is a fine and\nknowing thing to stake money on a horse. Some poor silly creatures\ncannot be taught that they are not even backing a good chance; they will\nnot learn that the success or failure of horses in important races is\nregulated by a clique of rapscallions whose existence sullies the very\nlight of day. Even if the simpleton chooses the very best horse in a\nrace, it by no means follows that the creature will win--nay, the very\nexcellence of an animal is all against its chances of success. The\nRing--which is largely composed of well-to-do black-legs--will not let\nany man win too much. What earthly chance can a clerk or shopman or\ntradesman in Manchester or Derby have of knowing what passes in the\nhotels of Newmarket, the homes of trainers, the London betting-clubs?\nThe information supplied so copiously by the sporting journals is as\ngood as money can buy, but the writers on those papers are just as\neasily deceived as other people. Men are out every morning watching the\nhorses take their exercise, and an animal cannot sneeze without the fact\nbeing telegraphed to the remotest corners of the country; but all this\nvigilance is useless when roguery comes into the field. Observe that for\nthe moment I am not speaking about the morality of betting at all. I\nhave my own opinion as to the mental tone of a man who is continually\neyeing his neighbour's pocket and wondering what he can abstract\ntherefrom. There is, and can be, no friendship save bottle friendship\namong the animals of prey who spend their time and energy on betting;\nand I know how callously they let a victim sink to ruin after they have\nsucked his substance to the last drop. The very face of a betting-man is\nenough to let you know what his soul is like; it is a face such as can\nbe seen nowhere but on the racecourse or in the betting-club: the last\ntrace of high thought has vanished, and, though the men may laugh and\nindulge in verbal horse-play, there is always something carnivorous\nabout their aspect. They are sharp in a certain line, but true\nintelligence is rarely found among them. Strange to say, they are often\ngenerous with money if their sentimental side is fairly touched, but\ntheir very generosity is the lavishness of ostentation, and they seem to\nhave no true kindness in them, nor do they appear capable of even\nshamming to possess the genuine helpful nature. Eternally on the watch\nfor prey, they assume the essential nature of predatory animals; their\nnotion of cleverness is to get the better of somebody, and their idea of\nintellectual effort is to lay cunning traps for fools to enter. Yes; the\nbetting-ring is a bad school of morality, and the man who goes there as\na fool and a victim too, often blossoms into a rogue and a plunderer.\n\nWith all this in my mind, I press my readers to understand that I leave\nthe ethics of wagering alone for the present, and confine my attention\nstrictly to the question of expediency. What is the use of wearing out\nnerve and brain on pondering an infinite maze of uncertainties? The\nrogues who command jockeys and even trainers on occasion can act with\ncertainty, for they have their eye on the very tap-root of the Turf\nupas-tree. The noodles who read sporting prints and try to look knowing\ncan only fumble about among uncertainties; they and their pitiful money\nhelp to swell the triumphs and the purses of rascals, and they fritter\naway good brain-power on calculations which have no sound basis\nwhatever. Let us get to some facts, and let us all hope in the name of\neverything that is righteous and of good report that, when this article\nis read, some blind feather-brains may be induced to stop ere the\ninevitable final ruin descends upon them. What has happened in the\ndoleful spring of this year? In 1887 a colt was brought out for the\nfirst time to run for the greatest of all Turf prizes. As usual, some\nbagatelle of a million or thereabouts had been betted on a horse which\nhad won several races, and this animal was reckoned to be incapable of\nlosing: but the untried animal shot out and galloped home an easy\nwinner. So little was the successful brute distressed by his race that\nhe began to caper out of sheer light-heartedness when he was led back to\nthe enclosure, and he very soon cleared the place in his gambols--in\nfact, he could have run another race within half an hour after the first\none. In the autumn this same winner strained a ligament; but in spite of\nthe accident he ran for another important prize, and his lightning speed\nserved him in good stead, for he came in second for the St. Leger. Well,\nin the spring this animal was entered in a handicap race, and the weight\nwhich he had to carry seemed so trifling that good judges thought he\nmust romp over the course and win with ease. Hundreds of thousands of\ndolts rushed to wager their money on this chance, and the horse's owner,\nwho is anything but a fool, proceeded to back his own property lavishly.\nNow a certain number of the betting-rogues appeared to know\nsomething--if I may be pardoned for using their repulsive\nphraseology--and, so long as any one was willing to bet on the horse,\nthey were ready to lay against him. Still the pigeons would not take\nwarning by this ominous symptom; they had chances enough to keep clear\nof danger, but they flocked into the snare in their confused fashion. A\ngrain of common sense would have made them ask, \"Why do these shrewd,\nhard men seem so certain that our favourite must lose? Are they the kind\nof persons who risk thousands in hard cash unless they know particularly\nwell what they are doing? They bet with an air of certainty, though some\nof them must be almost ruined if they have made a miscalculation; they\ndefy even the owner of the animal, and they cheerfully give him the\nopportunity of putting down thousands if he wishes to do so. There must\nbe some reason for this assurance which at first sight looks so very\noverweening. Better have a care!\"\n\nThus would common sense have counselled the victims; but, alas, common\nsense is usually left out of the composition of the betting-man's\nvictim, and the flood of honest money rolled into the keeping of men who\nare certainly no more than indifferent honest. The day of the race came;\nthe great gaping public dipped their hands in their pockets and accepted\nshort odds about their precious certainty. When the flag fell for the\nstart, the most wildly extravagant odds were offered against the\nfavourite by the men who had been betting against him all along, for\nthey saw very soon that they were safe. The poor brute on whose success\nso many thousands depended could not even gallop; he trailed on wearily\nfor a little, without showing any sign of his old gallant fire and\nspeed, and at last his hopeless rider stopped him. This story is in the\nmouths of all men; and now perhaps our simpletons maybe surprised to\nhear that the wretched animal which was the innocent cause of loss and\nmisery was poisoned by a narcotic. In his efforts to move freely he\nstrained himself, for the subtle drug deprived him of the power of using\nhis limbs, and he could only sprawl and wrench his sinews. This is the\nfourth case of the kind which has recently occurred; and now clever\njudges have hit upon the cause which has disabled so many good horses,\nafter the rascals of the Ring have succeeded in laying colossal amounts\nagainst them. Too many people know the dire effects of the morphia\ninjections which are now so commonly used by weak individuals who fear\npain and _ennui_; the same deadly drug is used to poison the horses. One\ntouch with the sharp needle-point under the horse's elbow, and the\nsubtle, numbing poison speeds through the arteries and paralyzes the\nnerves; a beautiful creature that comes out full of fire and courage is\nconverted in a very few minutes into a dull helpless mass that has no\nmore conscious volition than a machine. The animal remains on its feet,\nbut exertion is impossible, and neither rein, whip, nor spur serves to\nstimulate the cunning poisoner's victim. About the facts there can now\nbe no dispute: and this last wretched story supplies a copestone to a\npile of similar tales which has been in course of building during the\npast three or four years. Enraged men have become outspoken, and things\nare now boldly printed and circulated which were mentioned only in\nwhispers long ago. The days of clumsy poisoning have gone by; the\nprowling villain no longer obtains entrance to a stable for the purpose\nof battering a horse's leg or driving a nail into the frog of the foot;\nthe ancient crude devices are used no more, for science has become the\nhandmaid of scoundrelism. When in 1811 a bad fellow squirted a solution\nof arsenic into a locked horse-trough, the evil trick was too clumsy to\nescape detection, and the cruel rogue was promptly caught and sent to\nthe gallows; but we now have horse-poisoners who hold a secret similar\nto that which Palmer of Rugeley kept so long. I say \"a secret,\" though\nevery skilled veterinary surgeon knows how to administer morphia, and\nknows its effects; but the new practitioners contrive to send in the\ndeadly injection of the drug in spite of the ceaseless vigilance of\ntrainers, stablemen, detectives, and all other guards. Now I ask any\nrational man who may have been tempted to bet, Is it worth while? Leave\nout the morality for the present, and tell us whether you think it\nbusiness-like to risk your money when you know that neither a horse's\nspeed nor a trainer's skill will avail you when once an acute crew of\nsharpers have settled that a race must not be won by a certain animal.\nThe miserable creature whose case has served me for a text was tried at\nhome during the second week of April; he carried four stone more than\nthe very useful and fast horse which ran against him, and he merely\namused himself by romping alongside of his opponent. Again, when he took\na preliminary canter before the drug had time to act, he moved with\ngreat strength and with the freedom of a greyhound; yet within three\nminutes he was no more than an inert mass of flesh and bone. I say to\nthe inexperienced gambler, \"Draw your own conclusions, and if, after\nstudying my words, you choose to tempt fortune any more, your fate--your\nevil fate--be on your own head, for nothing that I or any one else can\ndo will save you.\"\n\nNot long before the melancholy and sordid case which I have described,\nand which is now gaining attention and rousing curiosity everywhere, a\ncertain splendid steeplechaser was brought out to run for the most\nimportant of cross-country races. He was a famous horse, and, like our\nDerby winner, he bore the fortunes of a good many people. To the\nconfusion and dismay of the men who made sure of his success, he was\nfound to be stupified, and suffering from all the symptoms of\nmorphia-poisoning! Not long ago an exquisite mare was brought out to run\nfor the Liverpool Steeplechase, and, like the two I have already named,\nshe was deemed to be absolutely certain of success. She came out merrily\nfrom her box; but soon she appeared to become dazed and silly; she\ncould not move properly, and in trying to clear her first fence she\nstaggered like a soddened drunkard and fell. The rascals had not become\nartistic poisoners at that date, and it was found that the poor mare had\nreceived the drug through a rather large puncture in her nostril.\n\nThe men whom I seek to cure are not worthy of much care; but they have\ndependants; and it is of the women and children that I think. Here is\nanother pitfall into which the eager novice stumbles; and once more on\ngrounds of expediency I ask the novice to consider his position.\nAccording to the decision of the peculiarly-constituted senate which\nrules racing affairs, I understand that, even if a horse starts in a\nrace with health and training all in its favour, it by no means follows\nthat he will win, or even run well. Cunning touches of the bridle,\ndexterous movements of body and limbs on the jockey's part, subtle\nchecks applied so as to cramp the animal's stride--all these things tend\nto bring about surprising results. The horse that fails dismally in one\nrace comes out soon afterwards and wins easily in more adverse\ncircumstances. I grow tired of the unlucky catalogue of mean swindles,\nand I should be glad if I never heard of the Turf again; though, alas, I\nhave little hope of that so long as betting-shops are open, and so long\nas miserable women have the power to address letters to me! I can only\nimplore those who are not stricken with the gambler's fever to come away\nfrom danger while yet there is time. A great nobleman like Lord\nHartington or Lord Rodney may amuse himself by keeping racers; he gains\nrelaxation by running out from London to see his pretty colts and\nfillies gallop, and he needs not to care very much whether they win or\nlose, for it is only the mild excitement and the change of scene that he\nwants. The wealthy people who go to Newmarket seek pleasant company as\nmuch as anything, and the loss of a few hundreds hardly counts in their\nyear's expenses. But the poor noodle who can hardly afford to pay his\nfare and hotel bill--why should he meddle with horses? If an animal is\npoisoned, the betting millionaire who backs it swallows his chagrin and\nthinks no more of the matter, but the wretched clerk who has risked a\nquarter's salary cannot take matters so easily. Racing is the rich man's\ndiversion, and men of poor or moderate means cannot afford to think\nabout it. The beautiful world is full of entertainment for those who\nsearch wisely; then why should any man vex heart and brain by meddling\nwith a pursuit which gives him no pleasure, and which cannot by any\nchance bring him profit? I have no pity for a man who ascribes his ruin\nto betting, and I contemn those paltry weaklings whose cases I study and\ncollect from the newspapers. Certainly there are enough of them! A man\nwho bets wants to make money without work, and that on the face of it is\na dishonourable aspiration; if he robs some one, I do not in the\nfaintest degree try to palliate his crime--he is a responsible being, or\nought to be one, and he has no excuse for pilfering. I should never aid\nany man who suffered through betting, and I would not advise any one\nelse to do so. My appeal to the selfish instincts of the gudgeons who\nare hooked by the bookmakers is made only for the sake of the helpless\ncreatures who suffer for the follies and blundering cupidity of the\nwould-be sharper. I abhor the bookmakers, but I do not blame them\nalone; the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done, and they\nare doubtless tempted to roguery by the very simpletons who complain\nwhen they meet the reward of their folly. I am solely concerned with the\ninnocents who fare hardly because of their selfish relatives' reckless\nwant of judgment, and for them, and them alone, my efforts are engaged.\n\n_May, 1888_\n\n\n\n\n_DEGRADED MEN_.\n\n\nThe man of science derives suggestive knowledge from the study of mere\nputrefaction; he places an infusion of common hay-seeds or meat or fruit\nin his phials, and awaits events; presently a drop from one of the\ninfusions is laid on the field of the microscope, and straightly the\neconomy of a new and strange kingdom is seen by the observer. The\nmicroscopist takes any kind of garbage; he watches the bacteria and\ntheir mysterious development, and he reaches at last the most\nsignificant conclusions regarding the health and growth and diseases of\nthe highest organizations. The student of human nature must also bestow\nhis attention on disease of mind if he would attain to any real\nknowledge of the strange race to which he belongs. We develop, it is\ntrue, but there are modes and modes of development. I have often pointed\nout that a steady process of degeneration goes on side by side with the\nunfolding of new and healthy powers in the animal and vegetable\nkingdoms. The great South American lizards grow strong and splendid in\nhue amid the rank freedom of pampas or forest; but their poor relatives\nin the sunless caves of Transylvania grow milky white, flabby, and\nstone-blind. The creatures in the Kentucky caves are all aborted in some\nway or other; the birds in far-off islands lose the power of flight, and\nthe shrivelled wings gradually sink under the skin, and show us only a\ntiny network of delicate bones when the creature is stripped to the\nskeleton. The condor soars magnificently in the thin air over the\nAndes--it can rise like a kite or drop like a thunderbolt: the weeka of\nNew Zealand can hardly get out of the way of a stick aimed by an active\nman. The proud forest giant sucks up the pouring moisture from the great\nBrazilian river; the shoots that rise under the shadow of the monster\ntree are weakened and blighted by lack of light and free air. The same\nastounding work goes on among the beings who are so haughty in their\nassumption of the post of creation's lords. The healthy child born of\nhealthy parents grows up amid pure air and pure surroundings; his\ntissues are nourished by strength-giving food, he lives according to\nsane rules, and he becomes round-limbed, full-chested, and vigorous. The\npoor little victim who first sees the light in the Borough or Shadwell,\nor in the noxious alleys of our reeking industrial towns, receives foul\nair, mere atmospheric garbage, into his lungs; he becomes thin-blooded,\nhis unwholesome pallor witnesses to his weakness of vitality, his\nmuscles are atrophied, and even his hair is ragged, lustreless,\nill-nurtured. In time he transmits his feebleness to his successors; and\nwe have the creatures who stock our workhouses, hospitals, and our\ngaols--for moral degradation always accompanies radical degradation of\nthe physique.\n\nSo, if we study the larger aspects of society, we find that in all\ngrades we have large numbers of individuals who fall out of the line\nthat is steadfastly progressing, and become stragglers,\ncamp-followers--anything you will. Let a cool and an unsentimental\nobserver bend himself to the study of degraded human types, and he will\nlearn things that will sicken his heart if he is weak, and strengthen\nhim in his resolve to work gallantly during his span of life if he is\nstrong. Has any one ever fairly tried to face the problem of\ndegradation? Has any one ever learned how it is that a distinct form of\nmental disease seems to lurk in all sorts of unexpected fastnesses,\nready to breathe a numbing and poisonous vapour on those who are not\nfortified against the moral malaria? I am not without experience of the\nfell chances and changes of life; I venture therefore to use some\nportion of the knowledge that I have gathered in order to help to\nfortify the weak and make the strong wary.\n\nIf you wander on the roads in our country, you are almost sure to meet\nmen whom you instinctively recognize as fallen beings. What their\nprevious estate in life may have been you cannot tell, but you know that\nthere has been a fall, and that you are looking on a moral wreck. The\ntypes are superficially varied, but an essential sameness, not always\nvisible at first sight, connects them and enables you to class them as\nyou would class the specimens in a gallery of the British Museum. As you\nwalk along on a lonely highway, you meet a man who carries himself with\na kind of jaunty air. His woeful boots show glimpses of bare feet, his\nclothes have a bright gloss in places, and they hang untidily; but his\ncoat is buttoned with an attempt at smartness, and his ill-used hat is\nset on rakishly. You note that the man wears a moustache, and you learn\nin some mysterious way that he was once accustomed to be very trim and\nspruce in person. When he speaks, you find that you have a hint of a\ncultivated accent; he sounds the termination \"ing\" with precision, and\nyou also notice that such words as \"here,\" \"there,\" \"over,\" are\npronounced with a peculiar broad vowel sound at the end. He cannot look\nyou boldly in the face, and it is hard to catch a sight of his eyes, but\nyou may take for granted that the eyes are bad and shifty. The cheeks\nare probably a little pendulous, and the jaw hangs with a certain\nslackness. The whole visage looks as if it had been cast in a tolerably\ngood mould and had somehow run out of shape a little. Your man is fluent\nand communicative; he mouths his sentences with a genteel roll in his\nvoice, and he punctuates his talk with a stealthy, insincere laugh which\nhardly rises above the dignity of a snigger.\n\nNow how does such a man come to be tramping aimlessly on a public road?\nHe does not know that he is going to any place in particular; he is\ncertainly not walking for the sake of health, though he needs health\nrather badly. Why is he in this plight? You do not need to wait long for\na solution, if the book of human experience has been your study. That\nman is absolutely certain to begin bewailing his luck--it is always\n\"luck.\" Then he has a choice selection of abuse to bestow on large\nnumbers of people who have trodden him down--he is always down-trodden;\nand he proves to you that, but for the ingratitude of A, the roguery of\nB, the jealousy of C, the undeserved credit obtained by the despicable\nD, he would be in \"a far different position to-day, sir.\" If he is an\nold officer--and a few gentlemen who once bore Her Majesty's commission\nare now to be found on the roads, or in casual wards, or lounging about\nlow skittle-alleys and bagatelle or billiard tables--he will allude to\nthe gambling that went on in the regiment. \"How could a youngster keep\nout of the swim?\" All went well with him until he took to late hours and\ndevilled bones; \"then in the mornings we were all ready for a peg; and I\nshould like to see the man who could get ready for parade after a hard\nnight unless he had something in the shape of a reviver.\" So he prates\non. He curses the colonel, the commander-in-chief, and the Army\norganization in general; he gives leering reminiscences of garrison\nbelles--reminiscences that make a pure minded man long to inflict some\nsort of chastisement on him; and thus, while he thinks he is impressing\nyou with an overpowering sense of his bygone rank and fashion, he really\nunfolds the history of a feeble unworthy fellow who carries a strong\ntinge of rascality about him. He is always a victim, and he illustrates\nthe unvarying truth of the maxim that a dupe is a rogue minus\ncleverness. The final crash which overwhelmed him was of course a\nhorse-racing blunder. He would have recovered his winter's losses had\nnot a gang of thieves tampered with the favourite for the City and\nSuburban. \"Do you think, sir, that Highflyer could not have given\nStonemason three stone and a beating?\" You modestly own your want of\nacquaintance with the powers of the famous quadrupeds, and the\ninfatuated dupe goes on, \"I saw how Bill Whipcord was riding; he eased\nat the corner, when I wouldn't have taken two thousand for my bets, and\nyou could see that he let Stonemason up. I had taken seven to four eight\ntimes in hundreds, and that broke me.\" The ragged raffish man never\nthinks that he was quite ready to plunder other people; he grows\ninarticulate with rage only when he remembers how he was bitten instead\nof being the biter. His watery eyes slant as you near a roadside inn,\nand he is certain to issue an invitation. Then you see what really\nbrought him low. It may be a lovely warm day, when the acrid reek of\nalcohol is more than usually abhorrent; but he must take something\nstrong that will presently inflame the flabby bulge of his cheeks and\nset his evil eyes watering more freely than ever. Gin is his favourite\nrefreshment, because it is cheap, and produces stupefaction more rapidly\nthan any other liquid. Very probably he will mix gin and ale in one\nhorrid draught--and in that case you know that he is very far gone\nindeed on the downward road. If he can possibly coax the change out of\nyou when the waiter puts it down he will do so, for he cannot resist the\ngleam of the coins, and he will improvise the most courageous lies with\nan ease which inspires awe. He thanks you for nothing; he hovers between\ncringing familiarity and patronage; and, when you gladly part with him,\nhe probably solaces himself by muttering curses on your meanness or your\ninsolence. Once more--how does the faded military person come to be on\nthe roads? We shall come to that presently.\n\nObserve the temporary lord of the tap-room when you halt on the dusty\nroads and search for tea or lunch. He is in black, and a soiled\nhandkerchief is wound round his throat like an eel. He wears a soft felt\nhat which has evidently done duty as a night-cap many times, and he\ntries to bear himself as though the linen beneath his pinned-up coat\nwere of priceless quality. You know well enough that he has no shirt on,\nfor he would sell one within half an hour if any Samaritan fitted him\nout. His boots are carefully tucked away under the bench, and his sharp\nknees seem likely to start through their greasy casing. As soon as he\nsees you he determines to create an impression, and he at once draws you\ninto the conversation. \"Now, sir, you and I are scholars--I am an old\nBalliol man myself--and I was explaining to these good lads the meaning\nof the phrase which had puzzled them, as it has puzzled many more.\n_Casus belli_, sir--that is what we find in this local rag of a journal;\nand _status quo ante bellum_. Now, sir, these ignorant souls couldn't\ntell what was meant, so I have been enlightening them. I relax my mind\nin this way, though you would hardly think it the proper place for a\nBalliol man, while that overfed brute up at the Hall can drive out with\na pair of two-hundred-guinea bays, sir. Fancy a gentleman and a scholar\nbeing in this company, sir! Now Jones, the landlord there, is a good man\nin his way--oh, no thanks Jones; it is not a compliment!--and I'd like\nto see the man who dared say that I'm not speaking the truth, for I used\nto put my hands up like a good one when we were boys at the old\n'varsity, sir. Jones, this gentleman would like something; and I don't\nmind taking a double dose of Glenlivat with a brother-scholar and a\ngentleman like myself.\" So the mawkish creature maunders on until one's\ngorge rises; but the stolid carters, the idle labourers, the shoemaker\nfrom the shop round the corner, admire his eloquence, and enjoy the\nluxury of pitying a parson and an aristocrat. How very numerous are the\nrepresentatives of this type, and how unspeakably odious they are! This\nfoul weed in dirty clothing assumes the pose of a bishop; he swears at\nthe landlord, he patronizes the shoemaker--who is his superior in all\nways--he airs the feeble remnants of his Latin grammar and his stock\nquotations. He will curse you if you refuse him drink, and he will\ndescribe you as an impostor or a cad; while, if you are weak enough to\ngratify his taste for spirits, he will glower at you over his glass, and\nsicken you with fulsome flattery or clumsy attempts at festive wit.\nEnough of this ugly creature, whose baseness insults the light of God's\nday! We know how he will end; we know how he has been a fraud throughout\nhis evil life, and we can hardly spare even pity for him. It is well if\nthe fellow has no lady-wife in some remote quarter--wife whom he can rob\nor beg from, or even thrash, when he searches her out after one of his\nrambles from casual ward to casual ward.\n\nIn the wastes of the great cities the army of the degraded swarm. Here\nis the loose-lipped rakish wit, who tells stories in the common\nlodging-house kitchen. He has a certain brilliancy about him which lasts\nuntil the glassy gleam comes over his eyes, and then he becomes merely\nblasphemous and offensive. He might be an influential writer or\npolitician, but he never gets beyond spouting in a pot-house debating\nclub, and even that chance of distinction does not come unless he has\nwritten an unusually successful begging-letter. Here too is the broken\nprofessional man. His horrid face is pustuled, his hands are like\nunclean dough, he is like a creature falling to pieces; yet he can show\nyou pretty specimens of handwriting, and, if you will steady him by\ngiving him a drink of ale, he will write your name on the edge of a\nnewspaper in copper-plate characters or perform some analogous feat. All\nthe degraded like to show off the remains of their accomplishments, and\nyou may hear some odious being warbling. \"_Ah, che la morte!_\" with\nquite the air of a leading tenor. In the dreadful purlieus lurk the poor\nsubmissive ne'er-do-well, the clerk who has been imprisoned for\nembezzlement, the City merchant's son who is reduced to being the tout\nof a low bookmaker, the preacher who began as a youthful phenomenon and\nended by embezzling the Christmas dinner fund, the forlorn brute whose\nwife and children have fled from him, and who spends his time between\nthe police-cells and the resorts of the vilest. If you could know the\nnames of the tramps who yell and make merry over their supper in the\nmurky kitchen, you would find that people of high consideration would be\ntouched very painfully could they be reminded of the existence of\ncertain relatives. Degraded, degraded are they all! And why?\n\nThe answer is brief, and I have left it until last, for no particular\nelaboration is needed. From most painful study I have come to the\nconclusion that nearly all of our degraded men come to ruin through\nidleness in the first instance; drink, gambling, and other forms of\ndebauch follow, but idleness is the root-evil. The man who begins by\nsaying, \"It's a poor heart that never rejoices,\" or who refers to the\ndanger of making Jack a dull boy, is on a bad road. Who ever heard of a\nworker--a real toiler--becoming degraded? Worn he may be, and perhaps\ndull to the influence of beauty and refinement; but there is always some\nnobleness about him. The man who gives way to idleness at once prepares\nhis mind as a soil for evil seeds; the universe grows tiresome to him;\nthe life-weariness of the old Romans attacks him in an ignoble form,\nand he begins to look about for distractions. Then his idleness, from\nbeing perhaps merely amusing, becomes offensive and suspicious; drink\ntakes hold upon him; his moral sense perishes; only the husks of his\nrefinement remain; and by and by you have the slouching wanderer who is\ngood for nothing on earth. He is despised of men, and, were it not that\nwe know the inexhaustible bounty of the Everlasting Pity, we might\nalmost think that he was forgotten of Heaven. Stand against idleness.\nAnything that age, aches, penury, hard trial may inflict on the soul is\ntrifling. Idleness is the great evil which leads to all others.\nTherefore work while it is day.\n\n_September, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_A REFINEMENT OF \"SPORTING\" CRUELTY._\n\n\nI firmly believe in the sound manhood of the English people, and I know\nthat in any great emergency they would rise and prove themselves true\nand gallant of soul; but we happen for the time to have amongst us a\nvery large class of idlers, and these idlers are steadily introducing\nhabits and customs which no wise observer can regard without solemn\napprehensions. The simple Southampton poet has told us what \"idle hands\"\nare apt to do under certain guidance, and his saying--truism as it\nappears--should be studied with more regard to its vital meaning. The\nidlers crave for novelties; they seek for new forms of distraction; they\nseem really to live only when they are in the midst of delirious\nexcitement. Unhappily their feverish unrest is apt to communicate itself\nto men who are not naturally idlers, and thus their influence moves\noutwards like some vast hurtful wind blown from a pestilent region.\nDuring the past few years the idlers have invented a form of amusement\nwhich for sheer atrocity and wanton cruelty is unparalleled in the\nhistory of England. I shall say some words about this remarkable\namusement, and I trust that gentle women who have in them the heart of\ncompassion, mothers who have sons to be ruined, fathers who have purses\nto bleed, may aid in putting down an evil that gathers strength every\nday.\n\nMost of my readers know what the \"sport\" of coursing is; but, for the\nbenefit of strictly town-bred folk, I may roughly indicate the nature of\nthe pursuit as it was practised in bygone times. A brace of greyhounds\nwere placed together in the slips--that is, in collars which fly open\nwhen the man who holds the dogs releases a knot; and then a line of men\nmoved slowly over the fields. When a hare rose and ran for her life, the\nslipper allowed her a fair start, and then he released the dogs. The\nmode of reckoning the merits of the hounds is perhaps a little too\ncomplicated for the understanding of non-\"sporting\" people; but I may\nbroadly put it that the dog which gives the hare most trouble, the dog\nthat causes her to dodge and turn the oftenest in order to save her\nlife, is reckoned the winner. Thus the greyhound which reaches the hare\nfirst receives two points; poor pussy then makes an agonized rush to\nright or left, and, if the second dog succeeds in passing his opponent\nand turning the hare again, he receives a point, and so on. The\nold-fashioned open-air sport was cruel enough, for it often happened\nthat the hare ran for two or three miles with her ferocious pursuers\nhard on her track, and every muscle of her body was strained with\npoignant agony; but there is this to be said--the men had healthy,\nmatchless exercise on breezy plains and joyous uplands, they tramped all\nday until their limbs were thoroughly exercised, and they earned sound\nrepose by their wholesome exertions. Moreover, the element of fair-play\nenters into coursing when pursued in the open spaces. Pussy knows every\nfoot of the ground; nightly she steals gently to the fields where her\nsucculent food is found, and in the morning she steals back again to her\ntiny nest, or form, amid the soft grass. All day she lies chewing the\ncud in her fashion, and moving her delicate ears hither and thither,\nlest fox or stoat or dog should come upon her unawares; and at nightfall\nshe steals away once more. Every run, every tuft of grass, every rising\nof the ground is known to her; and, when at last the tramp of the\napproaching beaters rouses her, she rushes away with a distinct\nadvantage over the dogs. She knows exactly whither to go; the other\nanimals do not, and usually, on open ground, the quarry escapes. I do\nnot think that any greyhound living could catch one of the hares now\nleft on the Suffolk marshes; and there are many on the great Wiltshire\nplains which are quite capable of rushing at top speed for three miles\nand more. The chase in the open is cruel--there is no denying it--for\npoor puss dies many deaths ere she bids her enemies good-bye; but still\nshe has a chance for life, and thus the sport, inhuman as it is, has a\npraiseworthy element of fairness in it.\n\nBut the betting-man, the foul product of civilization's depravity, cast\nhis eye on the old-fashioned sport and invaded the field. He found the\nprocess of walking up the game not much to his taste, for he cares only\nto exercise his leathern lungs; moreover, the courses were few and far\nbetween and the chances of making wagers were scanty. He set himself to\nmeditate, and it struck him that, if a good big collection of hares\ncould be got together, it would be possible to turn them out one by one,\nso that betting might go on as fast and as merrily on the\ncoursing-ground as at the roulette-table. Thus arose a \"sport\" which is\neducating many, many thousands in callousness and brutality. Here and\nthere over England are dotted great enclosed parks, and the visitor is\nshown wide and mazy coverts where hares swarm. Plenty of food is strewn\nover the grass, and in the wildest of winters pussy has nothing to\nfear--until the date of her execution arrives. The animals are not\nnatives of those enclosures; they are netted in droves on the Wiltshire\nplains or on the Lancashire moors, and packed off like poultry to the\ncoursing-ground. There their life is calm for a long time; no poachers\nor lurchers or vermin molest them; stillness is maintained, and the\nhares live in peace. But one day there comes a roaring crowd to the\npark, and, though pussy does not know it, her good days are passed. Look\nat the mob that surges and bellows on the stands and in the enclosures.\nThey are well dressed and comfortable, but a more unpleasant gang could\nnot be seen. Try to distinguish a single face that shows kindness or\ngoodness--you fail; this rank roaring crowd is made up of betting-men\nand dupes, and it is hard to say which are the worse. There is no\nhorse-racing in the winter, and so these people have come out to see a\nsuccession of innocent creatures die, and to bet on the event. The slow\ncoursing of the old style would not do for the fiery betting-man; but we\nshall have fun fast and furious presently. The assembly seems frantic;\nflashy men with eccentric coats and gaudy hats of various patterns stand\nabout and bellow their offers to bet; feverish dupes move hither and\nthither, waiting for chances; the rustle of notes, the chink of money,\nsound here and there, and the immense clamour swells and swells, till a\nstunning roar dulls the senses, and to an imaginative gazer it seems as\nthough a horde of fiends had been let loose to make day hideous. A\nbroad smooth stretch of grass lies opposite to the stands, and at one\nend of this half-mile stretch there runs a barrier, the bottom of which\nis fringed with straw and furze. If you examined that barrier, you would\nfind that it really opens into a wide dense copse, and that a hare or\nrabbit which whisks under it is safe on the far side. At the other side\nof this field a long fenced lane opens, and seems to be closed at the\nblind end by a wide door. To the right of the blind lane is a tiny hut\nsurrounded by bushes, and by the side of the hut a few scattered men\nloaf in a purposeless way. Presently a red-coated man canters across the\nsmooth green, and then the diabolical tumult of the stands reaches\near-splitting intensity. Your betting-man is cool enough in reality; but\nhe likes to simulate mad eagerness until it appears as though the\nswollen veins of face or throat would burst. And what is going on at the\nclosed end of that blind lane? On the strip of turf around the wide\nfield the demure trainers lead their melancholy-looking dogs. Each\ngreyhound is swathed in warm clothing, but they all look wretched; and,\nas they pick their way along with dainty steps, no one would guess that\nthe sight of a certain poor little animal would convert each doleful\nhound into an incarnate fury. Two dogs are led across to the little\nhut--the bellow of the Ring sounds hoarsely on--and the chosen pair of\ndogs disappear behind the shrubs. And now what is passing on the farther\nside of that door which closes the lane? A hare is comfortably nestling\nunder a clump of furze when a soft step sounds near her. A man! Pussy\nwould like to move to right or left; but, lo, here are other men!\nDecidedly she must move forward. Oh, joy! A swinging door rises softly,\nand shows her a delightful long lane that seems to open on to a pleasant\nopen country. She hops gaily onward, and then a little uneasiness\novertakes her; she looks back, but that treacherous door has swung down\nagain, and there is only one road for her now. Softly she steals onward\nto the mouth of the lane, and then she finds a slanting line of men who\nwave their arms at her when she tries to shoot aside. A loud roar bursts\nfrom the human animals on the stand, and then a hush falls. Now or\nnever, pussy! The far-off barrier must be gained, or all is over. The\nhare lowers her ears and dashes off; then from the hut comes a\nstaggering man, who hangs back with all his strength as a pair of\nferocious dogs writhe and strain in the leash; the hounds rise on their\nhaunches, and paw wildly with their fore-feet, and they struggle forward\nuntil puss has gone a fair distance, while the slipper encourages them\nwith low guttural sounds. Crack! The tense collars fly, and the arrowy\nrush of the snaky dogs follows. Puss flicks her ears--she hears a thud,\nthud, wallop, wallop; and she knows the supreme moment has come. Her\nsinews tighten like bowstrings, and she darts on with the lightning\nspeed of despair. The grim pursuers near her; she almost feels the\nbreath of the foremost. Twitch!--and with a quick convulsive effort she\nsheers aside, and her enemy sprawls on. But the second dog is ready to\nmeet her, and she must swirl round again. The two serpentine savages\ngather themselves together and launch out in wild efforts to reach her;\nthey are upon her--she must dart round again, and does so under the very\nfeet of the baffled dogs. Her eyes are starting with overmastering\nterror; again and again she sweeps from right to left, and again and\nagain the staunch hounds dash along in her track. Pussy fails fast; one\ndog reaches her, and she shrieks as she feels his ferocious jaws touch\nher; but he snatches only a mouthful of fur, and there is another\nrespite. Then at last one of the pursuers balances himself carefully,\nhis wicked head is raised, he strikes, and the long tremulous shriek of\ndespair is drowned in the hoarse crash of cheering from the mob. Brave\nsport, my masters! Gallant Britons ye are! Ah, how I should like to let\none of you career over that field of death with a brace of business-like\nboarhounds behind you!\n\nThere is no slackening of the fun, for the betting-men must be kept\nbusy. Men grow frantic with excitement; young fools who should be at\ntheir business risk their money heedlessly, and generally go wrong. If\nthe hares could only know, they might derive some consolation from the\ncertainty that, if they are going to death, scores of their gallant\nsporting persecutors are going to ruin. Time after time, in monotonous\nsuccession, the same thing goes on through the day--the agonized hares\ntwirl and strain; the fierce dogs employ their superb speed and\nstrength; the unmanly gang of men howl like beasts of prey; and the\nsweet sun looks upon all!\n\nWomen, what do you think of that for Englishmen's pastime? Recollect\nthat the mania for this form of excitement is growing more intense\ndaily; as much as one hundred thousand pounds may depend on a single\ncourse--for not only the mob in the stands are betting, but thousands\nare awaiting each result that is flashed off over the wires; and,\nalthough you may be far away in remote country towns, your sons, your\nhusbands, your brothers, may be watching the clicking machine that\nrecords the results in club and hotel--they may be risking their\nsubstance in a lottery which is at once childish and cruel.\n\nThere is not one word to be said in favour of this vile game. The\nold-fashioned courser at least got exercise and air; but the modern\nbetting-man wants neither; he wants only to make wagers and add to his\npile of money. For him the coursing meetings cannot come too often; the\nswarming gudgeons flock to his net; he arranges the odds almost as he\nchooses--with the help of his friends; and simpletons who do not know a\ngreyhound from a deerhound bet wildly--not on dogs, but on names. The\n\"sport\" has all the uncertainty of roulette, and it is villainously\ncruel into the bargain. Amid all those thousands you never hear one word\nof pity for the stricken little creature that is driven out, as I have\nsaid, for execution; they watch her agonies, and calculate the chances\nof pouching their sovereigns. That is all.\n\nHere then is another vast engine of demoralization set going, just as if\nthe Turf were not a blight of sufficient intensity! A young man ventures\ninto one of those cruel rings, buys a card, and resolves to risk pounds\nor shillings. If he is unfortunate, he may be saved; but, curiously\nenough, it often happens that a greenhorn who does not know one\ngreyhound from another blunders into a series of winning bets. If he\nwins, he is lost, for the fever seizes him; he does not know what odds\nare against him, and he goes on from deep to deep of failure and\ndisaster. Well for him if he escapes entire ruin! I have drawn attention\nto this new evil because I have peculiar opportunities of studying the\ninner life of our society, and I find that the gambling epidemic is\nspreading among the middle-classes. To my mind these coursing massacres\nshould be made every whit as illegal as dog-fighting or bull-baiting,\nfor I can assure our legislators that the temptation offered by the\nchances of rapid gambling is eating like a corrosive poison into the\nyoung generation. Surely Englishmen, even if they want to bet, need not\ninvent a medium for betting which combines every description of noxious\ncruelty! I ask the aid of women. Let them set their faces against tin's\nhorrid sport, and it will soon be known no more.\n\nIf the silly bettors themselves could only understand their own\nposition, they might be rescued. Let it be distinctly understood that\nthe bookmaker cannot lose, no matter how events may go. On the other\nhand, the man who makes wagers on what he is pleased to term his\n\"fancies\" has everything against him. The chances of his choosing a\nwinner in the odious new sport are hardly to be mathematically stated,\nand it may be mathematically proved that he must lose. Then, apart from\nthe money loss, what an utterly ignoble and unholy pursuit this\ntrapped-hare coursing is for a manly man! Surely the heart of compassion\nin any one not wholly brutalized should be moved at the thought of those\ncabined, cribbed, confined little creatures that yield up their innocent\nlives amid the remorseless cries of a callous multitude. Poor innocents!\nIs it not possible to gamble without making God's creatures undergo\ntorture? If a man were to turn a cat into a close yard and set dogs upon\nit, he would be imprisoned, and his name would be held up to scorn. What\nis the difference between cat and hare?\n\n_March, 1887._\n\n\n\n\n_LIBERTY_.\n\n\n\"What things are done in thy name!\" The lady who spoke thus of Liberty\nhad lived a high and pure life; all good souls were attracted to her;\nand it seems strange that so sweet and pure and beautiful a creature\ncould have grown up in the vile France of the days before the\nRevolution. She kept up the traditions of gentle and seemly courtesy\neven at times when Sardanapalus Danton was perforce admitted to her\n_salon_; and in an age of suspicion and vile scandal she kept a\nstainless name, for even the most degraded pamphleteer in Paris dared do\nno more than hint a fault and hesitate dislike. But this lady went to\nthe scaffold with many and many of the young, the beautiful, the brave;\nand her sombre satire, \"What things are done in thy name!\" was\nremembered long afterwards when the despots and the invading alien had\nin turn placed their feet on the neck of devoted France. \"What things\nare done in thy name!\" Yes; and we, in this modern world, might vary the\nsaying a little and exclaim, \"What things are said in thy name!\"--for we\nhave indeed arrived at the era of liberty, and the gospel of Rousseau is\nbeing preached with fantastic variations by people who think that any\nspeech which apes the forms of logic is reasonable and that any desire\nwhich is expressed in a sufficiently loud howl should be at once\ngratified. We pride ourselves on our knowledge and our reasoning power;\nbut to judicious observers it often seems that those who talk loudest\nhave a very thin vein of knowledge, and no reasoning faculty that is not\nimitative.\n\nBy all means let us have \"freedom,\" but let us also consider our terms,\nand fix the meaning of the things that we say. Perhaps I should write\n\"the things that we think we say,\" because so many of those who make\nthemselves heard do not weigh words at all, and they imagine themselves\nto be uttering cogent truths when they are really giving us the babble\nof Bedlam. If ladies and gentlemen who rant about freedom would try to\nemancipate themselves from the dominion of meaningless words, we should\nall fare better; but we find a large number of public personages using\nperfectly grammatical series of phrases without dreaming for a moment\nthat their grave sentences are pure gibberish. A few simple questions\naddressed in the Socratic manner to certain lights of thought might do\nmuch good. For instance, we might say, \"Do you ever speak of being free\nfrom good health, or free from a good character, or free from\nprosperity?\" I fancy not; and yet copiously talkative individuals employ\nterms quite as hazy and silly as those which I have indicated.\n\nWe have gone very far in the direction of scientific discovery, and we\nhave a large number of facts at our disposal; but some of us have quite\nforgotten that true liberty comes only from submitting to wise guidance.\nOld Sandy Mackay, in Alton Locke, declared that he would never bow down\nto a bit of brains: and this highly-independent attitude is copied by\npersons who fail to see that bowing to the bit of brains is the only\nmode of securing genuine freedom. If our daring logicians would grant\nthat every man should have liberty to lead his life as he chooses, so\nlong as he hurts neither himself nor any other individual nor the State,\nthen one might follow their argument; but a plain homespun proposal like\nthat of mine is not enough for your advanced thinker. In England he\nsays, \"Let us have deliverance from all restrictions;\" in Russia he\nsays, \"Anarchy is the only cure for existing evils.\" For centuries past\nthe earth has been deluged with blood and the children of men have been\nscourged by miseries unspeakable, merely because powerful men and\npowerful bodies of men have not chosen to learn the meaning of the word\n\"liberty.\" \"How miserable you make the world for one another, O feeble\nrace of men!\" So said our own melancholy English cynic; and he had\nsingularly good reason for his plaint. Rapid generalization is nearly\nalways mischievous; unless we learn to form correct and swift judgments\non every faculty of life as it comes before us, we merely stumble from\nerror to error. No cut-and-dried maxim ever yet was fit to guide men\nthrough their mysterious existence; the formalist always ends by\nbecoming a bungler, and the most highly-developed man, if he is content\nto be no more than a thinking-machine, is harmful to himself and harmful\nto the community which has the ill-luck to harbour him. If we take cases\nfrom history, we ought to find it easy enough to distinguish between the\nmen who sought liberty wisely and those who were restive and turbulent.\nA wise man or a wise nation knows the kind of restraint which is good;\nthe fool, with his feather-brained theories, never knows what is good\nfor him--he mistakes eternal justice for tyranny, he rebels against\nfacts that are too solid for him--and we know what kind of an end he\nmeets. Some peculiarly daring personages carry their spirit of\nresistance beyond the bounds of our poor little earth. Only lately many\nof us read with a shock of surprise the passionate asseveration of a\ngifted woman who declared that it was a monstrous wrong and wickedness\nthat ever she had been born. Job said much the same thing in his\ndelirium; but our great novelist put forth her complaint as the net\noutcome of all her thought and culture. We only need to open an ordinary\nnewspaper to find that the famous writer's folly is shared by many\nweaker souls; and the effect on the mind of a shrewd and contented man\nis so startling that it resembles the emotion roused by grotesque wit.\nThe whole story of the ages tells us dismally what happens when unwise\npeople choose to claim the measure of liberty which they think good; but\nsomehow, though knowledge has come, wisdom lingers, and the grim old\nfollies rear themselves rankly among us in the age of reason.\n\nWhen we remember the Swiss mountaineers who took their deaths joyously\nin defence of their homes, when we read of the devoted brave one who\nreceived the sheaf of spears in his breast and broke the oppressor's\narray, none of us can think of mere vulgar rebellion. The Swiss were\nfighting to free themselves from wrongs untold; and we should hold them\nless than men if they had tamely submitted to be caged like poultry.\nAgain, we feel a thrill when we read the epitaph which says, \"Gladly we\nwould have rested had we won freedom. We have lost, and very gladly\nrest.\" The very air of bravery, of steady self-abnegation seems to\nexhale from the sombre, triumphant words. Russia is the chosen home of\ntyranny now, but her day of brightness will come again. It is safe to\nprophesy so much, for I remember what happened at one time of supreme\nperil. Prussia and Austria and Italy lay crushed and bleeding under the\nawful power of Napoleon, and it seemed as though Russia must be wiped\nout from the list of nations when the great army of invaders poured in\nrelentless multitudes over the stricken land. The conqueror appeared to\nhave the very forces of nature in his favour, and his hosts moved on\nwithout a check and without a failure of organization. So perfectly had\nhe planned the minutest details that, although his stations were\nscattered from the Beresina to the Seine, not so much as a letter was\nlost during the onward movement. How could the doomed country resist? So\nthought all Europe. But the splendid old Russian, the immortal\nKoutousoff, had felt the pulse of his nation, and he was confident,\nwhile all the other chiefs felt as though the earth were rocking under\nthem. The time for the extinction of Russia had not come; a throb of\nfierce emotion passed over the country; the people rose like one man,\nand the despot found himself held in check by rude masses of men for\nwhom death had scant terrors. Koutousoff had a mighty people to support\nhim, and he would have swept back the horde of spoilers, even if the\nwinter had not come to his aid. Russia was but a dark country then, as\nnow, but the conduct of the myriads who dared to die gave a bright\npresage for the future. Who can blame the multitudes of Muscovites who\nsealed their wild protest with their blood? The common soldiers were\nbut slaves, yet they would have suffered a degradation worse than\nslavery had they succumbed, while, as to the immense body of\npeople--that nation within a nation--which answered to our upper and\nmiddle classes, they would have tasted the same woes which at length\ndrove Germany to frenzy and made simple burghers prefer bitter death to\nthe tyranny of the French. The rulers of Russia have stained her records\nfoully since the days of 1812, but their worst sins cannot blot out the\nmemory of the national uprising. Years are but trivial; seventy-six of\nthem seem a long time; but those who study history broadly know that the\ndawn of a better future for Russia showed its first gleam when the\naroused and indignant race rose and went forward to die before the\nFrench cannon. When next Russia rises, it will be against a tyranny only\nsecond to Napoleon's in virulence--it will be against the terror that\nrules her now from within; and her success will be applauded by the\nworld.\n\nThe Italians, who first waited and plotted, and then fought desperately\nunder Garibaldi, had every reason to cry out for freedom. If they had\nremained merely whimpering under the Bourbon and Austrian whips, they\nwould have deserved to be spurned by all who bear the hearts of men.\nThey were denied the meanest privileges of humanity; they lived in a\nfashion which was rather like the violent, oppressed, hideous existence\nwhich men imagine in evil dreams, and at length they struck, and\ndeclared for liberty or annihilation. Perhaps they did not gain much in\nthe way of immediate material good, but that only makes their splendid\nmovement the more admirable. They fought for a magnificent idea, and\neven now, though the populace have to bear a taxation three times as\ngreat as any known before in their history, the ordinary Italian will\nsay, \"Yes, signor--the taxes are very heavy; we toil very hard and pay\nmuch money; but who counts money? We are a nation now--a real nation;\nItaly is united and free.\" That is the gist of the matter. The people\nwere bitterly ground down, and they are content to suffer privation in\nthe present so long as they can ensure freedom from alien rule in the\nfuture. Nothing that the most hardly-entreated Briton suffers in any\ncircumstances could equal the agonies of degradation borne by the people\nof the Peninsula, and their emancipation was hailed as if it had been a\npersonal benefaction by all that was wisest and best in European\nsociety. The millions who turned out to welcome Garibaldi as if he had\nbeen an adored sovereign all had a true appreciation of real liberty;\nthe masses were right in their instinct, and it was left for hysterical\n\"thinkers\" to shriek their deluded ideas in these later days.\n\n\"But surely the Irish rose for freedom in 1641?\" I can almost imagine\nsome clever correspondent asking me that question with a view to taking\nme in a neat trap. It is true enough that the Irish rose; but here again\nwe must learn to discriminate between cases. How did the wild folk rise?\nDid they go out like the Thousand of Marsala and pit themselves against\nodds of five and six to one? Did they show any chivalry? Alas for the\nwicked story! The rebels behaved like cruel wild beasts; they were worse\nthan polecats in an aviary, and they met with about the same resistance\nas the polecats would meet. They stripped the Ulster farmers and their\nfamilies naked, and sent them out in the bitter weather; they hung on\nthe skirts of the agonized crowd; the men cut down the refugees\nwholesale, and even the little boys of the insurgent party were taught\nto torture and kill the unhappy children of the flying farmers. Poor\nlittle infants fell in the rear of the doomed host, but no mother was\nallowed to succour her dying offspring, and the innocents expired in\nunimaginable suffering. The stripped fugitives crowded into Dublin, and\nthere the plague carried them off wholesale. The rebels had gained\nliberty with a vengeance, and they had their way for ten years and more.\nTheir liberty was degraded by savagery; they ruled Ireland at their own\nsweet will; they dwelt in anarchy until the burden of their iniquity\ngrew too grievous for the earth to bear. Then their villainous freedom\nwas suddenly ended by no less a person than Oliver Cromwell, and the\ncurses, the murders, the unspeakable vileness of ten bad years all were\natoned for in wild wrath and ruin. Now is it not marvellous that, while\nthe murderers were free, they were poverty-stricken and most wretched?\nAs soon as Cromwell's voice had ceased to pronounce the doom on the\nunworthy, the great man began his work of regeneration; and under his\niron hand the country which had been miserable in freedom became\nprosperous, happy, and contented. There is no mistaking the facts, for\nmen of all parties swore that the six years which followed the storm of\nDrogheda were the best in all Ireland's history. Had Cromwell only lived\nlonger, or had there been a man fit to follow him, then England and\nIreland would be happier this day.\n\nIn our social life the same conditions hold for the individual as hold\nfor nations in the assembly of the world's peoples. Freedom--true\nfreedom--means liberty to live a beneficent and innocent life. As soon\nas an individual chooses to set up as a law to himself, then we have a\nright--nay, it is our bounden duty--to examine his pretensions. If the\nsense of the wisest in our community declares him unfit to issue dicta\nfor the guidance of men, then we must promptly suppress him; if we do\nnot, our misfortunes are on our own heads. The \"independent\" man may cry\nout about liberty and the rest as much as he likes, but we cannot afford\nto heed him. We simply say, \"You foolish person, liberty, as you are\npleased to call it, would be poison to you. The best medicines for your\nuneasy mind are reproof and restraint; if those fail to act on you, then\nwe must try what the lash will do for you.\"\n\nLet us have liberty for the wise and the good--we know them well enough\nwhen we see them; and no sophist dare in his heart declare that any\ncharlatan ever mastered men permanently. Liberty for the wise and\ngood--yes, and wholesome discipline for the foolish and\nfroward--sagacious guidance for all. Of course, if a man or a community\nis unable to choose a guide of the right sort, then that man or\ncommunity is doomed, and we need say no more of either. I keep warily\nout of the muddy conflict of politics; but I will say that the cries of\ncertain apostles of liberty seem woful and foolish. Unhappy shriekers,\nwhither do they fancy they are bound? Is it to some Land of Beulah,\nwhere they may gambol unrestrained on pleasant hills? The shriekers are\nall wrong, and the best friend of theirs, the best friend of humanity,\nis he who will teach them--sternly if need be--that liberty and license\nare two widely different things.\n\n_August, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_EQUALITY_.\n\n\nOne of the strangest shocks which the British traveller can experience\noccurs to him when he makes his first acquaintance with the American\nservant--especially the male servant. The quiet domineering European is\nstung out of his impassivity by a sort of moral stab which disturbs\nevery faculty, unless he is absolutely stunned and left gasping. In\nEngland, the quiet club servant waits with dignity and reserve, but he\nis obedient to the last degree, and his civility reaches the point of\nabsolute polish. When he performs a service his air is impassive, but if\nhe is addressed his face assumes a quietly good-humoured expression, and\nhe contrives to make his temporary employer feel as though it was a\npleasure to attend upon him. All over our country we find that\npoliteness between employer and servant is mutual. Here and there we\nfind a well-dressed ruffian who thinks he is doing a clever thing when\nhe bullies a servant; but a gentleman is always considerate, quiet,\nrespectful; and he expects consideration, quietness, and respect from\nthose who wait upon him. The light-footed, cheerful young women who\nserve in hotels and private houses are nearly always charmingly kind and\nobliging without ever descending to familiarity; in fact, I believe\nthat, if England be taken all round, it will be found that female\npost-office clerks are the only servants who are positively offensive.\nThey are spoiled by the hurried, captious, tiresome persons who haunt\npost-offices at all hours, and in self-defence they are apt to convert\nthemselves into moral analogues of the fretful porcupine. Perhaps the\nqueenly dames in railway refreshment-rooms are almost equal\nto the post-office damsels; but both classes are growing more\ngood-natured--thanks to Charles Dickens, Mr. Sullivan, and Mr. _Punch_.\n\nBut the American servant exhibits no such weakness as civility; he is\nresolved to let you know that you are in the country of equality, and,\nin order to do that effectually, he treats you as a grovelling inferior.\nYou ask a civil question, and he flings his answer at you as he would\nfling a bone at a dog. Every act of service which he performs comes most\nungraciously from him, and he usually contrives to let you plainly see\ntwo things--first, he is ashamed of his position; secondly, he means to\ntake a sort of indirect revenge on you in order to salve his lacerated\ndignity. A young English peer happened to ask a Chicago servant to clean\na pair of boots, and his tone of command was rather pronounced and\ndefinite. That young patrician began to doubt his own identity when he\nwas thus addressed--\"Ketch on and do them yourself!\" There was no\nredress, no possible remedy, and finally our compatriot humbled himself\nto a negro, and paid an exorbitant price for his polish.\n\nHere we have an absurdity quite fairly exposed. The young American\nstudent who acts as a reporter or waiter during his college vacation is\nnearly always a respectful gentleman who neither takes nor allows a\nliberty; but the underbred boor, keen as he is about his gratuities,\nwill take even your gifts as though he were an Asiatic potentate, and\nthe traveller a passing slave whose tribute is condescendingly received.\nIn a word, the servant goes out of his way to prove that, in his own\nidea, he is quite fit to be anybody's master. The Declaration of\nIndependence informs us that all men are born equal; the transatlantic\nservant takes that with a certain reservation, for he implies that,\nthough men may be equal in a general way, yet, so far as he is\nconcerned, he prefers to reckon himself the superior of anybody with\nwhom business brings him into contact.\n\nIt was in America that I first began to meditate on the problem of\nequality, and I have given it much thought at intervals during several\nyears. The great difficulty is to avoid repeating stale commonplaces on\nthe matter. The robust Briton bellows, \"Equality! Divide up all the\nproperty in the world equally among the inhabitants, and there would be\nrich and poor, just as before, within a week!\" The robust man thinks\nthat settles the whole matter at once. Then we have the stock story of\nthe three practical communists who forced themselves upon the society of\nBaron Rothschild, and explained their views at some length. The Baron\nsaid: \"Gentlemen, I have made a little calculation, and I find that, if\nI divided my property equally among my fellow-citizens, your share would\nbe one florin each. Oblige me by accepting that sum at once, and permit\nme to wish you good-morning.\" This was very neat in its way, but I want\nto talk just a little more seriously of a problem which concerns the\ndaily life of us all, and affects our mental health, our placidity, and\nour self-respect very intimately. In the first place, we have to\nconsider the deplorable exhibitions made by poor humanity whenever\nequality has been fairly insisted on in any community. The Frenchmen of\n1792 thought that a great principle had been asserted when the President\nof the Convention said to the king, \"You may sit down, Louis.\" It seemed\nfine to the gallery when the queenly Marie Antoinette was addressed as\nthe widow Capet; but what a poor business it was after all! The howling\nfamiliarity of the mob never touched the real dignity of the royal\nwoman, and their brutality was only a murderous form of Yankee servant's\nmean \"independence.\" I cannot treat the subject at all without going\ninto necessary subtleties which never occurred to an enraged mob or a\nbloodthirsty and insolent official; I cannot accept the bald jeers of a\ncomfortable, purse-proud citizen as being of any weight, and I am just\nas loath to heed the wire-drawn platitudes of the average philosopher.\nIf we accept the very first maxim of biology, and agree that no two\nindividuals of any living species are exactly alike, we have a\nstarting-point from which we can proceed to argue sensibly. We may pass\nover the countless millions of inequalities which we observe in the\nlower orders of living things: and there is no need to emphasize\ndistinctions which are plain to every child. When we come to speak of\nthe race of men we reach the only concern which has a passionate and\nvital interest for us; even the amazing researches and conclusions of\nthe naturalists have no attraction for us unless they throw a light, no\nmatter how oblique, on our mysterious being and our mysterious fate. The\nlaw which regulates the differentiation of species applies with\nespecial significance when we consider the birth of human individuals;\nthe law which ordains that out of countless millions of animalculae\nwhich once shed their remains on the floor of the deep sea, or that now\nswarm in any pond, there shall be no two alike, holds accurately for the\nmyriads of men who are born and pass away. The type is the same; there\nare fixed resemblances, but exact similarity never. The struggle for\nexistence, no matter what direction it may take, always ends in the\nsingling out of individuals who, in some respect or other, are worthy to\nsurvive, while the weak perish and the elements of their bodies go to\nform new individuals. It soon becomes plain that the crazy cry for\nequality is really only a weak protest against the hardships of the\nbattle for existence. The brutes have not attained to our complexity of\nbrain; ideas are only rudimentary with them, and they decide the\nquestion of superiority by rude methods. Two lions fight until one is\nlaid low; the lioness looks calmly on until the little problem of\nsuperiority is settled, and then she goes off with the victor. The\nhorses on the Pampas have their set battles until one has asserted his\nmastery over the herd, and then the defeated ones cower away abjectly,\nand submit themselves meekly to their lord. All the male animals are\ngiven to issuing challenges in a very self-assertive manner, and the\nobject is the same in every case. But we are far above the brutes; we\nhave that mysterious, immaterial ally of the body, and our struggles are\nsettled amid bewildering refinements and subtleties and restrictions. In\none quarter, power of the soul gives its possessor dominion; in another,\nonly the force of the body is of any avail. If we observe the struggles\nof savages, we see that the idea of equality never occurs to\nhalf-developed men; the chief is the strong man, and his authority can\nbe maintained only by strength or by the influence that strength gives.\nAs the brute dies out of man, the conditions of life's warfare become so\ncomplex that no one living could frame a generalization without finding\nhimself at once faced by a million of exceptions that seem to negative\nhis rule. Who was the most powerful man in England in Queen Anne's day?\nMarlborough was an unmatched fighter; Bolingbroke was an imaginative and\nmasterful statesman; there were thousands of able and strong warriors;\nbut the one who was the most respected and feared was that tiny cripple\nwhose life was a long disease. Alexander Pope was as frail a creature as\never managed to support existence; he rarely had a moment free from\npain; he was so crooked and aborted that a good-hearted woman like Lady\nMary Wortley Montagu was surprised into a sudden fit of laughter when he\nproposed marriage to her. Yet how he was feared! The only one who could\nmatch him was that raging giant who wrote \"Gulliver,\" and the two men\nwielded an essential power greater than that of the First Minister. The\nterrible Atossa, Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, shrank from contact with\nPope, while for a long time the ablest men of the political sets\napproached Swift like lackeys. One power was made manifest by the\nwaspish verse-maker and the powerful satirist, and each was acknowledged\nas a sort of monarch.\n\nIt would be like playing at paradoxes if I went on to adduce many\nmysteries and contradictions that strike us when we consider man's\ndominion over man. We can only come to the same conclusion if we bring\nforward a million of instances; we can only see that the whole human\nrace, individual by individual, are separated one from the other by\ndifferences more or less minute, and wherever two human beings are\nplaced together one must inevitably begin to assert mastery over the\nother. The method of self-assertion may be that of the athlete, or that\nof the intriguer, or that of the clear-sighted over the purblind, or\nthat of the subtle over the simple; it matters not, the effort for\nmastery may be made either roughly or gently, or subtly, or even\nclownishly, but made it will be.\n\nWould it not be better to cease babbling of equality altogether, and to\ntry to accept the laws of life with some submission? The mistake of\nrabid theorists lies in their supposition that the assertion of\nsuperiority by one person necessarily inflicts wrong on another, whereas\nit is only the mastery obtained by certain men over others that makes\nthe life of the civilized human creature bearable. The very servant who\nis insolent while performing his duty only dares to exhibit rudeness\nbecause he is sure of protection by law. All men are equal before the\nlaw. Yes--but how was the recognition of equality enforced? Simply by\nthe power of the strong. No monarch in the world would venture to deal\nout such measure to our rude servitor as was dealt by Clovis to one of\nhis men. The king regarded himself as being affronted by his soldier,\nand he wiped out the affront to his own satisfaction by splitting his\nfollower's head in twain. But the civilized man is secured by a bulwark\nof legality built up by strong hands, and manned, like the great Roman\nwalls, by powerful legionaries of the law. In this law of England, if a\npeer and a peasant fight out a cause the peer has the advantage of the\nstrength given by accumulated wealth--that is one example of our\nmultifarious complexities; but the judge is stronger than either\nlitigant, and it is the inequality personified by the judge that makes\nthe safety of the peasant. In our ordered state, the strong have forced\nthemselves into positions of power; they have decided that the\ncoarseness of brutish conflict is not to be permitted, and one ruling\nagency is established which rests on force, and force alone, but which\nuses or permits the use of force only in cases of extremity. We know\nthat the foundation of all law is martial law, or pure force; we know\nthat when a judge says, \"You shall be hanged,\" the convict feels\nresistance useless, for behind the ushers and warders and turnkeys there\nare the steel and bullet of the soldier. Thus it appears that even in\nthe sanctuary of equality--in the law court--the life and efficiency of\nthe place depend on the assertion of one superior strength--that is, on\nthe assertion of inequality.\n\nIf we choose to address each other as \"Citizen,\" or play any fooleries\nof that kind, we make no difference. Citizen Jourdain may go out\nequipped in complete _carmagnole_, and he may refuse to doff his red cap\nto any dignitary breathing; but all the while Citizen Barras is wielding\nthe real power, and Citizen Buonaparte is awaiting his turn in the\nbackground. All the swagger of equality will avail nothing when Citizen\nBuonaparte gets his chance; and the very men who talked loudest about\nthe reign of equality are the most ready to bow down and worship the\nstrong. Instead of ostentatiously proclaiming that one man is as good\nas another--and better, we should devote ourselves to finding out who\nare our real superiors. When the true man is found he will not stand\nupon petty forms; and no one will demand such punctilios of him. He will\ntreat his brethren as beings to be aided and directed, he will use his\nstrength and his wisdom as gifts for which he must render an account,\nand the trivialities of etiquette will count as nothing. When the street\norator yells, \"Who is our ruler? Is he not flesh and blood like us? Are\nnot many of us above him?\" he may possibly be stating truth. It would\nhave been hard to find any street-lounger more despicable than Bomba or\nmore foolish than poor Louis XVI; but the method of oratory is purely\ndestructive, and it will be much more to the purpose if the street\nfirebrand gives his audience some definite ideas as to the man who ought\nto be chosen as leader. If we have the faculty for recognizing our best\nman, all chatter about equalities and inequalities must soon drop into\nsilence. When the ragged Suwarrow went about among his men and talked\nbluffly with the raw recruits, there was no question of equality in any\nsquad, for the tattered, begrimed man had approved himself the wisest,\nmost audacious, and most king-like of all the host; and he could afford\nto despise appearances. No soldier ventured to think of taking a\nliberty; every man reverenced the rough leader who could think and plan\nand dare. Frederick wandered among the camp-fires at night, and sat down\nwith one group after another of his men. He never dreamed of equality,\nnor did the rude soldiers. The king was greatest; the men were his\ncomrades, and all were bound to serve the Fatherland--the sovereign by\noffering sage guidance, the men by following to the death. No company of\nmen ever yet did worthy work in the world when the notion of equality\nwas tried in practice; and no kind of effort, for evil or for good, ever\ncame to anything so long as those who tried did not recognize the rule\nof the strongest or wisest. Even the scoundrel buccaneers of the Spanish\nMain could not carry on their fiendish trade without sinking the notion\nof equality, and the simple Quakers, the Society of Friends, with all\ntheir straitened ideas, have been constantly compelled to recognize one\nhead of their body, even though they gave him no distinctive title. Our\nbusiness is to see that every man has his due as far as possible, and\nnot more than his due. The superior must perceive what is the degree of\ndeference which must be rendered to the inferior; the inferior must put\naway envy and covetousness, and must learn to bestow, without servility,\nreverence and obedience where reverence and obedience may be rightfully\noffered.\n\n_August, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_FRATERNITY_.\n\n\nSo far as we can see it appears plain that the wish for brotherhood was\non the whole reasonable, and its fulfilment easier than the wild desire\nfor liberty and equality. No doubt Omar and Cromwell and Hoche and\nDumouriez have chosen in their respective times an odd mode of spreading\nthe blessings of fraternity. It is a little harsh to say to a man, \"Be\nmy brother or I will cut your head off;\" but we fear that men of the\nstamp of Mahomet, Cromwell, and the French Jacobins were given to\noffering a choice of the alternatives named. Perhaps we may be safe if\nwe take the roughness of the mere proselytizers as an evidence of\ndefective education; they had a dim perception of a beautiful principle,\nbut they knew of no instrument with which they could carry conviction\nsave the sword. We, with our better light, can well understand that\nbrotherhood should be fostered among men; we are all children of one\nFather, and it is fitting that we should reverently acknowledge the\nuniversal family tie. The Founder of our religion was the earliest\npreacher of the divine gospel of pity, and it is to Him that we owe the\nloveliest and purest conception of brotherhood. He claimed to be the\nBrother of us all; He showed how we should treat our brethren, and He\ncarried His teaching on to the very close of His life.\n\nSo far from talking puerilities about equality, we should all see that\nthere are degrees in our vast family; the elder and stronger brethren\nare bound to succour the younger and weaker; the young must look up to\ntheir elders; and the Father of all will perhaps preserve peace among us\nif we only forget our petty selves and look to Him. Alas, it is so hard\nto forget self! The dullest of us can see how excellent and divine is\nbrotherhood, if we do assuredly carry out the conception of fraternity\nthoroughly; but again I say, How hard it is to banish self and follow\nthe teaching of our divine Brother! If we cast our eyes over the world\nnow, we may see--perhaps indistinctly--things that might make us weep,\nwere it not that we must needs smile at the childish ways of men. In the\nvery nation that first chose to put forward the word \"fraternity\" as one\nof the symbols for which men might die we see a strange spectacle. Half\nthat nation is brooding incessantly on revenge; half the nation is bent\nonly on slaying certain brother human beings who happen to live on the\nnorth and east of a certain river instead of on the south and west. The\nhome of the solacing doctrine of fraternity is also the home of\nincessant preparations for murder, rapine, bitter and brutal vengeance.\nAbout a million of men rise every morning and spend the whole day in\npractising so that they may learn to kill people cleverly; hideous\ninstruments, which must cause devastation, torture, bereavement, and\nwreck, should they ever be used in earnest, are lovingly handled by men\nwho hope to see blood flow before long. The Frenchman cannot yet venture\nto smite his Teutonic brother, but he will do so when he has the chance;\nand thus two bands of brethren, who might have dwelt together amicably,\nmay shortly end by inflicting untold agonies on each other. Both nations\nwhich so savagely await the beginning of a mad struggle are supposed to\nbe followers of the Brother whose sweet message is read and repeated by\nnearly all the men who live on our continent, yet they only utter bitter\nwords and think sullen thoughts, while the more acrid of the two\nadversaries is the country which once inscribed \"Brotherhood\" on its\nvery banners. All round the arena wherein the two great peoples defy\neach other the nations wait anxiously for the delivery of the first\nstroke that shall give the signal for wrath and woe; and, strangely, no\none can tell which of the onlookers is the more fervent professor of our\nMaster's faith. \"Let brotherly love continue!\"--that was the behest laid\non us all; and we manifest our brotherly love by invoking the spirit of\nmurder.\n\nWe know what exquisite visions floated around the twelve who first\nfounded the Church on the principle of fraternity. No brother was to be\nleft poor; all were to hold goods in common; every man should work for\nwhat he could, and receive what he needed; but evil crept in, and\ndissension and heart-burning, and ever since then the best of our poor\nbesotted human race have been groping blindly after fraternity and\nfinding it never. I always deprecate bitter or despondent views, or\nexaggerating the importance of our feeble race--for, after all, the\nwhole time during which man has existed on earth is but as a brief\nswallow-flight compared with the abysmal stretches of eternity; but I\nconfess that, when I see the flower of our race trained to become\nkillers of men and awaiting the opportunity to exercise their murderous\narts I feel a little sick at heart. Even they are compelled to hear the\ncommands of the lovely gospel of fraternity, and, unless they die\nquickly in the fury of combat, their last moments are spent in listening\nto the same blessed words. It seems so mad and dreamlike that I have\nfound myself thinking that, despite all our confidence, the world may be\nbut a phantasmagoria, and ourselves, with our flesh that seems so solid,\nmay be no more than fleeting wraiths. There is no one to rush between\nthe scowling nations, as the poor hermit did between the gladiators in\nwicked Rome; there is no one to say, \"Poor, silly peasant from pleasant\nFrance, why should you care to stab and torment that other poor\nflaxen-haired simpleton from Silesia? Your fields await you; if you were\nleft to yourselves, then you and the Silesian would be brothers,\nworshipping like trusting children before the common Father of us all.\nAnd now you can find nothing better to do than to do each other to\ndeath!\" Like the sanguine creatures who carried out the revolutionary\nmovements of 1789, 1830, 1848, and 1860, the weak among us are apt to\ncry out--\"Surely the time of fraternity has come at last!\" Then, when\nthe murderous Empire, or the equally murderous Republic, or the grim\nmilitary despotism arrives instead of fraternity, the weak ones are\nsmitten with confusion. I pity them, for a bitterness almost as of death\nmust be lived through before one learns that God indeed doeth all things\nwell. The poor Revolutionists thought that they must have rapid changes,\nand their hysterical visions appeared to them like perfectly wise and\naccurate glances into the future. They were in a hurry, forgetting that\nwe cannot change our marvellous society on a sudden, any more than we\ncan change a single tissue of our bodies on a sudden--hence their\nfrantic hopes and frantic despair. If we gaze coolly round, we see that,\nin spite of a muttering, threatening France and a watchful Germany, in\nspite of the huge Russian storm-cloud that lowers heavily over Europe,\nin spite of the venomous intrigues with which Austria is accredited,\nthere are still cheerful symptoms to be seen, and it may happen that the\nvery horror of war may at last drive all men to reject it, and declare\nfor fraternity. Look at that very France which is now so electric with\npassion and suspicion, and compare it with the France of long ago. The\nGaul now thinks of killing the Teuton; but in the time of the good King\nHenry IV. he delighted in slaying his brother Gaul. The race who now\nonly care to turn their hands against a rival nation once fought among\nthemselves like starving rats in a pit. Even in the most polished\nsociety the men used to pick quarrels to fight to the death. In one year\nof King Henry's reign nine thousand French gentlemen were killed in\nduels! Bad as we are, we are not likely to return to such a state of\nthings as then was seen. The men belonged to one nation, and they ought\nto have banded together so that no foreign foe might take advantage of\nthem; and yet they chose rather to slaughter each other at the rate of\nnearly one hundred and ninety per week. Certainly, so far as France is\nconcerned, we can see some improvement; for, although the cowardly and\nabominable practice of duelling is still kept up, only one man was\nkilled during the past twelve months, instead of nine thousand. In\nEngland we have had nearly two hundred years of truce from civil wars;\nin Germany the sections of the populace have at any rate stopped\nfighting among themselves; in Italy there are no longer the shameful\nfeuds of Guelf and Ghibelline. It would seem, then, that civil strife is\npassing away, and that countries which were once the prey of\nbloodthirsty contending factions are now at least peaceful within their\nown borders.\n\nIf we reason from small things to great, we see that the squabbling\nnests of murderers, or would-be murderers, who peopled France, England,\nGermany, Austria, and Italy have given way to compact nations which\nenjoy unbroken internal peace. The struggles of business go on; the weak\nare trampled under foot in the mad rush of the cities of men, but the\nactual infliction of pain and death is not now dreamed of by Frenchman\nagainst Frenchman or German against German. We must remember that there\nnever was so deadly and murderous a spirit displayed as during the\nThirty Years' War, and yet the peoples who then wrestled and throttled\neach other are now peaceful under the same yoke. May we not trust that a\ntime will come when nations will see on a sudden the blank folly of\nmaking war? Day by day the pressure of armaments is growing greater, and\nwe may almost hope that the very fiendish nature of modern weapons may\nbring about a blessed _reductio ad absurdum_, and leave war as a thing\nludicrous, and not to be contemplated by sane men! I find one gun\nspecially advertised in our Christian country, and warranted to kill as\nmany men in one minute as two companies of infantry could in five! What\nwill be the effect of the general introduction of this delightful\nweapon? No force can possibly stand before it; no armour or works can\nkeep out the hail of its bullets. Supposing, then, that benevolent\nscience goes on improving the means of slaughter, must there not come a\ntime when people will utterly refuse to continue the mad and miserable\nfolly of war? Over the whole of Britain we may find even now the marks\nof cannon-shot discharged by Englishmen against the castles of other\nEnglishmen. Is there one man in Britain who can at this present moment\nbring his imagination to conceive such an occurrence as an artillery\nfight between bodies of Englishmen? It is almost too absurd to be named\neven as a casual supposition. So far has fraternity spread. Now, if we\ngo on perfecting dynamite shells which can destroy one thousand men by\none explosion; if we increase the range of our guns from twelve miles to\ntwenty, and fight our pieces according to directions signalled from a\nballoon, we shall be going the very best way to make all men rise with\none spasm of disgust, and say, \"No more of this!\"\n\nWe cannot hope to do away with evil speaking, with verbal quarrelling,\nwith mean grasping of benefits from less fortunate brethren. Alas, the\nreign of brotherhood will be long in eradicating the primeval combative\ninstinct; but, when we compare the quiet urbanity of a modern gathering\nwith the loud and senseless brawling which so often resulted from social\nassemblies even at the beginning of this century we may take some heart\nand hope on for the best. Our Lord had a clear vision of a time when\nbitterness and evil-doing should cease, and His words are more than a\nshadowy prediction. The fact is that, in striving gradually to introduce\nthe third of the conditions of life craved by the poor feather-witted\nFrenchmen, the nations have a comparatively easy task. We cannot have\nequality, physical conditions having too much to do with giving the\npowers and accomplishments of men; we can only claim liberty under the\nsupreme guidance of our Creator; but fraternity is quite a possible\nconsummation. Our greatest hero held it as the Englishman's first duty\nto hate a Frenchman as he hated the Devil; now that mad and cankered\nfeeling has passed away, and why should not the spread of common sense,\ncommon honesty, bring us at last to see that our fellow-man is better\nwhen regarded as a brother than as a possible assassin or thief?\n\nOur corporate life and progress as nations, or even as a race of God's\ncreatures, is much like the life and progress of the individual. The\nchildren of men stumble often, fall often, despair often, and yet the\ngreat universal movement goes on, and even the degeneracy which must\nalways go on side by side with progress does not appreciably stay our\nadvance. The individual man cannot walk even twenty steps without\nactually saving himself by a balancing movement from twenty falls. Every\nstep tends to become an ignominious tumble, and yet our poor body may\nvery easily move at the rate of four miles per hour, and we gain our\ndestinations daily. The human race, in spite of many slips, will go on\nprogressing towards good--that is, towards kindness--that is, towards\nfraternity--that is, towards the gospel, which at present seems so\nwildly and criminally neglected. The mild and innocent Anarcharsis\nClootz, who made his way over the continent of Europe, and who came to\nour little island, in his day always believed that the time for the\nfederation of mankind would come. Poor fellow--he died under the\nmurderous knife of the guillotine and did little to further his\nbeautiful project! He was esteemed a harmless lunatic; yet,\nnotwithstanding the twelve millions of armed men who trample Europe, I\ndo not think that Clootz was quite a lunatic after all. Moreover, all\nmen know that right must prevail, and they know also that there is not a\nhuman being on earth who does not believe by intuition that the gospel\nof brotherhood is right, even as the life of its propounder was holy.\nThe way is weary toward the quarter where the rays of dawn will first\nbreak over the shoulder of the earth. We walk on hoping, and, even if we\nfall by the way, and all our hopes seem to be tardy of fruition, yet\nothers will hail the slow dawn of brotherhood when all now living are\ndead and still.\n\n_September, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_LITTLE WARS_.\n\n\nJust at this present our troops are engaged in fighting various savage\ntribes in various parts of the world, and the humorous journalist speaks\nof the affairs as \"little wars.\" There is something rather gruesome in\nthis airy flippancy proceeding from comfortable gentlemen who are in\nnice studies at home. The Burmese force fights, marches, toils in an\natmosphere which would cause some of the airy critics to faint; the\nThibetan force must do as much climbing as would satisfy the average\nAlpine performer; and all the soldiers carry their lives in their hands.\nWhat is a little war? Is any war little to a man who loses his life in\nit? I imagine that when a wounded fighter comes to face his last hour he\nregards the particular war in which he is engaged as quite the most\nmomentous affair in the world so far as he is concerned. To me the whole\nspectacle of the little wars is most grave, both as regards the nation\nand as regards the individual Britons who must suffer and fall. Our\ndestiny is heavy upon us; we must \"dree our weirde,\" for we have begun\nwalking on the road of conquest, and we must go forward or die. The man\nwho has the wolf by the ears cannot let go his hold; we cannot slacken\nour grip on anything that once we have clutched. But it is terrible to\nsee how we are bleeding at the extremities. I cannot give the figures\ndetailing our losses in little wars during the past forty years, but\nthey are far worse than we incurred in the world-shaking fight of\nWaterloo. Incessantly the drip, drip of national blood-shedding goes on,\nand no end seems to be gained, save the grim consciousness that we must\nsuffer and never flinch. The graves of our best and dearest--our hardy\nloved ones--are scattered over the ends of the earth, and the little\nwars are answerable for all. England, in her blundering, half-articulate\nfashion, answers, \"Yes, they had to die; their mother asked for their\nblood, and they gave it.\" So then from scores of punctures the\nlife-blood of the mother of nations drops, and each new bloodshed leads\nto yet further bloodshed, until the deadly series looks endless. We sent\nBurnes to Cabul, and we betrayed him in the most dastardly way by the\nmouth of a Minister. England, the great mother, was not answerable for\nthat most unholy of crimes; it was the talking men, the glib Parliament\ncowards. Burnes was cut to pieces and an army lost. Crime brings forth\ncrime, and thus we had to butcher more Afghans. Every inch of India has\nbeen bought in the same way; one war wins territory which must be\nsecured by another war, and thus the inexorable game is played on. In\nAfrica we have fared in the same way, and thus from many veins the red\nstream is drained, and yet the proud heart of the mother continues to\nbeat strongly. It is so hard for men to die; it is as hard for the Zulu\nand the Afghan and the Ghoorka as it is for the civilized man, and that\nis why I wish it were Britain's fortune to be allowed to cease from the\nshedding of blood. If the corpses of the barbarians whom we have\ndestroyed within the past ten years could only be laid out in any open\nspace and shown to our populace, there would be a shudder of horror felt\nthrough the country; yet, while the sweet bells chime to us about peace\nand goodwill, we go on sending myriads of men out of life, and the\nnation pays no more heed to that steady ruthless killing than it does to\nthe slaughter of oxen. Alas!\n\nThen, if we think of the lot of those who fight for us and slaughter our\nhapless enemies by deputy as it were, their luck seems very hard. When\nthe steady lines moved up the Alma slope and the men were dropping so\nfast, the soldiers knew that they were performing their parts as in a\nvast theatre; their country would learn the story of their deed, and the\nfeats of individuals would be amply recorded. But, when a man spends\nmonths in a far-off rocky country, fighting day after day, watching\nnight after night, and knowing that at any moment the bullet of a\nprowling Ghilzai or Afridi may strike him, he has very little\nconsolation indeed. When one comes to think of the matter from the\nhumorous point of view--though there is more grim fact than fun in\nit--it does seem odd that we should be compelled to spend two thousand\npounds on an officer's education, and then send him where he may be\nwiped out of the world in an instant by a savage little above the level\nof the Bushman. I pity the poor savages, but I certainly pity the\nrefined and highly-trained English soldier more. The latest and most\ndelightful of our Anglo-Indians has put the matter admirably in verse\nwhich carries a sting even amidst its pathos. He calls his verses\n\"Arithmetic on the Frontier.\"\n\n     A great and glorious thing it is\n       To learn for seven years or so\n     The Lord knows what of that or this,\n       Ere reckoned fit to face the foe,\n     The flying bullet down the pass,\n     That whistles clear, \"All flesh is grass.\"\n\n     Three hundred pounds per annum spent\n       On making brain and body meeter\n     For all the murderous intent\n       Comprised in villainous saltpetre!\n     And after--ask the Yusufzaies\n     What comes of all our 'ologies.\n\n     A scrimmage in a border station,\n       A canter down some dark defile--\n     Two thousand pounds of education\n       Drops to a ten-rupee jezail!\n     The crammer's boast, the squadron's pride\n     Shot like a rabbit in a ride.\n\n     No proposition Euclid wrote,\n       No formulae the text-book know,\n     Will turn the bullet from your coat\n       Or ward the tulwar's downward blow;\n     Strike hard who cares--shoot straight who can--\n     The odds are on the cheaper man.\n\n     One sword-knot stolen from the camp\n       Will pay for all the school expenses\n     Of any Kurrum Valley scamp\n       Who knows no word of moods and tenses,\n     But, being blessed with perfect sight,\n     Picks off our messmates left and right.\n\n     With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem;\n       The troop-ships bring us one by one,\n     At vast expense of time and steam,\n       To slay Afridis where they run.\n     The captives of our bow and spear\n     Are cheap, alas, as we are dear!\n\nThere is a world of meaning in those half-sad, half-smiling lines, and\nmany an hour-long discourse might fail to throw more lurid light on one\nof the strangest historical problems in the world. The flower of\nEngland's manhood must needs go; and our most brilliant scholars, our\nboldest riders, our most perfect specimens of physical humanity drop\nlike rabbits to the fire of half-naked savages! The bright boy, the hero\nof school and college, the brisk, active officer, passes away into\nobscurity. The mother weeps--perhaps some one nearer and dearer than all\nis stricken: but the dead Englishman's name vanishes from memory like a\nfleck of haze on the side of the valley where he sleeps. England--cold,\ninexorable, indifferent--has other sons to take the dead man's place and\nperhaps share his obscurity; and the doomed host of fair gallant youths\nmoves forward ever in serried, fearless lines towards the shadows. That\nis what it costs to be a mighty nation. It is sorrowful to think of the\nsacrificed men--sacrificed to fulfil England's imposing destiny; it is\nsorrowful to think of the mourners who cannot even see their darling's\ngrave; yet there is something grandiose and almost morbidly impressive\nin the attitude of Britain. She waves her imperial hand and says, \"See\nwhat my place in the world is! My bravest, my most skilful, may die in a\nfight that is no more than a scuffling brawl; they go down to the dust\nof death unknown, but the others come on unflinching. It is hard that I\nshould part with my precious sons in mean warfare, but the fates will\nhave it so, and I am equal to the call of fate.\" Thus the sovereign\nnation. Those who have no very pompous notions are willing to recognize\nthe savage grandeur of our advance; but I cannot help thinking of the\nlonely graves, the rich lives squandered, the reckless casting away of\nhuman life, which are involved in carrying out our mysterious mission in\nthe great peninsula. Our graves are spread thickly over the deadly\nplains; our brightest and best toil and suffer and die, and they have\nhardly so much as a stone to mark their sleeping-place; our blood has\nwatered those awful stretches from the Himalayas to Comorin, and we may\ncall Hindostan the graveyard of Britain's noblest. People who see only\nthe grizzled veterans who lounge away their days at Cheltenham or\nBrighton think that the fighting trade must be a very nice one after\nall. To retire at fifty with a thousand a year is very pleasant no\ndoubt; but then every one of those war-worn gentlemen who returns to\ntake his ease represents a score who have perished in fights as\nundignified as a street brawl. \"More legions!\" said Varus; \"More\nlegions!\" says England; and our regiments depart without any man\nthinking of _Morituri te salittant!_ Yes; that phrase might well be in\nthe mind of every British man who fares down the Red Sea and enters the\nIndian furnace. Those about to die, salute thee, O England, our mother!\nIs it worth while? Sometimes I have my doubts. Moreover, I never talk\nwith one of our impassive, masterful Anglo-Indians without feeling sorry\nthat their splendid capacities should be so often cast into darkness,\nand their fame confined to the gossip of a clump of bungalows. Verily\nour little wars use up an immense quantity of raw material in the shape\nof intellect and power. A man whose culture is far beyond that of the\nmouthing politicians at home and whose statesmanship is not to be\ncompared to the ignorant crudities of the pigmies who strut and fret on\nthe English party stage--this man spends great part of a lifetime in\nruling and fighting; he gives every force of a great intellect and will\nto his labours, and he achieves definite and beneficent practical\nresults; yet his name is never mentioned in England, and any vulgar\nvestryman would probably outweigh him in the eyes of the populace.\nCarlyle says that we should despise fame. \"Do your work,\" observes the\nsage, \"and never mind the rest. When your duty is done, no further\nconcern rests with you.\" And then the aged thinker goes on to snarl at\npuny creatures who are not content to be unknown. Well, that is all very\nstoical and very grand, and so forth; but Carlyle forgot human nature.\nHe himself raged and gnashed his teeth because the world neglected him,\nand I must with every humility ask forgiveness of his _manes_ if I\nexpress some commiseration for the unknown braves who perish in our\nlittle wars. Our callousness as individuals can hardly be called lordly,\nthough the results are majestic; we accept supreme services, and we\naccept the supreme sacrifice (Skin for skin: all that a man hath will he\ngive for his life), and we very rarely think fit to growl forth a chance\nword of thanks. Luckily our splendid men are not very importunate, and\nmost of them accept with silent humour the neglect which befalls them.\nAn old fighting general once remarked, \"These fellows are in luck since\nthe telegraph and the correspondents have been at work. We weren't so\nfortunate in my day. I went through the Crimea and the Mutiny, and there\nwas yet another affair in 1863 that was hotter than either, so far as\nclose fighting and proportional losses of troops were concerned. A\nforce of three thousand was sent against the Afghans, and they never\ngave us much rest night or day. They seemed determined to give their\nlives away, and they wouldn't be denied. I've seen them come on and grab\nat the muzzles of the rifles. We did a lot of fighting behind rough\nbreastworks, but sometimes they would rush us then. We lost thirty\nofficers out of thirty-four before we were finished. Well, when I came\nhome and went about among the clubs, the fellows used to say to me,\n'What was this affair of yours up in the hills? We had no particulars\nexcept the fact that you were fighting.' And that expedition cost ten\ntimes as many men as your Egyptian one, besides causing six weeks of\nalmost constant fighting; yet not a newspaper had a word to say about\nit! We never grumbled much--it was all in the day's work; but it shows\nhow men's luck varies.\"\n\nThere spoke the old fighter, \"Duty first, and take your chance of the\nrest.\" True; but could not one almost wish that those forlorn heroes who\nsaved our frontier from savage hordes might have gained just a little of\nthat praise so dear to the frivolous mind of man? It was not to be; the\ndead men's bones have long ago sunk into the kindly earth, the wind\nflows down the valleys, and the fighters sleep in the unknown glens and\non far-distant hillsides with no record save the curt clerk's mark in\nthe regimental list--\"Dead.\"\n\nWhen I hear the merry pressman chatting about little wars and proudly\nlooking down on \"mere skirmishes,\" I cannot restrain a movement of\nimpatience. Are our few dead not to be considered because they were few?\nSupposing they had swarmed forward in some great battle of the West and\ndied with thousands of others amid the hurricane music of hundreds of\nguns, would the magnitude of the battle make any difference?\n\nHonour to those who risk life and limb for England; honour to them,\nwhether they die amid loud battle or in the far-away dimness of a little\nwar!\n\n_September, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_THE BRITISH FESTIVAL_.\n\n\nAgain and again I have talked about the delights of leisure, and I\nalways advise worn worldlings to renew their youth and gain fresh ideas\namid the blessed calm of the fields and the trees. But I lately watched\nan immense procession of holiday-makers travelling mile after mile in\nlong-drawn sequence--and the study caused me to have many thoughts.\nThere was no mistake about the intentions of the vast mob. They started\nwith a steadfast resolution to be jolly--and they kept to their\nresolution so long as they were coherent of mind. It was a strange\nsight--a population probably equal to half that of Scotland all plunged\ninto a sort of delirium and nearly all forgetting the serious side of\nlife. As I gazed on the frantic assembly, I wondered how the English\never came to be considered a grave solid nation; I wondered, moreover,\nhow a great percentage of men representing a nation of conquerors,\nexplorers, administrators, inventors, should on a sudden decide to go\nmad for a day. Perhaps, after all, the catchword \"Merry England\" meant\nreally \"Mad England\"; perhaps the good days which men mourned for after\nthe grim shade of Puritanism came over the country were neither more nor\nless than periods of wild orgies; perhaps we have reason to be thankful\nthat the national carnivals do not now occur very often. Our ancestors\nhad a very peculiar idea of what constituted a merry-making, and there\nare many things in ancient art and literature which tempt us to fancy\nthat a certain crudity distinguished the festivals of ancient days; but\nstill the latter-day frolic in all its monstrous proportions is not to\nbe studied by a philosophic observer without profoundly moving thoughts\narising. As I gazed on the endless flow of travellers, I could hardly\nhelp wondering how the mob would conduct themselves during any great\nsocial convulsion. Some gushing persons talk about the good humour and\norderliness of the British crowd. Well, I allow that the better class of\nholiday-makers exhibit a kind of rough good nature; but, whenever\n\"sport\" is in question, we find that a certain class come to the\nfront--a class who are not genial or merry, but purely lawless. While\nthe huge carnival is in progress during one delirious day, we have a\nchance of seeing in a mild form what would happen if a complete national\ndisaster caused society to become fundamentally disordered. The beasts\nof prey come forth from their lairs, the most elementary rules of\nconduct are forgotten or bluntly disregarded, and the law-abiding\ncitizen may see robbery and violence carried on in broad daylight. In\nsome cases it happens that organized bands of thieves rob one man after\nanother with a brutal effrontery which quite shames the minor abilities\nof Macedonian or Calabrian brigands. Forty or fifty consummate\nscoundrels work in concert; and it often happens that even the\nbetting-men are seized, raised from the ground, and shaken until their\nmoney falls and is scrambled for by eager rascaldom. Wherever there Is\nsport the predatory animals flock together; and I thought, when last I\nsaw the crew, \"If a foreign army were in movement against England and a\npanic arose, there would be little mercy for quiet citizens.\" On a hasty\ncomputation, I should say that an ordinary Derby Day brings together an\narmy of wastrels and criminals strong enough to sack London if once the\ninitial impetus were given; and who can say what blind chance may supply\nthat impetus even in our day? There is not so much sheer foulness\nnowadays as there used to be; the Yahoo element--male and female--is not\nobtrusive; and it is even possible for a lady to remain in certain\nquarters of the mighty Downs without being offended in any way. Our\ngrandfathers--and our fathers, for that matter--had a somewhat acrid\nconception of humour, and the offscourings of the city ministered to\nthis peculiar humorous sense in a singular way. But a leaven of\npropriety has now crept in, and the evil beings who were wont to pollute\nthe sweet air preserve some moderate measure of seemliness. I am willing\nto welcome every sign of improving manners; and yet I must say that the\ngreat British Festival is a sorry and even horrible spectacle. What is\nthe net result or purpose of the whole display? Cheery scribes babble\nabout \"Isthmian games\" and the glorious air of the Surrey hills, and\nthey try to put on a sort of jollity and semblance of well-being; but\nthe sham is a poor one, and the laughing hypocrites know in their hearts\nthat the vast gathering of people means merely waste, idleness,\nthievery, villainy, vice of all kinds--and there is next to no\ncompensation for the horrors which are crowded together. I would fain\npick out anything good from the whole wild spectacle; but I cannot, and\nso give up the attempt with a sort of sick despair. There is something\nrather pleasant in the sight of a merry lad who attends his first Derby,\nfor he sees only the vivid rush and movement of crowds; but to a\nseasoned observer and thinker the tremendous panorama gives suggestions\nonly of evil. I hardly have patience to consider the fulsome talk of the\nwriters who print insincerities by the column year by year. They know\nthat the business is evil, and yet they persist in speaking as if there\nwere some magic influence in the reeking crowd which, they declare,\ngives health and tone to body and mind. The dawdling parties who lunch\non the Hill derive no particular harm; but then how they waste money and\ntime! Plunderers of all sorts flourish in a species of blind whirl of\nknavery; but no worthy person derives any good from the cruel waste of\nmoney and strength and energy. The writers know all this, and yet they\ngo on turning out their sham cordiality, sham congratulations, sham\njustifications; while any of us who know thoroughly the misery and\nmental death and ruin of souls brought on by racing and gambling are\nlabelled as un-English or churlish or something of the kind. Why should\nwe be called churlish? Is it not true that a million of men and women\nwaste a day on a pursuit which brings them into contact with filthy\nintemperance, stupid debauch, unspeakable coarseness? The eruptive\nsportsman tells us that the sight of a good man on a good horse should\nstir every manly impulse in a Briton. What rubbish! What manliness can\nthere be in watching a poor baby-colt flogged along by a dwarf? If one\nis placed at some distance from the course, then one may find the\nglitter of the pretty silk jackets pleasing; but, should one chance to\nbe near enough to see what is termed \"an exciting finish,\" one's\ngeneral conception of the manliness of racing may be modified. From afar\noff the movement of the jockeys' whip-hands is no more suggestive than\nthe movement of a windmill's sails; but, when one hears the \"flack,\nflack\" of the whalebone and sees the wales rise on the dainty skin of\nthe immature horse, one does not feel quite joyous or manly. I have seen\na long lean creature reach back with his right leg and keep on jobbing\nwith the spur for nearly four hundred yards of a swift finish; I saw\nanother manikin lash a good horse until the animal fairly curved its\nback in agony and writhed its head on one side so violently that the\nmanly sporting-men called it an ungenerous brute. Where does the fun\ncome in for the onlookers? There is one good old thoroughbred which\nremembers a fearful flogging that he received twenty-two years ago; if\nhe hears the voice of the man who lashed him, he sweats profusely, and\ntrembles so much that he is like to fall down. How is the breed of\nhorses directly improved by that kind of sport? No; the thousands of\nwastrels who squander the day and render themselves unsettled and idle\nfor a week are not thinking of horses or of taking a healthy outing;\nthey are obeying an unhealthy gregarious instinct which in certain\ncircumstances makes men show clear signs of acute mania. If we look at\nthe unadulterated absurdity of the affair, we may almost be tempted to\nrage like Carlyle or Swift. For weeks there are millions of people who\ntalk of little else save the doings of useless dumb animals which can\nperform no work in the world and which at best are beautiful toys. When\nthe thoroughbreds actually engage in their contest, there is no man of\nall the imposing multitude who can see them gallop for more than about\nthirty seconds; the last rush home is seen only by the interesting\nmortals who are on the great stand; and the entire performance which\ninterests some persons for a year is all over in less than three\nminutes. This is the game on which Englishmen lavish wild hopes, keen\nattention, and good money--this is the sport of kings which gluts the\npockets of greedy knaves! A vast city--nay, a vast empire--is partially\ndisorganized for a day in order that some dwarfish boys may be seen\nflogging immature horses during a certain number of seconds, and we\nlearn that there is something \"English,\" and even chivalrous, in the\nfoolish wastrel proceedings.\n\nMy conceptions of English virtues are probably rudimentary; but I quite\nfail to discover where the \"nobility\" of horse-racing and racecourse\npicnicing appears. My notion of \"nobility\" belongs to a bygone time; and\nI was gratified by hearing of one very noble deed at the moment when the\nflashy howling mob were trooping forward to that great debauch which\ntakes place around the Derby racecourse. A great steamer was flying over\na Southern sea, and the sharks were showing their fins and prowling\naround with evil eyes. The _Rimutaka_ spun on her way, and all the\nship's company were cheerful and careless. Suddenly a poor crazy woman\nsprang over the side and was drifted away by a surface-current; while\nthe irresistible rush of the steamer could not of course be easily\nstayed. A good Englishman--honour for ever to his name!--jumped into the\nwater, swam a quarter of a mile, and, by heaven's grace, escaped the\nwicked sea-tigers and saved the unhappy distraught woman. That man's\nname is Cavell: and I think of \"nobility\" in connection with him, and\nnot in connection with the manikins who rush over Epsom Downs.\n\nI like to give a thought to the nobility of those men who guard and rule\na mighty empire; but I think very little of the creatures who merely\nconsume food and remain at home in rascally security. What a farce to\ntalk of encouraging \"athletics\"! The poor manikin who gets up on a racer\nis not an athlete in any rational sense of the term. He is a wiry\nemaciated being whose little muscles are strung like whipcord; but it is\nstrange to dignify him as an athlete. If he once rises above nine stone\nin weight, his life becomes a sort of martyrdom; but, abstemious and\nself-contained as he is, we can hardly give him the name which means so\nmuch to all healthy Englishmen. For some time each day the wondrous\nspecimen of manhood must stew in a Turkish bath or between blankets; he\ntramps for miles daily if his feet keep sound; he starts at five in the\nmorning and perhaps rides a trial or two; then he takes his weak tea and\ntoast, then exercise or sweating; then comes his stinted meal; and then\nhe starves until night. To call such a famished lean fellow a follower\nof \"noble\" sport is too much. Other British men deny themselves; but\nthen think of the circumstances! Far away among the sea of mountains on\nour Indian frontier a gallant Englishman remains in charge of his lonely\nstation; his Pathans or Ghoorkas are fine fellows, and perhaps some\nbrave old warrior will use the privilege of age and stroll in to chat\nrespectfully to the Sahib. But it is all lonely--drearily lonely. The\nmountain partridge may churr at sunrise and sundown; the wily crows may\nplay out their odd life-drama daily; the mountain winds may rush\nroaring through the gullies until the village women say they can hear\nthe hoofs of the brigadier's horse. But what are these desert sounds and\nsights for the laboriously-cultured officer? His nearest comrade is\nmiles off; his spirit must dwell alone. And yet such men hang on at\ntheir dreary toil; and who can ever hear them complain, save in their\nsemi-humorous letters to friends at home? They often carry their lives\nin their hands; but they can only hope to rest unknown if the chance\ngoes against them. I call those men noble. There are no excited\nthousands for them to figure before; they scarcely have the honour of\nmention in a despatch; but they go on in grim silence, working out their\nown destiny and the destiny of this colossal empire. When I compare them\nwith the bold sportsmen, I feel something like disgust. The real\nhigh-hearted heroes do not crave rewards--if they did, they would reap\nvery little. The bold man who risked everything to save the _Calliope_\nwill never earn as much in a year as a horse-riding manikin can in two\nmonths. That is the way we encourage our finest merit. And meantime at\nthe \"Isthmian games\" the hordes of scoundreldom who dwell at ease can\nenjoy themselves to their hearts' content in their own dreadful way;\nthey break out in their usual riot of foulness; they degrade the shape\nof man; and the burly moralists look on robustly, and say that it is\ngood.\n\nI never think of the great British carnival without feeling that the\ndregs of that ugly crowd will one day make history in a fashion which\nwill set the world shuddering. I have no pity for ruined gamblers; but I\nam indignant when we see the worst of human kind luxuriating in\nabominable idleness and luxury on the foul fringe of the hateful\nracecourse. No sumptuary law will ever make any inroad on the cruel\nevil; and my feeling is one of sombre hopelessness.\n\n\n_July, 1889._\n\n\n\n\n_SEASONABLE NONSENSE_.\n\n\nThe most hard-hearted of cynics must pity the poor daily journalist who\nis calmly requested nowadays to produce a Christmas article. For my own\npart I decline to meddle with holly and jollity and general goodwill,\nand I have again and again protested against the insane Beggars'\nCarnival which breaks out yearly towards the beginning of December. A\nman may be pleased enough to hear his neighbour express goodwill, but he\ndoes not want his neighbour's hand held forth to grasp our Western\nequivalent for \"backsheesh.\" In Egypt the screeching Arabs make life\nmiserable with their ceaseless dismal yell, \"_Backsheesh, Howaji!_\" The\naverage British citizen is also hailed with importunate cries which are\nnone the less piercing and annoying from the fact that they are\ntranslated into black and white. The ignoble frivolity of the swarming\ncirculars, the obvious insincerity of the newspaper appeals, the\nhouse-to-house calls, tend steadily to vulgarize an ancient and a\nbeautiful institution, and alienate the hearts of kindly people who do\nnot happen to be abject simpletons. The outbreak of kindness is\nsometimes genuine on the part of the donors; but it is often merely\nsurface-kindness, and the gifts are bestowed in a bitter and grudging\nspirit. Let me ask, What are the real feelings of a householder who is\nrequested to hand out a present to a turncock or dustman whom he has\nnever seen? The functionaries receive fair wages for unskilled labour,\nyet they come smirking cheerfully forward and prefer a claim which has\nno shadow of justification. If a flower-seller is rather too importunate\nin offering her wares, she is promptly imprisoned for seven days or\nfined; if a costermonger halts for a few minutes in a thoroughfare and\ncries his goods, his stock maybe confiscated; yet the privileged\nChristmas mendicant may actually proceed to insolence if his claims are\nignored; and the meek Briton submits to the insult. I cannot\nsufficiently deplore the progress of this spirit of beggardom, for it is\nacting and reacting in every direction all over the country. Long ago we\nlamented the decay of manly independence among the fishermen of those\nEast Coast ports which have become watering-places. Big bearded fellows\nwhose fathers would have stared indignantly at the offer of a gratuity\nare ready to hold out their hands and touch their caps to the most\nvulgar dandy that ever swaggered. To any one who knew and loved the\nwhole breed of seamen and fishermen, a walk along Yarmouth sands in\nSeptember is among the most purely depressing experiences in life. But\nthe demoralization of the seaside population is not so distressing as\nthat of the general population in great cities. We all know Adam\nBede--the very finest portrait of the old-fashioned workman ever done.\nIf George Eliot had represented Adam as touching his cap for a sixpence,\nwe should have gasped with surprise at the incongruity. Can we imagine\nan old-world stonemason like Hugh Miller begging coppers from a farmer\non whose steading he happened to be employed? The thing is\npreposterous! But now a strong London artizan will coolly ask for his\ngratuity just as if he were a mere link-boy!\n\nIt is pleasant to turn to kindlier themes; it is pleasant to think of\nthe legitimate rejoicings and kindnesses in which the most staid of us\nmay indulge. Far be it from me to emulate the crabbed person who\nproposed to form a \"Society for the Abolition of Christmas.\" The event\nto be commemorated is by far the greatest in the history of our planet;\nall others become hardly worthy of mention when we think of it; and\nnothing more momentous can happen until the last catastrophe, when a\nchilled and tideless earth shall roll through space, and when no memory\nshall remain of the petty creatures who for a brief moment disturbed its\nsurface. The might of the Empire of Rome brooded over the fairest\nportions of the known world, and it seemed as though nothing could shake\nthat colossal power; the pettiest officer of the Imperial staff was of\nmore importance than all the natives of Syria; and yet we see that the\nfabric of Roman rule has passed away like a vision, while the faith\ntaught by a band of poor Syrian men has mastered the minds of the\nstrongest nations in the world. The poor disciples whom the Master left\nbecame apostles; footsore and weary they wandered--they were scorned and\nimprisoned and tortured until the last man of them had passed away.\nTheir work has subdued princes and empires, and the bells that ring out\non Christmas Eve remind us not only of the most tremendous occurrence in\nhistory, but of the deeds of a few humble souls who conquered the fear\nof death and who resigned the world in order that the children of the\nworld might be made better. A tremendous Event truly! We are far, far\naway from the ideal, it is true; and some of us may feel a thrill of\nsick despair when we think of what the sects have done and what they\nhave not done--it all seems so slow, so hopeless, and the powers of evil\nassert themselves ever and again with such hideous force. Some withdraw\nthemselves to fierce isolation; some remain in the world, mocking the\nways of men and treating all life as an ugly jest; some refuse to think\nat all, and drag themselves into oblivion; while some take one frantic\nsudden step and leave the world altogether by help of bullet or bare\nbodkin. A man of light mind who endeavoured to reconcile all the things\nsuggested to him by the coming of Christmas would probably become\ndemented if he bent his entire intellect to solve the puzzles.\nThousands--millions--of books have been written about the Christian\ntheology, and half of European mankind cannot claim to have any fixed\nand certain belief which leads to right conduct. Some of the noblest and\nsweetest souls on earth have given way to chill hopelessness, and only a\nvery bold or a very thick-sighted man could blame them; we must be\ntender towards all who are perplexed, especially when we see how\nterrible are the reasons for perplexity. Nevertheless, dark as the\noutlook may be in many directions, men are slowly coming to see that the\nservice of God is the destruction of enmity, and that the religion of\ntenderness and pity alone can give happiness during our dark pilgrimage.\n\nFar back in last winter a man was forcing his way across a dreary marsh\nin the very teeth of a wind that seemed to catch his throat in an icy\ngrip, stopping the breath at intervals and chilling the very heart.\nColdly the grey breakers rolled under the hard lowering sky; coldly the\nwestern light flickered on the iron slopes of far-off hills; coldly the\nlast beams struck on the water and made chance wavelets flash with a\nterrible glitter. The night rushed down, and the snow descended\nfiercely; the terrified cattle tried to find shelter from the scourge of\nthe storm; a hollow roar rang sullenly amid the darkness; stray\nsea-birds far overhead called weirdly, and it seemed as if the spirit of\nevil were abroad in the night. In darkness the man fought onward,\nthinking of the unhappy wretches who sometimes lie down on the snow and\nlet the final numbness seize their hearts. Then came a friendly\nshout--then lights--and then the glow of warmth that filled a broad room\nwith pleasantness. All the night long the mad gusts tore at the walls\nand made them vibrate; all night the terrible music rose into shrieks\nand died away in low moaning, and ever the savage boom of the waves made\na vast under-song. Then came visions of the mournful sea that we all\nknow so well, and the traveller thought of the honest fellows who must\nspend their Christmas-time amid warring forces that make the works of\nman seem puny. What a picture that is--The Toilers of the Sea in Winter!\nChristmas Eve comes with no joyous jangling of bells; the sun stoops to\nthe sea, glaring lividly through whirls of snow, and the vessel roars\nthrough the water; black billows rush on until their crests topple into\nruin, and then the boiling white water shines fitfully like some strange\nlambent flame; the breeze sings hoarsely among the cordage; the whole\nsurface flood plunges on as if some immense cataract must soon appear\nafter the rapids are passed. Every sea that the vessel shatters sends\nup a flying waterspout; and the frost acts with amazing suddenness, so\nthat the spars, the rigging, and the deck gather layer after layer of\nice. Supposing the vessel is employed in fishing, then the men in the\nforecastle crouch round the little fire, or shiver on their soaked beds,\nand perhaps growl out a few words of more or less cheerful talk. Stay\nwith the helmsman, and you may know what the mystery and horror of utter\ngloom are really like. There is danger everywhere--a sudden wave may\nburst the deck or heave the vessel down on her side; a huge dim cloud\nmay start shapelessly from the murk, and, before a word of warning can\nbe uttered, a great ship may crash into the labouring craft. In that\ncase hope is gone, for the boat is bedded in a mass of ice and all the\ndoomed seamen must take the deadly plunge to eternity. Ah, think of\nthis, you who rest in the glow of beautiful homes! Then the morning--the\ngrey desolation! No words can fairly picture the utter cheerlessness of\na wintry dawn at sea. The bravest of men feel something like depression\nor are pursued by cruel apprehensions. The solid masses of ice have\ngripped every block, and the ropes will not run; the gaunt masts stand\nup like pallid ghosts in the grey light, and still the volleys of snow\ndescend at intervals. All the ships seem to be cowering away, scared and\nbeaten; even the staunch sea-gulls have taken refuge in fields and quiet\nrivers; and only the seamen have no escape. The mournful red stretches\nof the Asiatic deserts are wild enough, but there are warmth and\nmarvellous light, and those who well know the moaning wastes say that\ntheir fascination sinks on the soul. The wintry sea has no\nfascination--no consolation; it is hungry, inhospitable--sometimes\nhorrible. But even there Christ walks the waters in spirit. In an\nordinary vessel the rudest seaman is made to think of the great day,\nand, even if he goes on grumbling and swearing on the morrow, he is apt\nto be softened and slightly subdued for one day at least. The fishermen\non the wild North Sea are cared for, and merry scenes are to be\nwitnessed even when landsmen might shudder in terror. Certain gallant\ncraft, like strong yachts, glide about among the plunging smacks; each\nof the yachts has a brave blue flag at the masthead, and the vessels are\nladen with kindly tokens from thousands of gentle souls on shore. Surely\nthere is no irreverence in saying that the Master walks the waters to\nthis day?\n\nWe Britons must of course express some of our emotions by eating and\ndrinking freely. No political party can pretend to adjust the affairs of\nthe Empire until the best-advertised members have met together at a\ndinner-table; no prominent man can be regarded as having achieved the\nhighest work in politics, or art, or literature, or histrionics, until\nhe has been delicately fed in company with a large number of brother\nmortals; and no anniversary can possibly be celebrated without an\nimmense consumption of eatables and drinkables. The rough men of the\nNorth Sea have the national instinct, and their mode of recognizing the\nfestive season is quite up to the national standard. The North Sea\nfisherman would not nowadays approve of the punch-bowls and ancient ale\nwhich Dickens loved so much to praise, for he is given to the most\nsevere forms of abstinence; but it is a noble sight when he proceeds to\nshow what he can do in the way of Christmas dining. If he is one of the\nsharers in a parcel from on shore, he is fortunate, for he may possibly\npartake of a pudding which might be thrown over the masthead without\nremaining whole after its fall on deck; but it matters little if he has\nno daintily-prepared provender. Jack Fisherman seats himself on a box or\non the floor of the cabin; he produces his clasp-knife and prepares for\naction. When his huge tin dish is piled with a miscellaneous assortment\nof edibles, it presents a spectacle which might make all Bath and\nMatlock and Royat and Homburg shudder; but the seaman, despising the\nmiserable luxuries of fork and spoon, attacks the amazing conglomeration\nwith enthusiasm. His Christmas pudding may resemble any geological\nformation that you like to name, and it may be unaccountably allied with\na perplexing maze of cabbage and potatoes--nothing matters. Christmas\nmust be kept up, and the vast lurches of the vessel from sea to sea do\nnot at all disturb the fine equanimity of the fellows who are bent on\nsolemnly testifying, by gastronomic evidence, to the loyalty with which\nChristmas is celebrated among orthodox Englishmen. The poor lads toil\nhard, live hard, and they certainly feed hard; but, with all due\nrespect, it must be said also that they mostly pray hard; and, if any\none of the cynical division had been among the seamen during that awful\ntime five years ago, he would have seen that among the sea-toilers at\nleast the \"glad\" season is glad in something more than name--for the\ngladness is serious. Sights of the same kind may be seen on great ships\nthat are careering over the myriad waterways that net the surface of the\nglobe; the smart man-of-war, the great liner, the slow deep-laden\nbarque toiling wearily round the Horn, are all manned by crews that keep\nup the aged tradition more or less merrily; and woe betide the cook that\nfails in his duty! That lost man's fate may be left to the eye of\nimagination. Under the Southern Cross the fair summer weather glows; but\nthe good Colonists have their little rejoicings without the orthodox\nadjuncts of snow and frozen fingers and iron roads. Far up in the bush\nthe men remember to make some kind of rude attempt at improvising\nChristmas rites, and memories of the old country are present with many a\ngood fellow who is facing his first hard luck. But the climate makes no\ndifference; and, apart from all religious considerations, there is no\nsocial event that so draws together the sympathies of the whole English\nrace all over the world.\n\nAt Nainee Tal, or any other of our stations in our wondrous Indian\npossession, the day is kept. Alas, how dreary it is for the hearts that\nare craving for home! The moon rises through the majestic arch of the\nsky and makes the tamarisk-trees gorgeous; the warm air flows gently;\nthe dancers float round to the wild waltz-rhythm; and the imitation of\nhome is kept up with zeal by the stout general, the grave and scholarly\njudge, the fresh subaltern, and by all the bright ladies who are in\nexile. But even these think of the quiet churches in sweet English\nplaces; they think of the purple hedges, the sharp scent of frost-bitten\nfields, the glossy black ice, and the hissing ring of the skates. I know\nthat, religiously as Christmas is kept up even on the frontier in India,\nthe toughest of the men long for home, and pray for the time when the\nblessed regions of Brighton and Torquay and Cheltenham may receive the\nworn pensioner. One poet says something of the Anglo-Indian's longing\nfor home at Christmas-time; he speaks with melancholy of the folly of\nthose who sell their brains for rupees and go into exile, and he appears\nto be ready, for his own part, to give up his share in the glory of our\nEmpire if only he can see the friendly fields in chill December. I\nsympathize with him. Away with the mendicants, rich and poor--away with\nthe gushing parasites who use a kindly instinct and a sacred name in\norder to make mean profit--away with the sordid hucksters who play with\nthe era of man's hope as though the very name of the blessed time were a\ncatchword to be used like the abominable party-cries of politicians! But\nwhen I come to men and women who understand the real significance of the\nday--when I come to charitable souls who are reminded of One who was all\nCharity, and who gave an impulse to the world which two thousand years\nhave only strengthened--when I come among these, I say, \"Give us as much\nYule-tide talk as ever you please, do your deeds of kindness, take your\nfill of innocent merriment, and deliver us from the pestilence of quacks\nand mendicants!\" It is when I think of the ghastly horror of our own\ngreat central cities that I feel at once the praiseworthiness and the\nhopelessness of all attempts to succour effectually the immense mass of\nthose who need charity. Hopeless, helpless lives are lived by human\ncreatures who are not much above the brutes. Alas, how much may be\nlearned from a journey through the Midlands! We may talk of merry frosty\ndays and starlit nights and unsullied snow and Christmas cheer; but the\npotter and the iron-worker know as much about cheeriness as they do\nabout stainless snow. Then there is London to be remembered. A cheery\ntime there will be for the poor creatures who hang about the dock-gates\nand fight for the chance of earning the price of a meal! In that blank\nworld of hunger and cold and enforced idleness there is nothing that the\ngayest optimist could describe as joyful, and some of us will have to\nface the sight of it during the winter that is now at hand. What can be\ndone? Hope seems to have deserted many of our bravest; we hear the dark\nnote of despair all round, and it is only the sight of the workers--the\nkindly workers--that enables us to bear up against deadly depression and\ndark pessimism.\n\n_December, 1888._\n\n\n\n\n_THE FADING YEAR_.\n\n\nEven in this distressed England of ours there are still districts where\nthe simple reapers regard the harvest labour as a frolic; the dulness of\ntheir still lives is relieved by a burst of genuine but coarse\nmerriment, and their abandoned glee is not unpleasant to look upon. Then\ncome the harvest suppers--noble spectacles. The steady champ of resolute\njaws sounds in a rhythm which is almost majestic; the fearsome\ndestruction wrought on solid joints would rouse the helpless envy of the\ndyspeptics of Pall Mall, and the playful consumption of ale--no small\nbeer, but golden Rodney--might draw forth an ode from a teetotal\nChancellor of the Exchequer. August winds up in a blaze of gladness for\nthe reaper. On ordinary evenings he sits stolidly in the dingy parlour\nand consumes mysterious malt liquor to an accompaniment of grumbling and\nsolemn puffing of acrid tobacco, but the harvest supper is a wildly\nluxurious affair which lasts until eleven o'clock. Are there not songs\ntoo? The village tenor explains--with a powerful accent--that he only\ndesires Providence to let him like a soldier fall. Of course he breaks\ndown, but there is no adverse criticism. Friendly hearers say, \"Do yowe\ntry back, Willum, and catch that up at start agin;\" and Willum does try\nback in the most excruciating manner. Then the elders compare the\nartist with singers of bygone days, and a grunting chorus of stories\ngoes on. Then comes the inevitable poaching song. Probably the singer\nhas been in prison a dozen times over, but he is regarded as a moral and\nlaw-abiding character by his peers; and even his wife, who suffered\nduring his occasional periods of seclusion, smiles as he drones out the\njolting chorus. When the sportsman reaches the climax and tells how--\n\n     We slung her on our shoulders,\n       And went across the down;\n     We took her to a neighbour's house,\n       And sold her for a crown.\n\n     We sold her for a crown, my boys,\n       But I 'on't tell ye wheer,\n     For 'tis my delight of a shiny night\n       In the season of the year\n\n--then the gentlemen who have sold many a hare in their time exchange\nrapturous winks, and even a head-keeper might be softened by the\nprevailing enthusiasm. Hodge is a hunter by nature, and you can no more\nrestrain him from poaching than you can restrain a fox. The most popular\nman in the whole company is the much-incarcerated poacher, and no\ndisguise whatever is made of the fact. A theft of a twopenny cabbage\nfrom a neighbour would set a mark against a man for life; a mean action\nperformed when the hob-nailed company gather in the tap-room would be\nremembered for years; but a sportsman who blackens his face and creeps\nout at night to net the squire's birds is considered to be a hero, and\nan honest man to boot. He mentions his convictions gaily, criticises the\nofficials of each gaol that he has visited in the capacity of prisoner,\nand rouses roars of sympathetic laughter as he tells of his sufferings\non the tread-mill. No man or woman thinks of the facts that the squire's\npheasants cost about a guinea apiece to rear, that a hare is worth about\nthree-and-sixpence, that a brace of partridges brings two shillings even\nfrom the cunning receiver who buys the poachers' plunder. No; they\njoyously think of the fact that the keepers are diddled, and that\nsatisfies them.\n\nAlas, the glad and sad times alike must die, and the dull prose of\nOctober follows hard on the wild jollity of the harvest supper, while\nWinter peers with haggard gaze over Autumn's shoulder! The hoarse winds\nblow now, and the tender flush of decay has begun to touch the leaves\nwith delicate tints. In the morning the gossamer floats in the\nglittering air and winds ropes of pearls among the stubble; the level\nrays shoot over a splendid land, and the cold light is thrillingly\nsweet. But the evenings are chill, and the hollow winds moan, crying,\n\"Summer is dead, and we are the vanguard of Winter. Soon the wild army\nwill be upon you. Steal the sunshine while you may.\"\n\nWhat is the source of that tender solemn melancholy that comes on us all\nas we feel the glad year dying? It is melancholy that is not painful,\nand we can nurse it without tempting one stab of real suffering. Each\nseason brings its moods--Spring is hopeful; Summer luxurious; Autumn\ncontented; and then comes that strange time when our thoughts run on\nsolemn things. Can it be that we associate the long decline of the year\nwith the dark closing of life? Surely not--for a boy or girl feels the\nsame pensive, dreary mood, and no one who remembers childhood can fail\nto think of the wild inarticulate thoughts that passed through the\nimmature brain. Nay, our souls are from God; they are bestowed by the\nSupreme, and they were from the beginning, and cannot be destroyed. From\nPlato downwards, no thoughtful man has missed this strange suggestion\nwhich seems to present itself unprompted to every mind. Cicero argued it\nout with consummate dialectic skill; our scientific men come to the same\nconclusion after years on years of labour spent in investigating\nphenomena of life and laws of force; and Wordsworth formulated Plato's\nreasoning in an immortal passage which seems to combine scientific\naccuracy with exquisite poetic beauty--\n\n     Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;\n       The soul that rises with us--our life's star--\n     Hath had elsewhere its setting\n       And cometh from afar;\n       Not in entire forgetfulness,\n       And not in utter nakedness,\n     But trailing clouds of glory do we come\n     From God, Who is our home.\n       Heaven lies about us in our infancy!\n     Shades of the prison-house begin to close\n       Upon the growing boy,\n     But he beholds the light, and whence it flows;\n       He sees it in his joy.\n     The youth who daily farther from the east\n       Must travel still is Nature's priest,\n       And by the vision splendid\n       Is on his way attended;\n     At length the man perceives it die away\n     And fade into the light of coming day.\n\nHad Wordsworth never written another line, that passage would have\nplaced him among the greatest. He follows the glorious burst with these\nawful lines--\n\n     But for those obstinate questionings\n     Of sense and outward things,\n     Fallings from us, vanishings;\n       Blank misgivings of a creature\n     Moving about in worlds not realized;\n       High instincts before which our mortal nature\n     Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised.\n\nThat is like some golden-tongued utterance of the gods; and thousands of\nEnglishmen, sceptics and believers, have held their breath, abashed, as\nits full meaning struck home.\n\nYes; this mysterious thought that haunts our being as we gaze on the\nsaddened fields is not aroused by the immediate impression which the\nsight gives us; it is too complex, too profound, too mature and\nsignificant. It was framed before birth, and it proceeds direct from the\nFather of all souls, with whom we dwelt before we came to this low\nearth, and with whom we shall dwell again. If any one ventures to deny\nthe origin of our marvellous knowledge, our sweet, strange impressions,\nit seems to us that he must risk bordering on impiety.\n\nSo far then I have wandered from the commonplace sweetness of the shorn\nfields, and I almost forgot to speak about the birds. Watch the swallows\nas they gather together and talk with their low pretty twitter. Their\nparliament has begun; and surely no one who watches their proceedings\ncan venture to scoff at the transcendental argument which I have just\nnow stated. Those swift, pretty darlings will soon be flying through\nthe pitchy gloom of the night, and they will dart over three or four\nthousand miles with unerring aim till they reach the far-off spot where\nthey cheated our winter last year. Some will nest amid the tombs of\nEgyptian kings, some will find out rosy haunts in Persia, some will soon\nbe wheeling and twittering happily over the sullen breast of the rolling\nNiger. Who--ah, who guides that flight? Think of it. Man must find his\nway by the stars and the sun. Day by day he must use elaborate\ninstruments to find out where his vessel is placed; and even his\ninstruments do not always save him from miles of error. But the little\nbird plunges through the high gulfs of air and flies like an arrow to\nthe selfsame spot where it lived before it last went off on the wild\nquest over shadowy continents and booming seas. \"Hereditary instinct,\"\nsays the scientific man. Exactly so; and, if the swallow unerringly\ntraverses the line crossed by its ancestors, even though the old land\nhas long been whelmed in steep-down gulfs of the sea, does not that show\nus something? Does it, or does it not, make my saying about the soul\nseem reasonable?\n\nI have followed the swallows, but the fieldfares and the buntings must\nalso go soon. They will make their way South also, though some may go in\nleisurely fashion to catch the glorious burst of spring in Siberia. I\nhave been grievously puzzled and partly delighted by Mr. Seebohm's\naccount of the birds' pilgrimage, and it has given me hours of thought.\nWe dwell amid mystery, and, as the leaves redden year by year, here\nrecurs one of the chiefest mysteries that ever perplexed the soul of\nman. Indeed, we are shadowed around with mystery and there is not one\nred leaf whirled by the wind among those moaning woods which does not\nrepresent a miracle.\n\nWe cannot fly from these shores, but our joys come each in its day. For\npure gladness and keen colour nothing can equal one of these glorious\nOctober mornings, when the reddened fronds of the brackens are silvered\nwith rime, and the sun strikes flashes of delight from them. Then come\nthose soft November days when the winds moan softly amid the Aeolian\nharps of the purple hedgerows, and the pale drizzle falls ever and\nagain. Even then we may pick our pleasures discreetly, if we dwell in\nthe country, while, as for the town, are there not pleasant fires and\nmerry evenings? Then comes the important thought of the poor. Ah, it is\nwoful! \"'Pleasant fires and merry evenings,' say you?\"--so I can fancy\nsome pinched sufferer saying, \"What sort of merry evenings shall we\nhave, when the fogs crawl murderously, or the sleet lashes the sodden\nroads?\" Alas and alas! Those of us who dwell amid pleasant sights and\nsounds are apt in moments of piercing joy to forget the poor who rarely\nknow joy at all. But we must not be careless. By all means let those who\ncan do so snatch their enjoyment from the colour, the movement, the\npicturesque sadness of the fading year; but let them think with pity of\nthe time that is coming, and prepare to do a little toward lifting that\nghastly burden of suffering that weighs on so many of our fellows.\nGazing around on the flying shadows driven by the swift wind, and\nlistening to the quivering sough amid the shaken trees, I have been led\nfar and near into realms of strange speculation. So it is ever in this\nfearful and wonderful life; there is not the merest trifle that can\nhappen which will not lead an eager mind away toward the infinite. Never\nhas this mystic ordinance touched my soul so poignantly as during the\nhours when I watched for a little the dying of the year, and branched\nswiftly into zigzag reflections that touched the mind with fear and joy\nin turn. Adieu, fair fields! Adieu, wild trees! Where will next year's\nautumn find us? Hush! Does not the very gold and red of the leaves hint\nto us that the sweet sad time will return again and find us maybe riper?\n\n_October, 1886._\n\n\n\n\n_BEHIND THE VEIL_.\n\n\n\"Men of all castes, if they fulfil their assigned duties, enjoy in\nheaven the highest imperishable bliss. Afterwards, when a man who has\nfulfilled his duties returns to this world, he obtains, by virtue of a\nremainder of merit, birth in a distinguished family, beauty of form,\nbeauty of complexion, strength, aptitude for learning, wisdom, wealth,\nand the gift of fulfilling the laws of his caste or order. Therefore in\nboth worlds he dwells in happiness, rolling like a wheel from one world\nto the other.\" Thus the Brahmans have settled the problem of the life\nthat follows the life on earth. Those strange and subtle men seem to\nhave reasoned themselves into a belief in dreams, and they speak with\ncool confidence, as though they were describing scenes as vivid and\nmaterial as are the crowds in a bazaar. There is no hesitation for them;\nthey describe the features of the future existence with the dry\nminuteness of a broker's catalogue. The Wheel of Life rolls, and far\nabove the weary cycle of souls Buddha rests in an attitude of\nbenediction; he alone has achieved Nirvana--he alone is aloof from gods\nand men. The yearning for immortality has in the case of the Brahman\npassed into certainty, and he describes his heavens and his hells as\nthough the All-wise had placed no dim veil between this world and the\nworld beyond. Most arithmetically minute are all the Brahman's\npictures, and he never stops to hint at a doubt. His hells are\ntwenty-two in number, each applying a new variety of physical and moral\npain. We men of the West smile at the grotesque dogmatism of the\nOrientals; and yet we have no right to smile. In our way we are as keen\nabout the great question as the Brahmans are, and for us the problem of\nproblems may be stated in few words--\"Is there a future life?\" All our\nphilosophy, all our laws, all our hopes and fears are concerned with\nthat paralyzing question, and we differ from the Hindoo only in that we\naffect an extravagant uncertainty, while he sincerely professes an\nabsolute certainty. The cultured Western man pretends to dismiss the\nproblem with a shrug; he labels himself as an agnostic or by some other\nvague definition, and he is fond of proclaiming his idea that he knows\nand can know nothing. That is a pretence. When the philosopher says that\nhe does not know and does not care what his future may be, he speaks\ninsincerely; he means that he cannot prove by experiment the fact of a\nfuture life--or, as Mr. Ruskin puts it, \"he declares that he never found\nGod in a bottle\"--but deep down in his soul there is a knowledge that\ninfluences his lightest action. The man of science, the \"advanced\nthinker,\" or whatever he likes to call himself, proves to us by his\nceaseless protestations of doubt and unbelief that he is incessantly\npondering the one subject which he would fain have us fancy he ignores.\nAt heart he is in full sympathy with the Brahman, with the rude Indian,\nwith the impassioned English Methodist, with all who cannot shake off\nthe mystic belief in a life that shall go on behind the veil. When the\npagan emperor spoke to his own parting soul, he asked the piercing\nquestion that our sceptic must needs put, whether he like it or no--\n\n     Soul of me, floating and flitting and fond,\n     Thou and this body were life-mates together!\n     Wilt thou be gone now--and whither?\n     Pallid and naked and cold,\n     Not to laugh or be glad as of old!\n\nTheology of any description is far out of my path, but I have the wish\nand the right to talk gravely about the subject that dwarfs all others.\nA logician who tries to scoff away any faith I count as almost criminal.\nMockery is the fume of little hearts, and the worst and craziest of\nmockers is the one who grins in presence of a mystery that strikes wise\nand deep-hearted men with a solemn fear which has in it nothing ignoble.\nI would as lief play circus pranks by a mother's deathbed as try to find\nflippant arguments to disturb a sincere faith.\n\nFirst, then, let us know what the uncompromising iconoclasts have to\ntell about the universal belief in immortality. They have a very\npretentious line of reasoning, which I may summarise thus. Life appeared\non earth not less than three hundred thousand years ago. First of all\nour planet hung in the form of vapour, and drifted with millions of\nother similar clouds through space; then the vapour became liquid; then\nthe globular form was assumed, and the flying ball began to rotate round\nthe great attracting body. We cannot tell how living forms first came on\nearth; for they could not arise by spontaneous generation, in spite of\nall that Dr. Bastian may say. Of the coming of life we can say\nnothing--rather an odd admission, by-the-way, for gentlemen who are so\nsure of most things--but we know that some low organism did appear--and\nthere is an end of that matter. No two organisms can possibly be exactly\nalike; and the process of differentiation began in the very shrine. The\ncenturies passed, and living organisms became more and more complex; the\nslowly-cooling ball of the earth was covered with greenery, but no\nflower was to be seen. Then insects were attracted by brightly-coloured\nleaves; then flowers and insects acted and reacted on each other. But\nthere is no need to trace every mark on the scale. It is enough to say\nthat infinitely-diversified forms of life branched off from central\nstocks, and the process of variation went on steadily. Last of all, in a\nstrange environment, a certain small upright creature appeared. He was\nnot much superior in development to the anthropoid apes that we now\nknow--in fact, there is less difference between an orang and a Bosjesman\nthan there is between the primitive man and the modern Caucasian man.\nThis creature, hairy and brown as a squirrel, stunted in stature, skinny\nof limb, was our immediate progenitor. So say the confident scientific\nmen. The owner of the queer ape-like skull found at Neanderthal belonged\nto a race that was ultimately to develop into Shakespeares and Newtons\nand Napoleons. In all the enormous series that had its first term in the\nprimeval ooze and its last term in man, one supreme motive had actuated\nevery individual. The desire of life, growing more intense with each new\ndevelopment, was the main influence that secured continuance of life.\nThe beings that had the desire of life scantily developed were overcome\nin the struggle for existence by those in whom the desire of life was\nstrong. Thus in man, after countless generations, the wish for life had\nbecome the master-power holding dominion over the body. As the various\nbranches of the human race moved upward, the passionate love of life\ngrew so strong that no individual could bear to think of resigning this\npleasing anxious being and proceeding to fall into dumb forgetfulness.\nMen saw their comrades stricken by some dark force that they could not\nunderstand. The strong limbs grew lax first, and then hopelessly stiff;\nthe bright eye was dulled; and it soon became necessary to hide the\ninanimate thing under the soil. It was impossible for those who had the\nquick blood flowing in their veins to believe that a time would come\nwhen feeling would be known no more. This fierce clinging to life had at\nlast its natural outcome. Men found that at night, when the quicksilver\ncurrent of sleep ran through their veins and their bodies were\nquiescent, they had none the less thoughts as of life. The body lay\nstill; but something in alliance with the body gave them impressions of\nvivid waking vigour and action. Men fancied that they fought, hunted,\nloved, hated; and yet all the time their limbs were quiet. What could it\nbe that forced the slumbering man to believe himself to be in full\nactivity? It must be some invisible essence independent of the bones and\nmuscles. Therefore when a man died it followed that the body which was\nburied must have parted permanently from the mystic \"something\" that\ncaused dreams. That mystic \"something\" therefore lived on after the\ndeath of the body. The bodily organs were mere accidental encumbrances;\nthe real \"man\" was the viewless creature that had the visions of the\nnight. The body might go; but the thing which by and by was named\n\"soul\" was imperishable.\n\nI can see the drift of foggy argument. The writer means to say that the\nbelief in immortality sprang up because the wish was father to the\nthought. Men longed to live, and thus they persuaded themselves that\nthey would live; and, one refinement after another having been added to\nthe vague-minded savage's animal yearning, we have the elaborate system\nof theology and the reverential faith that guide the lives of civilized\nhuman entities. Very pretty! Then the literary critic steps in and shows\nhow the belief in immortality has been enlarged and elaborated since the\ndays of Saul, the son of Kish. When the witch of Endor saw gods\nascending from the earth, she was only anticipating the experience of\nsorcerers who ply their trade in the islands of the Pacific. Professor\nHuxley admires the awful description of Saul's meeting with the witch;\nbut the Professor shows that the South Sea islanders also see gods\nascending out of the earth, and he thinks that the Eastern natives in\nSaul's day encouraged a form of ancestor-worship. The literary critic\nsays ancestor-worship is one of the great branches of the religion of\nmankind. Its principles are not difficult to understand, for they\nplainly keep up the social relations of the living world. The dead\nancestor, now passed into a deity, goes on protecting his family and\nreceiving suit and service from them as of old. The dead chief still\nwatches over his own tribe, still holds his authority by helping friends\nand harming enemies, still rewards the right and sharply punishes the\nwrong. That, then, was the kind of worship prevalent in the time of\nSaul, and the gods were only the ancestors of the living. Well, this\nmay be admirable as science, but, as I summarized the long argument, I\nfelt as though something must give way.\n\nThen we are told that our sacred book, the Old Testament, contains no\nreference to the future life--rather ignores the notion, in fact. It\nappears that, when Job wrote about the spirit that passed before him and\ncaused all the hair of his flesh to stand up, he meant an enemy, or a\ngoat, or something of that species. Moreover, when it is asserted that\nEnoch \"was not, for God took him,\" no reference is made to Enoch's\nfuture existence. The whole of the thesis regarding the Shadow Land has\nbeen built up little by little, just as our infinitely perfect bodily\norganization has been gradually formed. It took at least thirty thousand\nyears to evolve the crystalline lens of the human eye, and it required\nmany thousands of years to evolve from the crude savagery of the early\nJews the elaborate theories of the modern Buddhists, Islamites, and\nChristians.\n\nCertainly this same evolution has much to answer for. I utterly fail to\nsee how a wish can give rise to a belief that comes before the wish is\nframed in the mind. More than this, I know that, even when human beings\ncrave extinction most--when the prospect of eternal sleep is more than\nsweet, when the bare thought of continued existence is a horror--the\nbelief in, or rather the knowledge of, immortality is still there, and\nthe wretch who would fain perish knows that he cannot.\n\nAs for the mathematically-minded thinkers, I must give them up. They\nsay, \"Here are two objects of consciousness whose existence can be\nverified; one we choose to call the body, the other we call the soul or\nmind or spirit, or what you will. The soul may be called a 'function' of\nthe body, or the body may be called a 'function' of the soul--at any\nrate, they vary together. The tiniest change in the body causes a\ncorresponding change in the soul. As the body alters from the days when\nthe little ducts begin to feed the bones with lime up to the days when\nthe bones are brittle and the muscles wither away, so does the soul\nalter. The infant's soul is different from the boy's, the boy's from the\nadolescent man's, the young man's from the middle-aged man's, and so on\nto the end. Now, since every change in the body, no matter how\ninfinitesimally small, is followed by a corresponding change in the\nsoul, then it is plain that, when the body becomes extinct, its\n'function,' the soul, must also become extinct.\"\n\nThis is even more appalling than the reasoning of the biologist. But is\nthere not a little flaw somewhere? We take a branch from a privet-hedge\nand shake it; some tiny eggs fall down. In time a large ugly caterpillar\ncomes from each egg; but, according to the mathematical men, the\ncaterpillar does not exist, since the egg has become naught. Good! The\ncaterpillar wraps itself in a winding thread, and we have an egg-shaped\nlump which lies as still as a pebble. Then presently from that bundle of\nthread there comes a glorious winged creature which flies away, leaving\ncertain ragged odds and ends. But surely the bundle of threads and the\nmoth were as much connected as the body and the soul? Logically, then,\nthe moth does not exist after the cocoon is gone, any more than the soul\nexists after the body is gone! I feel very unscientific indeed as we put\nforth this proposition, and yet perhaps some simple folk will follow\nme.\n\nGod will not let the soul die; it is a force that must act throughout\nthe eternity before us, as it acted throughout the eternity that\npreceded our coming on earth. No physical force ever dies--each force\nmerely changes its form or direction. Heat becomes motion, motion is\ntransformed into heat, but the force still exists. It is not possible\nthen that the soul of man--the subtlest, strongest force of all--should\never be extinguished. Every analogy that we can see, every fact of\nscience that we can understand, tells us that the essence which each of\nus calls \"I\" must exist for ever as it has existed from eternity. Let us\nthink of a sweet change that shall merely divest us of the husk of the\nbody, even as the moth is divested of the husk of the caterpillar. Space\nwill be as nothing to the soul--can we not even now transport ourselves\nin an instant beyond the sun? We can see with the soul's eye the surface\nof the stars, we know what they are made of, we can weigh them, and we\ncan prove that our observation is rigidly accurate even though millions\nof miles lie between us and the object which we describe so confidently.\nWhen the body is gone, the soul will be more free to traverse space than\nit is even now.\n\n_February, 1888._\n\n\n\n\nExtracts from Reviews of the First Edition.\n\n\n\"Mr. Runciman is terribly in earnest in the greater part of this volume,\nespecially in the several articles on 'Drink.' He is eminently\npractical, withal; and not satisfied with describing and deploring the\neffects of drunkenness, he gives us a recipe which he warrants to cure\nthe most hardened dipsomaniac within a week. We have not quoted even the\ntitles of all Mr. Runciman's essays; but they are all wholesome in tone,\nand show a hearty love of the open air and of outdoor amusement, in\nspite of his well-deserved strictures on various forms of so-called\n'sport,' while sometimes, notably in the Essay on 'Genius and\nRespectability,' he touches the higher notes of feeling.\"--_Saturday\nReview_.\n\n\"Mr. Runciman is intensely earnest, and directs his arrows with force\nand precision against those 'joints in our social armour' which his keen\nvision detects. There is a purpose in all Mr. Runciman says; and\nalthough one cannot always share his enthusiasm or accept his\nconclusions, it is impossible to doubt his sincerity as a moral reformer\nand his zeal in the cause of philanthropy.\"--_Academy_.\n\n\"Few sermons, one would fancy, could do more good than this book,\nhonestly considered. It speaks plain sense on faults and follies that\nare usually gently satirised; and makes fine invigorating reading. The\nbook warmly deserves success.\"--_Scotsman_.\n\n\"Mr. Runciman expresses himself with a vigour which leaves nothing to be\ndesired. He leaves no doubt of what he thinks,--and he thinks,\nanyhow, on the right side.... Altogether a very vigorous\ndeliverance.\"--_Spectator_.\n\n\"No one can read these pleasant thoughtful essays without being the\nbetter for it; all being written with the vigour and grace for which Mr.\nRunciman is distinguished.\"--_Newcastle Daily Chronicle_.\n\n\"Essays which form a most important contribution to the literature of\nsocial reform.\"--_Methodist Times_.\n\n\"Mr. Runciman has produced a book which will compel people to read, and\nit has many pages which ought to compel them to think, and to act as\nwell.\"--_Manchester Examiner._\n\n\"Mr. Runciman is endowed with a vigorous and pleasing style, and his\nfacile pen has obviously been made expert by much use. In dealing with\nsome of the more threadbare problems, such as the drink question and the\nsporting mania, he brings considerable novelty and freshness to their\ntreatment, and when fairly roused he hits out at social abuses with a\nvigour and indignant sincerity which are very refreshing to the jaded\nreader ...He has been successful in producing a delightfully readable\nbook, and even when he does not produce conviction, he will certainly\nsucceed in securing attention and inspiring interest.\"--_Bradford\nObserver_.\n\n\"The essays are a fine contribution in the cause of manly self-culture\nand elevation of moral tone.\"--_Pall Mall Gazette_.\n\n\"To those who enjoy essays on current topics, this will be found an\nacceptable and instructive volume.\"--_Public Opinion_.\n\n\"His essays are always entertaining and suggestive ...Mr. Runciman, as\nis well-known, has a forcible and effective style.\"--_Star_.\n\n\"Mr. Runciman is a bard hitter, and evidently speaks from conviction,\nand there is such an honest and clear-minded tone about these papers,\nthat even those who do not agree with all the conclusions drawn in them\nwill not regret having read what Mr. Runciman has to say on social\nquestions.\"--_Graphic_.","title":"The Ethics of Drink and Other Social Questions; Or, Joints In Our Social Armour","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":97320}