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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1915-0.txt b/1915-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..515169b --- /dev/null +++ b/1915-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6958 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Second Thoughts of an Idle Fellow, by +Jerome K. Jerome + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Second Thoughts of an Idle Fellow + + +Author: Jerome K. Jerome + + + +Release Date: May 20, 2015 [eBook #1915] +[This file was first posted in February 17, 1999] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECOND THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE +FELLOW*** + + +This etext was prepared by Les Bowler from the 1899 Hurst and Blackett +edition. + + [Picture: Book cover] + + + + + + The Second Thoughts + of + An Idle Fellow + + + * * * * * + + BY + JEROME K. JEROME + AUTHOR OF + ‘THREE MEN IN A BOAT,’ ‘IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW,’ + ‘STAGELAND,’ ‘JOHN INGERFIELD,’ ETC. + + * * * * * + + LONDON + HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED + 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET + 1899 + _All rights reserved_ + + * * * * * + + First printing published August 17, 1898. + Second printing published September 2, 1898. + Third printing published November 1, 1898. + Fourth printing published January 1, 1899. + + * * * * * + + RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, LONDON & BUNGAY. + + * * * * * + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +ON THE ART OF MAKING UP ONE’S MIND 1 +ON THE DISADVANTAGE OF NOT GETTING WHAT ONE WANTS 29 +ON THE EXCEPTIONAL MERIT ATTACHING TO THE THINGS WE MEANT 53 +TO DO +ON THE PREPARATION AND EMPLOYMENT OF LOVE PHILTRES 91 +ON THE DELIGHTS AND BENEFITS OF SLAVERY 119 +ON THE CARE AND MANAGEMENT OF WOMEN 149 +ON THE MINDING OF OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS 175 +ON THE TIME WASTED IN LOOKING BEFORE ONE LEAPS 215 +ON THE NOBILITY OF OURSELVES 245 +ON THE MOTHERLINESS OF MAN 271 +ON THE INADVISABILITY OF FOLLOWING ADVICE 301 +ON THE PLAYING OF MARCHES AT THE FUNERALS OF MARIONETTES 335 + + + +ON THE ART OF MAKING UP ONE’S MIND + + +“NOW, which would you advise, dear? You see, with the red I shan’t be +able to wear my magenta hat.” + +“Well then, why not have the grey?” + +“Yes—yes, I think the grey will be _more useful_.” + +“It’s a good material.” + +“Yes, and it’s a _pretty_ grey. You know what I mean, dear; not a +_common_ grey. Of course grey is always an _uninteresting_ colour.” + +“It’s quiet.” + +“And then again, what I feel about the red is that it is so warm-looking. +Red makes you _feel_ warm even when you’re _not_ warm. You know what I +mean, dear!” + +“Well then, why not have the red? It suits you—red.” + +“No; do you really think so?” + +“Well, when you’ve got a colour, I mean, of course!” + +“Yes, that is the drawback to red. No, I think, on the whole, the grey +is _safer_.” + +“Then you will take the grey, madam?” + +“Yes, I think I’d better; don’t you, dear?” + +“I like it myself very much.” + +“And it is good wearing stuff. I shall have it trimmed with— Oh! you +haven’t cut it off, have you?” + +“I was just about to, madam.” + +“Well, don’t for a moment. Just let me have another look at the red. +You see, dear, it has just occurred to me—that chinchilla would look so +well on the red!” + +“So it would, dear!” + +“And, you see, I’ve _got_ the chinchilla.” + +“Then have the red. Why not?” + +“Well, there is the hat I’m thinking of.” + +“You haven’t anything else you could wear with that?” + +“Nothing at all, and it would go so _beautifully_ with the grey.—Yes, I +think I’ll have the grey. It’s always a safe colour—grey.” + +“Fourteen yards I think you said, madam?” + +“Yes, fourteen yards will be enough; because I shall mix it with—One +minute. You see, dear, if I take the grey I shall have nothing to wear +with my black jacket.” + +“Won’t it go with grey?” + +“Not well—not so well as with red.” + +“I should have the red then. You evidently fancy it yourself.” + +“No, personally I prefer the grey. But then one must think of +_everything_, and—Good gracious! that’s surely not the right time?” + +“No, madam, it’s ten minutes slow. We always keep our clocks a little +slow!” + +“And we were too have been at Madame Jannaway’s at a quarter past twelve. +How long shopping does take! Why, whatever time did we start?” + +“About eleven, wasn’t it?” + +“Half-past ten. I remember now; because, you know, we said we’d start at +half-past nine. We’ve been two hours already!” + +“And we don’t seem to have done much, do we?” + +“Done literally nothing, and I meant to have done so much. I _must_ go +to Madame Jannaway’s. Have you got my purse, dear? Oh, it’s all right, +I’ve got it.” + +“Well, now you haven’t decided whether you’re going to have the grey or +the red.” + +“I’m sure I don’t know what I _do_ want now. I had made up my mind a +minute ago, and now it’s all gone again—oh yes, I remember, the red. +Yes, I’ll have the red. No, I don’t mean the red, I mean the grey.” + +“You were talking about the red last time, if you remember, dear.” + +“Oh, so I was, you’re quite right. That’s the worst of shopping. Do you +know I get quite confused sometimes.” + +“Then you will decide on the red, madam?” + +“Yes—yes, I shan’t do any better, shall I, dear? What do _you_ think? +You haven’t got any other shades of red, have you? This is such an +_ugly_ red.” + +The shopman reminds her that she has seen all the other reds, and that +this is the particular shade she selected and admired. + +“Oh, very well,” she replies, with the air of one from whom all earthly +cares are falling, “I must take that then, I suppose. I can’t be worried +about it any longer. I’ve wasted half the morning already.” + +Outside she recollects three insuperable objections to the red, and four +unanswerable arguments why she should have selected the grey. She +wonders would they change it, if she went back and asked to see the +shop-walker? Her friend, who wants her lunch, thinks not. + +“That is what I hate about shopping,” she says. “One never has time to +really _think_.” + +She says she shan’t go to that shop again. + +We laugh at her, but are we so very much better? Come, my superior male +friend, have you never stood, amid your wardrobe, undecided whether, in +her eyes, you would appear more imposing, clad in the rough tweed suit +that so admirably displays your broad shoulders; or in the orthodox black +frock, that, after all, is perhaps more suitable to the figure of a man +approaching—let us say, the nine-and-twenties? Or, better still, why not +riding costume? Did we not hear her say how well Jones looked in his +top-boots and breeches, and, “hang it all,” we have a better leg than +Jones. What a pity riding-breeches are made so baggy nowadays. Why is +it that male fashions tend more and more to hide the male leg? As women +have become less and less ashamed of theirs, we have become more and more +reticent of ours. Why are the silken hose, the tight-fitting pantaloons, +the neat kneebreeches of our forefathers impossible to-day? Are we grown +more modest—or has there come about a falling off, rendering concealment +advisable? + +I can never understand, myself, why women love us. It must be our honest +worth, our sterling merit, that attracts them—certainly not our +appearance, in a pair of tweed “dittos,” black angora coat and vest, +stand-up collar, and chimney-pot hat! No, it must be our sheer force of +character that compels their admiration. + +What a good time our ancestors must have had was borne in upon me when, +on one occasion, I appeared in character at a fancy dress ball. What I +represented I am unable to say, and I don’t particularly care. I only +know it was something military. I also remember that the costume was two +sizes too small for me in the chest, and thereabouts; and three sizes too +large for me in the hat. I padded the hat, and dined in the middle of +the day off a chop and half a glass of soda-water. I have gained prizes +as a boy for mathematics, also for scripture history—not often, but I +have done it. A literary critic, now dead, once praised a book of mine. +I know there have been occasions when my conduct has won the approbation +of good men; but never—never in my whole life, have I felt more proud, +more satisfied with myself than on that evening when, the last hook +fastened, I gazed at my full-length Self in the cheval glass. I was a +dream. I say it who should not; but I am not the only one who said it. +I was a glittering dream. The groundwork was red, trimmed with gold +braid wherever there was room for gold braid; and where there was no more +possible room for gold braid there hung gold cords, and tassels, and +straps. Gold buttons and buckles fastened me, gold embroidered belts and +sashes caressed me, white horse-hair plumes waved o’er me. I am not sure +that everything was in its proper place, but I managed to get everything +on somehow, and I looked well. It suited me. My success was a +revelation to me of female human nature. Girls who had hitherto been +cold and distant gathered round me, timidly solicitous of notice. Girls +on whom I smiled lost their heads and gave themselves airs. Girls who +were not introduced to me sulked and were rude to girls that had been. +For one poor child, with whom I sat out two dances (at least she sat, +while I stood gracefully beside her—I had been advised, by the costumier, +_not_ to sit), I was sorry. He was a worthy young fellow, the son of a +cotton broker, and he would have made her a good husband, I feel sure. +But he was foolish to come as a beer-bottle. + +Perhaps, after all, it is as well those old fashions have gone out. A +week in that suit might have impaired my natural modesty. + +One wonders that fancy dress balls are not more popular in this grey age +of ours. The childish instinct to “dress up,” to “make believe,” is with +us all. We grow so tired of being always ourselves. A tea-table +discussion, at which I once assisted, fell into this:—Would any one of +us, when it came to the point, change with anybody else, the poor man +with the millionaire, the governess with the princess—change not only +outward circumstances and surroundings, but health and temperament, +heart, brain, and soul; so that not one mental or physical particle of +one’s original self one would retain, save only memory? The general +opinion was that we would not, but one lady maintained the affirmative. + +“Oh no, you wouldn’t really, dear,” argued a friend; “you _think_ you +would.” + +“Yes, I would,” persisted the first lady; “I am tired of myself. I’d +even be you, for a change.” + +In my youth, the question chiefly important to me was—What sort of man +shall I decide to be? At nineteen one asks oneself this question; at +thirty-nine we say, “I wish Fate hadn’t made me this sort of man.” + +In those days I was a reader of much well-meant advice to young men, and +I gathered that, whether I should become a Sir Lancelot, a Herr +Teufelsdrockh, or an Iago was a matter for my own individual choice. +Whether I should go through life gaily or gravely was a question the pros +and cons of which I carefully considered. For patterns I turned to +books. Byron was then still popular, and many of us made up our minds to +be gloomy, saturnine young men, weary with the world, and prone to +soliloquy. I determined to join them. + +For a month I rarely smiled, or, when I did, it was with a weary, bitter +smile, concealing a broken heart—at least that was the intention. +Shallow-minded observers misunderstood. + +“I know exactly how it feels,” they would say, looking at me +sympathetically, “I often have it myself. It’s the sudden change in the +weather, I think;” and they would press neat brandy upon me, and suggest +ginger. + +Again, it is distressing to the young man, busy burying his secret sorrow +under a mound of silence, to be slapped on the back by commonplace people +and asked—“Well, how’s ‘the hump’ this morning?” and to hear his mood of +dignified melancholy referred to, by those who should know better, as +“the sulks.” + +There are practical difficulties also in the way of him who would play +the Byronic young gentleman. He must be supernaturally wicked—or rather +must _have been_; only, alas! in the unliterary grammar of life, where +the future tense stands first, and the past is formed, not from the +indefinite, but from the present indicative, “to have been” is “to be”; +and to be wicked on a small income is impossible. The ruin of even the +simplest of maidens costs money. In the Courts of Love one cannot sue in +_formâ pauperis_; nor would it be the Byronic method. + +“To drown remembrance in the cup” sounds well, but then the “cup,” to be +fitting, should be of some expensive brand. To drink deep of old Tokay +or Asti is poetical; but when one’s purse necessitates that the draught, +if it is to be deep enough to drown anything, should be of thin beer at +five-and-nine the four and a half gallon cask, or something similar in +price, sin is robbed of its flavour. + +Possibly also—let me think it—the conviction may have been within me that +Vice, even at its daintiest, is but an ugly, sordid thing, repulsive in +the sunlight; that though—as rags and dirt to art—it may afford +picturesque material to Literature, it is an evil-smelling garment to the +wearer; one that a good man, by reason of poverty of will, may come down +to, but one to be avoided with all one’s effort, discarded with returning +mental prosperity. + +Be this as it may, I grew weary of training for a saturnine young man; +and, in the midst of my doubt, I chanced upon a book the hero of which +was a debonnaire young buck, own cousin to Tom and Jerry. He attended +fights, both of cocks and men, flirted with actresses, wrenched off +door-knockers, extinguished street lamps, played many a merry jest upon +many an unappreciative night watch-man. For all the which he was much +beloved by the women of the book. Why should not I flirt with actresses, +put out street lamps, play pranks on policemen, and be beloved? London +life was changed since the days of my hero, but much remained, and the +heart of woman is eternal. If no longer prizefighting was to be had, at +least there were boxing competitions, so called, in dingy back parlours +out Whitechapel way. Though cockfighting was a lost sport, were there +not damp cellars near the river where for twopence a gentleman might back +mongrel terriers to kill rats against time, and feel himself indeed a +sportsman? True, the atmosphere of reckless gaiety, always surrounding +my hero, I missed myself from these scenes, finding in its place an +atmosphere more suggestive of gin, stale tobacco, and nervous +apprehension of the police; but the essentials must have been the same, +and the next morning I could exclaim in the very words of my +prototype—“Odds crickets, but I feel as though the devil himself were in +my head. Peste take me for a fool.” + +But in this direction likewise my fatal lack of means opposed me. (It +affords much food to the philosophic mind, this influence of income upon +character.) Even fifth-rate “boxing competitions,” organized by +“friendly leads,” and ratting contests in Rotherhithe slums, become +expensive, when you happen to be the only gentleman present possessed of +a collar, and are expected to do the honours of your class in dog’s-nose. +True, climbing lamp-posts and putting out the gas is fairly cheap, +providing always you are not caught in the act, but as a recreation it +lacks variety. Nor is the modern London lamp-post adapted to sport. +Anything more difficult to grip—anything with less “give” in it—I have +rarely clasped. The disgraceful amount of dirt allowed to accumulate +upon it is another drawback from the climber’s point of view. By the +time you have swarmed up your third post a positive distaste for “gaiety” +steals over you. Your desire is towards arnica and a bath. + +Nor in jokes at the expense of policemen is the fun entirely on your +side. Maybe I did not proceed with judgment. It occurs to me now, +looking back, that the neighbourhoods of Covent Garden and Great +Marlborough Street were ill-chosen for sport of this nature. To bonnet a +fat policeman is excellent fooling. While he is struggling with his +helmet you can ask him comic questions, and by the time he has got his +head free you are out of sight. But the game should be played in a +district where there is not an average of three constables to every dozen +square yards. When two other policemen, who have had their eye on you +for the past ten minutes, are watching the proceedings from just round +the next corner, you have little or no leisure for due enjoyment of the +situation. By the time you have run the whole length of Great Titchfield +Street and twice round Oxford Market, you are of opinion that a joke +should never be prolonged beyond the point at which there is danger of +its becoming wearisome; and that the time has now arrived for home and +friends. The “Law,” on the other hand, now raised by reinforcements to a +strength of six or seven men, is just beginning to enjoy the chase. You +picture to yourself, while doing Hanover Square, the scene in Court the +next morning. You will be accused of being drunk and disorderly. It +will be idle for you to explain to the magistrate (or to your relations +afterwards) that you were only trying to live up to a man who did this +sort of thing in a book and was admired for it. You will be fined the +usual forty shillings; and on the next occasion of your calling at the +Mayfields’ the girls will be out, and Mrs. Mayfield, an excellent lady, +who has always taken a motherly interest in you, will talk seriously to +you and urge you to sign the pledge. + +Thanks to your youth and constitution you shake off the pursuit at +Notting Hill; and, to avoid any chance of unpleasant _contretemps_ on the +return journey, walk home to Bloomsbury by way of Camden Town and +Islington. + +I abandoned sportive tendencies as the result of a vow made by myself to +Providence, during the early hours of a certain Sunday morning, while +clinging to the waterspout of an unpretentious house situate in a side +street off Soho. I put it to Providence as man to man. “Let me only get +out of this,” I think were the muttered words I used, “and no more +‘sport’ for me.” Providence closed on the offer, and did let me get out +of it. True, it was a complicated “get out,” involving a broken skylight +and three gas globes, two hours in a coal cellar, and a sovereign to a +potman for the loan of an ulster; and when at last, secure in my chamber, +I took stock of myself—what was left of me,—I could not but reflect that +Providence might have done the job neater. Yet I experienced no desire +to escape the terms of the covenant; my inclining for the future was +towards a life of simplicity. + +Accordingly, I cast about for a new character, and found one to suit me. +The German professor was becoming popular as a hero about this period. +He wore his hair long and was otherwise untidy, but he had “a heart of +steel,” occasionally of gold. The majority of folks in the book, judging +him from his exterior together with his conversation—in broken English, +dealing chiefly with his dead mother and his little sister Lisa,—dubbed +him uninteresting, but then they did not know about the heart. His chief +possession was a lame dog which he had rescued from a brutal mob; and +when he was not talking broken English he was nursing this dog. + +But his speciality was stopping runaway horses, thereby saving the +heroine’s life. This, combined with the broken English and the dog, +rendered him irresistible. + +He seemed a peaceful, amiable sort of creature, and I decided to try him. +I could not of course be a German professor, but I could, and did, wear +my hair long in spite of much public advice to the contrary, voiced +chiefly by small boys. I endeavoured to obtain possession of a lame dog, +but failed. A one-eyed dealer in Seven Dials, to whom, as a last +resource, I applied, offered to lame one for me for an extra five +shillings, but this suggestion I declined. I came across an +uncanny-looking mongrel late one night. He was not lame, but he seemed +pretty sick; and, feeling I was not robbing anybody of anything very +valuable, I lured him home and nursed him. I fancy I must have +over-nursed him. He got so healthy in the end, there was no doing +anything with him. He was an ill-conditioned cur, and he was too old to +be taught. He became the curse of the neighbourhood. His idea of sport +was killing chickens and sneaking rabbits from outside poulterers’ shops. +For recreation he killed cats and frightened small children by yelping +round their legs. There were times when I could have lamed him myself, +if only I could have got hold of him. I made nothing by running that +dog—nothing whatever. People, instead of admiring me for nursing him +back to life, called me a fool, and said that if I didn’t drown the brute +they would. He spoilt my character utterly—I mean my character at this +period. It is difficult to pose as a young man with a heart of gold, +when discovered in the middle of the road throwing stones at your own +dog. And stones were the only things that would reach and influence him. + +I was also hampered by a scarcity in runaway horses. The horse of our +suburb was not that type of horse. Once and only once did an opportunity +offer itself for practice. It was a good opportunity, inasmuch as he was +not running away very greatly. Indeed, I doubt if he knew himself that +he was running away. It transpired afterwards that it was a habit of +his, after waiting for his driver outside the Rose and Crown for what he +considered to be a reasonable period, to trot home on his own account. +He passed me going about seven miles an hour, with the reins dragging +conveniently beside him. He was the very thing for a beginner, and I +prepared myself. At the critical moment, however, a couple of officious +policemen pushed me aside and did it themselves. + +There was nothing for me to regret, as the matter turned out. I should +only have rescued a bald-headed commercial traveller, very drunk, who +swore horribly, and pelted the crowd with empty collar-boxes. + +From the window of a very high flat I once watched three men, resolved to +stop a runaway horse. Each man marched deliberately into the middle of +the road and took up his stand. My window was too far away for me to see +their faces, but their attitude suggested heroism unto death. The first +man, as the horse came charging towards him, faced it with his arms +spread out. He never flinched until the horse was within about twenty +yards of him. Then, as the animal was evidently determined to continue +its wild career, there was nothing left for him to do but to retire again +to the kerb, where he stood looking after it with evident sorrow, as +though saying to himself—“Oh, well, if you are going to be headstrong I +have done with you.” + +The second man, on the catastrophe being thus left clear for him, without +a moment’s hesitation, walked up a bye street and disappeared. The third +man stood his ground, and, as the horse passed him, yelled at it. I +could not hear what he said. I have not the slightest doubt it was +excellent advice, but the animal was apparently too excited even to +listen. The first and the third man met afterwards, and discussed the +matter sympathetically. I judged they were regretting the pig-headedness +of runaway horses in general, and hoping that nobody had been hurt. + +I forget the other characters I assumed about this period. One, I know, +that got me into a good deal of trouble was that of a downright, honest, +hearty, outspoken young man who always said what he meant. + +I never knew but one man who made a real success of speaking his mind. I +have heard him slap the table with his open hand and exclaim— + +“You want me to flatter you—to stuff you up with a pack of lies. That’s +not me, that’s not Jim Compton. But if you care for my honest opinion, +all I can say is, that child is the most marvellous performer on the +piano I’ve ever heard. I don’t say she is a genius, but I have heard +Liszt and Metzler and all the crack players, and I prefer _her_. That’s +my opinion. I speak my mind, and I can’t help it if you’re offended.” + +“How refreshing,” the parents would say, “to come across a man who is not +afraid to say what he really thinks. Why are we not all outspoken?” + +The last character I attempted I thought would be easy to assume. It was +that of a much admired and beloved young man, whose great charm lay in +the fact that he was always just—himself. Other people posed and acted. +He never made any effort to be anything but his own natural, simple self. + +I thought I also would be my own natural, simple self. But then the +question arose—What was my own natural, simple self? + +That was the preliminary problem I had to solve; I have not solved it to +this day. What am I? I am a great gentleman, walking through the world +with dauntless heart and head erect, scornful of all meanness, impatient +of all littleness. I am a mean-thinking, little-daring man—the type of +man that I of the dauntless heart and the erect head despise +greatly—crawling to a poor end by devious ways, cringing to the strong, +timid of all pain. I—but, dear reader, I will not sadden your sensitive +ears with details I could give you, showing how contemptible a creature +this wretched I happens to be. Nor would you understand me. You would +only be astonished, discovering that such disreputable specimens of +humanity contrive to exist in this age. It is best, my dear sir, or +madam, you should remain ignorant of these evil persons. Let me not +trouble you with knowledge. + +I am a philosopher, greeting alike the thunder and the sunshine with +frolic welcome. Only now and then, when all things do not fall exactly +as I wish them, when foolish, wicked people will persist in doing +foolish, wicked acts, affecting my comfort and happiness, I rage and fret +a goodish deal. + +As Heine said of himself, I am knight, too, of the Holy Grail, valiant +for the Truth, reverent of all women, honouring all men, eager to yield +life to the service of my great Captain. + +And next moment, I find myself in the enemy’s lines, fighting under the +black banner. (It must be confusing to these opposing Generals, all +their soldiers being deserters from both armies.) What are women but +men’s playthings! Shall there be no more cakes and ale for me because +thou art virtuous! What are men but hungry dogs, contending each against +each for a limited supply of bones! Do others lest thou be done. What +is the Truth but an unexploded lie! + +I am a lover of all living things. You, my poor sister, struggling with +your heavy burden on your lonely way, I would kiss the tears from your +worn cheeks, lighten with my love the darkness around your feet. You, my +patient brother, breathing hard as round and round you tramp the trodden +path, like some poor half-blind gin-horse, stripes your only +encouragement, scanty store of dry chaff in your manger! I would jog +beside you, taking the strain a little from your aching shoulders; and we +would walk nodding, our heads side by side, and you, remembering, should +tell me of the fields where long ago you played, of the gallant races +that you ran and won. And you, little pinched brats, with wondering +eyes, looking from dirt-encrusted faces, I would take you in my arms and +tell you fairy stories. Into the sweet land of make-believe we would +wander, leaving the sad old world behind us for a time, and you should be +Princes and Princesses, and know Love. + +But again, a selfish, greedy man comes often, and sits in my clothes. A +man who frets away his life, planning how to get more money—more food, +more clothes, more pleasures for himself; a man so busy thinking of the +many things he needs he has no time to dwell upon the needs of others. +He deems himself the centre of the universe. You would imagine, hearing +him grumbling, that the world had been created and got ready against the +time when he should come to take his pleasure in it. He would push and +trample, heedless, reaching towards these many desires of his; and when, +grabbing, he misses, he curses Heaven for its injustice, and men and +women for getting in his path. He is not a nice man, in any way. I +wish, as I say, he would not come so often and sit in my clothes. He +persists that he is I, and that I am only a sentimental fool, spoiling +his chances. Sometimes, for a while, I get rid of him, but he always +comes back; and then he gets rid of me and I become him. It is very +confusing. Sometimes I wonder if I really am myself. + + + + +ON THE DISADVANTAGE OF NOT GETTING WHAT ONE WANTS + + +LONG, long ago, when you and I, dear Reader, were young, when the fairies +dwelt in the hearts of the roses, when the moonbeams bent each night +beneath the weight of angels’ feet, there lived a good, wise man. Or +rather, I should say, there had lived, for at the time of which I speak +the poor old gentleman lay dying. Waiting each moment the dread summons, +he fell a-musing on the life that stretched far back behind him. How +full it seemed to him at that moment of follies and mistakes, bringing +bitter tears not to himself alone but to others also. How much brighter +a road might it have been, had he been wiser, had he known! + +“Ah, me!” said the good old gentleman, “if only I could live my life +again in the light of experience.” + +Now as he spoke these words he felt the drawing near to him of a +Presence, and thinking it was the One whom he expected, raising himself a +little from his bed, he feebly cried, + +“I am ready.” + +But a hand forced him gently back, a voice saying, “Not yet; I bring +life, not death. Your wish shall be granted. You shall live your life +again, and the knowledge of the past shall be with you to guide you. See +you use it. I will come again.” + +Then a sleep fell upon the good man, and when he awoke, he was again a +little child, lying in his mother’s arms; but, locked within his brain +was the knowledge of the life that he had lived already. + +So once more he lived and loved and laboured. So a second time he lay an +old, worn man with life behind him. And the angel stood again beside his +bed; and the voice said, + +“Well, are you content now?” + +“I am well content,” said the old gentleman. “Let Death come.” + +“And have you understood?” asked the angel. + +“I think so,” was the answer; “that experience is but as of the memory of +the pathways he has trod to a traveller journeying ever onward into an +unknown land. I have been wise only to reap the reward of folly. +Knowledge has ofttimes kept me from my good. I have avoided my old +mistakes only to fall into others that I knew not of. I have reached the +old errors by new roads. Where I have escaped sorrow I have lost joy. +Where I have grasped happiness I have plucked pain also. Now let me go +with Death that I may learn..” + +Which was so like the angel of that period, the giving of a gift, +bringing to a man only more trouble. Maybe I am overrating my coolness +of judgment under somewhat startling circumstances, but I am inclined to +think that, had I lived in those days, and had a fairy or an angel come +to me, wanting to give me something—my soul’s desire, or the sum of my +ambition, or any trifle of that kind I should have been short with him. + +“You pack up that precious bag of tricks of yours,” I should have said to +him (it would have been rude, but that is how I should have felt), “and +get outside with it. I’m not taking anything in your line to-day. I +don’t require any supernatural aid to get me into trouble. All the worry +I want I can get down here, so it’s no good your calling. You take that +little joke of yours,—I don’t know what it is, but I know enough not to +want to know,—and run it off on some other idiot. I’m not priggish. I +have no objection to an innocent game of ‘catch-questions’ in the +ordinary way, and when I get a turn myself. But if I’ve got to pay every +time, and the stakes are to be my earthly happiness plus my future +existence—why, I don’t play. There was the case of Midas; a nice, shabby +trick you fellows played off upon him! making pretence you did not +understand him, twisting round the poor old fellow’s words, just for all +the world as though you were a pack of Old Bailey lawyers, trying to trip +up a witness; I’m ashamed of the lot of you, and I tell you so—coming +down here, fooling poor unsuspecting mortals with your nonsense, as +though we had not enough to harry us as it was. Then there was that +other case of the poor old peasant couple to whom you promised three +wishes, the whole thing ending in a black pudding. And they never got +even that. You thought that funny, I suppose. That was your fairy +humour! A pity, I say, you have not, all of you, something better to do +with your time. As I said before, you take that celestial ‘Joe Miller’ +of yours and work it off on somebody else. I have read my fairy lore, +and I have read my mythology, and I don’t want any of your blessings. +And what’s more, I’m not going to have them. When I want blessings I +will put up with the usual sort we are accustomed to down here. You know +the ones I mean, the disguised brand—the blessings that no human being +would think were blessings, if he were not told; the blessings that don’t +look like blessings, that don’t feel like blessings; that, as a matter of +fact, are not blessings, practically speaking; the blessings that other +people think are blessings for us and that we don’t. They’ve got their +drawbacks, but they are better than yours, at any rate, and they are +sooner over. I don’t want your blessings at any price. If you leave one +here I shall simply throw it out after you.” + +I feel confident I should have answered in that strain, and I feel it +would have done good. Somebody ought to have spoken plainly, because +with fairies and angels of that sort fooling about, no one was ever safe +for a moment. Children could hardly have been allowed outside the door. +One never could have told what silly trick some would-be funny fairy +might be waiting to play off on them. The poor child would not know, and +would think it was getting something worth having. The wonder to me is +that some of those angels didn’t get tarred and feathered. + +I am doubtful whether even Cinderella’s luck was quite as satisfying as +we are led to believe. After the carpetless kitchen and the black +beetles, how beautiful the palace must have seemed—for the first year, +perhaps for the first two. And the Prince! how loving, how gallant, how +tender—for the first year, perhaps for the first two. And after? You +see he was a Prince, brought up in a Court, the atmosphere of which is +not conducive to the development of the domestic virtues; and she—was +Cinderella. And then the marriage altogether was rather a hurried +affair. Oh yes, she is a good, loving little woman; but perhaps our +Royal Highness-ship did act too much on the impulse of the moment. It +was her dear, dainty feet that danced their way into our heart. How they +flashed and twinkled, eased in those fairy slippers. How like a lily +among tulips she moved that night amid the over-gorgeous Court dames. +She was so sweet, so fresh, so different to all the others whom we knew +so well. How happy she looked as she put her trembling little hand in +ours. What possibilities might lie behind those drooping lashes. And we +were in amorous mood that night, the music in our feet, the flash and +glitter in our eyes. And then, to pique us further, she disappeared as +suddenly and strangely as she had come. Who was she? Whence came she? +What was the mystery surrounding her? Was she only a delicious dream, a +haunting phantasy that we should never look upon again, never clasp again +within our longing arms? Was our heart to be for ever hungry, haunted by +the memory of—No, by heavens, she is real, and a woman. Here is her dear +slipper, made surely to be kissed. Of a size too that a man may well +wear within the breast of his doublet. Had any woman—nay, fairy, angel, +such dear feet! Search the whole kingdom through, but find her, find +her. The gods have heard our prayers, and given us this clue. “Suppose +she be not all she seemed. Suppose she be not of birth fit to mate with +our noble house!” Out upon thee, for an earth-bound, blind curmudgeon of +a Lord High Chancellor. How could a woman, whom such slipper fitted, be +but of the noblest and the best, as far above us, mere Princelet that we +are, as the stars in heaven are brighter than thy dull old eyes! Go, +search the kingdom, we tell thee, from east to west, from north to south, +and see to it that thou findest her, or it shall go hard with thee. By +Venus, be she a swineherd’s daughter, she shall be our Queen—an she deign +to accept of us, and of our kingdom. + +Ah well, of course, it was not a wise piece of business, that goes +without saying; but we were young, and Princes are only human. Poor +child, she could not help her education, or rather her lack of it. Dear +little thing, the wonder is that she has contrived to be no more ignorant +than she is, dragged up as she was, neglected and overworked. Nor does +life in a kitchen, amid the companionship of peasants and menials, tend +to foster the intellect. Who can blame her for being shy and somewhat +dull of thought? not we, generous-minded, kind-hearted Prince that we +are. And she is very affectionate. The family are trying, certainly; +father-in-law not a bad sort, though a little prosy when upon the subject +of his domestic troubles, and a little too fond of his glass; +mamma-in-law, and those two ugly, ill-mannered sisters, decidedly a +nuisance about the palace. Yet what can we do? they are our relations +now, and they do not forget to let us know it. Well, well, we had to +expect that, and things might have been worse. Anyhow she is not +jealous—thank goodness. + +So the day comes when poor little Cinderella sits alone of a night in the +beautiful palace. The courtiers have gone home in their carriages. The +Lord High Chancellor has bowed himself out backwards. The +Gold-Stick-in-Waiting and the Grooms of the Chamber have gone to their +beds. The Maids of Honour have said “Good-night,” and drifted out of the +door, laughing and whispering among themselves. The clock strikes +twelve—one—two, and still no footstep creaks upon the stair. Once it +followed swiftly upon the “good-night” of the maids, who did not laugh or +whisper then. + +At last the door opens, and the Prince enters, none too pleased at +finding Cinderella still awake. “So sorry I’m late, my love—detained on +affairs of state. Foreign policy very complicated, dear. Have only just +this moment left the Council Chamber.” + +And little Cinderella, while the Prince sleeps, lies sobbing out her poor +sad heart into the beautiful royal pillow, embroidered with the royal +arms and edged with the royal monogram in lace. “Why did he ever marry +me? I should have been happier in the old kitchen. The black beetles +did frighten me a little, but there was always the dear old cat; and +sometimes, when mother and the girls were out, papa would call softly +down the kitchen stairs for me to come up, and we would have such a merry +evening together, and sup off sausages: dear old dad, I hardly ever see +him now. And then, when my work was done, how pleasant it was to sit in +front of the fire, and dream of the wonderful things that would come to +me some day. I was always going to be a Princess, even in my dreams, and +live in a palace, but it was so different to this. Oh, how I hate it, +this beastly palace where everybody sneers at me—I know they do, though +they bow and scrape, and pretend to be so polite. And I’m not clever and +smart as they are. I hate them. I hate these bold-faced women who are +always here. That is the worst of a palace, everybody can come in. Oh, +I hate everybody and everything. Oh, god-mamma, god-mamma, come and take +me away. Take me back to my old kitchen. Give me back my old poor +frock. Let me dance again with the fire-tongs for a partner, and be +happy, dreaming.” + +Poor little Cinderella, perhaps it would have been better had god-mamma +been less ambitious for you, dear; had you married some good, honest +yeoman, who would never have known that you were not brilliant, who would +have loved you because you were just amiable and pretty; had your kingdom +been only a farmhouse, where your knowledge of domestic economy, gained +so hardly, would have been useful; where you would have shone instead of +being overshadowed; where Papa would have dropped in of an evening to +smoke his pipe and escape from his domestic wrangles; where you would +have been _real_ Queen. + +But then you know, dear, you would not have been content. Ah yes, with +your present experience—now you know that Queens as well as little +drudges have their troubles; but _without_ that experience? You would +have looked in the glass when you were alone; you would have looked at +your shapely hands and feet, and the shadows would have crossed your +pretty face. “Yes,” you would have said to yourself—“John is a dear, +kind fellow, and I love him very much, and all that, but—” and the old +dreams, dreamt in the old low-ceilinged kitchen before the dying fire, +would have come back to you, and you would have been discontented then as +now, only in a different way. Oh yes, you would, Cinderella, though you +gravely shake your gold-crowned head. And let me tell you why. It is +because you are a woman, and the fate of all us, men and women alike, is +to be for ever wanting what we have not, and to be finding, when we have +it, that it is not what we wanted. That is the law of life, dear. Do +you think as you lie upon the floor with your head upon your arms, that +you are the only woman whose tears are soaking into the hearthrug at that +moment? My dear Princess, if you could creep unseen about your City, +peeping at will through the curtain-shielded windows, you would come to +think that all the world was little else than a big nursery full of +crying children with none to comfort them. The doll is broken: no longer +it sweetly squeaks in answer to our pressure, “I love you, kiss me.” The +drum lies silent with the drumstick inside; no longer do we make a brave +noise in the nursery. The box of tea-things we have clumsily put our +foot upon; there will be no more merry parties around the three-legged +stool. The tin trumpet will not play the note we want to sound; the +wooden bricks keep falling down; the toy cannon has exploded and burnt +our fingers. Never mind, little man, little woman, we will try and mend +things to-morrow. + +And after all, Cinderella dear, you do live in a fine palace, and you +have jewels and grand dresses and—No, no, do not be indignant with _me_. +Did not you dream of these things _as well as_ of love? Come now, be +honest. It was always a prince, was it not, or, at the least, an +exceedingly well-to-do party, that handsome young gentleman who bowed to +you so gallantly from the red embers? He was never a virtuous young +commercial traveller, or cultured clerk, earning a salary of three pounds +a week, was he, Cinderella? Yet there are many charming commercial +travellers, many delightful clerks with limited incomes, quite +sufficient, however, to a sensible man and woman desiring but each +other’s love. Why was it always a prince, Cinderella? Had the palace +and the liveried servants, and the carriages and horses, and the jewels +and the dresses, _nothing_ to do with the dream? + +No, Cinderella, you were human, that is all. The artist, shivering in +his conventional attic, dreaming of Fame!—do you think he is not hoping +she will come to his loving arms in the form Jove came to Danae? Do you +think he is not reckoning also upon the good dinners and the big cigars, +the fur coat and the diamond studs, that her visits will enable him to +purchase? + +There is a certain picture very popular just now. You may see it, +Cinderella, in many of the shop-windows of the town. It is called “The +Dream of Love,” and it represents a beautiful young girl, sleeping in a +very beautiful but somewhat disarranged bed. Indeed, one hopes, for the +sleeper’s sake, that the night is warm, and that the room is fairly free +from draughts. A ladder of light streams down from the sky into the +room, and upon this ladder crowd and jostle one another a small army of +plump Cupids, each one laden with some pledge of love. Two of the Imps +are emptying a sack of jewels upon the floor. Four others are bearing, +well displayed, a magnificent dress (a “confection,” I believe, is the +proper term) cut somewhat low, but making up in train what is lacking +elsewhere. Others bear bonnet boxes from which peep stylish toques and +bewitching hoods. Some, representing evidently wholesale houses, stagger +under silks and satins in the piece. Cupids are there from the +shoemakers with the daintiest of _bottines_. Stockings, garters, and +even less mentionable articles, are not forgotten. Caskets, mirrors, +twelve-buttoned gloves, scent-bottles and handkerchiefs, hair-pins, and +the gayest of parasols, has the God of Love piled into the arms of his +messengers. Really a most practical, up-to-date God of Love, moving with +the times! One feels that the modern Temple of Love must be a sort of +Swan and Edgar’s; the god himself a kind of celestial shop-walker; while +his mother, Venus, no doubt superintends the costume department. Quite +an Olympian Whiteley, this latter-day Eros; he has forgotten nothing, +for, at the back of the picture, I notice one Cupid carrying a rather fat +heart at the end of a string. + +You, Cinderella, could give good counsel to that sleeping child. You +would say to her—“Awake from such dreams. The contents of a pawnbroker’s +store-room will not bring you happiness. Dream of love if you will; that +is a wise dream, even if it remain ever a dream. But these coloured +beads, these Manchester goods! are you then—you, heiress of all the +ages—still at heart only as some poor savage maiden but little removed +above the monkeys that share the primeval forest with her? Will you sell +your gold to the first trader that brings you _this_ barter? These +things, child, will only dazzle your eyes for a few days. Do you think +the Burlington Arcade is the gate of Heaven?” + +Ah, yes, I too could talk like that—I, writer of books, to the young lad, +sick of his office stool, dreaming of a literary career leading to fame +and fortune. “And do you think, lad, that by that road you will reach +Happiness sooner than by another? Do you think interviews with yourself +in penny weeklies will bring you any satisfaction after the first +halfdozen? Do you think the gushing female who has read all your books, +and who wonders what it must feel like to be so clever, will be welcome +to you the tenth time you meet her? Do you think press cuttings will +always consist of wondering admiration of your genius, of paragraphs +about your charming personal appearance under the heading, ‘Our +Celebrities’? Have you thought of the Uncomplimentary criticisms, of the +spiteful paragraphs, of the everlasting fear of slipping a few inches +down the greasy pole called ‘popular taste,’ to which you are condemned +to cling for life, as some lesser criminal to his weary tread-mill, +struggling with no hope but not to fall! Make a home, lad, for the woman +who loves you; gather one or two friends about you; work, think, and +play, that will bring you happiness. Shun this roaring gingerbread fair +that calls itself, forsooth, the ‘World of art and letters.’ Let its +clowns and its contortionists fight among themselves for the plaudits and +the halfpence of the mob. Let it be with its shouting and its surging, +its blare and its cheap flare. Come away, the summer’s night is just the +other side of the hedge, with its silence and its stars.” + +You and I, Cinderella, are experienced people, and can therefore offer +good advice, but do you think we should be listened to? + +“Ah, no, my Prince is not as yours. Mine will love me always, and I am +peculiarly fitted for the life of a palace. I have the instinct and the +ability for it. I am sure I was made for a princess. Thank you, +Cinderella, for your well-meant counsel, but there is much difference +between you and me.” + +That is the answer you would receive, Cinderella; and my young friend +would say to me, “Yes, I can understand _your_ finding disappointment in +the literary career; but then, you see, our cases are not quite similar. +_I_ am not likely to find much trouble in keeping my position. _I_ shall +not fear reading what the critics say of _me_. No doubt there are +disadvantages, when you are among the ruck, but there is always plenty of +room at the top. So thank you, and goodbye.” + +Besides, Cinderella dear, we should not quite mean it—this excellent +advice. We have grown accustomed to these gew-gaws, and we should miss +them in spite of our knowledge of their trashiness: you, your palace and +your little gold crown; I, my mountebank’s cap, and the answering laugh +that goes up from the crowd when I shake my bells. We want everything. +All the happiness that earth and heaven are capable of bestowing. +Creature comforts, and heart and soul comforts also; and, proud-spirited +beings that we are, we will not be put off with a part. Give us only +everything, and we will be content. And, after all, Cinderella, you have +had your day. Some little dogs never get theirs. You must not be +greedy. You have _known_ happiness. The palace was Paradise for those +few months, and the Prince’s arms were about you, Cinderella, the +Prince’s kisses on your lips; the gods themselves cannot take _that_ from +you. + +The cake cannot last for ever if we will eat of it so greedily. There +must come the day when we have picked hungrily the last crumb—when we sit +staring at the empty board, nothing left of the feast, Cinderella, but +the pain that comes of feasting. + +It is a naïve confession, poor Human Nature has made to itself, in +choosing, as it has, this story of Cinderella for its leading moral:—Be +good, little girl. Be meek under your many trials. Be gentle and kind, +in spite of your hard lot, and one day—you shall marry a prince and ride +in your own carriage. Be brave and true, little boy. Work hard and wait +with patience, and in the end, with God’s blessing, you shall earn riches +enough to come back to London town and marry your master’s daughter. + +You and I, gentle Reader, could teach these young folks a truer lesson, +an we would. We know, alas! that the road of all the virtues does not +lead to wealth, rather the contrary; else how explain our limited +incomes? But would it be well, think you, to tell them bluntly the +truth—that honesty is the most expensive luxury a man can indulge in; +that virtue, if persisted in, leads, generally speaking, to a six-roomed +house in an outlying suburb? Maybe the world is wise: the fiction has +its uses. + +I am acquainted with a fairly intelligent young lady. She can read and +write, knows her tables up to six times, and can argue. I regard her as +representative of average Humanity in its attitude towards Fate; and this +is a dialogue I lately overheard between her and an older lady who is +good enough to occasionally impart to her the wisdom of the world— + +“I’ve been good this morning, haven’t I?” + +“Yes—oh yes, fairly good, for you.” + +“You think Papa _will_ take me to the circus to-night?” + +“Yes, if you keep good. If you don’t get naughty this afternoon.” + +A pause. + +“I was good on Monday, you may remember, nurse.” + +“Tolerably good.” + +“_Very_ good, you said, nurse.” + +“Well, yes, you weren’t bad.” + +“And I was to have gone to the pantomime, and I didn’t.” + +“Well, that was because your aunt came up suddenly, and your Papa +couldn’t get another seat. Poor auntie wouldn’t have gone at all if she +hadn’t gone then.” + +“Oh, wouldn’t she?” + +“No.” + +Another pause. + +“Do you think she’ll come up suddenly to-day?” + +“Oh no, I don’t think so.” + +“No, I hope she doesn’t. I want to go to the circus to-night. Because, +you see, nurse, if I don’t it will discourage me.” + + * * * * * + +So, perhaps the world is wise in promising us the circus. We believe her +at first. But after a while, I fear, we grow discouraged. + + + + +ON THE EXCEPTIONAL MERIT ATTACHING TO THE THINGS WE MEANT TO DO + + +I CAN remember—but then I can remember a long time ago. You, gentle +Reader, just entering upon the prime of life, that age by thoughtless +youth called middle, I cannot, of course, expect to follow me—when there +was in great demand a certain periodical ycleped _The Amateur_. Its aim +was noble. It sought to teach the beautiful lesson of independence, to +inculcate the fine doctrine of self-help. One chapter explained to a man +how he might make flower-pots out of Australian meat cans; another how he +might turn butter-tubs into music-stools; a third how he might utilize +old bonnet boxes for Venetian blinds: that was the principle of the whole +scheme, you made everything from something not intended for it, and as +ill-suited to the purpose as possible. + +Two pages, I distinctly recollect, were devoted to the encouragement of +the manufacture of umbrella stands out of old gaspiping. Anything less +adapted to the receipt of hats and umbrellas than gas-piping I cannot +myself conceive: had there been, I feel sure the author would have +thought of it, and would have recommended it. + +Picture-frames you fashioned out of ginger-beer corks. You saved your +ginger-beer corks, you found a picture—and the thing was complete. How +much ginger-beer it would be necessary to drink, preparatory to the +making of each frame; and the effect of it upon the frame-maker’s +physical, mental and moral well-being, did not concern _The Amateur_. I +calculate that for a fair-sized picture sixteen dozen bottles might +suffice. Whether, after sixteen dozen of ginger-beer, a man would take +any interest in framing a picture—whether he would retain any pride in +the picture itself, is doubtful. But this, of course, was not the point. + +One young gentleman of my acquaintance—the son of the gardener of my +sister, as friend Ollendorff would have described him—did succeed in +getting through sufficient ginger-beer to frame his grandfather, but the +result was not encouraging. Indeed, the gardener’s wife herself was but +ill satisfied. + +“What’s all them corks round father?” was her first question. + +“Can’t you see,” was the somewhat indignant reply, “that’s the frame.” + +“Oh! but why corks?” + +“Well, the book said corks.” + +Still the old lady remained unimpressed. + +“Somehow it don’t look like father now,” she sighed. + +Her eldest born grew irritable: none of us appreciate criticism! + +“What does it look like, then?” he growled. + +“Well, I dunno. Seems to me to look like nothing but corks.” + +The old lady’s view was correct. Certain schools of art possibly lend +themselves to this method of framing. I myself have seen a funeral card +improved by it; but, generally speaking, the consequence was a +predominance of frame at the expense of the thing framed. The more +honest and tasteful of the framemakers would admit as much themselves. + +“Yes, it is ugly when you look at it,” said one to me, as we stood +surveying it from the centre of the room. “But what one feels about it +is that one has done it oneself.” + +Which reflection, I have noticed, reconciles us to many other things +beside cork frames. + +Another young gentleman friend of mine—for I am bound to admit it was +youth that profited most by the advice and counsel of _The Amateur_: I +suppose as one grows older one grows less daring, less industrious—made a +rocking-chair, according to the instructions of this book, out of a +couple of beer barrels. From every practical point of view it was a bad +rocking-chair. It rocked too much, and it rocked in too many directions +at one and the same time. I take it, a man sitting on a rocking-chair +does not want to be continually rocking. There comes a time when he says +to himself—“Now I have rocked sufficiently for the present; now I will +sit still for a while, lest a worse thing befall me.” But this was one +of those headstrong rocking-chairs that are a danger to humanity, and a +nuisance to themselves. Its notion was that it was made to rock, and +that when it was not rocking, it was wasting its time. Once started +nothing could stop it—nothing ever did stop it, until it found itself +topsy turvy on its own occupant. That was the only thing that ever +sobered it. + +I had called, and had been shown into the empty drawing-room. The +rocking-chair nodded invitingly at me. I never guessed it was an amateur +rocking-chair. I was young in those days, with faith in human nature, +and I imagined that, whatever else a man might attempt without knowledge +or experience, no one would be fool enough to experiment upon a +rocking-chair. + +I threw myself into it lightly and carelessly. I immediately noticed the +ceiling. I made an instinctive movement forward. The window and a +momentary glimpse of the wooded hills beyond shot upwards and +disappeared. The carpet flashed across my eyes, and I caught sight of my +own boots vanishing beneath me at the rate of about two hundred miles an +hour. I made a convulsive effort to recover them. I suppose I over-did +it. I saw the whole of the room at once, the four walls, the ceiling, +and the floor at the same moment. It was a sort of vision. I saw the +cottage piano upside down, and I again saw my own boots flash past me, +this time over my head, soles uppermost. Never before had I been in a +position where my own boots had seemed so all-pervading. The next moment +I lost my boots, and stopped the carpet with my head just as it was +rushing past me. At the same instant something hit me violently in the +small of the back. Reason, when recovered, suggested that my assailant +must be the rocking-chair. + +Investigation proved the surmise correct. Fortunately I was still alone, +and in consequence was able, a few minutes later, to meet my hostess with +calm and dignity. I said nothing about the rocking-chair. As a matter +of fact, I was hoping to have the pleasure, before I went, of seeing some +other guest arrive and sample it: I had purposely replaced it in the most +prominent and convenient position. But though I felt capable of +schooling myself to silence, I found myself unable to agree with my +hostess when she called for my admiration of the thing. My recent +experiences had too deeply embittered me. + +“Willie made it himself,” explained the fond mother. “Don’t you think it +was very clever of him?” + +“Oh yes, it was clever,” I replied, “I am willing to admit that.” + +“He made it out of some old beer barrels,” she continued; she seemed +proud of it. + +My resentment, though I tried to keep it under control, was mounting +higher. + +“Oh! did he?” I said; “I should have thought he might have found +something better to do with them.” + +“What?” she asked. + +“Oh! well, many things,” I retorted. “He might have filled them again +with beer.” + +My hostess looked at me astonished. I felt some reason for my tone was +expected. + +“You see,” I explained, “it is not a well-made chair. These rockers are +too short, and they are too curved, and one of them, if you notice, is +higher than the other and of a smaller radius; the back is at too obtuse +an angle. When it is occupied the centre of gravity becomes—” + +My hostess interrupted me. + +“You have been sitting on it,” she said. + +“Not for long,” I assured her. + +Her tone changed. She became apologetic. + +“I am so sorry,” she said. “It looks all right.” + +“It does,” I agreed; “that is where the dear lad’s cleverness displays +itself. Its appearance disarms suspicion. With judgment that chair +might be made to serve a really useful purpose. There are mutual +acquaintances of ours—I mention no names, you will know them—pompous, +self-satisfied, superior persons who would be improved by that chair. If +I were Willie I should disguise the mechanism with some artistic drapery, +bait the thing with a couple of exceptionally inviting cushions, and +employ it to inculcate modesty and diffidence. I defy any human being to +get out of that chair, feeling as important as when he got into it. What +the dear boy has done has been to construct an automatic exponent of the +transitory nature of human greatness. As a moral agency that chair +should prove a blessing in disguise.” + +My hostess smiled feebly; more, I fear, from politeness than genuine +enjoyment. + +“I think you are too severe,” she said. “When you remember that the boy +has never tried his hand at anything of the kind before, that he has no +knowledge and no experience, it really is not so bad.” + +Considering the matter from that point of view I was bound to concur. I +did not like to suggest to her that before entering upon a difficult task +it would be better for young men to _acquire_ knowledge and experience: +that is so unpopular a theory. + +But the thing that _The Amateur_ put in the front and foremost of its +propaganda was the manufacture of household furniture out of egg-boxes. +Why egg-boxes I have never been able to understand, but egg-boxes, +according to the prescription of _The Amateur_, formed the foundation of +household existence. With a sufficient supply of egg-boxes, and what +_The Amateur_ termed a “natural deftness,” no young couple need hesitate +to face the furnishing problem. Three egg-boxes made a writing-table; on +another egg-box you sat to write; your books were ranged in egg-boxes +around you—and there was your study, complete. + +For the dining-room two egg-boxes made an overmantel; four egg-boxes and +a piece of looking-glass a sideboard; while six egg-boxes, with some +wadding and a yard or so of cretonne, constituted a so-called “cosy +corner.” About the “corner” there could be no possible doubt. You sat +on a corner, you leant against a corner; whichever way you moved you +struck a fresh corner. The “cosiness,” however, I deny. Egg-boxes I +admit can be made useful; I am even prepared to imagine them ornamental; +but “cosy,” no. I have sampled egg-boxes in many shapes. I speak of +years ago, when the world and we were younger, when our fortune was the +Future; secure in which, we hesitated not to set up house upon incomes +folks with lesser expectations might have deemed insufficient. Under +such circumstances, the sole alternative to the egg-box, or similar +school of furniture, would have been the strictly classical, consisting +of a doorway joined to architectural proportions. + +I have from Saturday to Monday, as honoured guest, hung my clothes in +egg-boxes. + +I have sat on an egg-box at an egg-box to take my dish of tea. I have +made love on egg-boxes.—Aye, and to feel again the blood running through +my veins as then it ran, I would be content to sit only on egg-boxes till +the time should come when I could be buried in an egg-box, with an +egg-box reared above me as tombstone.—I have spent many an evening on an +egg-box; I have gone to bed in egg-boxes. They have their points—I am +intending no pun—but to claim for them cosiness would be but to deceive. + +How quaint they were, those home-made rooms! They rise out of the +shadows and shape themselves again before my eyes. I see the knobbly +sofa; the easy-chairs that might have been designed by the Grand +Inquisitor himself; the dented settle that was a bed by night; the few +blue plates, purchased in the slums off Wardour Street; the enamelled +stool to which one always stuck; the mirror framed in silk; the two +Japanese fans crossed beneath each cheap engraving; the piano cloth +embroidered in peacock’s feathers by Annie’s sister; the tea-cloth worked +by Cousin Jenny. We dreamt, sitting on those egg-boxes—for we were young +ladies and gentlemen with artistic taste—of the days when we would eat in +Chippendale dining-rooms; sip our coffee in Louis Quatorze drawing-rooms; +and be happy. Well, we have got on, some of us, since then, as Mr. +Bumpus used to say; and I notice, when on visits, that some of us have +contrived so that we do sit on Chippendale chairs, at Sheraton +dining-tables, and are warmed from Adam’s fireplaces; but, ah me, where +are the dreams, the hopes, the enthusiasms that clung like the scent of a +March morning about those gim-crack second floors? In the dustbin, I +fear, with the cretonne-covered egg-boxes and the penny fans. Fate is so +terribly even-handed. As she gives she ever takes away. She flung us a +few shillings and hope, where now she doles us out pounds and fears. Why +did not we know how happy we were, sitting crowned with sweet conceit +upon our egg-box thrones? + +Yes, Dick, you have climbed well. You edit a great newspaper. You +spread abroad the message—well, the message that Sir Joseph Goldbug, your +proprietor, instructs you to spread abroad. You teach mankind the +lessons that Sir Joseph Goldbug wishes them to learn. They say he is to +have a peerage next year. I am sure he has earned it; and perhaps there +may be a knighthood for you, Dick. + +Tom, you are getting on now. You have abandoned those unsaleable +allegories. What rich art patron cares to be told continually by his own +walls that Midas had ass’s ears; that Lazarus sits ever at the gate? You +paint portraits now, and everybody tells me you are the coming man. That +“Impression” of old Lady Jezebel was really wonderful. The woman looks +quite handsome, and yet it is her ladyship. Your touch is truly +marvellous. + +But into your success, Tom—Dick, old friend, do not there creep moments +when you would that we could fish up those old egg-boxes from the past, +refurnish with them the dingy rooms in Camden Town, and find there our +youth, our loves, and our beliefs? + +An incident brought back to my mind, the other day, the thought of all +these things. I called for the first time upon a man, an actor, who had +asked me to come and see him in the little home where he lives with his +old father. To my astonishment—for the craze, I believe, has long since +died out—I found the house half furnished out of packing cases, butter +tubs, and egg-boxes. My friend earns his twenty pounds a week, but it +was the old father’s hobby, so he explained to me, the making of these +monstrosities; and of them he was as proud as though they were specimen +furniture out of the South Kensington Museum. + +He took me into the dining-room to show me the latest outrage—a new +book-case. A greater disfigurement to the room, which was otherwise +prettily furnished, could hardly be imagined. There was no need for him +to assure me, as he did, that it had been made out of nothing but +egg-boxes. One could see at a glance that it was made out of egg-boxes, +and badly constructed egg-boxes at that—egg-boxes that were a disgrace to +the firm that had turned them out; egg-boxes not worthy the storage of +“shop ’uns” at eighteen the shilling. + +We went upstairs to my friend’s bedroom. He opened the door as a man +might open the door of a museum of gems. + +“The old boy,” he said, as he stood with his hand upon the door-knob, +“made everything you see here, everything,” and we entered. He drew my +attention to the wardrobe. “Now I will hold it up,” he said, “while you +pull the door open; I think the floor must be a bit uneven, it wobbles if +you are not careful.” It wobbled notwithstanding, but by coaxing and +humouring we succeeded without mishap. I was surprised to notice a very +small supply of clothes within, although my friend is a dressy man. + +“You see,” he explained, “I dare not use it more than I can help. I am a +clumsy chap, and as likely as not, if I happened to be in a hurry, I’d +have the whole thing over:” which seemed probable. + +I asked him how he contrived. “I dress in the bath-room as a rule,” he +replied; “I keep most of my things there. Of course the old boy doesn’t +know.” + +He showed me a chest of drawers. One drawer stood half open. + +“I’m bound to leave that drawer open,” he said; “I keep the things I use +in that. They don’t shut quite easily, these drawers; or rather, they +shut all right, but then they won’t open. It is the weather, I think. +They will open and shut all right in the summer, I dare say.” He is of a +hopeful disposition. + +But the pride of the room was the washstand. + +“What do you think of this?” cried he enthusiastically, “real marble +top—” + +He did not expatiate further. In his excitement he had laid his hand +upon the thing, with the natural result that it collapsed. More by +accident than design I caught the jug in my arms. I also caught the +water it contained. The basin rolled on its edge and little damage was +done, except to me and the soap-box. + +I could not pump up much admiration for this washstand; I was feeling too +wet. + +“What do you do when you want to wash?” I asked, as together we reset the +trap. + +There fell upon him the manner of a conspirator revealing secrets. He +glanced guiltily round the room; then, creeping on tip-toe, he opened a +cupboard behind the bed. Within was a tin basin and a small can. + +“Don’t tell the old boy,” he said. “I keep these things here, and wash +on the floor.” + +That was the best thing I myself ever got out of egg-boxes—that picture +of a deceitful son stealthily washing himself upon the floor behind the +bed, trembling at every footstep lest it might be the “old boy” coming to +the door. + +One wonders whether the Ten Commandments are so all-sufficient as we good +folk deem them—whether the eleventh is not worth the whole pack of them: +“that ye love one another” with just a common-place, human, practical +love. Could not the other ten be comfortably stowed away into a corner +of that! One is inclined, in one’s anarchic moments, to agree with Louis +Stevenson, that to be amiable and cheerful is a good religion for a +work-a-day world. We are so busy _not_ killing, _not_ stealing, _not_ +coveting our neighbour’s wife, we have not time to be even just to one +another for the little while we are together here. Need we be so +cocksure that our present list of virtues and vices is the only possibly +correct and complete one? Is the kind, unselfish man necessarily a +villain because he does not always succeed in suppressing his natural +instincts? Is the narrow-hearted, sour-souled man, incapable of a +generous thought or act, necessarily a saint because he has none? Have +we not—we unco guid—arrived at a wrong method of estimating our frailer +brothers and sisters? We judge them, as critics judge books, not by the +good that is in them, but by their faults. Poor King David! What would +the local Vigilance Society have had to say to him? Noah, according to +our plan, would be denounced from every teetotal platform in the country, +and Ham would head the Local Vestry poll as a reward for having exposed +him. And St. Peter! weak, frail St. Peter, how lucky for him that his +fellow-disciples and their Master were not as strict in their notions of +virtue as are we to-day. + +Have we not forgotten the meaning of the word “virtue”? Once it stood +for the good that was in a man, irrespective of the evil that might lie +there also, as tares among the wheat. We have abolished virtue, and for +it substituted virtues. Not the hero—he was too full of faults—but the +blameless valet; not the man who does any good, but the man who has not +been found out in any evil, is our modern ideal. The most virtuous thing +in nature, according to this new theory, should be the oyster. He is +always at home, and always sober. He is not noisy. He gives no trouble +to the police. I cannot think of a single one of the Ten Commandments +that he ever breaks. He never enjoys himself, and he never, so long as +he lives, gives a moment’s pleasure to any other living thing. + +I can imagine the oyster lecturing a lion on the subject of morality. + +“You never hear me,” the oyster might say, “howling round camps and +villages, making night hideous, frightening quiet folk out of their +lives. Why don’t you go to bed early, as I do? I never prowl round the +oyster-bed, fighting other gentlemen oysters, making love to lady oysters +already married. I never kill antelopes or missionaries. Why can’t you +live as I do on salt water and germs, or whatever it is that I do live +on? Why don’t you try to be more like me?” + +An oyster has no evil passions, therefore we say he is a virtuous fish. +We never ask ourselves—“Has he any good passions?” A lion’s behaviour is +often such as no just man could condone. Has he not his good points +also? + +Will the fat, sleek, “virtuous” man be as Welcome at the gate of heaven +as he supposes? + +“Well,” St. Peter may say to him, opening the door a little way and +looking him up and down, “what is it now?” + +“It’s me,” the virtuous man will reply, with an oily, self-satisfied +smile; “I should say, I—I’ve come.” + +“Yes, I see you have come; but what is your claim to admittance? What +have you done with your three score years and ten?” + +“Done!” the virtuous man will answer, “I have done nothing, I assure +you.” + +“Nothing!” + +“Nothing; that is my strong point; that is why I am here. I have never +done any wrong.” + +“And what good have you done?” + +“What good!” + +“Aye, what good? Do not you even know the meaning of the word? What +human creature is the better for your having eaten and drunk and slept +these years? You have done no harm—no harm to yourself. Perhaps, if you +had you might have done some good with it; the two are generally to be +found together down below, I remember. What good have you done that you +should enter here? This is no mummy chamber; this is the place of men +and women who have lived, who have wrought good—and evil also, alas!—for +the sinners who fight for the right, not the righteous who run with their +souls from the fight.” + +It was not, however, to speak of these things that I remembered _The +Amateur_ and its lessons. My intention was but to lead up to the story +of a certain small boy, who in the doing of tasks not required of him was +exceedingly clever. I wish to tell you his story, because, as do most +true tales, it possesses a moral, and stories without a moral I deem to +be but foolish literature, resembling roads that lead to nowhere, such as +sick folk tramp for exercise. + +I have known this little boy to take an expensive eight-day clock to +pieces, and make of it a toy steamboat. True, it was not, when made, +very much of a steamboat; but taking into consideration all the +difficulties—the inadaptability of eight-day clock machinery to steamboat +requirements, the necessity of getting the work accomplished quickly, +before conservatively-minded people with no enthusiasm for science could +interfere—a good enough steamboat. With merely an ironing-board and a +few dozen meat-skewers, he would—provided the ironing-board was not +missed in time—turn out quite a practicable rabbit-hutch. He could make +a gun out of an umbrella and a gas-bracket, which, if not so accurate as +a Martini-Henry, was, at all events, more deadly. With half the +garden-hose, a copper scalding-pan out of the dairy, and a few Dresden +china ornaments off the drawing-room mantelpiece, he would build a +fountain for the garden. He could make bookshelves out of kitchen +tables, and crossbows out of crinolines. He could dam you a stream so +that all the water would flow over the croquet lawn. He knew how to make +red paint and oxygen gas, together with many other suchlike commodities +handy to have about a house. Among other things he learned how to make +fireworks, and after a few explosions of an unimportant character, came +to make them very well indeed. The boy who can play a good game of +cricket is liked. The boy who can fight well is respected. The boy who +can cheek a master is loved. But the boy who can make fireworks is +revered above all others as a boy belonging to a superior order of +beings. The fifth of November was at hand, and with the consent of an +indulgent mother, he determined to give to the world a proof of his +powers. A large party of friends, relatives, and school-mates was +invited, and for a fortnight beforehand the scullery was converted into a +manufactory for fireworks. The female servants went about in hourly +terror of their lives, and the villa, did we judge exclusively by smell, +one might have imagined had been taken over by Satan, his main premises +being inconveniently crowded, as an annex. By the evening of the fourth +all was in readiness, and samples were tested to make sure that no +contretemps should occur the following night. All was found to be +perfect. + +The rockets rushed heavenward and descended in stars, the Roman candles +tossed their fiery balls into the darkness, the Catherine wheels sparkled +and whirled, the crackers cracked, and the squibs banged. That night he +went to bed a proud and happy boy, and dreamed of fame. He stood +surrounded by blazing fireworks, and the vast crowd cheered him. His +relations, most of whom, he knew, regarded him as the coming idiot of the +family, were there to witness his triumph; so too was Dickey Bowles, who +laughed at him because he could not throw straight. The girl at the +bun-shop, she also was there, and saw that he was clever. + +The night of the festival arrived, and with it the guests. They sat, +wrapped up in shawls and cloaks, outside the hall door—uncles, cousins, +aunts, little boys and big boys, little girls and big girls, with, as the +theatre posters say, villagers and retainers, some forty of them in all, +and waited. + +But the fireworks did not go off. Why they did not go off I cannot +explain; nobody ever _could_ explain. The laws of nature seemed to be +suspended for that night only. The rockets fell down and died where they +stood. No human agency seemed able to ignite the squibs. The crackers +gave one bang and collapsed. The Roman candles might have been English +rushlights. The Catherine wheels became mere revolving glow-worms. The +fiery serpents could not collect among them the spirit of a tortoise. +The set piece, a ship at sea, showed one mast and the captain, and then +went out. One or two items did their duty, but this only served to +render the foolishness of the whole more striking. The little girls +giggled, the little boys chaffed, the aunts and cousins said it was +beautiful, the uncles inquired if it was all over, and talked about +supper and trains, the “villagers and retainers” dispersed laughing, the +indulgent mother said “never mind,” and explained how well everything had +gone off yesterday; the clever little boy crept upstairs to his room, and +blubbered his heart out in the dark. + +Hours later, when the crowd had forgotten him, he stole out again into +the garden. He sat down amid the ruins of his hope, and wondered what +could have caused the fiasco. Still puzzled, he drew from his pocket a +box of matches, and, lighting one, he held it to the seared end of a +rocket he had tried in vain to light four hours ago. It smouldered for +an instant, then shot with a swish into the air and broke into a hundred +points of fire. He tried another and another with the same result. He +made a fresh attempt to fire the set piece. Point by point the whole +picture—minus the captain and one mast—came out of the night, and stood +revealed in all the majesty of flame. Its sparks fell upon the piled-up +heap of candles, wheels, and rockets that a little while before had +obstinately refused to burn, and that, one after another, had been thrown +aside as useless. Now with the night frost upon them, they leaped to +light in one grand volcanic eruption. And in front of the gorgeous +spectacle he stood with only one consolation—his mother’s hand in his. + +The whole thing was a mystery to him at the time, but, as he learned to +know life better, he came to understand that it was only one example of a +solid but inexplicable fact, ruling all human affairs—_your fireworks +won’t go off while the crowd is around_. + +Our brilliant repartees do not occur to us till the door is closed upon +us and we are alone in the street, or, as the French would say, are +coming down the stairs. Our after-dinner oratory, that sounded so +telling as we delivered it before the looking-glass, falls strangely flat +amidst the clinking of the glasses. The passionate torrent of words we +meant to pour into her ear becomes a halting rigmarole, at which—small +blame to her—she only laughs. + +I would, gentle Reader, you could hear the stories that I meant to tell +you. You judge me, of course, by the stories of mine that you have +read—by this sort of thing, perhaps; but that is not just to me. The +stories I have not told you, that I am going to tell you one day, I would +that you judge me by those. + +They are so beautiful; you will say so; over them, you will laugh and cry +with me. + +They come into my brain unbidden, they clamour to be written, yet when I +take my pen in hand they are gone. It is as though they were shy of +publicity, as though they would say to me—“You alone, you shall read us, +but you must not write us; we are too real, too true. We are like the +thoughts you cannot speak. Perhaps a little later, when you know more of +life, then you shall tell us.” + +Next to these in merit I would place, were I writing a critical essay on +myself, the stories I have begun to write and that remain unfinished, why +I cannot explain to myself. They are good stories, most of them; better +far than the stories I have accomplished. Another time, perhaps, if you +care to listen, I will tell you the beginning of one or two and you shall +judge. Strangely enough, for I have always regarded myself as a +practical, commonsensed man, so many of these still-born children of my +mind I find, on looking through the cupboard where their thin bodies lie, +are ghost stories. I suppose the hope of ghosts is with us all. The +world grows somewhat interesting to us heirs of all the ages. Year by +year, Science with broom and duster tears down the moth-worn tapestry, +forces the doors of the locked chambers, lets light into the secret +stairways, cleans out the dungeons, explores the hidden passages—finding +everywhere only dust. This echoing old castle, the world, so full of +mystery in the days when we were children, is losing somewhat its charm +for us as we grow older. The king sleeps no longer in the hollow of the +hills. We have tunnelled through his mountain chamber. We have shivered +his beard with our pick. We have driven the gods from Olympus. No +wanderer through the moonlit groves now fears or hopes the sweet, +death-giving gleam of Aphrodite’s face. Thor’s hammer echoes not among +the peaks—’tis but the thunder of the excursion train. We have swept the +woods of the fairies. We have filtered the sea of its nymphs. Even the +ghosts are leaving us, chased by the Psychical Research Society. + +Perhaps of all, they are the least, however, to be regretted. They were +dull old fellows, clanking their rusty chains and groaning and sighing. +Let them go. + +And yet how interesting they might be, if only they would. The old +gentleman in the coat of mail, who lived in King John’s reign, who was +murdered, so they say, on the outskirts of the very wood I can see from +my window as I write—stabbed in the back, poor gentleman, as he was +riding home, his body flung into the moat that to this day is called +Tor’s tomb. Dry enough it is now, and the primroses love its steep +banks; but a gloomy enough place in those days, no doubt, with its twenty +feet of stagnant water. Why does he haunt the forest paths at night, as +they tell me he does, frightening the children out of their wits, +blanching the faces and stilling the laughter of the peasant lads and +lasses, slouching home from the village dance? Instead, why does he not +come up here and talk to me? He should have my easy-chair and welcome, +would he only be cheerful and companionable. + +What brave tales could he not tell me. He fought in the first Crusade, +heard the clarion voice of Peter, met the great Godfrey face to face, +stood, hand on sword-hilt, at Runny-mede, perhaps. Better than a whole +library of historical novels would an evening’s chat be with such a +ghost. What has he done with his eight hundred years of death? where has +he been? what has he seen? Maybe he has visited Mars; has spoken to the +strange spirits who can live in the liquid fires of Jupiter. What has he +learned of the great secret? Has he found the truth? or is he, even as +I, a wanderer still seeking the unknown? + +You, poor, pale, grey nun—they tell me that of midnights one may see your +white face peering from the ruined belfry window, hear the clash of sword +and shield among the cedar-trees beneath. + +It was very sad, I quite understand, my dear lady. Your lovers both were +killed, and you retired to a convent. Believe me, I am sincerely sorry +for you, but why waste every night renewing the whole painful experience? +Would it not be better forgotten? Good Heavens, madam, suppose we living +folk were to spend our lives wailing and wringing our hands because of +the wrongs done to us when we were children? It is all over now. Had he +lived, and had you married him, you might not have been happy. I do not +wish to say anything unkind, but marriages founded upon the sincerest +mutual love have sometimes turned out unfortunately, as you must surely +know. + +Do take my advice. Talk the matter over with the young men themselves. +Persuade them to shake hands and be friends. Come in, all of you, out of +the cold, and let us have some reasonable talk. + +Why seek you to trouble us, you poor pale ghosts? Are we not your +children? Be our wise friends. Tell me, how loved the young men in your +young days? how answered the maidens? Has the world changed much, do you +think? Had you not new women even then? girls who hated the everlasting +tapestry frame and spinning-wheel? Your father’s servants, were they so +much worse off than the freemen who live in our East-end slums and sew +slippers for fourteen hours a day at a wage of nine shillings a week? Do +you think Society much improved during the last thousand years? Is it +worse? is it better? or is it, on the whole, about the same, save that we +call things by other names? Tell me, what have _you_ learned? + +Yet might not familiarity breed contempt, even for ghosts. + +One has had a tiring day’s shooting. One is looking forward to one’s +bed. As one opens the door, however, a ghostly laugh comes from behind +the bed-curtains, and one groans inwardly, knowing what is in store for +one: a two or three hours’ talk with rowdy old Sir Lanval—he of the +lance. We know all his tales by heart, and he will shout them. Suppose +our aunt, from whom we have expectations, and who sleeps in the next +room, should wake and overhear! They were fit and proper enough stories, +no doubt, for the Round Table, but we feel sure our aunt would not +appreciate them:—that story about Sir Agravain and the cooper’s wife! and +he always will tell that story. + +Or imagine the maid entering after dinner to say— + +“Oh, if you please, sir, here is the veiled lady.” + +“What, again!” says your wife, looking up from her work. + +“Yes, ma’am; shall I show her up into the bedroom?” + +“You had better ask your master,” is the reply. The tone is suggestive +of an unpleasant five minutes so soon as the girl shall have withdrawn, +but what are you to do? + +“Yes, yes, show her up,” you say, and the girl goes out, closing the +door. + +Your wife gathers her work together, and rises. + +“Where are you going?” you ask. + +“To sleep with the children,” is the frigid answer. + +“It will look so rude,” you urge. “We must be civil to the poor thing; +and you see it really is her room, as one might say. She has always +haunted it.” + +“It is very curious,” returns the wife of your bosom, still more icily, +“that she never haunts it except when you are down here. Where she goes +when you are in town I’m sure I don’t know.” + +This is unjust. You cannot restrain your indignation. + +“What nonsense you talk, Elizabeth,” you reply; “I am only barely polite +to her.” + +“Some men have such curious notions of politeness,” returns Elizabeth. +“But pray do not let us quarrel. I am only anxious not to disturb you. +Two are company, you know. I don’t choose to be the third, that’s all.” +With which she goes out. + +And the veiled lady is still waiting for you up-stairs. You wonder how +long she will stop, also what will happen after she is gone. + +I fear there is no room for you, ghosts, in this our world. You remember +how they came to Hiawatha—the ghosts of the departed loved ones. He had +prayed to them that they would come back to him to comfort him, so one +day they crept into his wigwam, sat in silence round his fireside, +chilled the air for Hiawatha, froze the smiles of Laughing Water. + +There is no room for you, oh you poor pale ghosts, in this our world. Do +not trouble us. Let us forget. You, stout elderly matron, your thin +locks turning grey, your eyes grown weak, your chin more ample, your +voice harsh with much scolding and complaining, needful, alas! to +household management, I pray you leave me. I loved you while you lived. +How sweet, how beautiful you were. I see you now in your white frock +among the apple-blossom. But you are dead, and your ghost disturbs my +dreams. I would it haunted me not. + +You, dull old fellow, looking out at me from the glass at which I shave, +why do you haunt me? You are the ghost of a bright lad I once knew well. +He might have done much, had he lived. I always had faith in him. Why +do you haunt me? I would rather think of him as I remember him. I never +imagined he would make such a poor ghost. + + + + +ON THE PREPARATION AND EMPLOYMENT OF LOVE PHILTRES + + +OCCASIONALLY a friend will ask me some such question as this, Do you +prefer dark women or fair? Another will say, Do you like tall women or +short? A third, Do you think light-hearted women, or serious, the more +agreeable company? I find myself in the position that, once upon a time, +overtook a certain charming young lady of taste who was asked by an +anxious parent, the years mounting, and the family expenditure not +decreasing, which of the numerous and eligible young men, then paying +court to her, she liked the best. She replied, that was her difficulty. +She could not make up her mind which she liked the best. They were all +so nice. She could not possibly select one to the exclusion of all the +others. What she would have liked would have been to marry the lot, but +that, she presumed, was impracticable. + +I feel I resemble that young lady, not so much, perhaps, in charm and +beauty as indecision of mind, when questions such as the above are put to +me. It is as if one were asked one’s favourite food. There are times +when one fancies an egg with one’s tea. On other occasions one dreams of +a kipper. To-day one clamours for lobsters. To-morrow one feels one +never wishes to see a lobster again; one determines to settle down, for a +time, to a diet of bread and milk and rice-pudding. Asked suddenly to +say whether I preferred ices to soup, or beefsteaks to caviare, I should +be nonplussed. + +I like tall women and short, dark women and fair, merry women and grave. + +Do not blame me, Ladies, the fault lies with you. Every right-thinking +man is an universal lover; how could it be otherwise? You are so +diverse, yet each so charming of your kind; and a man’s heart is large. +You have no idea, fair Reader, how large a man’s heart is: that is his +trouble—sometimes yours. + +May I not admire the daring tulip, because I love also the modest lily? +May I not press a kiss upon the sweet violet, because the scent of the +queenly rose is precious to me? + +“Certainly not,” I hear the Rose reply. “If you can see anything in her, +you shall have nothing to do with me.” + +“If you care for that bold creature,” says the Lily, trembling, “you are +not the man I took you for. Good-bye.” + +“Go to your baby-faced Violet,” cries the Tulip, with a toss of her +haughty head. “You are just fitted for each other.” + +And when I return to the Lily, she tells me that she cannot trust me. +She has watched me with those others. She knows me for a gad-about. Her +gentle face is full of pain. + +So I must live unloved merely because I love too much. + +My wonder is that young men ever marry. The difficulty of selection must +be appalling. I walked the other evening in Hyde Park. The band of the +Life Guards played heart-lifting music, and the vast crowd were basking +in a sweet enjoyment such as rarely woos the English toiler. I strolled +among them, and my attention was chiefly drawn towards the women. The +great majority of them were, I suppose, shop-girls, milliners, and others +belonging to the lower middle-class. They had put on their best frocks, +their bonniest hats, their newest gloves. They sat or walked in twos and +threes, chattering and preening, as happy as young sparrows on a clothes +line. And what a handsome crowd they made! I have seen German crowds, I +have seen French crowds, I have seen Italian crowds; but nowhere do you +find such a proportion of pretty women as among the English middle-class. +Three women out of every four were worth looking at, every other woman +was pretty, while every fourth, one might say without exaggeration, was +beautiful. As I passed to and fro the idea occurred to me: suppose I +were an unprejudiced young bachelor, free from predilection, looking for +a wife; and let me suppose—it is only a fancy—that all these girls were +ready and willing to accept me. I have only to choose! I grew +bewildered. There were fair girls, to look at whom was fatal; dark girls +that set one’s heart aflame; girls with red gold hair and grave grey +eyes, whom one would follow to the confines of the universe; baby-faced +girls that one longed to love and cherish; girls with noble faces, whom a +man might worship; laughing girls, with whom one could dance through life +gaily; serious girls, with whom life would be sweet and good, +domestic-looking girls—one felt such would make delightful wives; they +would cook, and sew, and make of home a pleasant, peaceful place. Then +wicked-looking girls came by, at the stab of whose bold eyes all orthodox +thoughts were put to a flight, whose laughter turned the world into a mad +carnival; girls one could mould; girls from whom one could learn; sad +girls one wanted to comfort; merry girls who would cheer one; little +girls, big girls, queenly girls, fairy-like girls. + +Suppose a young man had to select his wife in this fashion from some +twenty or thirty thousand; or that a girl were suddenly confronted with +eighteen thousand eligible young bachelors, and told to take the one she +wanted and be quick about it? Neither boy nor girl would ever marry. +Fate is kinder to us. She understands, and assists us. In the hall of a +Paris hotel I once overheard one lady asking another to recommend her a +milliner’s shop. + +“Go to the Maison Nouvelle,” advised the questioned lady, with +enthusiasm. “They have the largest selection there of any place in +Paris.” + +“I know they have,” replied the first lady, “that is just why I don’t +mean to go there. It confuses me. If I see six bonnets I can tell the +one I want in five minutes. If I see six hundred I come away without any +bonnet at all. Don’t you know a little shop?” + +Fate takes the young man or the young woman aside. + +“Come into this village, my dear,” says Fate; “into this by-street of +this salubrious suburb, into this social circle, into this church, into +this chapel. Now, my dear boy, out of these seventeen young ladies, +which will you have?—out of these thirteen young men, which would you +like for your very own, my dear?” + +“No, miss, I am sorry, but I am not able to show you our up-stairs +department to-day, the lift is not working. But I am sure we shall be +able to find something in this room to suit you. Just look round, my +dear, perhaps you will see something.” + +“No, sir, I cannot show you the stock in the next room, we never take +that out except for our very special customers. We keep our most +expensive goods in that room. (Draw that curtain, Miss Circumstance, +please. I have told you of that before.) Now, sir, wouldn’t you like +this one? This colour is quite the rage this season; we are getting rid +of quite a lot of these.” + +“_No_, sir! Well, of course, it would not do for every one’s taste to be +the same. Perhaps something dark would suit you better. Bring out those +two brunettes, Miss Circumstance. Charming girls both of them, don’t you +think so, sir? I should say the taller one for you, sir. Just one +moment, sir, allow me. Now, what do you think of that, sir? might have +been made to fit you, I’m sure. _You prefer the shorter one_. +Certainly, sir, no difference to us at all. Both are the same price. +There’s nothing like having one’s own fancy, I always say. _No_, sir, I +cannot put her aside for you, we never do that. Indeed, there’s rather a +run on brunettes just at present. I had a gentleman in only this +morning, looking at this particular one, and he is going to call again +to-night. Indeed, I am not at all sure—Oh, of course, sir, if you like +to settle on this one now, that ends the matter. (Put those others away, +Miss Circumstance, please, and mark this one sold.) I feel sure you’ll +like her, sir, when you get her home. Thank _you_, sir. Good-morning!” + +“Now, miss, have _you_ seen anything you fancy? _Yes_, miss, this is all +we have at anything near your price. (Shut those other cupboards, Miss +Circumstance; never show more stock than you are obliged to, it only +confuses customers. How often am I to tell you that?) _Yes_, miss, you +are quite right, there _is_ a slight blemish. They all have some slight +flaw. The makers say they can’t help it—it’s in the material. It’s not +once in a season we get a perfect specimen; and when we do ladies don’t +seem to care for it. Most of our customers prefer a little faultiness. +They say it gives character. Now, look at this, miss. This sort of +thing wears very well, warm and quiet. You’d like one with more colour +in it? Certainly. Miss Circumstance, reach me down the art patterns. +_No_, miss, we don’t guarantee any of them over the year, so much depends +on how you use them. _Oh yes_, miss, they’ll stand a fair amount of +wear. People do tell you the quieter patterns last longer; but my +experience is that one is much the same as another. There’s really no +telling any of them until you come to try them. We never recommend one +more than another. There’s a lot of chance about these goods, it’s in +the nature of them. What I always say to ladies is—‘Please yourself, +it’s you who have got to wear it; and it’s no good having an article you +start by not liking.’ _Yes_, miss, it _is_ pretty and it looks well +against you: it does indeed. Thank you, miss. Put that one aside, Miss +Circumstance, please. See that it doesn’t get mixed up with the unsold +stock.” + +It is a useful philtre, the juice of that small western flower, that +Oberon drops upon our eyelids as we sleep. It solves all difficulties in +a trice. Why of course Helena is the fairer. Compare her with Hermia! +Compare the raven with the dove! How could we ever have doubted for a +moment? Bottom is an angel, Bottom is as wise as he is handsome. Oh, +Oberon, we thank you for that drug. Matilda Jane is a goddess; Matilda +Jane is a queen; no woman ever born of Eve was like Matilda Jane. The +little pimple on her nose—her little, sweet, tip-tilted nose—how +beautiful it is. Her bright eyes flash with temper now and then; how +piquant is a temper in a woman. William is a dear old stupid, how +lovable stupid men can be—especially when wise enough to love us. +William does not shine in conversation; how we hate a magpie of a man. +William’s chin is what is called receding, just the sort of chin a beard +looks well on. Bless you, Oberon darling, for that drug; rub it on our +eyelids once again. Better let us have a bottle, Oberon, to keep by us. + +Oberon, Oberon, what are you thinking of? You have given the bottle to +Puck. Take it away from him, quick. Lord help us all if that Imp has +the bottle. Lord save us from Puck while we sleep. + +Or may we, fairy Oberon, regard your lotion as an eye-opener, rather than +as an eye-closer? You remember the story the storks told the children, +of the little girl who was a toad by day, only her sweet dark eyes being +left to her. But at night, when the Prince clasped her close to his +breast, lo! again she became the king’s daughter, fairest and fondest of +women. There be many royal ladies in Marshland, with bad complexion and +thin straight hair, and the silly princes sneer and ride away to woo some +kitchen wench decked out in queen’s apparel. Lucky the prince upon whose +eyelids Oberon has dropped the magic philtre. + +In the gallery of a minor Continental town I have forgotten, hangs a +picture that lives with me. The painting I cannot recall, whether good +or bad; artists must forgive me for remembering only the subject. It +shows a man, crucified by the roadside. No martyr he. If ever a man +deserved hanging it was this one. So much the artist has made clear. +The face, even under its mask of agony, is an evil, treacherous face. A +peasant girl clings to the cross; she stands tip-toe upon a patient +donkey, straining her face upward for the half-dead man to stoop and kiss +her lips. + +Thief, coward, blackguard, they are stamped upon his face, but _under_ +the face, under the evil outside? Is there no remnant of manhood—nothing +tender, nothing, true? A woman has crept to the cross to kiss him: no +evidence in his favour, my Lord? Love is blind-aye, to our faults. +Heaven help us all; Love’s eyes would be sore indeed if it were not so. +But for the good that is in us her eyes are keen. You, crucified +blackguard, stand forth. A hundred witnesses have given their evidence +against you. Are there none to give evidence for him? A woman, great +Judge, who loved him. Let her speak. + +But I am wandering far from Hyde Park and its show of girls. + +They passed and re-passed me, laughing, smiling, talking. Their eyes +were bright with merry thoughts; their voices soft and musical. They +were pleased, and they wanted to please. Some were married, some had +evidently reasonable expectations of being married; the rest hoped to be. +And we, myself, and some ten thousand other young men. I repeat +it—myself and some ten thousand other young men; for who among us ever +thinks of himself but as a young man? It is the world that ages, not we. +The children cease their playing and grow grave, the lasses’ eyes are +dimmer. The hills are a little steeper, the milestones, surely, further +apart. The songs the young men sing are less merry than the songs we +used to sing. The days have grown a little colder, the wind a little +keener. The wine has lost its flavour somewhat; the new humour is not +like the old. The other boys are becoming dull and prosy; but we are not +changed. It is the world that is growing old. Therefore, I brave your +thoughtless laughter, youthful Reader, and repeat that we, myself and +some ten thousand other young men, walked among these sweet girls; and, +using our boyish eyes, were fascinated, charmed, and captivated. How +delightful to spend our lives with them, to do little services for them +that would call up these bright smiles. How pleasant to jest with them, +and hear their flute-like laughter, to console them and read their +grateful eyes. Really life is a pleasant thing, and the idea of marriage +undoubtedly originated in the brain of a kindly Providence. + +We smiled back at them, and we made way for them; we rose from our chairs +with a polite, “Allow me, miss,” “Don’t mention it, I prefer standing.” +“It is a delightful evening, is it not?” And perhaps—for what harm was +there?—we dropped into conversation with these chance fellow-passengers +upon the stream of life. There were those among us—bold daring +spirits—who even went to the length of mild flirtation. Some of us knew +some of them, and in such happy case there followed interchange of pretty +pleasantries. Your English middle-class young man and woman are not +adepts at the game of flirtation. I will confess that our methods were, +perhaps, elephantine, that we may have grown a trifle noisy as the +evening wore on. But we meant no evil; we did but our best to enjoy +ourselves, to give enjoyment, to make the too brief time, pass gaily. + +And then my thoughts travelled to small homes in distant suburbs, and +these bright lads and lasses round me came to look older and more +careworn. But what of that? Are not old faces sweet when looked at by +old eyes a little dimmed by love, and are not care and toil but the +parents of peace and joy? + +But as I drew nearer, I saw that many of the faces were seared with sour +and angry looks, and the voices that rose round me sounded surly and +captious. The pretty compliment and praise had changed to sneers and +scoldings. The dimpled smile had wrinkled to a frown. There seemed so +little desire to please, so great a determination not to be pleased. + +And the flirtations! Ah me, they had forgotten how to flirt! Oh, the +pity of it! All the jests were bitter, all the little services were +given grudgingly. The air seemed to have grown chilly. A darkness had +come over all things. + +And then I awoke to reality, and found I had been sitting in my chair +longer than I had intended. The band-stand was empty, the sun had set; I +rose and made my way home through the scattered crowd. + +Nature is so callous. The Dame irritates one at times by her devotion to +her one idea, the propagation of the species. + +“Multiply and be fruitful; let my world be ever more and more peopled.” + +For this she trains and fashions her young girls, models them with +cunning hand, paints them with her wonderful red and white, crowns them +with her glorious hair, teaches them to smile and laugh, trains their +voices into music, sends them out into the world to captivate, to enslave +us. + +“See how beautiful she is, my lad,” says the cunning old woman. “Take +her; build your little nest with her in your pretty suburb; work for her +and live for her; enable her to keep the little ones that I will send.” + +And to her, old hundred-breasted Artemis whispers, “Is he not a bonny +lad? See how he loves you, how devoted he is to you! He will work for +you and make you happy; he will build your home for you. You will be the +mother of his children.” + +So we take each other by the hand, full of hope and love, and from that +hour Mother Nature has done with us. Let the wrinkles come; let our +voices grow harsh; let the fire she lighted in our hearts die out; let +the foolish selfishness we both thought we had put behind us for ever +creep back to us, bringing unkindness and indifference, angry thoughts +and cruel words into our lives. What cares she? She has caught us, and +chained us to her work. She is our universal mother-in-law. She has +done the match-making; for the rest, she leaves it to ourselves. We can +love or we can fight; it is all one to her, confound her. + +I wonder sometimes if good temper might not be taught. In business we +use no harsh language, say no unkind things to one another. The +shopkeeper, leaning across the counter, is all smiles and affability, he +might put up his shutters were he otherwise. The commercial gent, no +doubt, thinks the ponderous shopwalker an ass, but refrains from telling +him so. Hasty tempers are banished from the City. Can we not see that +it is just as much to our interest to banish them from Tooting and +Hampstead? + +The young man who sat in the chair next to me, how carefully he wrapped +the cloak round the shoulders of the little milliner beside him. And +when she said she was tired of sitting still, how readily he sprang from +his chair to walk with her, though it was evident he was very comfortable +where he was. And she! She had laughed at his jokes; they were not very +clever jokes, they were not very new. She had probably read them herself +months before in her own particular weekly journal. Yet the harmless +humbug made him happy. I wonder if ten years hence she will laugh at +such old humour, if ten years hence he will take such clumsy pains to put +her cape about her. Experience shakes her head, and is amused at my +question. + +I would have evening classes for the teaching of temper to married +couples, only I fear the institution would languish for lack of pupils. +The husbands would recommend their wives to attend, generously offering +to pay the fee as a birthday present. The wife would be indignant at the +suggestion of good money being thus wasted. “No, John, dear,” she would +unselfishly reply, “you need the lessons more than I do. It would be a +shame for me to take them away from you,” and they would wrangle upon the +subject for the rest of the day. + +Oh! the folly of it. We pack our hamper for life’s picnic with such +pains. We spend so much, we work so hard. We make choice pies, we cook +prime joints, we prepare so carefully the mayonnaise, we mix with loving +hands the salad, we cram the basket to the lid with every delicacy we can +think of. Everything to make the picnic a success is there except the +salt. Ah! woe is me, we forget the salt. We slave at our desks, in our +workshops, to make a home for those we love; we give up our pleasures, we +give up our rest. We toil in our kitchen from morning till night, and we +render the whole feast tasteless for want of a ha’porth of salt—for want +of a soupcon of amiability, for want of a handful of kindly words, a +touch of caress, a pinch of courtesy. + +Who does not know that estimable housewife, working from eight till +twelve to keep the house in what she calls order? She is so good a +woman, so untiring, so unselfish, so conscientious, so irritating. Her +rooms are so clean, her servants so well managed, her children so well +dressed, her dinners so well cooked; the whole house so uninviting. +Everything about her is in apple-pie order, and everybody wretched. + +My good Madam, you polish your tables, you scour your kettles, but the +most valuable piece of furniture in the whole house you are letting to +rack and ruin for want of a little pains. You will find it in your own +room, my dear Lady, in front of your own mirror. It is getting shabby +and dingy, old-looking before its time; the polish is rubbed off it, +Madam, it is losing its brightness and charm. Do you remember when he +first brought it home, how proud he was of it? Do you think you have +used it well, knowing how he valued it? A little less care of your pots +and your pans, Madam, a little more of yourself were wiser. Polish +yourself up, Madam; you had a pretty wit once, a pleasant laugh, a +conversation that was not confined exclusively to the short-comings of +servants, the wrong-doings of tradesmen. My dear Madam, we do not live +on spotless linen, and crumbless carpets. Hunt out that bundle of old +letters you keep tied up in faded ribbon at the back of your bureau +drawer—a pity you don’t read them oftener. He did not enthuse about your +cuffs and collars, gush over the neatness of your darning. It was your +tangled hair he raved about, your sunny smile (we have not seen it for +some years, Madam—the fault of the Cook and the Butcher, I presume), your +little hands, your rosebud mouth—it has lost its shape, Madam, of late. +Try a little less scolding of Mary Ann, and practise a laugh once a day: +you might get back the dainty curves. It would be worth trying. It was +a pretty mouth once. + +Who invented that mischievous falsehood that the way to a man’s heart was +through his stomach? How many a silly woman, taking it for truth, has +let love slip out of the parlour, while she was busy in the kitchen. Of +course, if you were foolish enough to marry a pig, I suppose you must be +content to devote your life to the preparation of hog’s-wash. But are +you sure that he _is_ a pig? If by any chance he be not?—then, Madam, +you are making a grievous mistake. My dear Lady, you are too modest. If +I may say so without making you unduly conceited, even at the +dinner-table itself, you are of much more importance than the mutton. +Courage, Madam, be not afraid to tilt a lance even with your own cook. +You can be more piquant than the sauce _à la Tartare_, more soothing +surely than the melted butter. There was a time when he would not have +known whether he was eating beef or pork with you the other side of the +table. Whose fault is it? Don’t think so poorly of us. We are not +ascetics, neither are we all gourmets: most of us plain men, fond of our +dinner, as a healthy man should be, but fonder still of our sweethearts +and wives, let us hope. Try us. A moderately-cooked dinner—let us even +say a not-too-well-cooked dinner, with you looking your best, laughing +and talking gaily and cleverly—as you can, you know—makes a pleasanter +meal for us, after the day’s work is done, than that same dinner, cooked +to perfection, with you silent, jaded, and anxious, your pretty hair +untidy, your pretty face wrinkled with care concerning the sole, with +anxiety regarding the omelette. + +My poor Martha, be not troubled about so many things. _You_ are the one +thing needful—if the bricks and mortar are to be a home. See to it that +_you_ are well served up, that _you_ are done to perfection, that _you_ +are tender and satisfying, that _you_ are worth sitting down to. We +wanted a wife, a comrade, a friend; not a cook and a nurse on the cheap. + +But of what use is it to talk? the world will ever follow its own folly. +When I think of all the good advice that I have given it, and of the +small result achieved, I confess I grow discouraged. I was giving good +advice to a lady only the other day. I was instructing her as to the +proper treatment of aunts. She was sucking a lead-pencil, a thing I am +always telling her not to do. She took it out of her mouth to speak. + +“I suppose you know how everybody ought to do everything,” she said. + +There are times when it is necessary to sacrifice one’s modesty to one’s +duty. + +“Of course I do,” I replied. + +“And does Mama know how everybody ought to do everything?” was the second +question. + +My conviction on this point was by no means so strong, but for domestic +reasons I again sacrificed myself to expediency. + +“Certainly,” I answered; “and take that pencil out of your mouth. I’ve +told you of that before. You’ll swallow it one day, and then you’ll get +perichondritis and die.” + +She appeared to be solving a problem. + +“All grown-up people seem to know everything,” she summarized. + +There are times when I doubt if children are as simple as they look. If +it be sheer stupidity that prompts them to make remarks of this +character, one should pity them, and seek to improve them. But if it be +not stupidity? well then, one should still seek to improve them, but by a +different method. + +The other morning I overheard the nurse talking to this particular +specimen. The woman is a most worthy creature, and she was imparting to +the child some really sound advice. She was in the middle of an +unexceptional exhortation concerning the virtue of silence, when Dorothea +interrupted her with— + +“Oh, do be quiet, Nurse. I never get a moment’s peace from your +chatter.” + +Such an interruption discourages a woman who is trying to do her duty. + +Last Tuesday evening she was unhappy. Myself, I think that rhubarb +should never be eaten before April, and then never with lemonade. Her +mother read her a homily upon the subject of pain. It was impressed upon +her that we must be patient, that we must put up with the trouble that +God sends us. Dorothea would descend to details, as children will. + +“Must we put up with the cod-liver oil that God sends us?” + +“Yes, decidedly.” + +“And with the nurses that God sends us?” + +“Certainly; and be thankful that you’ve got them, some little girls +haven’t any nurse. And don’t talk so much.” + +On Friday I found the mother in tears. + +“What’s the matter?” I asked. + +“Oh, nothing,” was the answer; “only Baby. She’s such a strange child. +I can’t make her out at all.” + +“What has she been up to now?” + +“Oh, she will argue, you know.” + +She has that failing. I don’t know where she gets it from, but she’s got +it. + +“Well?” + +“Well, she made me cross; and, to punish her, I told her she shouldn’t +take her doll’s perambulator out with her.” + +“Yes?” + +“Well, she didn’t say anything then, but so soon as I was outside the +door, I heard her talking to herself—you know her way?” + +“Yes?” + +“She said—” + +“Yes, she said?” + +“She said, ‘I must be patient. I must put up with the mother God has +sent me.’” + +She lunches down-stairs on Sundays. We have her with us once a week to +give her the opportunity of studying manners and behaviour. Milson had +dropped in, and we were discussing politics. I was interested, and, +pushing my plate aside, leant forward with my elbows on the table. +Dorothea has a habit of talking to herself in a high-pitched whisper +capable of being heard above an Adelphi love scene. I heard her say— + +“I must sit up straight. I mustn’t sprawl with my elbows on the table. +It is only common, vulgar people behave that way.” + +I looked across at her; she was sitting most correctly, and appeared to +be contemplating something a thousand miles away. We had all of us been +lounging! We sat up stiffly, and conversation flagged. + +Of course we made a joke of it after the child was gone. But somehow it +didn’t seem to be _our_ joke. + +I wish I could recollect my childhood. I should so like to know if +children are as simple as they can look. + + + + +ON THE DELIGHTS AND BENEFITS OF SLAVERY + + +MY study window looks down upon Hyde Park, and often, to quote the +familiar promise of each new magazine, it amuses and instructs me to +watch from my tower the epitome of human life that passes to and fro +beneath. At the opening of the gates, creeps in the woman of the +streets. Her pitiful work for the time being is over. Shivering in the +chill dawn, she passes to her brief rest. Poor Slave! Lured to the +galley’s lowest deck, then chained there. Civilization, tricked fool, +they say has need of such. You serve as the dogs of Eastern towns. But +at least, it seems to me, we need not spit on you. Home to your kennel! +Perchance, if the Gods be kind, they may send you dreams of a cleanly +hearth, where you lie with a silver collar round your neck. + +Next comes the labourer—the hewer of wood, the drawer of water—slouching +wearily to his toil; sleep clinging still about his leaden eyes, his +pittance of food carried tied up in a dish-clout. The first stroke of +the hour clangs from Big Ben. Haste thee, fellow-slave, lest the +overseer’s whip, “Out, we will have no lie-a-beds here,” descend upon thy +patient back. + +Later, the artisan, with his bag of tools across his shoulder. He, too, +listens fearfully to the chiming of the bells. For him also there hangs +ready the whip. + +After him, the shop boy and the shop girl, making love as they walk, not +to waste time. And after these the slaves of the desk and of the +warehouse, employers and employed, clerks and tradesmen, office boys and +merchants. To your places, slaves of all ranks. Get you unto your +burdens. + +Now, laughing and shouting as they run, the children, the sons and +daughters of the slaves. Be industrious, little children, and learn your +lessons, that when the time comes you may be ready to take from our hands +the creaking oar, to slip into our seat at the roaring loom. For we +shall not be slaves for ever, little children. It is the good law of the +land. So many years in the galleys, so many years in the fields; then we +can claim our freedom. Then we shall go, little children, back to the +land of our birth. And you we must leave behind us to take up the tale +of our work. So, off to your schools, little children, and learn to be +good little slaves. + +Next, pompous and sleek, come the educated slaves—journalists, doctors, +judges, and poets; the attorney, the artist, the player, the priest. +They likewise scurry across the Park, looking anxiously from time to time +at their watches, lest they be late for their appointments; thinking of +the rates and taxes to be earned, of the bonnets to be paid for, the +bills to be met. The best scourged, perhaps, of all, these slaves. The +cat reserved for them has fifty tails in place of merely two or three. +Work, you higher middle-class slave, or you shall come down to the +smoking of twopenny cigars; harder yet, or you shall drink shilling +claret; harder, or you shall lose your carriage and ride in a penny bus; +your wife’s frocks shall be of last year’s fashion; your trousers shall +bag at the knees; from Kensington you shall be banished to Kilburn, if +the tale of your bricks run short. Oh, a many-thonged whip is yours, my +genteel brother. + +The slaves of fashion are the next to pass beneath me in review. They +are dressed and curled with infinite pains. The liveried, pampered +footman these, kept more for show than use; but their senseless tasks +none the less labour to them. Here must they come every day, merry or +sad. By this gravel path and no other must they walk; these phrases +shall they use when they speak to one another. For an hour they must go +slowly up and down upon a bicycle from Hyde Park Corner to the Magazine +and back. And these clothes must they wear; their gloves of this colour, +their neck-ties of this pattern. In the afternoon they must return +again, this time in a carriage, dressed in another livery, and for an +hour they must pass slowly to and fro in foolish procession. For dinner +they must don yet another livery, and after dinner they must stand about +at dreary social functions till with weariness and boredom their heads +feel dropping from their shoulders. + +With the evening come the slaves back from their work: barristers, +thinking out their eloquent appeals; school-boys, conning their dog-eared +grammars; City men, planning their schemes; the wearers of motley, +cudgelling their poor brains for fresh wit with which to please their +master; shop boys and shop girls, silent now as, together, they plod +homeward; the artisan; the labourer. Two or three hours you shall have +to yourselves, slaves, to think and love and play, if you be not too +tired to think, or love, or play. Then to your litter, that you may be +ready for the morrow’s task. + +The twilight deepens into dark; there comes back the woman of the +streets. As the shadows, she rounds the City’s day. Work strikes its +tent. Evil creeps from its peering place. + +So we labour, driven by the whip of necessity, an army of slaves. If we +do not our work, the whip descends upon us; only the pain we feel in our +stomach instead of on our back. And because of that, we call ourselves +free men. + +Some few among us bravely struggle to be really free: they are our tramps +and outcasts. We well-behaved slaves shrink from them, for the wages of +freedom in this world are vermin and starvation. We can live lives worth +living only by placing the collar round our neck. + +There are times when one asks oneself: Why this endless labour? Why this +building of houses, this cooking of food, this making of clothes? Is the +ant so much more to be envied than the grasshopper, because she spends +her life in grubbing and storing, and can spare no time for singing? Why +this complex instinct, driving us to a thousand labours to satisfy a +thousand desires? We have turned the world into a workshop to provide +ourselves with toys. To purchase luxury we have sold our ease. + +Oh, Children of Israel! why were ye not content in your wilderness? It +seems to have been a pattern wilderness. For you, a simple wholesome +food, ready cooked, was provided. You took no thought for rent and +taxes; you had no poor among you—no poor-rate collectors. You suffered +not from indigestion, nor the hundred ills that follow over-feeding; an +omer for every man was your portion, neither more nor less. You knew not +you had a liver. Doctors wearied you not with their theories, their +physics, and their bills. You were neither landowners nor leaseholders, +neither shareholders nor debenture holders. The weather and the market +reports troubled you not. The lawyer was unknown to you; you wanted no +advice; you had nought to quarrel about with your neighbour. No riches +were yours for the moth and rust to damage. Your yearly income and +expenditure you knew would balance to a fraction. Your wife and children +were provided for. Your old age caused you no anxiety; you knew you +would always have enough to live upon in comfort. Your funeral, a simple +and tasteful affair, would be furnished by the tribe. And yet, poor, +foolish child, fresh from the Egyptian brickfield, you could not rest +satisfied. You hungered for the fleshpots, knowing well what flesh-pots +entail: the cleaning of the flesh-pots, the forging of the flesh-pots, +the hewing of wood to make the fires for the boiling of the flesh-pots, +the breeding of beasts to fill the pots, the growing of fodder to feed +the beasts to fill the pots. + +All the labour of our life is centred round our flesh-pots. On the altar +of the flesh-pot we sacrifice our leisure, our peace of mind. For a mess +of pottage we sell our birthright. + +Oh! Children of Israel, saw you not the long punishment you were +preparing for yourselves, when in your wilderness you set up the image of +the Calf, and fell before it, crying—“This shall be our God.” + +You would have veal. Thought you never of the price man pays for Veal? +The servants of the Golden Calf! I see them, stretched before my eyes, a +weary, endless throng. I see them toiling in the mines, the black sweat +on their faces. I see them in sunless cities, silent, and grimy, and +bent. I see them, ague-twisted, in the rain-soaked fields. I see them, +panting by the furnace doors. I see them, in loin-cloth and necklace, +the load upon their head. I see them in blue coats and red coats, +marching to pour their blood as an offering on the altar of the Calf. I +see them in homespun and broadcloth, I see them in smock and gaiters, I +see them in cap and apron, the servants of the Calf. They swarm on the +land and they dot the sea. They are chained to the anvil and counter; +they are chained to the bench and the desk. They make ready the soil, +they till the fields where the Golden Calf is born. They build the ship, +and they sail the ship that carries the Golden Calf. They fashion the +pots, they mould the pans, they carve the tables, they turn the chairs, +they dream of the sauces, they dig for the salt, they weave the damask, +they mould the dish to serve the Golden Calf. + +The work of the world is to this end, that we eat of the Calf. War and +Commerce, Science and Law! what are they but the four pillars supporting +the Golden Calf? He is our God. It is on his back that we have +journeyed from the primeval forest, where our ancestors ate nuts and +fruit. He is our God. His temple is in every street. His blue-robed +priest stands ever at the door, calling to the people to worship. Hark! +his voice rises on the gas-tainted air—“Now’s your time! Now’s your +time! Buy! Buy! ye people. Bring hither the sweat of your brow, the +sweat of your brain, the ache of your heart, buy Veal with it. Bring me +the best years of your life. Bring me your thoughts, your hopes, your +loves; ye shall have Veal for them. Now’s your time! Now’s your time! +Buy! Buy!” + +Oh! Children of Israel, was Veal, even with all its trimmings, quite +worth the price? + +And we! what wisdom have we learned, during the centuries? I talked with +a rich man only the other evening. He calls himself a Financier, +whatever that may mean. He leaves his beautiful house, some twenty miles +out of London, at a quarter to eight, summer and winter, after a hurried +breakfast by himself, while his guests still sleep, and he gets back just +in time to dress for an elaborate dinner he himself is too weary or too +preoccupied to more than touch. If ever he is persuaded to give himself +a holiday it is for a fortnight in Ostend, when it is most crowded and +uncomfortable. He takes his secretary with him, receives and despatches +a hundred telegrams a day, and has a private telephone, through which he +can speak direct to London, brought up into his bedroom. + +I suppose the telephone is really a useful invention. Business men tell +me they wonder how they contrived to conduct their affairs without it. +My own wonder always is, how any human being with the ordinary passions +of his race can conduct his business, or even himself, creditably, within +a hundred yards of the invention. I can imagine Job, or Griselda, or +Socrates liking to have a telephone about them as exercise. Socrates, in +particular, would have made quite a reputation for himself out of a three +months’ subscription to a telephone. Myself, I am, perhaps, too +sensitive. I once lived for a month in an office with a telephone, if +one could call it life. I was told that if I had stuck to the thing for +two or three months longer, I should have got used to it. I know friends +of mine, men once fearless and high-spirited, who now stand in front of +their own telephone for a quarter of an hour at a time, and never so much +as answer it back. They tell me that at first they used to swear and +shout at it as I did; but now their spirit seems crushed. That is what +happens: you either break the telephone, or the telephone breaks you. +You want to see a man two streets off. You might put on your hat, and be +round at his office in five minutes. You are on the point of starting +when the telephone catches your eye. You think you will ring him up to +make sure he is in. You commence by ringing up some half-dozen times +before anybody takes any notice of you whatever. You are burning with +indignation at this neglect, and have left the instrument to sit down and +pen a stinging letter of complaint to the Company when the ring-back +re-calls you. You seize the ear trumpets, and shout— + +“How is it that I can never get an answer when I ring? Here have I been +ringing for the last half-hour. I have rung twenty times.” (This is a +falsehood. You have rung only six times, and the “half-hour” is an +absurd exaggeration; but you feel the mere truth would not be adequate to +the occasion.) “I think it disgraceful,” you continue, “and I shall +complain to the Company. What is the use of my having a telephone if I +can’t get any answer when I ring? Here I pay a large sum for having this +thing, and I can’t get any notice taken. I’ve been ringing all the +morning. Why is it?” + +Then you wait for the answer. + +“What—what do you say? I can’t hear what you say.” + +“I say I’ve been ringing here for over an hour, and I can’t get any +reply,” you call back. “I shall complain to the Company.” + +“You want what? Don’t stand so near the tube. I can’t hear what you +say. What number?” + +“Bother the number; I say why is it I don’t get an answer when I ring?” + +“Eight hundred and what?” + +You can’t argue any more, after that. The machine would give way under +the language you want to make use of. Half of what you feel would +probably cause an explosion at some point where the wire was weak. +Indeed, mere language of any kind would fall short of the requirements of +the case. A hatchet and a gun are the only intermediaries through which +you could convey your meaning by this time. So you give up all attempt +to answer back, and meekly mention that you want to be put in +communication with four-five-seven-six. + +“Four-nine-seven-six?” says the girl. + +“No; four-five-seven-six.” + +“Did you say seven-six or six-seven?” + +“Six-seven—no! I mean seven-six: no—wait a minute. I don’t know what I +do mean now.” + +“Well, I wish you’d find out,” says the young lady severely. “You are +keeping me here all the morning.” + +So you look up the number in the book again, and at last she tells you +that you are in connection; and then, ramming the trumpet tight against +your ear, you stand waiting. + +And if there is one thing more than another likely to make a man feel +ridiculous it is standing on tip-toe in a corner, holding a machine to +his head, and listening intently to nothing. Your back aches and your +head aches, your very hair aches. You hear the door open behind you and +somebody enter the room. You can’t turn your head. You swear at them, +and hear the door close with a bang. It immediately occurs to you that +in all probability it was Henrietta. She promised to call for you at +half-past twelve: you were to take her to lunch. It was twelve o’clock +when you were fool enough to mix yourself up with this infernal machine, +and it probably is half-past twelve by now. Your past life rises before +you, accompanied by dim memories of your grandmother. You are wondering +how much longer you can bear the strain of this attitude, and whether +after all you do really want to see the man in the next street but two, +when the girl in the exchange-room calls up to know if you’re done. + +“Done!” you retort bitterly; “why, I haven’t begun yet.” + +“Well, be quick,” she says, “because you’re wasting time.” + +Thus admonished, you attack the thing again. “_Are_ you there?” you cry +in tones that ought to move the heart of a Charity Commissioner; and +then, oh joy! oh rapture! you hear a faint human voice replying— + +“Yes, what is it?” + +“Oh! Are you four-five-seven-six?” + +“What?” + +“Are you four-five-seven-six, Williamson?” + +“What! who are you?” + +“Eight-one-nine, Jones.” + +“Bones?” + +“No, _J_ones. Are you four-five-seven-six?” + +“Yes; what is it?” + +“Is Mr. Williamson in?” + +“Will I what—who are you?” + +“Jones! Is Mr. Williamson in?” + +“Who?” + +“Williamson. Will-i-am-son!” + +“You’re the son of what? I can’t hear what you say.” + +Then you gather yourself for one final effort, and succeed, by superhuman +patience, in getting the fool to understand that you wish to know if Mr. +Williamson is in, and he says, so it sounds to you, “Be in all the +morning.” + +So you snatch up your hat and run round. + +“Oh, I’ve come to see Mr. Williamson,” you say. + +“Very sorry, sir,” is the polite reply, “but he’s out.” + +“Out? Why, you just now told me through the telephone that he’d be in +all the morning.” + +“No, I said, he ‘_won’t_ be in all the morning.’” + +You go back to the office, and sit down in front of that telephone and +look at it. There it hangs, calm and imperturbable. Were it an ordinary +instrument, that would be its last hour. You would go straight +down-stairs, get the coal-hammer and the kitchen-poker, and divide it +into sufficient pieces to give a bit to every man in London. But you +feel nervous of these electrical affairs, and there is a something about +that telephone, with its black hole and curly wires, that cows you. You +have a notion that if you don’t handle it properly something may come and +shock you, and then there will be an inquest, and bother of that sort, so +you only curse it. + +That is what happens when you want to use the telephone from your end. +But that is not the worst that the telephone can do. A sensible man, +after a little experience, can learn to leave the thing alone. Your +worst troubles are not of your own making. You are working against time; +you have given instructions not to be disturbed. Perhaps it is after +lunch, and you are thinking with your eyes closed, so that your thoughts +shall not be distracted by the objects about the room. In either case +you are anxious not to leave your chair, when off goes that telephone +bell and you spring from your chair, uncertain, for the moment, whether +you have been shot, or blown up with dynamite. It occurs to you in your +weakness that if you persist in taking no notice, they will get tired, +and leave you alone. But that is not their method. The bell rings +violently at ten-second intervals. You have nothing to wrap your head up +in. You think it will be better to get this business over and done with. +You go to your fate and call back savagely— + +“What is it? What do you want?” + +No answer, only a confused murmur, prominent out of which come the voices +of two men swearing at one another. The language they are making use of +is disgraceful. The telephone seems peculiarly adapted for the +conveyance of blasphemy. Ordinary language sounds indistinct through it; +but every word those two men are saying can be heard by all the telephone +subscribers in London. + +It is useless attempting to listen till they have done. When they are +exhausted, you apply to the tube again. No answer is obtainable. You +get mad, and become sarcastic; only being sarcastic when you are not sure +that anybody is at the other end to hear you is unsatisfying. + +At last, after a quarter of an hour or so of saying, “Are you there?” +“Yes, I’m here,” “Well?” the young lady at the Exchange asks what you +want. + +“I don’t want anything,” you reply. + +“Then why do you keep talking?” she retorts; “you mustn’t play with the +thing.” + +This renders you speechless with indignation for a while, upon recovering +from which you explain that somebody rang you up. + +“_Who_ rang you up?” she asks. + +“I don’t know.” + +“I wish you did,” she observes. + +Generally disgusted, you slam the trumpet up and return to your chair. +The instant you are seated the bell clangs again; and you fly up and +demand to know what the thunder they want, and who the thunder they are. + +“Don’t speak so loud, we can’t hear you. What do you want?” is the +answer. + +“I don’t want anything. What do you want? Why do you ring me up, and +then not answer me? Do leave me alone, if you can!” + +“We can’t get Hong Kongs at seventy-four.” + +“Well, I don’t care if you can’t.” + +“Would you like Zulus?” + +“What are you talking about?” you reply; “I don’t know what you mean.” + +“Would you like Zulus—Zulus at seventy-three and a half?” + +“I wouldn’t have ’em at six a penny. What are you talking about?” + +“Hong Kongs—we can’t get them at seventy-four. Oh, half-a-minute” (the +half-a-minute passes). “Are you there?” + +“Yes, but you are talking to the wrong man.” + +“We can get you Hong Kongs at seventy-four and seven-eights.” + +“Bother Hong Kongs, and you too. I tell you, you are talking to the +wrong man. I’ve told you once.” + +“Once what?” + +“Why, that I am the wrong man—I mean that you are talking to the wrong +man.” + +“Who are you?” + +“Eight-one-nine, Jones.” + +“Oh, aren’t you one-nine-eight?” + +“No.” + +“Oh, good-bye.” + +“Good-bye.” + +How can a man after that sit down and write pleasantly of the European +crisis? And, if it were needed, herein lies another indictment against +the telephone. I was engaged in an argument, which, if not in itself +serious, was at least concerned with a serious enough subject, the +unsatisfactory nature of human riches; and from that highly moral +discussion have I been lured, by the accidental sight of the word +“telephone,” into the writing of matter which can have the effect only of +exciting to frenzy all critics of the New Humour into whose hands, for +their sins, this book may come. Let me forget my transgression and +return to my sermon, or rather to the sermon of my millionaire +acquaintance. + +It was one day after dinner, we sat together in his magnificently +furnished dining-room. We had lighted our cigars at the silver lamp. +The butler had withdrawn. + +“These cigars we are smoking,” my friend suddenly remarked, _à propos_ +apparently of nothing, “they cost me five shillings apiece, taking them +by the thousand.” + +“I can quite believe it,” I answered; “they are worth it.” + +“Yes, to you,” he replied, almost savagely. “What do you usually pay for +your cigars?” + +We had known each other years ago. When I first met him his offices +consisted of a back room up three flights of stairs in a dingy by-street +off the Strand, which has since disappeared. We occasionally dined +together, in those days, at a restaurant in Great Portland Street, for +one and nine. Our acquaintanceship was of sufficient standing to allow +of such a question. + +“Threepence,” I answered. “They work out at about twopence +three-farthings by the box.” + +“Just so,” he growled; “and your twopenny-three-farthing weed gives you +precisely the same amount of satisfaction that this five shilling cigar +affords me. That means four and ninepence farthing wasted every time I +smoke. I pay my cook two hundred a year. I don’t enjoy my dinner as +much as when it cost me four shillings, including a quarter flask of +Chianti. What is the difference, personally, to me whether I drive to my +office in a carriage and pair, or in an omnibus? I often do ride in a +bus: it saves trouble. It is absurd wasting time looking for one’s +coachman, when the conductor of an omnibus that passes one’s door is +hailing one a few yards off. Before I could afford even buses—when I +used to walk every morning to the office from Hammersmith—I was +healthier. It irritates me to think how hard I work for no earthly +benefit to myself. My money pleases a lot of people I don’t care two +straws about, and who are only my friends in the hope of making something +out of me. If I could eat a hundred-guinea dinner myself every night, +and enjoy it four hundred times as much as I used to enjoy a +five-shilling dinner, there would be some sense in it. Why do I do it?” + +I had never heard him talk like this before. In his excitement he rose +from the table, and commenced pacing the room. + +“Why don’t I invest my money in the two and a half per cents?” he +continued. “At the very worst I should be safe for five thousand a year. +What, in the name of common sense, does a man want with more? I am +always saying to myself, I’ll do it; why don’t I? + +“Well, why not?” I echoed. + +“That’s what I want you to tell me,” he returned. “You set up for +understanding human nature, it’s a mystery to me. In my place, you would +do as I do; you know that. If somebody left you a hundred thousand +pounds to-morrow, you would start a newspaper, or build a theatre—some +damn-fool trick for getting rid of the money and giving yourself +seventeen hours’ anxiety a day; you know you would.” + +I hung my head in shame. I felt the justice of the accusation. It has +always been my dream to run a newspaper and own a theatre. + +“If we worked only for what we could spend,” he went on, “the City might +put up its shutters to-morrow morning. What I want to get at the bottom +of is this instinct that drives us to work apparently for work’s own +sake. What is this strange thing that gets upon our back and spurs us?” + +A servant entered at that moment with a cablegram from the manager of one +of his Austrian mines, and he had to leave me for his study. But, +walking home, I fell to pondering on his words. _Why_ this endless work? +Why each morning do we get up and wash and dress ourselves, to undress +ourselves at night and go to bed again? Why do we work merely to earn +money to buy food; and eat food so as to gain strength that we may work? +Why do we live, merely in the end to say good-bye to one another? Why do +we labour to bring children into the world that they may die and be +buried? + +Of what use our mad striving, our passionate desire? Will it matter to +the ages whether, once upon a time, the Union Jack or the Tricolour +floated over the battlements of Badajoz? Yet we poured our blood into +its ditches to decide the question. Will it matter, in the days when the +glacial period shall have come again, to clothe the earth with silence, +whose foot first trod the Pole? Yet, generation after generation, we +mile its roadway with our whitening bones. So very soon the worms come +to us; does it matter whether we love, or hate? Yet the hot blood rushes +through our veins, we wear out heart and brain for shadowy hopes that +ever fade as we press forward. + +The flower struggles up from seed-pod, draws the sweet sap from the +ground, folds its petals each night, and sleeps. Then love comes to it +in a strange form, and it longs to mingle its pollen with the pollen of +some other flower. So it puts forth its gay blossoms, and the wandering +insect bears the message from seed-pod to seed-pod. And the seasons +pass, bringing with them the sunshine and the rain, till the flower +withers, never having known the real purpose for which it lived, thinking +the garden was made for it, not it for the garden. The coral insect +dreams in its small soul, which is possibly its small stomach, of home +and food. So it works and strives deep down in the dark waters, never +knowing of the continents it is fashioning. + +But the question still remains: for what purpose is it all? Science +explains it to us. By ages of strife and effort we improve the race; +from ether, through the monkey, man is born. So, through the labour of +the coming ages, he will free himself still further from the brute. +Through sorrow and through struggle, by the sweat of brain and brow, he +will lift himself towards the angels. He will come into his kingdom. + +But why the building? Why the passing of the countless ages? Why should +he not have been born the god he is to be, imbued at birth with all the +capabilities his ancestors have died acquiring? Why the Pict and Hun +that _I_ may be? Why _I_, that a descendant of my own, to whom I shall +seem a savage, shall come after me? Why, if the universe be ordered by a +Creator to whom all things are possible, the protoplasmic cell? Why not +the man that is to be? Shall all the generations be so much human waste +that he may live? Am I but another layer of the soil preparing for him? + +Or, if our future be in other spheres, then why the need of this planet? +Are we labouring at some Work too vast for us to perceive? Are our +passions and desires mere whips and traces by the help of which we are +driven? Any theory seems more hopeful than the thought that all our +eager, fretful lives are but the turning of a useless prison crank. +Looking back the little distance that our dim eyes can penetrate the +past, what do we find? Civilizations, built up with infinite care, swept +aside and lost. Beliefs for which men lived and died, proved to be +mockeries. Greek Art crushed to the dust by Gothic bludgeons. Dreams of +fraternity, drowned in blood by a Napoleon. What is left to us, but the +hope that the work itself, not the result, is the real monument? Maybe, +we are as children, asking, “Of what use are these lessons? What good +will they ever be to us?” But there comes a day when the lad understands +why he learnt grammar and geography, when even dates have a meaning for +him. But this is not until he has left school, and gone out into the +wider world. So, perhaps, when we are a little more grown up, we too may +begin to understand the reason for our living. + + + + +ON THE CARE AND MANAGEMENT OF WOMEN + + +I TALKED to a woman once on the subject of honeymoons. I said, “Would +you recommend a long honeymoon, or a Saturday to Monday somewhere?” A +silence fell upon her. I gathered she was looking back rather than +forward to her answer. + +“I would advise a long honeymoon,” she replied at length, “the +old-fashioned month.” + +“Why,” I persisted, “I thought the tendency of the age was to cut these +things shorter and shorter.” + +“It is the tendency of the age,” she answered, “to seek escape from many +things it would be wiser to face. I think myself that, for good or evil, +the sooner it is over—the sooner both the man and the woman know—the +better.” + +“The sooner what is over?” I asked. + +If she had a fault, this woman, about which I am not sure, it was an +inclination towards enigma. + +She crossed to the window and stood there, looking out. + +“Was there not a custom,” she said, still gazing down into the wet, +glistening street, “among one of the ancient peoples, I forget which, +ordaining that when a man and woman, loving one another, or thinking that +they loved, had been joined together, they should go down upon their +wedding night to the temple? And into the dark recesses of the temple, +through many winding passages, the priest led them until they came to the +great chamber where dwelt the voice of their god. There the priest left +them, clanging-to the massive door behind him, and there, alone in +silence, they made their sacrifice; and in the night the Voice spoke to +them, showing them their future life—whether they had chosen well; +whether their love would live or die. And in the morning the priest +returned and led them back into the day; and they dwelt among their +fellows. But no one was permitted to question them, nor they to answer +should any do so. Well, do you know, our nineteenth-century honeymoon at +Brighton, Switzerland, or Ramsgate, as the choice or necessity may be, +always seems to me merely another form of that night spent alone in the +temple before the altar of that forgotten god. Our young men and women +marry, and we kiss them and congratulate them; and, standing on the +doorstep, throw rice and old slippers, and shout good wishes after them; +and he waves his gloved hand to us, and she flutters her little +handkerchief from the carriage window; and we watch their smiling faces +and hear their laughter until the corner hides them from our view. Then +we go about our own business, and a short time passes by; and one day we +meet them again, and their faces have grown older and graver; and I +always wonder what the Voice has told them during that little while that +they have been absent from our sight. But of course it would not do to +ask them. Nor would they answer truly if we did.” + +My friend laughed, and, leaving the window, took her place beside the +tea-things, and other callers dropping in, we fell to talk of pictures, +plays, and people. + +But I felt it would be unwise to act on her sole advice, much as I have +always valued her opinion. + +A woman takes life too seriously. It is a serious affair to most of us, +the Lord knows. That is why it is well not to take it more seriously +than need be. + +Little Jack and little Jill fall down the hill, hurting their little +knees, and their little noses, spilling the hard-earned water. We are +very philosophical. + +“Oh, don’t cry!” we tell them, “that is babyish. Little boys and little +girls must learn to bear pain. Up you get, fill the pail again, and try +once more.” + +Little Jack and little Jill rub their dirty knuckles into their little +eyes, looking ruefully at their bloody little knees, and trot back with +the pail. We laugh at them, but not ill-naturedly. + +“Poor little souls,” we say; “how they did hullabaloo. One might have +thought they were half-killed. And it was only a broken crown, after +all. What a fuss children make!” We bear with much stoicism the fall of +little Jack and little Jill. + +But when _we_—grown-up Jack with moustache turning grey; grown-up Jill +with the first faint “crow’s feet” showing—when _we_ tumble down the +hill, and _our_ pail is spilt. Ye Heavens! what a tragedy has happened. +Put out the stars, turn off the sun, suspend the laws of nature. Mr. +Jack and Mrs. Jill, coming down the hill—what they were doing on the hill +we will not inquire—have slipped over a stone, placed there surely by the +evil powers of the universe. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill have bumped their +silly heads. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill have hurt their little hearts, and +stand marvelling that the world can go about its business in the face of +such disaster. + +Don’t take the matter quite so seriously, Jack and Jill. You have +spilled your happiness, you must toil up the hill again and refill the +pail. Carry it more carefully next time. What were you doing? Playing +some fool’s trick, I’ll be bound. + +A laugh and a sigh, a kiss and good-bye, is our life. Is it worth so +much fretting? It is a merry life on the whole. Courage, comrade. A +campaign cannot be all drum and fife and stirrup-cup. The marching and +the fighting must come into it somewhere. There are pleasant bivouacs +among the vineyards, merry nights around the camp fires. White hands +wave a welcome to us; bright eyes dim at our going. Would you run from +the battle-music? What have you to complain of? Forward: the medal to +some, the surgeon’s knife to others; to all of us, sooner or later, six +feet of mother earth. What are you afraid of? Courage, comrade. + +There is a mean between basking through life with the smiling contentment +of the alligator, and shivering through it with the aggressive +sensibility of the Lama determined to die at every cross word. To bear +it as a man we must also feel it as a man. My philosophic friend, seek +not to comfort a brother standing by the coffin of his child with the +cheery suggestion that it will be all the same a hundred years hence, +because, for one thing, the observation is not true: the man is changed +for all eternity—possibly for the better, but don’t add that. A soldier +with a bullet in his neck is never quite the man he was. But he can +laugh and he can talk, drink his wine and ride his horse. Now and again, +towards evening, when the weather is trying, the sickness will come upon +him. You will find him on a couch in a dark corner. + +“Hallo! old fellow, anything up?” + +“Oh, just a twinge, the old wound, you know. I will be better in a +little while.” + +Shut the door of the dark room quietly. I should not stay even to +sympathize with him if I were you. The men will be coming to screw the +coffin down soon. I think he would like to be alone with it till then. +Let us leave him. He will come back to the club later on in the season. +For a while we may have to give him another ten points or so, but he will +soon get back his old form. Now and again, when he meets the other +fellows’ boys shouting on the towing-path; when Brown rushes up the +drive, paper in hand, to tell him how that young scapegrace Jim has won +his Cross; when he is congratulating Jones’s eldest on having passed with +honours, the old wound may give him a nasty twinge. But the pain will +pass away. He will laugh at our stories and tell us his own; eat his +dinner, play his rubber. It is only a wound. + +Tommy can never be ours, Jenny does not love us. We cannot afford +claret, so we will have to drink beer. Well, what would you have us do? +Yes, let us curse Fate by all means—some one to curse is always useful. +Let us cry and wring our hands—for how long? The dinner-bell will ring +soon, and the Smiths are coming. We shall have to talk about the opera +and the picture-galleries. Quick, where is the eau-de-Cologne? where are +the curling-tongs? Or would you we committed suicide? Is it worth +while? Only a few more years—perhaps to-morrow, by aid of a piece of +orange peel or a broken chimney-pot—and Fate will save us all that +trouble. + +Or shall we, as sulky children, mope day after day? We are a +broken-hearted little Jack—little Jill. We will never smile again; we +will pine away and die, and be buried in the spring. The world is sad, +and life so cruel, and heaven so cold. Oh dear! oh dear! we have hurt +ourselves. + +We whimper and whine at every pain. In old strong days men faced real +dangers, real troubles every hour; they had no time to cry. Death and +disaster stood ever at the door. Men were contemptuous of them. Now in +each snug protected villa we set to work to make wounds out of scratches. +Every head-ache becomes an agony, every heart-ache a tragedy. It took a +murdered father, a drowned sweetheart, a dishonoured mother, a ghost, and +a slaughtered Prime Minister to produce the emotions in Hamlet that a +modern minor poet obtains from a chorus girl’s frown, or a temporary +slump on the Stock Exchange. Like Mrs. Gummidge, we feel it more. The +lighter and easier life gets the more seriously we go out to meet it. +The boatmen of Ulysses faced the thunder and the sunshine alike with +frolic welcome. We modern sailors have grown more sensitive. The +sunshine scorches us, the rain chills us. We meet both with loud +self-pity. + +Thinking these thoughts, I sought a second friend—a man whose breezy +common-sense has often helped me, and him likewise I questioned on this +subject of honeymoons. + +“My dear boy,” he replied; “take my advice, if ever you get married, +arrange it so that the honeymoon shall only last a week, and let it be a +bustling week into the bargain. Take a Cook’s circular tour. Get +married on the Saturday morning, cut the breakfast and all that +foolishness, and catch the eleven-ten from Charing Cross to Paris. Take +her up the Eiffel Tower on Sunday. Lunch at Fontainebleau. Dine at the +Maison Doree, and show her the Moulin Rouge in the evening. Take the +night train for Lucerne. Devote Monday and Tuesday to doing Switzerland, +and get into Rome by Thursday morning, taking the Italian lakes _en +route_. On Friday cross to Marseilles, and from there push along to +Monte Carlo. Let her have a flutter at the tables. Start early Saturday +morning for Spain, cross the Pyrenees on mules, and rest at Bordeaux on +Sunday. Get back to Paris on Monday (Monday is always a good day for the +opera), and on Tuesday evening you will be at home, and glad to get +there. Don’t give her time to criticize you until she has got used to +you. No man will bear unprotected exposure to a young girl’s eyes. The +honeymoon is the matrimonial microscope. Wobble it. Confuse it with +many objects. Cloud it with other interests. Don’t sit still to be +examined. Besides, remember that a man always appears at his best when +active, and a woman at her worst. Bustle her, my dear boy, bustle her: I +don’t care who she may be. Give her plenty of luggage to look after; +make her catch trains. Let her see the average husband sprawling +comfortably over the railway cushions, while his wife has to sit bolt +upright in the corner left to her. Let her hear how other men swear. +Let her smell other men’s tobacco. Hurry up, and get her accustomed +quickly to the sight of mankind. Then she will be less surprised and +shocked as she grows to know you. One of the best fellows I ever knew +spoilt his married life beyond repair by a long quiet honeymoon. They +went off for a month to a lonely cottage in some heaven-forsaken spot, +where never a soul came near them, and never a thing happened but +morning, afternoon, and night. There for thirty days she overhauled him. +When he yawned—and he yawned pretty often, I guess, during that month—she +thought of the size of his mouth, and when he put his heels upon the +fender she sat and brooded upon the shape of his feet. At meal-time, not +feeling hungry herself, having nothing to do to make her hungry, she +would occupy herself with watching him eat; and at night, not feeling +sleepy for the same reason, she would lie awake and listen to his +snoring. After the first day or two he grew tired of talking nonsense, +and she of listening to it (it sounded nonsense now they could speak it +aloud; they had fancied it poetry when they had had to whisper it); and +having no other subject, as yet, of common interest, they would sit and +stare in front of them in silence. One day some trifle irritated him and +he swore. On a busy railway platform, or in a crowded hotel, she would +have said, ‘Oh!’ and they would both have laughed. From that echoing +desert the silly words rose up in widening circles towards the sky, and +that night she cried herself to sleep. Bustle them, my dear boy, bustle +them. We all like each other better the less we think about one another, +and the honeymoon is an exceptionally critical time. Bustle her, my dear +boy, bustle her.” + +My very worst honeymoon experience took place in the South of England in +eighteen hundred and—well, never mind the exact date, let us say a few +years ago. I was a shy young man at that time. Many complain of my +reserve to this day, but then some girls expect too much from a man. We +all have our shortcomings. Even then, however, I was not so shy as she. +We had to travel from Lyndhurst in the New Forest to Ventnor, an awkward +bit of cross-country work in those days. + +“It’s so fortunate you are going too,” said her aunt to me on the +Tuesday; “Minnie is always nervous travelling alone. You will be able to +look after her, and I shan’t be anxious.” + +I said it would be a pleasure, and at the time I honestly thought it. On +the Wednesday I went down to the coach office, and booked two places for +Lymington, from where we took the steamer. I had not a suspicion of +trouble. + +The booking-clerk was an elderly man. He said— + +“I’ve got the box seat, and the end place on the back bench.” + +I said— + +“Oh, can’t I have two together?” + +He was a kindly-looking old fellow. He winked at me. I wondered all the +way home why he had winked at me. He said— + +“I’ll manage it somehow.” + +I said— + +“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure.” + +He laid his hand on my shoulder. He struck me as familiar, but +well-intentioned. He said— + +“We have all of us been there.” + +I thought he was alluding to the Isle of Wight. I said— + +“And this is the best time of the year for it, so I’m told.” It was +early summer time. + +He said—“It’s all right in summer, and it’s good enough in winter—_while +it lasts_. You make the most of it, young ’un;” and he slapped me on the +back and laughed. + +He would have irritated me in another minute. I paid for the seats and +left him. + +At half-past eight the next morning Minnie and I started for the +coach-office. I call her Minnie, not with any wish to be impertinent, +but because I have forgotten her surname. It must be ten years since I +last saw her. She was a pretty girl, too, with those brown eyes that +always cloud before they laugh. Her aunt did not drive down with us as +she had intended, in consequence of a headache. She was good enough to +say she felt every confidence in me. + +The old booking-clerk caught sight of us when we were about a quarter of +a mile away, and drew to us the attention of the coachman, who +communicated the fact of our approach to the gathered passengers. +Everybody left off talking, and waited for us. The boots seized his +horn, and blew—one could hardly call it a blast; it would be difficult to +say what he blew. He put his heart into it, but not sufficient wind. I +think his intention was to welcome us, but it suggested rather a feeble +curse. We learnt subsequently that he was a beginner on the instrument. + +In some mysterious way the whole affair appeared to be our party. The +booking-clerk bustled up and helped Minnie from the cart. I feared, for +a moment, he was going to kiss her. The coachman grinned when I said +good-morning to him. The passengers grinned, the boots grinned. Two +chamber-maids and a waiter came out from the hotel, and they grinned. I +drew Minnie aside, and whispered to her. I said— + +“There’s something funny about us. All these people are grinning.” + +She walked round me, and I walked round her, but we could neither of us +discover anything amusing about the other. The booking-clerk said— + +“It’s all right. I’ve got you young people two places just behind the +box-seat. We’ll have to put five of you on that seat. You won’t mind +sitting a bit close, will you?” + +The booking-clerk winked at the coachman, the coachman winked at the +passengers, the passengers winked at one another—those of them who could +wink—and everybody laughed. The two chamber-maids became hysterical, and +had to cling to each other for support. With the exception of Minnie and +myself, it seemed to be the merriest coach party ever assembled at +Lyndhurst. + +We had taken our places, and I was still busy trying to fathom the joke, +when a stout lady appeared on the scene, and demanded to know her place. + +The clerk explained to her that it was in the middle behind the driver. + +“We’ve had to put five of you on that seat,” added the clerk. + +The stout lady looked at the seat. + +“Five of us can’t squeeze into that,” she said. + +Five of her certainly could not. Four ordinary sized people with her +would find it tight. + +“Very well then,” said the clerk, “you can have the end place on the back +seat.” + +“Nothing of the sort,” said the stout lady. “I booked my seat on Monday, +and you told me any of the front places were vacant. + +“_I’ll_ take the back place,” I said, “I don’t mind it. + +“You stop where you are, young ’un,” said the clerk, firmly, “and don’t +be a fool. I’ll fix _her_.” + +I objected to his language, but his tone was kindness itself. + +“Oh, let _me_ have the back seat,” said Minnie, rising, “I’d so like it.” + +For answer the coachman put both his hands on her shoulders. He was a +heavy man, and she sat down again. + +“Now then, mum,” said the clerk, addressing the stout lady, “are you +going up there in the middle, or are you coming up here at the back?” + +“But why not let one of them take the back seat?” demanded the stout +lady, pointing her reticule at Minnie and myself; “they say they’d like +it. Let them have it.” + +The coachman rose, and addressed his remarks generally. + +“Put her up at the back, or leave her behind,” he directed. “Man and +wife have never been separated on this coach since I started running it +fifteen year ago, and they ain’t going to be now.” + +A general cheer greeted this sentiment. The stout lady, now regarded as +a would-be blighter of love’s young dream, was hustled into the back +seat, the whip cracked, and away we rolled. + +So here was the explanation. We were in a honeymoon district, in +June—the most popular month in the whole year for marriage. Every two +out of three couples found wandering about the New Forest in June are +honeymoon couples; the third are going to be. When they travel anywhere +it is to the Isle of Wight. We both had on new clothes. Our bags +happened to be new. By some evil chance our very umbrellas were new. +Our united ages were thirty-seven. The wonder would have been had we +_not_ been mistaken for a young married couple. + +A day of greater misery I have rarely passed. To Minnie, so her aunt +informed me afterwards, the journey was the most terrible experience of +her life, but then her experience, up to that time, had been limited. +She was engaged, and devotedly attached, to a young clergyman; I was +madly in love with a somewhat plump girl named Cecilia who lived with her +mother at Hampstead. I am positive as to her living at Hampstead. I +remember so distinctly my weekly walk down the hill from Church Row to +the Swiss Cottage station. When walking down a steep hill all the weight +of the body is forced into the toe of the boot, and when the boot is two +sizes too small for you, and you have been living in it since the early +afternoon, you remember a thing like that. But all my recollections of +Cecilia are painful, and it is needless to pursue them. + +Our coach-load was a homely party, and some of the jokes were +broad—harmless enough in themselves, had Minnie and I really been the +married couple we were supposed to be, but even in that case unnecessary. +I can only hope that Minnie did not understand them. Anyhow, she looked +as if she didn’t. + +I forget where we stopped for lunch, but I remember that lamb and mint +sauce was on the table, and that the circumstance afforded the greatest +delight to all the party, with the exception of the stout lady, who was +still indignant, Minnie and myself. About my behaviour as a bridegroom +opinion appeared to be divided. “He’s a bit standoffish with her,” I +overheard one lady remark to her husband; “I like to see ’em a bit +kittenish myself.” A young waitress, on the other hand, I am happy to +say, showed more sense of natural reserve. “Well, I respect him for it,” +she was saying to the barmaid, as we passed through the hall; “I’d just +hate to be fuzzled over with everybody looking on.” Nobody took the +trouble to drop their voices for our benefit. We might have been a pair +of prize love birds on exhibition, the way we were openly discussed. By +the majority we were clearly regarded as a sulky young couple who would +not go through their tricks. + +I have often wondered since how a real married couple would have faced +the situation. Possibly, had we consented to give a short display of +marital affection, “by desire,” we might have been left in peace for the +remainder of the journey. + +Our reputation preceded us on to the steamboat. Minnie begged and prayed +me to let it be known we were not married. How I was to let it be known, +except by requesting the captain to summon the whole ship’s company on +deck, and then making them a short speech, I could not think. Minnie +said she could not bear it any longer, and retired to the ladies’ cabin. +She went off crying. Her trouble was attributed by crew and passengers +to my coldness. One fool planted himself opposite me with his legs +apart, and shook his head at me. + +“Go down and comfort her,” he began. “Take an old man’s advice. Put +your arms around her.” (He was one of those sentimental idiots.) “Tell +her that you love her.” + +I told him to go and hang himself, with so much vigour that he all but +fell overboard. He was saved by a poultry crate: I had no luck that day. + +At Ryde the guard, by superhuman effort, contrived to keep us a carriage +to ourselves. I gave him a shilling, because I did not know what else to +do. I would have made it half-a-sovereign if he had put eight other +passengers in with us. At every station people came to the window to +look in at us. + +I handed Minnie over to her father on Ventnor platform; and I took the +first train the next morning, to London. I felt I did not want to see +her again for a little while; and I felt convinced she could do without a +visit from me. Our next meeting took place the week before her marriage. + +“Where are you going to spend your honeymoon?” I asked her; “in the New +Forest?” + +“No,” she replied; “nor in the Isle of Wight.” + +To enjoy the humour of an incident one must be at some distance from it +either in time or relationship. I remember watching an amusing scene in +Whitefield Street, just off Tottenham Court Road, one winter’s Saturday +night. A woman—a rather respectable looking woman, had her hat only been +on straight—had just been shot out of a public-house. She was very +dignified, and very drunk. A policeman requested her to move on. She +called him “Fellow,” and demanded to know of him if he considered that +was the proper tone in which to address a lady. She threatened to report +him to her cousin, the Lord Chancellor. + +“Yes; this way to the Lord Chancellor,” retorted the policeman. “You +come along with me;” and he caught hold of her by the arm. + +She gave a lurch, and nearly fell. To save her the man put his arm round +her waist. She clasped him round the neck, and together they spun round +two or three times; while at the very moment a piano-organ at the +opposite corner struck up a waltz. + +“Choose your partners, gentlemen, for the next dance,” shouted a wag, and +the crowd roared. + +I was laughing myself, for the situation was undeniably comical, the +constable’s expression of disgust being quite Hogarthian, when the sight +of a child’s face beneath the gas-lamp stayed me. Her look was so full +of terror that I tried to comfort her. + +“It’s only a drunken woman,” I said; “he’s not going to hurt her.” + +“Please, sir,” was the answer, “it’s my mother.” + +Our joke is generally another’s pain. The man who sits down on the +tin-tack rarely joins in the laugh. + + + + +ON THE MINDING OF OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS + + +I WALKED one bright September morning in the Strand. I love London best +in the autumn. Then only can one see the gleam of its white pavements, +the bold, unbroken outline of its streets. I love the cool vistas one +comes across of mornings in the parks, the soft twilights that linger in +the empty bye-streets. In June the restaurant manager is off-hand with +me; I feel I am but in his way. In August he spreads for me the table by +the window, pours out for me my wine with his own fat hands. I cannot +doubt his regard for me: my foolish jealousies are stilled. Do I care +for a drive after dinner through the caressing night air, I can climb the +omnibus stair without a preliminary fight upon the curb, can sit with +easy conscience and unsquashed body, not feeling I have deprived some +hot, tired woman of a seat. Do I desire the play, no harsh, forbidding +“House full” board repels me from the door. During her season, London, a +harassed hostess, has no time for us, her intimates. Her rooms are +overcrowded, her servants overworked, her dinners hurriedly cooked, her +tone insincere. In the spring, to be truthful, the great lady +condescends to be somewhat vulgar—noisy and ostentatious. Not till the +guests are departed is she herself again, the London that we, her +children, love. + +Have you, gentle Reader, ever seen London—not the London of the waking +day, coated with crawling life, as a blossom with blight, but the London +of the morning, freed from her rags, the patient city, clad in mists? +Get you up with the dawn one Sunday in summer time. Wake none else, but +creep down stealthily into the kitchen, and make your own tea and toast. + +Be careful you stumble not over the cat. She will worm herself +insidiously between your legs. It is her way; she means it in +friendship. Neither bark your shins against the coal-box. Why the +kitchen coal-box has its fixed place in the direct line between the +kitchen door and the gas-bracket I cannot say. I merely know it as an +universal law; and I would that you escaped that coal-box, lest the frame +of mind I desire for you on this Sabbath morning be dissipated. + +A spoon to stir your tea, I fear you must dispense with. Knives and +forks you will discover in plenty; blacking brushes you will put your +hand upon in every drawer; of emery paper, did one require it, there are +reams; but it is a point with every housekeeper that the spoons be hidden +in a different place each night. If anybody excepting herself can find +them in the morning, it is a slur upon her. No matter, a stick of +firewood, sharpened at one end, makes an excellent substitute. + +Your breakfast done, turn out the gas, remount the stairs quietly, open +gently the front door and slip out. You will find yourself in an unknown +land. A strange city grown round you in the night. + +The sweet long streets lie silent in sunlight. Not a living thing is to +be seen save some lean Tom that slinks from his gutter feast as you +approach. From some tree there will sound perhaps a fretful chirp: but +the London sparrow is no early riser; he is but talking in his sleep. +The slow tramp of unseen policeman draws near or dies away. The clatter +of your own footsteps goes with you, troubling you. You find yourself +trying to walk softly, as one does in echoing cathedrals. A voice is +everywhere about you whispering to you “Hush.” Is this million-breasted +City then some tender Artemis, seeking to keep her babes asleep? “Hush, +you careless wayfarer; do not waken them. Walk lighter; they are so +tired, these myriad children of mine, sleeping in my thousand arms. They +are over-worked and over-worried; so many of them are sick, so many +fretful, many of them, alas, so full of naughtiness. But all of them so +tired. Hush! they worry me with their noise and riot when they are +awake. They are so good now they are asleep. Walk lightly, let them +rest.” + +Where the ebbing tide flows softly through worn arches to the sea, you +may hear the stone-faced City talking to the restless waters: “Why will +you never stay with me? Why come but to go?” + +“I cannot say, I do not understand. From the deep sea I come, but only +as a bird loosed from a child’s hand with a cord. When she calls I must +return.” + +“It is so with these children of mine. They come to me, I know not +whence. I nurse them for a little while, till a hand I do not see plucks +them back. And others take their place.” + +Through the still air there passes a ripple of sound. The sleeping City +stirs with a faint sigh. A distant milk-cart rattling by raises a +thousand echoes; it is the vanguard of a yoked army. Soon from every +street there rises the soothing cry, “Mee’hilk—mee’hilk.” + +London like some Gargantuan babe, is awake, crying for its milk. These +be the white-smocked nurses hastening with its morning nourishment. The +early church bells ring. “You have had your milk, little London. Now +come and say your prayers. Another week has just begun, baby London. +God knows what will happen, say your prayers.” + +One by one the little creatures creep from behind the blinds into the +streets. The brooding tenderness is vanished from the City’s face. The +fretful noises of the day have come again. Silence, her lover of the +night, kisses her stone lips, and steals away. And you, gentle Reader, +return home, garlanded with the self-sufficiency of the early riser. + +But it was of a certain week-day morning, in the Strand that I was +thinking. I was standing outside Gatti’s Restaurant, where I had just +breakfasted, listening leisurely to an argument between an indignant lady +passenger, presumably of Irish extraction, and an omnibus conductor. + +“For what d’ye want thin to paint Putney on ye’r bus, if ye don’t _go_ to +Putney?” said the lady. + +“We _do_ go to Putney,” said the conductor. + +“Thin why did ye put me out here?” + +“I didn’t put you out, yer got out.” + +“Shure, didn’t the gintleman in the corner tell me I was comin’ further +away from Putney ivery minit?” + +“Wal, and so yer was.” + +“Thin whoy didn’t you tell me?” + +“How was I to know yer wanted to go to Putney? Yer sings out Putney, and +I stops and in yer jumps.” + +“And for what d’ye think I called out Putney thin?” + +“’Cause it’s my name, or rayther the bus’s name. This ’ere _is_ a +Putney.” + +“How can it be a Putney whin it isn’t goin’ to Putney, ye gomerhawk?” + +“Ain’t you an Hirishwoman?” retorted the conductor. “Course yer are. +But yer aren’t always goin’ to Ireland. We’re goin’ to Putney in time, +only we’re a-going to Liverpool Street fust. ’Igher up, Jim.” + +The bus moved on, and I was about cross the road, when a man, muttering +savagely to himself, walked into me. He would have swept past me had I +not, recognizing him, arrested him. It was my friend B—, a busy editor +of magazines and journals. It was some seconds before he appeared able +to struggle out of his abstraction, and remember himself. “Halloo,” he +then said, “who would have thought of seeing _you_ here?” + +“To judge by the way you were walking,” I replied, “one would imagine the +Strand the last place in which you expected to see any human being. Do +you ever walk into a short-tempered, muscular man?” + +“Did I walk into you?” he asked surprised. + +“Well, not right in,” I answered, “I if we are to be literal. You walked +on to me; if I had not stopped you, I suppose you would have walked over +me.” + +“It is this confounded Christmas business,” he explained. “It drives me +off my head.” + +“I have heard Christmas advanced as an excuse for many things,” I +replied, “but not early in September.” + +“Oh, you know what I mean,” he answered, “we are in the middle of our +Christmas number. I am working day and night upon it. By the bye,” he +added, “that puts me in mind. I am arranging a symposium, and I want you +to join. ‘Should Christmas,’”—I interrupted him. + +“My dear fellow,” I said, “I commenced my journalistic career when I was +eighteen, and I have continued it at intervals ever since. I have +written about Christmas from the sentimental point of view; I have +analyzed it from the philosophical point of view; and I have scarified it +from the sarcastic standpoint. I have treated Christmas humorously for +the Comics, and sympathetically for the Provincial Weeklies. I have said +all that is worth saying on the subject of Christmas—maybe a trifle more. +I have told the new-fashioned Christmas story—you know the sort of thing: +your heroine tries to understand herself, and, failing, runs off with the +man who began as the hero; your good woman turns out to be really bad +when one comes to know her; while the villain, the only decent person in +the story, dies with an enigmatic sentence on his lips that looks as if +it meant something, but which you yourself would be sorry to have to +explain. I have also written the old-fashioned Christmas story—you know +that also: you begin with a good old-fashioned snowstorm; you have a good +old-fashioned squire, and he lives in a good old-fashioned Hall; you work +in a good old-fashioned murder; and end up with a good old-fashioned +Christmas dinner. I have gathered Christmas guests together round the +crackling logs to tell ghost stories to each other on Christmas Eve, +while without the wind howled, as it always does on these occasions, at +its proper cue. I have sent children to Heaven on Christmas Eve—it must +be quite a busy time for St. Peter, Christmas morning, so many good +children die on Christmas Eve. It has always been a popular night with +them.—I have revivified dead lovers and brought them back well and jolly, +just in time to sit down to the Christmas dinner. I am not ashamed of +having done these things. At the time I thought them good. I once loved +currant wine and girls with towzley hair. One’s views change as one +grows older. I have discussed Christmas as a religious festival. I have +arraigned it as a social incubus. If there be any joke connected with +Christmas that I have not already made I should be glad to hear it. I +have trotted out the indigestion jokes till the sight of one of them +gives me indigestion myself. I have ridiculed the family gathering. I +have scoffed at the Christmas present. I have made witty use of +paterfamilias and his bills. I have—” + +“Did I ever show you,” I broke off to ask as we were crossing the +Haymarket, “that little parody of mine on Poe’s poem of ‘The Bells’? It +begins—” He interrupted me in his turn— + +“Bills, bills, bills,” he repeated. + +“You are quite right,” I admitted. “I forgot I ever showed it to you.” + +“You never did,” he replied. + +“Then how do you know how it begins?” I asked. + +“I don’t know for certain,” he admitted, “but I get, on an average, +sixty-five a year submitted to me, and they all begin that way. I +thought, perhaps, yours did also.” + +“I don’t see how else it could begin,” I retorted. He had rather annoyed +me. “Besides, it doesn’t matter how a poem begins, it is how it goes on +that is the important thing and anyhow, I’m not going to write you +anything about Christmas. Ask me to make you a new joke about a plumber; +suggest my inventing something original and not too shocking for a child +to say about heaven; propose my running you off a dog story that can be +believed by a man of average determination and we may come to terms. But +on the subject of Christmas I am taking a rest.” + +By this time we had reached Piccadilly Circus. + +“I don’t blame you,” he said, “if you are as sick of the subject as I am. +So soon as these Christmas numbers are off my mind, and Christmas is over +till next June at the office, I shall begin it at home. The housekeeping +is gone up a pound a week already. I know what that means. The dear +little woman is saving up to give me an expensive present that I don’t +want. I think the presents are the worst part of Christmas. Emma will +give me a water-colour that she has painted herself. She always does. +There would be no harm in that if she did not expect me to hang it in the +drawing room. Have you ever seen my cousin Emma’s water-colours?” he +asked. + +“I think I have,” I replied. + +“There’s no thinking about it,” he retorted angrily. “They’re not the +sort of water-colours you forget.” + +He apostrophized the Circus generally. + +“Why do people do these things?” he demanded. “Even an amateur artist +must have _some_ sense. Can’t they see what is happening? There’s that +thing of hers hanging in the passage. I put it in the passage because +there’s not much light in the passage. She’s labelled it Reverie. If +she had called it Influenza I could have understood it. I asked her +where she got the idea from, and she said she saw the sky like that one +evening in Norfolk. Great Heavens! then why didn’t she shut her eyes or +go home and hide behind the bed-curtains? If I had seen a sky like that +in Norfolk I should have taken the first train back to London. I suppose +the poor girl can’t help seeing these things, but why paint them?” + +I said, “I suppose painting is a necessity to some natures.” + +“But why give the things to me?” he pleaded. + +I could offer him no adequate reason. + +“The idiotic presents that people give you!” he continued. “I said I’d +like Tennyson’s poems one year. They had worried me to know what I did +want. I didn’t want anything really; that was the only thing I could +think of that I wasn’t dead sure I didn’t want. Well, they clubbed +together, four of them, and gave me Tennyson in twelve volumes, +illustrated with coloured photographs. They meant kindly, of course. If +you suggest a tobacco-pouch they give you a blue velvet bag capable of +holding about a pound, embroidered with flowers, life-size. The only way +one could use it would be to put a strap to it and wear it as a satchel. +Would you believe it, I have got a velvet smoking-jacket, ornamented with +forget-me-nots and butterflies in coloured silk; I’m not joking. And +they ask me why I never wear it. I’ll bring it down to the Club one of +these nights and wake the place up a bit: it needs it.” + +We had arrived by this at the steps of the ‘Devonshire.’ + +“And I’m just as bad,” he went on, “when I give presents. I never give +them what they want. I never hit upon anything that is of any use to +anybody. If I give Jane a chinchilla tippet, you may be certain +chinchilla is the most out-of-date fur that any woman could wear. ‘Oh! +that is nice of you,’ she says; ‘now that is just the very thing I +wanted. I will keep it by me till chinchilla comes in again.’ I give +the girls watch-chains when nobody is wearing watch-chains. When +watch-chains are all the rage I give them ear-rings, and they thank me, +and suggest my taking them to a fancy-dress ball, that being their only +chance to wear the confounded things. I waste money on white gloves with +black backs, to find that white gloves with black backs stamp a woman as +suburban. I believe all the shop-keepers in London save their old stock +to palm it off on me at Christmas time. And why does it always take +half-a-dozen people to serve you with a pair of gloves, I’d like to know? +Only last week Jane asked me to get her some gloves for that last Mansion +House affair. I was feeling amiable, and I thought I would do the thing +handsomely. I hate going into a draper’s shop; everybody stares at a man +as if he were forcing his way into the ladies’ department of a Turkish +bath. One of those marionette sort of men came up to me and said it was +a fine morning. What the devil did I want to talk about the morning to +him for? I said I wanted some gloves. I described them to the best of +my recollection. I said, ‘I want them four buttons, but they are not to +be button-gloves; the buttons are in the middle and they reach up to the +elbow, if you know what I mean.’ He bowed, and said he understood +exactly what I meant, which was a damned sight more than I did. I told +him I wanted three pair cream and three pair fawn-coloured, and the +fawn-coloured were to be swedes. He corrected me. He said I meant +‘Suede.’ I dare say he was right, but the interruption put me off, and I +had to begin over again. He listened attentively until I had finished. +I guess I was about five minutes standing with him there close to the +door. He said, ‘Is that all you require, sir, this morning?’ I said it +was. + +“‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied. ‘This way, please, sir.’ + +“He took me into another room, and there we met a man named Jansen, to +whom he briefly introduced me as a gentleman who ‘desired gloves.’ ‘Yes, +sir,’ said Mr. Jansen; and what sort of gloves do you desire?’ + +“I told him I wanted six pairs altogether—three suede, fawn-coloured, and +three cream-coloured—kids. + +“He said, ‘Do you mean kid gloves, sir, or gloves for children?’ + +“He made me angry by that. I told him I was not in the habit of using +slang. Nor am I when buying gloves. He said he was sorry. I explained +to him about the buttons, so far as I could understand it myself, and +about the length. I asked him to see to it that the buttons were sewn on +firmly, and that the stitching everywhere was perfect, adding that the +last gloves my wife had had of his firm had been most unsatisfactory. +Jane had impressed upon me to add that. She said it would make them more +careful. + +“He listened to me in rapt ecstacy. I might have been music. + +“‘And what size, sir?’ he asked. + +“I had forgotten that. ‘Oh, sixes,’ I answered, ‘unless they are very +stretchy indeed, in which case they had better be five and +three-quarter.’ + +“‘Oh, and the stitching on the cream is to be black,’ I added. That was +another thing I had forgotten. + +“‘Thank you very much,’ said Mr. Jansen; ‘is there anything else that you +require this morning?’ + +“‘No, thank you,’ I replied, ‘not this morning.’ I was beginning to like +the man. + +“He took me for quite a walk, and wherever we went everybody left off +what they were doing to stare at me. I was getting tired when we reached +the glove department. He marched me up to a young man who was sticking +pins into himself. He said ‘Gloves,’ and disappeared through a curtain. +The young man left off sticking pins into himself, and leant across the +counter. + +“‘Ladies’ gloves or gentlemen’s gloves?’ he said. + +“Well, I was pretty mad by this time, as you can guess. It is funny when +you come to think of it afterwards, but the wonder then was that I didn’t +punch his head. + +“I said, ‘Are you ever busy in this shop? Does there ever come a time +when you feel you would like to get your work done, instead of lingering +over it and spinning it out for pure love of the thing?’ + +“He did not appear to understand me. I said, ‘I met a man at your door a +quarter of an hour ago, and we talked about these gloves that I want, and +I told him all my ideas on the subject. He took me to your Mr. Jansen, +and Mr. Jansen and I went over the whole business again. Now Mr. Jansen +leaves it with you—you who do not even know whether I want ladies’ or +gentlemen’s gloves. Before I go over this story for the third time, I +want to know whether you are the man who is going to serve me, or whether +you are merely a listener, because personally I am tired of the subject?’ + +“Well, this was the right man at last, and I got my gloves from him. But +what is the explanation—what is the idea? I was in that shop from first +to last five-and-thirty minutes. And then a fool took me out the wrong +way to show me a special line in sleeping-socks. I told him I was not +requiring any. He said he didn’t want me to buy, he only wanted me to +see them. No wonder the drapers have had to start luncheon and +tea-rooms. They’ll fix up small furnished flats soon, where a woman can +live for a week.” + +I said it was very trying, shopping. I also said, as he invited me, and +as he appeared determined to go on talking, that I would have a +brandy-and-soda. We were in the smoke-room by this time. + +“There ought to be an association,” he continued, “a kind of +clearing-house for the collection and distribution of Christmas presents. +One would give them a list of the people from whom to collect presents, +and of the people to whom to send. Suppose they collected on my account +twenty Christmas presents, value, say, ten pounds, while on the other +hand they sent out for me thirty presents at a cost of fifteen pounds. +They would debit me with the balance of five pounds, together with a +small commission. I should pay it cheerfully, and there would be no +further trouble. Perhaps one might even make a profit. The idea might +include birthdays and weddings. A firm would do the business thoroughly. +They would see that all your friends paid up—I mean sent presents; and +they would not forget to send to your most important relative. There is +only one member of our family capable of leaving a shilling; and of +course if I forget to send to any one it is to him. When I remember him +I generally make a muddle of the business. Two years ago I gave him a +bath—I don’t mean I washed him—an india-rubber thing, that he could pack +in his portmanteau. I thought he would find it useful for travelling. +Would you believe it, he took it as a personal affront, and wouldn’t +speak to me for a month, the snuffy old idiot.” + +“I suppose the children enjoy it,” I said. + +“Enjoy what?” he asked. + +“Why, Christmas,” I explained. + +“I don’t believe they do,” he snapped; “nobody enjoys it. We excite them +for three weeks beforehand, telling them what a good time they are going +to have, over-feed them for two or three days, take them to something +they do not want to see, but which we do, and then bully them for a +fortnight to get them back into their normal condition. I was always +taken to the Crystal Palace and Madame Tussaud’s when I was a child, I +remember. How I did hate that Crystal Palace! Aunt used to superintend. +It was always a bitterly cold day, and we always got into the wrong +train, and travelled half the day before we got there. We never had any +dinner. It never occurs to a woman that anybody can want their meals +while away from home. She seems to think that nature is in suspense from +the time you leave the house till the time you get back to it. A bun and +a glass of milk was her idea of lunch for a school-boy. Half her time +was taken up in losing us, and the other half in slapping us when she had +found us. The only thing we really enjoyed was the row with the cabman +coming home.” + +I rose to go. + +“Then you won’t join that symposium?” said B—. “It would be an easy +enough thing to knock off—‘Why Christmas should be abolished.’” + +“It sounds simple,” I answered. “But how do you propose to abolish it?” +The lady editor of an “advanced” American magazine once set the +discussion—“Should sex be abolished?” and eleven ladies and gentlemen +seriously argued the question. + +“Leave it to die of inanition,” said B—; “the first step is to arouse +public opinion. Convince the public that it should be abolished.” + +“But why should it be abolished?” I asked. + +“Great Scott! man,” he exclaimed; “don’t you want it abolished?” + +“I’m not sure that I do,” I replied. + +“Not sure,” he retorted; “you call yourself a journalist, and admit there +is a subject under Heaven of which you are not sure!” + +“It has come over me of late years,” I replied. “It used not to be my +failing, as you know.” + +He glanced round to make sure we were out of earshot, then sunk his voice +to a whisper. + +“Between ourselves,” he said, “I’m not so sure of everything myself as I +used to be. Why is it?” + +“Perhaps we are getting older,” I suggested. + +He said—“I started golf last year, and the first time I took the club in +my hand I sent the ball a furlong. ‘It seems an easy game,’ I said to +the man who was teaching me. ‘Yes, most people find it easy at the +beginning,’ he replied dryly. He was an old golfer himself; I thought he +was jealous. I stuck well to the game, and for about three weeks I was +immensely pleased with myself. Then, gradually, I began to find out the +difficulties. I feel I shall never make a good player. Have you ever +gone through that experience?” + +“Yes,” I replied; “I suppose that is the explanation. The game seems so +easy at the beginning.” + +I left him to his lunch, and strolled westward, musing on the time when I +should have answered that question of his about Christmas, or any other +question, off-hand. That good youth time when I knew everything, when +life presented no problems, dangled no doubts before me! + +In those days, wishful to give the world the benefit of my wisdom, and +seeking for a candle-stick wherefrom my brilliancy might be visible and +helpful unto men, I arrived before a dingy portal in Chequers Street, St. +Luke’s, behind which a conclave of young men, together with a few old +enough to have known better, met every Friday evening for the purpose of +discussing and arranging the affairs of the universe. “Speaking members” +were charged ten-and-sixpence per annum, which must have worked out at an +extremely moderate rate per word; and “gentlemen whose subscriptions were +more than three months in arrear,” became, by Rule seven, powerless for +good or evil. We called ourselves “The Stormy Petrels,” and, under the +sympathetic shadow of those wings, I laboured two seasons towards the +reformation of the human race; until, indeed, our treasurer, an earnest +young man, and a tireless foe of all that was conventional, departed for +the East, leaving behind him a balance sheet, showing that the club owed +forty-two pounds fifteen and fourpence, and that the subscriptions for +the current year, amounting to a little over thirty-eight pounds, had +been “carried forward,” but as to where, the report afforded no +indication. Whereupon our landlord, a man utterly without ideals, seized +our furniture, offering to sell it back to us for fifteen pounds. We +pointed out to him that this was an extravagant price, and tendered him +five. + +The negotiations terminated with ungentlemanly language on his part, and +“The Stormy Petrels” scattered, never to be foregathered together again +above the troubled waters of humanity. Now-a-days, listening to the +feeble plans of modern reformers, I cannot help but smile, remembering +what was done in Chequers Street, St. Luke’s, in an age when Mrs. Grundy +still gave the law to literature, while yet the British matron was the +guide to British art. I am informed that there is abroad the question of +abolishing the House of Lords! Why, “The Stormy Petrels” abolished the +aristocracy and the Crown in one evening, and then only adjourned for the +purpose of appointing a committee to draw up and have ready a Republican +Constitution by the following Friday evening. They talk of Empire +lounges! We closed the doors of every music-hall in London eighteen +years ago by twenty-nine votes to seventeen. They had a patient hearing, +and were ably defended; but we found that the tendency of such amusements +was anti-progressive, and against the best interests of an intellectually +advancing democracy. I met the mover of the condemnatory resolution at +the old “Pav” the following evening, and we continued the discussion over +a bottle of Bass. He strengthened his argument by persuading me to sit +out the whole of the three songs sung by the “Lion Comique”; but I +subsequently retorted successfully, by bringing under his notice the +dancing of a lady in blue tights and flaxen hair. I forget her name but +never shall I cease to remember her exquisite charm and beauty. Ah, me! +how charming and how beautiful “artistes” were in those golden days! +Whence have they vanished? Ladies in blue tights and flaxen hair dance +before my eyes to-day, but move me not, unless it be towards boredom. +Where be the tripping witches of twenty years ago, whom to see once was +to dream of for a week, to touch whose white hand would have been joy, to +kiss whose red lips would have been to foretaste Heaven. I heard only +the other day that the son of an old friend of mine had secretly married +a lady from the front row of the ballet, and involuntarily I exclaimed, +“Poor devil!” There was a time when my first thought would have been, +“Lucky beggar! is he worthy of her?” For then the ladies of the ballet +were angels. How could one gaze at them—from the shilling pit—and doubt +it? They danced to keep a widowed mother in comfort, or to send a +younger brother to school. Then they were glorious creatures a young man +did well to worship; but now-a-days— + +It is an old jest. The eyes of youth see through rose-tinted glasses. +The eyes of age are dim behind smoke-clouded spectacles. My flaxen +friend, you are not the angel I dreamed you, nor the exceptional sinner +some would paint you; but under your feathers, just a woman—a bundle of +follies and failings, tied up with some sweetness and strength. You keep +a brougham I am sure you cannot afford on your thirty shillings a week. +There are ladies I know, in Mayfair, who have paid an extravagant price +for theirs. You paint and you dye, I am told: it is even hinted you pad. +Don’t we all of us deck ourselves out in virtues that are not our own? +When the paint and the powder, my sister, is stripped both from you and +from me, we shall know which of us is entitled to look down on the other +in scorn. + +Forgive me, gentle Reader, for digressing. The lady led me astray. I +was speaking of “The Stormy Petrels,” and of the reforms they +accomplished, which were many. We abolished, I remember, capital +punishment and war; we were excellent young men at heart. Christmas we +reformed altogether, along with Bank Holidays, by a majority of twelve. +I never recollect any proposal to abolish anything ever being lost when +put to the vote. There were few things that we “Stormy Petrels” did not +abolish. We attacked Christmas on grounds of expediency, and killed it +by ridicule. We exposed the hollow mockery of Christmas sentiment; we +abused the indigestible Christmas dinner, the tiresome Christmas party, +the silly Christmas pantomime. Our funny member was side-splitting on +the subject of Christmas Waits; our social reformer bitter upon Christmas +drunkenness; our economist indignant upon Christmas charities. Only one +argument of any weight with us was advanced in favour of the festival, +and that was our leading cynic’s suggestion that it was worth enduring +the miseries of Christmas, to enjoy the soul-satisfying comfort of the +after reflection that it was all over, and could not occur again for +another year. + +But since those days when I was prepared to put this old world of ours to +rights upon all matters, I have seen many sights and heard many sounds, +and I am not quite so sure as I once was that my particular views are the +only possibly correct ones. Christmas seems to me somewhat meaningless; +but I have looked through windows in poverty-stricken streets, and have +seen dingy parlours gay with many chains of coloured paper. They +stretched from corner to corner of the smoke-grimed ceiling, they fell in +clumsy festoons from the cheap gasalier, they framed the fly-blown mirror +and the tawdry pictures; and I know tired hands and eyes worked many +hours to fashion and fix those foolish chains, saying, “It will please +him—she will like to see the room look pretty;” and as I have looked at +them they have grown, in some mysterious manner, beautiful to me. The +gaudy-coloured child and dog irritates me, I confess; but I have watched +a grimy, inartistic personage, smoothing it affectionately with +toil-stained hand, while eager faces crowded round to admire and wonder +at its blatant crudity. It hangs to this day in its cheap frame above +the chimney-piece, the one bright spot relieving those damp-stained +walls; dull eyes stare and stare again at it, catching a vista, through +its flashy tints, of the far-off land of art. Christmas Waits annoy me, +and I yearn to throw open the window and fling coal at them—as once from +the window of a high flat in Chelsea I did. I doubted their being +genuine Waits. I was inclined to the opinion they were young men seeking +excuse for making a noise. One of them appeared to know a hymn with a +chorus, another played the concertina, while a third accompanied with a +step dance. Instinctively I felt no respect for them; they disturbed me +in my work, and the desire grew upon me to injure them. It occurred to +me it would be good sport if I turned out the light, softly opened the +window, and threw coal at them. It would be impossible for them to tell +from which window in the block the coal came, and thus subsequent +unpleasantness would be avoided. They were a compact little group, and +with average luck I was bound to hit one of them. + +I adopted the plan. I could not see them very clearly. I aimed rather +at the noise; and I had thrown about twenty choice lumps without effect, +and was feeling somewhat discouraged, when a yell, followed by language +singularly unappropriate to the season, told me that Providence had aided +my arm. The music ceased suddenly, and the party dispersed, apparently +in high glee—which struck me as curious. + +One man I noticed remained behind. He stood under the lamp-post, and +shook his fist at the block generally. + +“Who threw that lump of coal?” he demanded in stentorian tones. + +To my horror, it was the voice of the man at Eighty-eight, an Irish +gentleman, a journalist like myself. I saw it all, as the unfortunate +hero always exclaims, too late, in the play. He—number Eighty-eight—also +disturbed by the noise, had evidently gone out to expostulate with the +rioters. Of course my lump of coal had hit him—him the innocent, the +peaceful (up till then), the virtuous. That is the justice Fate deals +out to us mortals here below. There were ten to fourteen young men in +that crowd, each one of whom fully deserved that lump of coal; he, the +one guiltless, got it—seemingly, so far as the dim light from the gas +lamp enabled me to judge, full in the eye. + +As the block remained silent in answer to his demand, he crossed the road +and mounted the stairs. On each landing he stopped and shouted— + +“Who threw that lump of coal? I want the man who threw that lump of +coal. Out you come.” + +Now a good man in my place would have waited till number Eighty-eight +arrived on his landing, and then, throwing open the door would have said +with manly candour— + +“_I_ threw that lump of coal. I was—,” He would not have got further, +because at that point, I feel confident, number Eighty—eight would have +punched his head. There would have been an unseemly fracas on the +staircase, to the annoyance of all the other tenants and later, there +would have issued a summons and a cross-summons. Angry passions would +have been roused, bitter feeling engendered which might have lasted for +years. + +I do not pretend to be a good man. I doubt if the pretence would be of +any use were I to try: I am not a sufficiently good actor. I said to +myself, as I took off my boots in the study, preparatory to retiring to +my bedroom—“Number Eighty-eight is evidently not in a frame of mind to +listen to my story. It will be better to let him shout himself cool; +after which he will return to his own flat, bathe his eye, and obtain +some refreshing sleep. In the morning, when we shall probably meet as +usual on our way to Fleet Street, I will refer to the incident casually, +and sympathize with him. I will suggest to him the truth—that in all +probability some fellow-tenant, irritated also by the noise, had aimed +coal at the Waits, hitting him instead by a regrettable but pure +accident. With tact I may even be able to make him see the humour of the +incident. Later on, in March or April, choosing my moment with judgment, +I will, perhaps, confess that I was that fellow-tenant, and over a +friendly brandy-and-soda we will laugh the whole trouble away.” + +As a matter of fact, that is what happened. Said number Eighty-eight—he +was a big man, as good a fellow at heart as ever lived, but +impulsive—“Damned lucky for you, old man, you did not tell me at the +time.” + +“I felt,” I replied, “instinctively that it was a case for delay.” + +There are times when one should control one’s passion for candour; and as +I was saying, Christmas waits excite no emotion in my breast save that of +irritation. But I have known “Hark, the herald angels sing,” wheezily +chanted by fog-filled throats, and accompanied, hopelessly out of tune, +by a cornet and a flute, bring a great look of gladness to a work-worn +face. To her it was a message of hope and love, making the hard life +taste sweet. The mere thought of family gatherings, so customary at +Christmas time, bores us superior people; but I think of an incident told +me by a certain man, a friend of mine. One Christmas, my friend, +visiting in the country, came face to face with a woman whom in town he +had often met amid very different surroundings. The door of the little +farmhouse was open; she and an older woman were ironing at a table, and +as her soft white hands passed to and fro, folding and smoothing the +rumpled heap, she laughed and talked, concerning simple homely things. +My friend’s shadow fell across her work, and she looking up, their eyes +met; but her face said plainly, “I do not know you here, and here you do +not know me. Here I am a woman loved and respected.” My friend passed +in and spoke to the older woman, the wife of one of his host’s tenants, +and she turned towards, and introduced the younger—“My daughter, sir. We +do not see her very often. She is in a place in London, and cannot get +away. But she always spends a few days with us at Christmas.” + +“It is the season for family re-unions,” answered my friend with just the +suggestion of a sneer, for which he hated himself. + +“Yes, sir,” said the woman, not noticing; “she has never missed her +Christmas with us, have you, Bess?” + +“No, mother,” replied the girl simply, and bent her head again over her +work. + +So for these few days every year this woman left her furs and jewels, her +fine clothes and dainty foods, behind her, and lived for a little space +with what was clean and wholesome. It was the one anchor holding her to +womanhood; and one likes to think that it was, perhaps, in the end strong +enough to save her from the drifting waters. All which arguments in +favour of Christmas and of Christmas customs are, I admit, purely +sentimental ones, but I have lived long enough to doubt whether sentiment +has not its legitimate place in the economy of life. + + + + +ON THE TIME WASTED IN LOOKING BEFORE ONE LEAPS + + +HAVE you ever noticed the going out of a woman? + +When a man goes out, he says—“I’m going out, shan’t be long.” + +“Oh, George,” cries his wife from the other end of the house, “don’t go +for a moment. I want you to—” She hears a falling of hats, followed by +the slamming of the front door. + +“Oh, George, you’re not gone!” she wails. It is but the voice of +despair. As a matter of fact, she knows he is gone. She reaches the +hall, breathless. + +“He might have waited a minute,” she mutters to herself, as she picks up +the hats, “there were so many things I wanted him to do.” + +She does not open the door and attempt to stop him, she knows he is +already half-way down the street. It is a mean, paltry way of going out, +she thinks; so like a man. + +When a woman, on the other hand, goes out, people know about it. She +does not sneak out. She says she is going out. She says it, generally, +on the afternoon of the day before; and she repeats it, at intervals, +until tea-time. At tea, she suddenly decides that she won’t, that she +will leave it till the day after to-morrow instead. An hour later she +thinks she will go to-morrow, after all, and makes arrangements to wash +her hair overnight. For the next hour or so she alternates between fits +of exaltation, during which she looks forward to going out, and moments +of despondency, when a sense of foreboding falls upon her. At dinner she +persuades some other woman to go with her; the other woman, once +persuaded, is enthusiastic about going, until she recollects that she +cannot. The first woman, however, convinces her that she can. + +“Yes,” replies the second woman, “but then, how about you, dear? You are +forgetting the Joneses.” + +“So I was,” answers the first woman, completely non-plussed. “How very +awkward, and I can’t go on Wednesday. I shall have to leave it till +Thursday, now.” + +“But _I_ can’t go Thursday,” says the second woman. + +“Well, you go without me, dear,” says the first woman, in the tone of one +who is sacrificing a life’s ambition. + +“Oh no, dear, I should not think of it,” nobly exclaims the second woman. +“We will wait and go together, Friday!” + +“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” says the first woman. “We will start +early” (this is an inspiration), “and be back before the Joneses arrive.” + +They agree to sleep together; there is a lurking suspicion in both their +minds that this may be their last sleep on earth. They retire early with +a can of hot water. At intervals, during the night, one overhears them +splashing water, and talking. + +They come down very late for breakfast, and both very cross. Each seems +to have argued herself into the belief that she has been lured into this +piece of nonsense, against her better judgment, by the persistent folly +of the other one. During the meal each one asks the other, every five +minutes, if she is quite ready. Each one, it appears, has only her hat +to put on. They talk about the weather, and wonder what it is going to +do. They wish it would make up its mind, one way or the other. They are +very bitter on weather that cannot make up its mind. After breakfast it +still looks cloudy, and they decide to abandon the scheme altogether. +The first woman then remembers that it is absolutely necessary for her, +at all events, to go. + +“But there is no need for you to come, dear,” she says. + +Up to that point the second woman was evidently not sure whether she +wished to go or whether she didn’t. Now she knows. + +“Oh yes, I’ll come,” she says, “then it will be over!” + +“I am sure you don’t want to go,” urges the first woman, “and I shall be +quicker by myself. I am ready to start now.” + +The second woman bridles. + +“_I_ shan’t be a couple of minutes,” she retorts. “You know, dear, it’s +generally _I_ who have to wait for _you_.” + +“But you’ve not got your boots on,” the first woman reminds her. + +“Well, they won’t take _any_ time,” is the answer. “But of course, dear, +if you’d really rather I did not come, say so.” By this time she is on +the verge of tears. + +“Of course, I would like you to come, dear,” explains the first in a +resigned tone. “I thought perhaps you were only coming to please me.” + +“Oh no, I’d _like_ to come,” says the second woman. + +“Well, we must hurry up,” says the first; “I shan’t be more than a minute +myself, I’ve merely got to change my skirt.” + +Half-an-hour later you hear them calling to each other, from different +parts of the house, to know if the other one is ready. It appears they +have both been ready for quite a long while, waiting only for the other +one. + +“I’m afraid,” calls out the one whose turn it is to be down-stairs, “it’s +going to rain.” + +“Oh, don’t say that,” calls back the other one. + +“Well, it looks very like it.” + +“What a nuisance,” answers the up-stairs woman; “shall we put it off?” + +“Well, what do _you_ think, dear?” replies the down-stairs. + +They decide they will go, only now they will have to change their boots, +and put on different hats. + +For the next ten minutes they are still shouting and running about. Then +it seems as if they really were ready, nothing remaining but for them to +say “Good-bye,” and go. + +They begin by kissing the children. A woman never leaves her house +without secret misgivings that she will never return to it alive. One +child cannot be found. When it is found it wishes it hadn’t been. It +has to be washed, preparatory to being kissed. After that, the dog has +to be found and kissed, and final instructions given to the cook. + +Then they open the front door. + +“Oh, George,” calls out the first woman, turning round again. “Are you +there?” + +“Hullo,” answers a voice from the distance. “Do you want me?” + +“No, dear, only to say good-bye. I’m going.” + +“Oh, good-bye.” + +“Good-bye, dear. Do you think it’s going to rain?” + +“Oh no, I should not say so.” + +“George.” + +“Yes.” + +“Have you got any money?” + +Five minutes later they come running back; the one has forgotten her +parasol, the other her purse. + +And speaking of purses, reminds one of another essential difference +between the male and female human animal. A man carries his money in his +pocket. When he wants to use it, he takes it out and lays it down. This +is a crude way of doing things, a woman displays more subtlety. Say she +is standing in the street, and wants fourpence to pay for a bunch of +violets she has purchased from a flower-girl. She has two parcels in one +hand, and a parasol in the other. With the remaining two fingers of the +left hand she secures the violets. The question then arises, how to pay +the girl? She flutters for a few minutes, evidently not quite +understanding why it is she cannot do it. The reason then occurs to her: +she has only two hands and both these are occupied. First she thinks she +will put the parcels and the flowers into her right hand, then she thinks +she will put the parasol into her left. Then she looks round for a table +or even a chair, but there is not such a thing in the whole street. Her +difficulty is solved by her dropping the parcels and the flowers. The +girl picks them up for her and holds them. This enables her to feel for +her pocket with her right hand, while waving her open parasol about with +her left. She knocks an old gentleman’s hat off into the gutter, and +nearly blinds the flower-girl before it occurs to her to close it. This +done, she leans it up against the flower-girl’s basket, and sets to work +in earnest with both hands. She seizes herself firmly by the back, and +turns the upper part of her body round till her hair is in front and her +eyes behind. Still holding herself firmly with her left hand—did she let +herself go, goodness knows where she would spin to;—with her right she +prospects herself. The purse is there, she can feel it, the problem is +how to get at it. The quickest way would, of course, be to take off the +skirt, sit down on the kerb, turn it inside out, and work from the bottom +of the pocket upwards. But this simple idea never seems to occur to her. +There are some thirty folds at the back of the dress, between two of +these folds commences the secret passage. At last, purely by chance, she +suddenly discovers it, nearly upsetting herself in the process, and the +purse is brought up to the surface. The difficulty of opening it still +remains. She knows it opens with a spring, but the secret of that spring +she has never mastered, and she never will. Her plan is to worry it +generally until it does open. Five minutes will always do it, provided +she is not flustered. + +At last it does open. It would be incorrect to say that she opens it. +It opens because it is sick of being mauled about; and, as likely as not, +it opens at the moment when she is holding it upside down. If you happen +to be near enough to look over her shoulder, you will notice that the +gold and silver lies loose within it. In an inner sanctuary, carefully +secured with a second secret spring, she keeps her coppers, together with +a postage-stamp and a draper’s receipt, nine months old, for elevenpence +three-farthings. + +I remember the indignation of an old Bus-conductor, once. Inside we were +nine women and two men. I sat next the door, and his remarks therefore +he addressed to me. It was certainly taking him some time to collect the +fares, but I think he would have got on better had he been less bustling; +he worried them, and made them nervous. + +“Look at that,” he said, drawing my attention to a poor lady opposite, +who was diving in the customary manner for her purse, “they sit on their +money, women do. Blest if you wouldn’t think they was trying to ’atch +it.” + +At length the lady drew from underneath herself an exceedingly fat purse. + +“Fancy riding in a bumpby bus, perched up on that thing,” he continued. +“Think what a stamina they must have.” He grew confidential. “I’ve seen +one woman,” he said, “pull out from underneath ’er a street doorkey, a +tin box of lozengers, a pencil-case, a whopping big purse, a packet of +hair-pins, and a smelling-bottle. Why, you or me would be wretched, +sitting on a plain door-knob, and them women goes about like that all +day. I suppose they gets used to it. Drop ’em on an eider-down pillow, +and they’d scream. The time it takes me to get tuppence out of them, +why, it’s ’eart-breaking. First they tries one side, then they tries the +other. Then they gets up and shakes theirselves till the bus jerks them +back again, and there they are, a more ’opeless ’eap than ever. If I ’ad +my way I’d make every bus carry a female searcher as could over’aul ’em +one at a time, and take the money from ’em. Talk about the poor +pickpocket. What I say is, that a man as finds his way into a woman’s +pocket—well, he deserves what he gets.” + +But it was the thought of more serious matters that lured me into +reflections concerning the over-carefulness of women. It is a theory of +mine—wrong possibly; indeed I have so been informed—that we pick our way +through life with too much care. We are for ever looking down upon the +ground. Maybe, we do avoid a stumble or two over a stone or a brier, but +also we miss the blue of the sky, the glory of the hills. These books +that good men write, telling us that what they call “success” in life +depends on our flinging aside our youth and wasting our manhood in order +that we may have the means when we are eighty of spending a rollicking +old age, annoy me. We save all our lives to invest in a South Sea +Bubble; and in skimping and scheming, we have grown mean, and narrow, and +hard. We will put off the gathering of the roses till to-morrow, to-day +it shall be all work, all bargain-driving, all plotting. Lo, when +to-morrow comes, the roses are blown; nor do we care for roses, idle +things of small marketable value; cabbages are more to our fancy by the +time to-morrow comes. + +Life is a thing to be lived, not spent, to be faced, not ordered. Life +is not a game of chess, the victory to the most knowing; it is a game of +cards, one’s hand by skill to be made the best of. Is it the wisest who +is always the most successful? I think not. The luckiest whist-player I +ever came across was a man who was never _quite_ certain what were +trumps, and whose most frequent observation during the game was “I really +beg your pardon,” addressed to his partner; a remark which generally +elicited the reply, “Oh, don’t apologize. All’s well that ends well.” +The man I knew who made the most rapid fortune was a builder in the +outskirts of Birmingham, who could not write his name, and who, for +thirty years of his life, never went to bed sober. I do not say that +forgetfulness of trumps should be cultivated by whist-players. I think +my builder friend might have been even more successful had he learned to +write his name, and had he occasionally—not overdoing it—enjoyed a sober +evening. All I wish to impress is, that virtue is not the road to +success—of the kind we are dealing with. We must find other reasons for +being virtuous; maybe, there are some. The truth is, life is a gamble +pure and simple, and the rules we lay down for success are akin to the +infallible systems with which a certain class of idiot goes armed each +season to Monte Carlo. We can play the game with coolness and judgment, +decide when to plunge and when to stake small; but to think that wisdom +will decide it, is to imagine that we have discovered the law of chance. +Let us play the game of life as sportsmen, pocketing our winnings with a +smile, leaving our losings with a shrug. Perhaps that is why we have +been summoned to the board and the cards dealt round: that we may learn +some of the virtues of the good gambler; his self-control, his courage +under misfortune, his modesty under the strain of success, his firmness, +his alertness, his general indifference to fate. Good lessons these, all +of them. If by the game we learn some of them our time on the green +earth has not been wasted. If we rise from the table having learned only +fretfulness and self-pity I fear it has been. + +The grim Hall Porter taps at the door: “Number Five hundred billion and +twenty-eight, your boatman is waiting, sir.” + +So! is it time already? We pick up our counters. Of what use are they? +In the country the other side of the river they are no tender. The +blood-red for gold, and the pale-green for love, to whom shall we fling +them? Here is some poor beggar longing to play, let us give them to him +as we pass out. Poor devil! the game will amuse him—for a while. + +Keep your powder dry, and trust in Providence, is the motto of the wise. +Wet powder could never be of any possible use to you. Dry, it may be, +_with_ the help of Providence. We will call it Providence, it is a +prettier name than Chance—perhaps also a truer. + +Another mistake we make when we reason out our lives is this: we reason +as though we were planning for reasonable creatures. It is a big +mistake. Well-meaning ladies and gentlemen make it when they picture +their ideal worlds. When marriage is reformed, and the social problem +solved, when poverty and war have been abolished by acclamation, and sin +and sorrow rescinded by an overwhelming parliamentary majority! Ah, then +the world will be worthy of our living in it. You need not wait, ladies +and gentlemen, so long as you think for that time. No social revolution +is needed, no slow education of the people is necessary. It would all +come about to-morrow, _if only we were reasonable creatures_. + +Imagine a world of reasonable beings! The Ten Commandments would be +unnecessary: no reasoning being sins, no reasoning creature makes +mistakes. There would be no rich men, for what reasonable man cares for +luxury and ostentation? There would be no poor: that I should eat enough +for two while my brother in the next street, as good a man as I, starves, +is not reasonable. There would be no difference of opinion on any two +points: there is only one reason. You, dear Reader, would find, that on +all subjects you were of the same opinion as I. No novels would be +written, no plays performed; the lives of reasonable creatures do not +afford drama. No mad loves, no mad laughter, no scalding tears, no +fierce unreasoning, brief-lived joys, no sorrows, no wild dreams—only +reason, reason everywhere. + +But for the present we remain unreasonable. If I eat this mayonnaise, +drink this champagne, I shall suffer in my liver. Then, why do I eat it? +Julia is a charming girl, amiable, wise, and witty; also she has a share +in a brewery. Then, why does John marry Ann? who is short-tempered, to +say the least of it, who, he feels, will not make him so good a +house-wife, who has extravagant notions, who has no little fortune. +There is something about Ann’s chin that fascinates him—he could not +explain to you what. On the whole, Julia is the better-looking of the +two. But the more he thinks of Julia, the more he is drawn towards Ann. +So Tom marries Julia and the brewery fails, and Julia, on a holiday, +contracts rheumatic fever, and is a helpless invalid for life; while Ann +comes in for ten thousand pounds left to her by an Australian uncle no +one had ever heard of. + +I have been told of a young man, who chose his wife with excellent care. +Said he to himself, very wisely, “In the selection of a wife a man cannot +be too circumspect.” He convinced himself that the girl was everything a +helpmate should be. She had every virtue that could be expected in a +woman, no faults, but such as are inseparable from a woman. Speaking +practically, she was perfection. He married her, and found she was all +he had thought her. Only one thing could he urge against her—that he did +not like her. And that, of course, was not her fault. + +How easy life would be did we know ourselves. Could we always be sure +that to-morrow we should think as we do to-day. We fall in love during a +summer holiday; she is fresh, delightful, altogether charming; the blood +rushes to our head every time we think of her. Our ideal career is one +of perpetual service at her feet. It seems impossible that Fate could +bestow upon us any greater happiness than the privilege of cleaning her +boots, and kissing the hem of her garment—if the hem be a little muddy +that will please us the more. We tell her our ambition, and at that +moment every word we utter is sincere. But the summer holiday passes, +and with it the holiday mood, and winter finds us wondering how we are +going to get out of the difficulty into which we have landed ourselves. +Or worse still, perhaps, the mood lasts longer than is usual. We become +formally engaged. We marry—I wonder how many marriages are the result of +a passion that is burnt out before the altar-rails are reached?—and three +months afterwards the little lass is broken-hearted to find that we +consider the lacing of her boots a bore. Her feet seem to have grown +bigger. There is no excuse for us, save that we are silly children, +never sure of what we are crying for, hurting one another in our play, +crying very loudly when hurt ourselves. + +I knew an American lady once who used to bore me with long accounts of +the brutalities exercised upon her by her husband. She had instituted +divorce proceedings against him. The trial came on, and she was highly +successful. We all congratulated her, and then for some months she +dropped out of my life. But there came a day when we again found +ourselves together. One of the problems of social life is to know what +to say to one another when we meet; every man and woman’s desire is to +appear sympathetic and clever, and this makes conversation difficult, +because, taking us all round, we are neither sympathetic nor clever—but +this by the way. + +Of course, I began to talk to her about her former husband. I asked her +how he was getting on. She replied that she thought he was very +comfortable. + +“Married again?” I suggested. + +“Yes,” she answered. + +“Serve him right,” I exclaimed, “and his wife too.” She was a pretty, +bright-eyed little woman, my American friend, and I wished to ingratiate +myself. “A woman who would marry such a man, knowing what she must have +known of him, is sure to make him wretched, and we may trust him to be a +curse to her.” + +My friend seemed inclined to defend him. + +“I think he is greatly improved,” she argued. + +“Nonsense!” I returned, “a man never improves. Once a villain, always a +villain.” + +“Oh, hush!” she pleaded, “you mustn’t call him that.” + +“Why not?” I answered. “I have heard you call him a villain yourself.” + +“It was wrong of me,” she said, flushing. “I’m afraid he was not the +only one to be blamed; we were both foolish in those days, but I think we +have both learned a lesson.” + +I remained silent, waiting for the necessary explanation. + +“You had better come and see him for yourself,” she added, with a little +laugh; “to tell the truth, I am the woman who has married him. Tuesday +is my day, Number 2, K— Mansions,” and she ran off, leaving me staring +after her. + +I believe an enterprising clergyman who would set up a little church in +the Strand, just outside the Law Courts, might do quite a trade, +re-marrying couples who had just been divorced. A friend of mine, a +respondent, told me he had never loved his wife more than on two +occasions—the first when she refused him, the second when she came into +the witness-box to give evidence against him. + +“You are curious creatures, you men,” remarked a lady once to another man +in my presence. “You never seem to know your own mind.” + +She was feeling annoyed with men generally. I do not blame her, I feel +annoyed with them myself sometimes. There is one man in particular I am +always feeling intensely irritated against. He says one thing, and acts +another. He will talk like a saint and behave like a fool, knows what is +right and does what is wrong. But we will not speak further of him. He +will be all he should be one day, and then we will pack him into a nice, +comfortably-lined box, and screw the lid down tight upon him, and put him +away in a quiet little spot near a church I know of, lest he should get +up and misbehave himself again. + +The other man, who is a wise man as men go, looked at his fair critic +with a smile. + +“My dear madam,” he replied, “you are blaming the wrong person. I +confess I do not know my mind, and what little I do know of it I do not +like. I did not make it, I did not select it. I am more dissatisfied +with it than you can possibly be. It is a greater mystery to me than it +is to you, and I have to live with it. You should pity not blame me.” + +There are moods in which I fall to envying those old hermits who frankly, +and with courageous cowardice, shirked the problem of life. There are +days when I dream of an existence unfettered by the thousand petty +strings with which our souls lie bound to Lilliputia land. I picture +myself living in some Norwegian sater, high above the black waters of a +rockbound fiord. No other human creature disputes with me my kingdom. I +am alone with the whispering fir forests and the stars. How I live I am +not quite sure. Once a month I could journey down into the villages and +return laden. I should not need much. For the rest, my gun and +fishing-rod would supply me. I would have with me a couple of big dogs, +who would talk to me with their eyes, so full of dumb thought, and +together we would wander over the uplands, seeking our dinner, after the +old primitive fashion of the men who dreamt not of ten-course dinners and +Savoy suppers. I would cook the food myself, and sit down to the meal +with a bottle of good wine, such as starts a man’s thoughts (for I am +inconsistent, as I acknowledge, and that gift of civilization I would +bear with me into my hermitage). Then in the evening, with pipe in +mouth, beside my log-wood fire, I would sit and think, until new +knowledge came to me. Strengthened by those silent voices that are +drowned in the roar of Streetland, I might, perhaps, grow into something +nearer to what it was intended that a man should be—might catch a +glimpse, perhaps, of the meaning of life. + +No, no, my dear lady, into this life of renunciation I would not take a +companion, certainly not of the sex you are thinking of, even would she +care to come, which I doubt. There are times when a man is better +without the woman, when a woman is better without the man. Love drags us +from the depths, makes men and women of us, but if we would climb a +little nearer to the stars we must say good-bye to it. We men and women +do not show ourselves to each other at our best; too often, I fear, at +our worst. The woman’s highest ideal of man is the lover; to a man the +woman is always the possible beloved. We see each other’s hearts, but +not each other’s souls. In each other’s presence we never shake +ourselves free from the earth. Match-making mother Nature is always at +hand to prompt us. A woman lifts us up into manhood, but there she would +have us stay. “Climb up to me,” she cries to the lad, walking with +soiled feet in muddy ways; “be a true man that you may be worthy to walk +by my side; be brave to protect me, kind and tender, and true; but climb +no higher, stay here by my side.” The martyr, the prophet, the leader of +the world’s forlorn hopes, she would wake from his dream. Her arms she +would fling about his neck holding him down. + +To the woman the man says, “You are my wife. Here is your America, +within these walls, here is your work, your duty.” True, in nine hundred +and ninety-nine cases out of every thousand, but men and women are not +made in moulds, and the world’s work is various. Sometimes to her +sorrow, a woman’s work lies beyond the home. The duty of Mary was not to +Joseph. + +The hero in the popular novel is the young man who says, “I love you +better than my soul.” Our favourite heroine in fiction is the woman who +cries to her lover, “I would go down into Hell to be with you.” There are +men and women who cannot answer thus—the men who dream dreams, the women +who see visions—impracticable people from the Bayswater point of view. +But Bayswater would not be the abode of peace it is had it not been for +such. + +Have we not placed sexual love on a pedestal higher than it deserves? It +is a noble passion, but it is not the noblest. There is a wider love by +the side of which it is but as the lamp illumining the cottage, to the +moonlight bathing the hills and valleys. There were two women once. +This is a play I saw acted in the daylight. They had been friends from +girlhood, till there came between them the usual trouble—a man. A weak, +pretty creature not worth a thought from either of them; but women love +the unworthy; there would be no over-population problem did they not; and +this poor specimen, ill-luck had ordained they should contend for. + +Their rivalry brought out all that was worst in both of them. It is a +mistake to suppose love only elevates; it can debase. It was a mean +struggle for what to an onlooker must have appeared a remarkably +unsatisfying prize. The loser might well have left the conqueror to her +poor triumph, even granting it had been gained unfairly. But the old, +ugly, primeval passions had been stirred in these women, and the +wedding-bells closed only the first act. + +The second is not difficult to guess. It would have ended in the Divorce +Court had not the deserted wife felt that a finer revenge would be +secured to her by silence. + +In the third, after an interval of only eighteen months, the man died—the +first piece of good fortune that seems to have occurred to him personally +throughout the play. His position must have been an exceedingly anxious +one from the beginning. Notwithstanding his flabbiness, one cannot but +regard him with a certain amount of pity—not unmixed with amusement. +Most of life’s dramas can be viewed as either farce or tragedy according +to the whim of the spectator. The actors invariably play them as +tragedy; but then that is the essence of good farce acting. + +Thus was secured the triumph of legal virtue and the punishment of +irregularity, and the play might be dismissed as uninterestingly orthodox +were it not for the fourth act, showing how the wronged wife came to the +woman she had once wronged to ask and grant forgiveness. Strangely as it +may sound, they found their love for one another unchanged. They had +been long parted: it was sweet to hold each other’s hands again. Two +lonely women, they agreed to live together. Those who knew them well in +this later time say that their life was very beautiful, filled with +graciousness and nobility. + +I do not say that such a story could ever be common, but it is more +probable than the world might credit. Sometimes the man is better +without the woman, the woman without the man. + + + + +ON THE NOBILITY OF OURSELVES + + +AN old Anglicized Frenchman, I used to meet often in my earlier +journalistic days, held a theory, concerning man’s future state, that has +since come to afford me more food for reflection than, at the time, I +should have deemed possible. He was a bright-eyed, eager little man. +One felt no Lotus land could be Paradise to him. We build our heaven of +the stones of our desires: to the old, red-bearded Norseman, a foe to +fight and a cup to drain; to the artistic Greek, a grove of animated +statuary; to the Red Indian, his happy hunting ground; to the Turk, his +harem; to the Jew, his New Jerusalem, paved with gold; to others, +according to their taste, limited by the range of their imagination. + +Few things had more terrors for me, when a child, than Heaven—as pictured +for me by certain of the good folks round about me. I was told that if I +were a good lad, kept my hair tidy, and did not tease the cat, I would +probably, when I died, go to a place where all day long I would sit still +and sing hymns. (Think of it! as reward to a healthy boy for being +good.) There would be no breakfast and no dinner, no tea and no supper. +One old lady cheered me a little with a hint that the monotony might be +broken by a little manna; but the idea of everlasting manna palled upon +me, and my suggestions, concerning the possibilities of sherbet or +jumbles, were scouted as irreverent. There would be no school, but also +there would be no cricket and no rounders. I should feel no desire, so I +was assured, to do another angel’s “dags” by sliding down the heavenly +banisters. My only joy would be to sing. + +“Shall we start singing the moment we get up in the morning?” I asked. + +“There won’t be any morning,” was the answer. “There will be no day and +no night. It will all be one long day without end.” + +“And shall we always be singing?” I persisted. + +“Yes, you will be so happy, you will always want to sing.” + +“Shan’t I ever get tired?” + +“No, you will never get tired, and you will never get sleepy or hungry or +thirsty.” + +“And does it go on like that for ever?” + +“Yes, for ever and ever.” + +“Will it go on for a million years?” + +“Yes, a million years, and then another million years, and then another +million years after that. There will never be any end to it.” + +I can remember to this day the agony of those nights, when I would lie +awake, thinking of this endless heaven, from which there seemed to be no +possible escape. For the other place was equally eternal, or I might +have been tempted to seek refuge there. + +We grown-up folk, our brains dulled by the slowly acquired habit of not +thinking, do wrong to torture children with these awful themes. +Eternity, Heaven, Hell are meaningless words to us. We repeat them, as +we gabble our prayers, telling our smug, self-satisfied selves that we +are miserable sinners. But to the child, the “intelligent stranger” in +the land, seeking to know, they are fearful realities. If you doubt me, +Reader, stand by yourself, beneath the stars, one night, and _solve_ this +thought, Eternity. Your next address shall be the County Lunatic Asylum. + +My actively inclined French friend held cheerier views than are common of +man’s life beyond the grave. His belief was that we were destined to +constant change, to everlasting work. We were to pass through the older +planets, to labour in the greater suns. + +But for such advanced career a more capable being was needed. No one of +us was sufficient, he argued, to be granted a future existence all to +himself. His idea was that two or three or four of us, according to our +intrinsic value, would be combined to make a new and more important +individuality, fitted for a higher existence. Man, he pointed out, was +already a collection of the beasts. “You and I,” he would say, tapping +first my chest and then his own, “we have them all here—the ape, the +tiger, the pig, the motherly hen, the gamecock, the good ant; we are all, +rolled into one. So the man of the future, he will be made up of many +men—the courage of one, the wisdom of another, the kindliness of a +third.” + +“Take a City man,” he would continue, “say the Lord Mayor; add to him a +poet, say Swinburne; mix them with a religious enthusiast, say General +Booth. There you will have the man fit for the higher life.” + +Garibaldi and Bismarck, he held, should make a very fine mixture, +correcting one another; if needful, extract of Ibsen might be added, as +seasoning. He thought that Irish politicians would mix admirably with +Scotch divines; that Oxford Dons would go well with lady novelists. He +was convinced that Count Tolstoi, a few Gaiety Johnnies (we called them +“mashers” in those days), together with a humourist—he was kind enough to +suggest myself—would produce something very choice. Queen Elizabeth, he +fancied, was probably being reserved to go—let us hope in the long +distant future—with Ouida. It sounds a whimsical theory, set down here +in my words, not his; but the old fellow was so much in earnest that few +of us ever thought to laugh as he talked. Indeed, there were moments on +starry nights, as walking home from the office, we would pause on +Waterloo Bridge to enjoy the witchery of the long line of the Embankment +lights, when I could almost believe, as I listened to him, in the not +impossibility of his dreams. + +Even as regards this world, it would often be a gain, one thinks, and no +loss, if some half-dozen of us were rolled together, or boiled down, or +whatever the process necessary might be, and something made out of us in +that way. + +Have not you, my fair Reader, sometimes thought to yourself what a +delightful husband Tom this, plus Harry that, plus Dick the other, would +make? Tom is always so cheerful and good-tempered, yet you feel that in +the serious moments of life he would be lacking. A delightful hubby when +you felt merry, yes; but you would not go to him for comfort and strength +in your troubles, now would you? No, in your hour of sorrow, how good it +would be to have near you grave, earnest Harry. He is a “good sort,” +Harry. Perhaps, after all, he is the best of the three—solid, staunch, +and true. What a pity he is just a trifle commonplace and unambitious. +Your friends, not knowing his sterling hidden qualities, would hardly +envy you; and a husband that no other girl envies you—well, that would +hardly be satisfactory, would it? Dick, on the other hand, is clever and +brilliant. He will make his way; there will come a day, you are +convinced, when a woman will be proud to bear his name. If only he were +not so self-centred, if only he were more sympathetic. + +But a combination of the three, or rather of the best qualities of the +three—Tom’s good temper, Harry’s tender strength, Dick’s brilliant +masterfulness: that is the man who would be worthy of you. + +The woman David Copperfield wanted was Agnes and Dora rolled into one. +He had to take them one after the other, which was not so nice. And did +he really love Agnes, Mr. Dickens; or merely feel he ought to? Forgive +me, but I am doubtful concerning that second marriage of Copperfield’s. +Come, strictly between ourselves, Mr. Dickens, was not David, good human +soul! now and again a wee bit bored by the immaculate Agnes? She made +him an excellent wife, I am sure. _She_ never ordered oysters by the +barrel, unopened. It would, on any day, have been safe to ask Traddles +home to dinner; in fact, Sophie and the whole rose-garden might have +accompanied him, Agnes would have been equal to the occasion. The dinner +would have been perfectly cooked and served, and Agnes’ sweet smile would +have pervaded the meal. But _after_ the dinner, when David and Traddles +sat smoking alone, while from the drawing-room drifted down the notes of +high-class, elevating music, played by the saintly Agnes, did they never, +glancing covertly towards the empty chair between them, see the laughing, +curl-framed face of a very foolish little woman—one of those foolish +little women that a wise man thanks God for making—and wish, in spite of +all, that it were flesh and blood, not shadow? + +Oh, you foolish wise folk, who would remodel human nature! Cannot you +see how great is the work given unto childish hands? Think you that in +well-ordered housekeeping and high-class conversation lies the whole +making of a man? Foolish Dora, fashioned by clever old magician Nature, +who knows that weakness and helplessness are as a talisman calling forth +strength and tenderness in man, trouble yourself not unduly about those +oysters nor the underdone mutton, little woman. Good plain cooks at +twenty pounds a year will see to these things for us; and, now and then, +when a windfall comes our way, we will dine together at a moderate-priced +restaurant where these things are managed even better. Your work, Dear, +is to teach us gentleness and kindliness. Lay your curls here, child. +It is from such as you that we learn wisdom. Foolish wise folk sneer at +you; foolish wise folk would pull up the useless lilies, the needless +roses, from the garden, would plant in their places only serviceable +wholesome cabbage. But the Gardener knowing better, plants the silly +short-lived flowers; foolish wise folk, asking for what purpose. + +As for Agnes, Mr. Dickens, do you know what she always makes me think of? +You will not mind my saying?—the woman one reads about. Frankly, I don’t +believe in her. I do not refer to Agnes in particular, but the woman of +whom she is a type, the faultless woman we read of. Women have many +faults, but, thank God, they have one redeeming virtue—they are none of +them faultless. + +But the heroine of fiction! oh, a terrible dragon of virtue is she. May +heaven preserve us poor men, undeserving though we be, from a life with +the heroine of fiction. She is all soul, and heart, and intellect, with +never a bit of human nature to catch hold of her by. Her beauty, it +appals one, it is so painfully indescribable. Whence comes she, whither +goes she, why do we never meet her like? Of women I know a goodish few, +and I look among them for her prototype; but I find it not. They are +charming, they are beautiful, all these women that I know. It would not +be right for me to tell you, Ladies, the esteem and veneration with which +I regard you all. You yourselves, blushing, would be the first to cheek +my ardour. But yet, dear Ladies, seen even through my eyes, you come not +near the ladies that I read about. You are not—if I may be permitted an +expressive vulgarism—in the same street with them. Your beauty I can +look upon, and retain my reason—for whatever value that may be to me. +Your conversation, I admit, is clever and brilliant in the extreme; your +knowledge vast and various; your culture quite Bostonian; yet you do +not—I hardly know how to express it—you do not shine with the sixteen +full-moon-power of the heroine of fiction. You do not—and I thank you +for it—impress me with the idea that you are the only women on earth. +You, even you, possess tempers of your own. I am inclined to think you +take an interest in your clothes. I would not be sure, even, that you do +not mingle a little of “your own hair” (you know what I mean) with the +hair of your head. There is in your temperament a vein of vanity, a +suggestion of selfishness, a spice of laziness. I have known you a +trifle unreasonable, a little inconsiderate, slightly exacting. Unlike +the heroine of fiction, you have a certain number of human appetites and +instincts; a few human follies, perhaps, a human fault, or shall we say +two? In short, dear Ladies, you also, even as we men, are the children +of Adam and Eve. Tell me, if you know, where I may meet with this +supernatural sister of yours, this woman that one reads about. She never +keeps any one waiting while she does her back hair, she is never +indignant with everybody else in the house because she cannot find her +own boots, she never scolds the servants, she is never cross with the +children, she never slams the door, she is never jealous of her younger +sister, she never lingers at the gate with any cousin but the right one. + +Dear me, where _do_ they keep them, these women that one reads about? I +suppose where they keep the pretty girl of Art. You have seen her, have +you not, Reader, the pretty girl in the picture? She leaps the +six-barred gate with a yard and a half to spare, turning round in her +saddle the while to make some smiling remark to the comic man behind, +who, of course, is standing on his head in the ditch. She floats +gracefully off Dieppe on stormy mornings. Her _baigneuse_—generally of +chiffon and old point lace—has not lost a curve. The older ladies, +bathing round her, look wet. Their dress clings damply to their limbs. +But the pretty girl of Art dives, and never a curl of her hair is +disarranged. The pretty girl of Art stands lightly on tip-toe and +volleys a tennis-ball six feet above her head. The pretty girl of Art +keeps the head of the punt straight against a stiff current and a strong +wind. _She_ never gets the water up her sleeve, and down her back, and +all over the cushions. _Her_ pole never sticks in the mud, with the +steam launch ten yards off and the man looking the other way. The pretty +girl of Art skates in high-heeled French shoes at an angle of forty-five +to the surface of the ice, both hands in her muff. _She_ never sits down +plump, with her feet a yard apart, and says “Ough.” The pretty girl of +Art drives tandem down Piccadilly, during the height of the season, at +eighteen miles an hour. It never occurs to _her_ leader that the time +has now arrived for him to turn round and get into the cart. The pretty +girl of Art rides her bicycle through the town on market day, carrying a +basket of eggs, and smiling right and left. _She_ never throws away both +her handles and runs into a cow. The pretty girl of Art goes trout +fishing in open-work stockings, under a blazing sun, with a bunch of +dew-bespangled primroses in her hair; and every time she gracefully +flicks her rod she hauls out a salmon. _She_ never ties herself up to a +tree, or hooks the dog. _She_ never comes home, soaked and disagreeable, +to tell you that she caught six, but put them all back again, because +they were merely two or three-pounders, and not worth the trouble of +carrying. The pretty girl of Art plays croquet with one hand, and looks +as if she enjoyed the game. _She_ never tries to accidentally kick her +ball into position when nobody is noticing, or stands it out that she is +through a hoop that she knows she isn’t. + +She is a good, all-round sportswoman, is the pretty girl in the picture. +The only thing I have to say against her is that she makes one +dissatisfied with the girl out of the picture—the girl who mistakes a +punt for a teetotum, so that you land feeling as if you had had a day in +the Bay of Biscay; and who, every now and again, stuns you with the thick +end of the pole: the girl who does not skate with her hands in her muff; +but who, throwing them up to heaven, says, “I’m going,” and who goes, +taking care that you go with her: the girl who, as you brush her down, +and try to comfort her, explains to you indignantly that the horse took +the corner too sharply and never noticed the mile-stone; the girl whose +hair sea water does _not_ improve. + +There can be no doubt about it: that is where they keep the good woman of +Fiction, where they keep the pretty girl of Art. + +Does it not occur to you, _Messieurs les Auteurs_, that you are sadly +disturbing us? These women that are a combination of Venus, St. Cecilia, +and Elizabeth Fry! you paint them for us in your glowing pages: it is not +kind of you, knowing, as you must, the women we have to put up with. + +Would we not be happier, we men and women, were we to idealize one +another less? My dear young lady, you have nothing whatever to complain +to Fate about, I assure you. Unclasp those pretty hands of yours, and +come away from the darkening window. Jack is as good a fellow as you +deserve; don’t yearn so much. Sir Galahad, my dear—Sir Galahad rides and +fights in the land that lies beyond the sunset, far enough away from this +noisy little earth where you and I spend much of our time +tittle-tattling, flirting, wearing fine clothes, and going to shows. And +besides, you must remember, Sir Galahad was a bachelor: as an idealist he +was wise. Your Jack is by no means a bad sort of knight, as knights go +nowadays in this un-idyllic world. There is much solid honesty about +him, and he does not pose. He is not exceptional, I grant you; but, my +dear, have you ever tried the exceptional man? Yes, he is very nice in a +drawing-room, and it is interesting to read about him in the Society +papers: you will find most of his good qualities _there_: take my advice, +don’t look into him too closely. You be content with Jack, and thank +heaven he is no worse. We are not saints, we men—none of us, and our +beautiful thoughts, I fear, we write in poetry not action. The White +Knight, my dear young lady, with his pure soul, his heroic heart, his +life’s devotion to a noble endeavour, does not live down here to any +great extent. They have tried it, one or two of them, and the world—you +and I: the world is made up of you and I—has generally starved, and +hooted them. There are not many of them left now: do you think you would +care to be the wife of one, supposing one were to be found for you? +Would you care to live with him in two furnished rooms in Clerkenwell, +die with him on a chair bedstead? A century hence they will put up a +statue to him, and you may be honoured as the wife who shared with him +his sufferings. Do you think you are woman enough for that? If not, +thank your stars you have secured, for your own exclusive use, one of us +_un_exceptional men, who knows no better than to admire you. _You_ are +not exceptional. + +And in us ordinary men there is some good. It wants finding, that is +all. We are not so commonplace as you think us. Even your Jack, fond of +his dinner, his conversation four-cornered by the Sporting Press—yes, I +agree he is not interesting, as he sits snoring in the easy-chair; but, +believe it or not, there are the makings of a great hero in Jack, if Fate +would but be kinder to him, and shake him out of his ease. + +Dr. Jekyll contained beneath his ample waist-coat not two egos, but +three—not only Hyde but another, a greater than Jekyll—a man as near to +the angels as Hyde was to the demons. These well-fed City men, these +Gaiety Johnnies, these plough-boys, apothecaries, thieves! within each +one lies hidden the hero, did Fate, the sculptor, choose to use his +chisel. That little drab we have noticed now and then, our way taking us +often past the end of the court, there was nothing by which to +distinguish her. She was not over-clean, could use coarse language on +occasion—just the spawn of the streets: take care lest the cloak of our +child should brush her. + +One morning the district Coroner, not, generally speaking, a poet +himself, but an adept at discovering poetry buried under unlikely +rubbish-heaps, tells us more about her. She earned six shillings a week, +and upon it supported a bed-ridden mother and three younger children. +She was housewife, nurse, mother, breadwinner, rolled into one. Yes, +there are heroines _out_ of fiction. + +So loutish Tom has won the Victoria Cross—dashed out under a storm of +bullets and rescued the riddled flag. Who would have thought it of +loutish Tom? The village alehouse one always deemed the goal of his +endeavours. Chance comes to Tom and we find him out. To Harry the Fates +were less kind. A ne’er-do-well was Harry—drank, knocked his wife about, +they say. Bury him, we are well rid of him, he was good for nothing. +Are we sure? + +Let us acknowledge we are sinners. We know, those of us who dare to +examine ourselves, that we are capable of every meanness, of every wrong +under the sun. It is by the accident of circumstance, aided by the +helpful watchfulness of the policeman, that our possibilities of crime +are known only to ourselves. But having acknowledged our evil, let us +also acknowledge that we are capable of greatness. The martyrs who faced +death and torture unflinchingly for conscience’ sake, were men and women +like ourselves. They had their wrong side. Before the small trials of +daily life they no doubt fell as we fall. By no means were they the pick +of humanity. Thieves many of them had been, and murderers, evil-livers, +and evil-doers. But the nobility was there also, lying dormant, and +their day came. Among them must have been men who had cheated their +neighbours over the counter; men who had been cruel to their wives and +children; selfish, scandal-mongering women. In easier times their virtue +might never have been known to any but their Maker. + +In every age and in every period, when and where Fate has called upon men +and women to play the man, human nature has not been found wanting. They +were a poor lot, those French aristocrats that the Terror seized: +cowardly, selfish, greedy had been their lives. Yet there must have been +good, even in them. When the little things that in their little lives +they had thought so great were swept away from them, when they found +themselves face to face with the realities; then even they played the +man. Poor shuffling Charles the First, crusted over with weakness and +folly, deep down in him at last we find the great gentleman. + +I like to hear stories of the littleness of great men. I like to think +that Shakespeare was fond of his glass. I even cling to the tale of that +disgraceful final orgie with friend Ben Jonson. Possibly the story may +not be true, but I hope it was. I like to think of him as poacher, as +village ne’er-do-well, denounced by the local grammar-school master, +preached at by the local J. P. of the period. I like to reflect that +Cromwell had a wart on his nose; the thought makes me more contented with +my own features. I like to think that he put sweets upon the chairs, to +see finely-dressed ladies spoil their frocks; to tell myself that he +roared with laughter at the silly jest, like any East End ’Arry with his +Bank Holiday squirt of dirty water. I like to read that Carlyle threw +bacon at his wife and occasionally made himself highly ridiculous over +small annoyances, that would have been smiled at by a man of +well-balanced mind. I think of the fifty foolish things a week _I_ do, +and say to myself, “I, too, am a literary man.” + +I like to think that even Judas had his moments of nobility, his good +hours when he would willingly have laid down his life for his Master. +Perhaps even to him there came, before the journey’s end, the memory of a +voice saying—“Thy sins be forgiven thee.” There must have been good, +even in Judas. + +Virtue lies like the gold in quartz, there is not very much of it, and +much pains has to be spent on the extracting of it. But Nature seems to +think it worth her while to fashion these huge useless stones, if in them +she may hide away her precious metals. Perhaps, also, in human nature, +she cares little for the mass of dross, provided that by crushing and +cleansing she can extract from it a little gold, sufficient to repay her +for the labour of the world. We wonder why she troubles to make the +stone. Why cannot the gold lie in nuggets on the surface? But her +methods are secrets to us. Perchance there is a reason for the quartz. +Perchance there is a reason for the evil and folly, through which run, +unseen to the careless eye, the tiny veins of virtue. + +Aye, the stone predominates, but the gold is there. We claim to have it +valued. The evil that there is in man no tongue can tell. We are vile +among the vile, a little evil people. But we are great. Pile up the +bricks of our sins till the tower knocks at Heaven’s gate, calling for +vengeance, yet we are great—with a greatness and a virtue that the +untempted angels may not reach to. The written history of the human +race, it is one long record of cruelty, of falsehood, of oppression. +Think you the world would be spinning round the sun unto this day, if +that written record were all? Sodom, God would have spared had there +been found ten righteous men within its walls. The world is saved by its +just men. History sees them not; she is but the newspaper, a report of +accidents. Judge you life by that? Then you shall believe that the true +Temple of Hymen is the Divorce Court; that men are of two classes only, +the thief and the policeman; that all noble thought is but a politician’s +catchword. History sees only the destroying conflagrations, she takes no +thought of the sweet fire-sides. History notes the wrong; but the +patient suffering, the heroic endeavour, that, slowly and silently, as +the soft processes of Nature re-clothing with verdure the passion-wasted +land, obliterate that wrong, she has no eyes for. In the days of cruelty +and oppression—not altogether yet of the past, one fears—must have lived +gentle-hearted men and women, healing with their help and sympathy the +wounds that else the world had died of. After the thief, riding with +jingle of sword and spur, comes, mounted on his ass, the good Samaritan. +The pyramid of the world’s evil—God help us! it rises high, shutting out +almost the sun. But the record of man’s good deeds, it lies written in +the laughter of the children, in the light of lovers’ eyes, in the dreams +of the young men; it shall not be forgotten. The fires of persecution +served as torches to show Heaven the heroism that was in man. From the +soil of tyranny sprang self-sacrifice, and daring for the Right. +Cruelty! what is it but the vile manure, making the ground ready for the +flowers of tenderness and pity? Hate and Anger shriek to one another +across the ages, but the voices of Love and Comfort are none the less +existent that they speak in whispers, lips to ear. + +We have done wrong, oh, ye witnessing Heavens, but we have done good. We +claim justice. We have laid down our lives for our friends: greater love +hath no man than this. We have fought for the Right. We have died for +the Truth—as the Truth seemed to us. We have done noble deeds; we have +lived noble lives; we have comforted the sorrowful; we have succoured the +weak. Failing, falling, making in our blindness many a false step, yet +we have striven. For the sake of the army of just men and true, for the +sake of the myriads of patient, loving women, for the sake of the pitiful +and helpful, for the sake of the good that lies hidden within us,—spare +us, O Lord. + + + + +ON THE MOTHERLINESS OF MAN + + +IT was only a piece of broken glass. From its shape and colour, I should +say it had, in its happier days, formed portion of a cheap scent-bottle. +Lying isolated on the grass, shone upon by the early morning sun, it +certainly appeared at its best. It attracted him. + +He cocked his head, and looked at it with his right eye. Then he hopped +round to the other side, and looked at it with his left eye. With either +optic it seemed equally desirable. + +That he was an inexperienced young rook goes without saying. An older +bird would not have given a second glance to the thing. Indeed, one +would have thought his own instinct might have told him that broken glass +would be a mistake in a bird’s nest. But its glitter drew him too +strongly for resistance. I am inclined to suspect that at some time, +during the growth of his family tree, there must have occurred a +_mésalliance_, perhaps worse. Possibly a strain of magpie blood?—one +knows the character of magpies, or rather their lack of character—and +such things have happened. But I will not pursue further so painful a +train: I throw out the suggestion as a possible explanation, that is all. + +He hopped nearer. Was it a sweet illusion, this flashing fragment of +rainbow; a beautiful vision to fade upon approach, typical of so much +that is un-understandable in rook life? He made a dart forward and +tapped it with his beak. No, it was real—as fine a lump of jagged green +glass as any newly-married rook could desire, and to be had for the +taking. _She_ would be pleased with it. He was a well-meaning bird; the +mere upward inclination of his tail suggested earnest though possibly +ill-directed endeavour. + +He turned it over. It was an awkward thing to carry; it had so very many +corners. But he succeeded at last in getting it firmly between his beak, +and in haste, lest some other bird should seek to dispute with him its +possession, at once flew off with it. + +A second rook who had been watching the proceedings from the lime tree, +called to a third who was passing. Even with my limited knowledge of the +language I found it easy to follow the conversation: it was so obvious. + +“Issachar!” + +“Hallo!” + +“What do you think? Zebulan’s found a piece of broken bottle. He’s +going to line his nest with it.” + +“No!” + +“God’s truth. Look at him. There he goes, he’s got it in his beak.” + +“Well, I’m—!” + +And they both burst into a laugh. + +But Zebulan heeded them not. If he overheard, he probably put down the +whole dialogue to jealousy. He made straight for his tree. By standing +with my left cheek pressed close against the window-pane, I was able to +follow him. He is building in what we call the Paddock elms—a suburb +commenced only last season, but rapidly growing. I wanted to see what +his wife would say. + +At first she said nothing. He laid it carefully down on the branch near +the half-finished nest, and she stretched up her head and looked at it. + +Then she looked at him. For about a minute neither spoke. I could see +that the situation was becoming strained. When she did open her beak, it +was with a subdued tone, that had a vein of weariness running through it. + +“What is it?” she asked. + +He was evidently chilled by her manner. As I have explained, he is an +inexperienced young rook. This is clearly his first wife, and he stands +somewhat in awe of her. + +“Well, I don’t exactly know what it’s _called_,” he answered. + +“Oh.” + +“No. But it’s pretty, isn’t it?” he added. He moved it, trying to get +it where the sun might reach it. It was evident he was admitting to +himself that, seen in the shade, it lost much of its charm. + +“Oh, yes; very pretty,” was the rejoinder; “perhaps you’ll tell me what +you’re going to do with it.” + +The question further discomforted him. It was growing upon him that this +thing was not going to be the success he had anticipated. It would be +necessary to proceed warily. + +“Of course, it’s not a twig,” he began. + +“I see it isn’t.” + +“No. You see, the nest is nearly all twigs as it is, and I thought—” + +“Oh, you did think.” + +“Yes, my dear. I thought—unless you are of opinion that it’s too showy—I +thought we might work it in somewhere.” + +Then she flared out. + +“Oh, did you? You thought that a good idea. An A1 prize idiot I seem to +have married, I do. You’ve been gone twenty minutes, and you bring me +back an eight-cornered piece of broken glass, which you think we might +‘work into’ the nest. You’d like to see me sitting on it for a month, +you would. You think it would make a nice bed for the children to lie +on. You don’t think you could manage to find a packet of mixed pins if +you went down again, I suppose. They’d look pretty ‘worked in’ +somewhere, don’t you think?—Here, get out of my way. I’ll finish this +nest by myself.” She always had been short with him. + +She caught up the offending object—it was a fairly heavy lump of +glass—and flung it out of the tree with all her force. I heard it crash +through the cucumber frame. That makes the seventh pane of glass broken +in that cucumber frame this week. The couple in the branch above are the +worst. Their plan of building is the most extravagant, the most absurd I +ever heard of. They hoist up ten times as much material as they can +possibly use; you might think they were going to build a block, and let +it out in flats to the other rooks. Then what they don’t want they fling +down again. Suppose we built on such a principle? Suppose a human +husband and wife were to start erecting their house in Piccadilly Circus, +let us say; and suppose the man spent all the day steadily carrying +bricks up the ladder while his wife laid them, never asking her how many +she wanted, whether she didn’t think he had brought up sufficient, but +just accumulating bricks in a senseless fashion, bringing up every brick +he could find. And then suppose, when evening came, and looking round, +they found they had some twenty cart-loads of bricks lying unused upon +the scaffold, they were to commence flinging them down into Waterloo +Place. They would get themselves into trouble; somebody would be sure to +speak to them about it. Yet that is precisely what those birds do, and +nobody says a word to them. They are supposed to have a President. He +lives by himself in the yew tree outside the morning-room window. What I +want to know is what he is supposed to be good for. This is the sort of +thing I want him to look into. I would like him to be worming underneath +one evening when those two birds are tidying up: perhaps he would do +something then. I have done all I can. I have thrown stones at them, +that, in the course of nature, have returned to earth again, breaking +more glass. I have blazed at them with a revolver; but they have come to +regard this proceeding as a mere expression of light-heartedness on my +part, possibly confusing me with the Arab of the Desert, who, I am given +to understand, expresses himself thus in moments of deep emotion. They +merely retire to a safe distance to watch me; no doubt regarding me as a +poor performer, inasmuch as I do not also dance and shout between each +shot. I have no objection to their building there, if they only would +build sensibly. I want somebody to speak to them to whom they will pay +attention. + +You can hear them in the evening, discussing the matter of this surplus +stock. + +“Don’t you work any more,” he says, as he comes up with the last load, +“you’ll tire yourself.” + +“Well, I am feeling a bit done up,” she answers, as she hops out of the +nest and straightens her back. + +“You’re a bit peckish, too, I expect,” he adds sympathetically. “I know +I am. We will have a scratch down, and be off.” + +“What about all this stuff?” she asks, while titivating herself; “we’d +better not leave it about, it looks so untidy.” + +“Oh, we’ll soon get rid of that,” he answers. “I’ll have that down in a +jiffy.” + +To help him, she seizes a stick and is about to drop it. He darts +forward and snatches it from her. + +“Don’t you waste that one,” he cries, “that’s a rare one, that is. You +see me hit the old man with it.” + +And he does. What the gardener says, I will leave you to imagine. + +Judged from its structure, the rook family is supposed to come next in +intelligence to man himself. Judging from the intelligence displayed by +members of certain human families with whom I have come in contact, I can +quite believe it. That rooks talk I am positive. No one can spend +half-an-hour watching a rookery without being convinced of this. Whether +the talk be always wise and witty, I am not prepared to maintain; but +that there is a good deal of it is certain. A young French gentleman of +my acquaintance, who visited England to study the language, told me that +the impression made upon him by his first social evening in London was +that of a parrot-house. Later on, when he came to comprehend, he, of +course, recognized the brilliancy and depth of the average London +drawing-room talk; but that is how, not comprehending, it impressed him +at first. Listening to the riot of a rookery is much the same +experience. The conversation to us sounds meaningless; the rooks +themselves would probably describe it as sparkling. + +There is a Misanthrope I know who hardly ever goes into Society. I +argued the question with him one day. “Why should I?” he replied; “I +know, say, a dozen men and women with whom intercourse is a pleasure; +they have ideas of their own which they are not afraid to voice. To rub +brains with such is a rare and goodly thing, and I thank Heaven for their +friendship; but they are sufficient for my leisure. What more do I +require? What is this ‘Society’ of which you all make so much ado? I +have sampled it, and I find it unsatisfying. Analyze it into its +elements, what is it? Some person I know very slightly, who knows me +very slightly, asks me to what you call an ‘At Home.’ The evening comes, +I have done my day’s work and I have dined. I have been to a theatre or +concert, or I have spent a pleasant hour or so with a friend. I am more +inclined for bed than anything else, but I pull myself together, dress, +and drive to the house. While I am taking off my hat and coat in the +hall, a man enters I met a few hours ago at the Club. He is a man I have +very little opinion of, and he, probably, takes a similar view of me. +Our minds have no thought in common, but as it is necessary to talk, I +tell him it is a warm evening. Perhaps it is a warm evening, perhaps it +isn’t; in either case he agrees with me. I ask him if he is going to +Ascot. I do not care a straw whether he is going to Ascot or not. He +says he is not quite sure, but asks me what chance Passion Flower has for +the Thousand Guineas. I know he doesn’t value my opinion on the subject +at a brass farthing—he would be a fool if he did, but I cudgel my brains +to reply to him, as though he were going to stake his shirt on my advice. +We reach the first floor, and are mutually glad to get rid of one +another. I catch my hostess’ eye. She looks tired and worried; she +would be happier in bed, only she doesn’t know it. She smiles sweetly, +but it is clear she has not the slightest idea who I am, and is waiting +to catch my name from the butler. I whisper it to him. Perhaps he will +get it right, perhaps he won’t; it is quite immaterial. They have asked +two hundred and forty guests, some seventy-five of whom they know by +sight, for the rest, any chance passer-by, able, as the theatrical +advertisements say, ‘to dress and behave as a gentleman,’ would do every +bit as well. Indeed, I sometimes wonder why people go to the trouble and +expense of invitation cards at all. A sandwich-man outside the door +would answer the purpose. ‘Lady Tompkins, At Home, this afternoon from +three to seven; Tea and Music. Ladies and Gentlemen admitted on +presentation of visiting card. Afternoon dress indispensable.’ The +crowd is the thing wanted; as for the items, well, tell me, what is the +difference, from the Society point of view, between one man in a black +frock-coat and another? + +“I remember being once invited to a party at a house in Lancaster Gate. +I had met the woman at a picnic. In the same green frock and parasol I +might have recognized her the next time I saw her. In any other clothes +I did not expect to. My cabman took me to the house opposite, where they +were also giving a party. It made no difference to any of us. The +hostess—I never learnt her name—said it was very good of me to come, and +then shunted me off on to a Colonial Premier (I did not catch his name, +and he did not catch mine, which was not extraordinary, seeing that my +hostess did not know it) who, she whispered to me, had come over, from +wherever it was (she did not seem to be very sure) principally to make my +acquaintance. Half through the evening, and by accident, I discovered my +mistake, but judged it too late to say anything then. I met a couple of +people I knew, had a little supper with them, and came away. The next +afternoon I met my right hostess—the lady who should have been my +hostess. She thanked me effusively for having sacrificed the previous +evening to her and her friends; she said she knew how seldom I went out: +that made her feel my kindness all the more. She told me that the +Brazilian Minister’s wife had told her that I was the cleverest man she +had ever met. I often think I should like to meet that man, whoever he +may be, and thank him. + +“But perhaps the butler does pronounce my name rightly, and perhaps my +hostess actually does recognize me. She smiles, and says she was so +afraid I was not coming. She implies that all the other guests are but +as a feather in her scales of joy compared with myself. I smile in +return, wondering to myself how I look when I do smile. I have never had +the courage to face my own smile in the looking-glass. I notice the +Society smile of other men, and it is not reassuring. I murmur something +about my not having been likely to forget this evening; in my turn, +seeking to imply that I have been looking forward to it for weeks. A few +men shine at this sort of thing, but they are a small percentage, and +without conceit I regard myself as no bigger a fool than the average +male. Not knowing what else to say, I tell her also that it is a warm +evening. She smiles archly as though there were some hidden witticism in +the remark, and I drift away, feeling ashamed of myself. To talk as an +idiot when you _are_ an idiot brings no discomfort; to behave as an idiot +when you have sufficient sense to know it, is painful. I hide myself in +the crowd, and perhaps I’ll meet a woman I was introduced to three weeks +ago at a picture gallery. We don’t know each other’s names, but, both of +us feeling lonesome, we converse, as it is called. If she be the +ordinary type of woman, she asks me if I am going on to the Johnsons’. I +tell her no. We stand silent for a moment, both thinking what next to +say. She asks me if I was at the Thompsons’ the day before yesterday. I +again tell her no. I begin to feel dissatisfied with myself that I was +not at the Thompsons’. Trying to get even with her, I ask her if she is +going to the Browns’ next Monday. (There are no Browns, she will have to +say, No.) She is not, and her tone suggests that a social stigma rests +upon the Browns. I ask her if she has been to Barnum’s Circus; she +hasn’t, but is going. I give her my impressions of Barnum’s Circus, +which are precisely the impressions of everybody else who has seen the +show. + +“Or if luck be against me, she is possibly a smart woman, that is to say, +her conversation is a running fire of spiteful remarks at the expense of +every one she knows, and of sneers at the expense of every one she +doesn’t. I always feel I could make a better woman myself, out of a +bottle of vinegar and a penn’orth of mixed pins. Yet it usually takes +one about ten minutes to get away from her. + +“Even when, by chance, one meets a flesh-and-blood man or woman at such +gatherings, it is not the time or place for real conversation; and as for +the shadows, what person in their senses would exhaust a single brain +cell upon such? I remember a discussion once concerning Tennyson, +considered as a social item. The dullest and most densely-stupid bore I +ever came across was telling how he had sat next to Tennyson at dinner. +‘I found him a most uninteresting man,’ so he confided to us; ‘he had +nothing to say for himself—absolutely nothing.’ I should like to +resuscitate Dr. Samuel Johnson for an evening, and throw him into one of +these ‘At Homes’ of yours.” + +My friend is an admitted misanthrope, as I have explained; but one cannot +dismiss him as altogether unjust. That there is a certain mystery about +Society’s craving for Society must be admitted. I stood one evening +trying to force my way into the supper room of a house in Berkeley +Square. A lady, hot and weary, a few yards in front of me was struggling +to the same goal. + +“Why,” remarked she to her companion, “why do we come to these places, +and fight like a Bank Holiday crowd for eighteenpenny-worth of food?” + +“We come here,” replied the man, whom I judged to be a philosopher, “to +say we’ve been here.” + +I met A— the other evening, and asked him to dine with me on Monday. I +don’t know why I ask A— to dine with me, but about once a month I do. He +is an uninteresting man. + +“I can’t,” he said, “I’ve got to go to the B—s’; confounded nuisance, it +will be infernally dull.” + +“Why go?” I asked. + +“I really don’t know,” he replied. + +A little later B— met me, and asked me to dine with him on Monday. + +“I can’t,” I answered, “some friends are coming to us that evening. It’s +a duty dinner, you know the sort of thing.” + +“I wish you could have managed it,” he said, “I shall have no one to talk +to. The A—s are coming, and they bore me to death.” + +“Why do you ask him?” I suggested. + +“Upon my word, I really don’t know,” he replied. + +But to return to our rooks. We were speaking of their social instincts. +Some dozen of them—the “scallywags” and bachelors of the community, I +judge them to be—have started a Club. For a month past I have been +trying to understand what the affair was. Now I know: it is a Club. + +And for their Club House they have chosen, of course, the tree nearest my +bedroom window. I can guess how that came about; it was my own fault, I +never thought of it. About two months ago, a single rook—suffering from +indigestion or an unhappy marriage, I know not—chose this tree one night +for purposes of reflection. He woke me up: I felt angry. I opened the +window, and threw an empty soda-water bottle at him. Of course it did +not hit him, and finding nothing else to throw, I shouted at him, +thinking to frighten him away. He took no notice, but went on talking to +himself. I shouted louder, and woke up my own dog. The dog barked +furiously, and woke up most things within a quarter of a mile. I had to +go down with a boot-jack—the only thing I could find handy—to soothe the +dog. Two hours later I fell asleep from exhaustion. I left the rook +still cawing. + +The next night he came again. I should say he was a bird with a sense of +humour. Thinking this might happen, I had, however, taken the precaution +to have a few stones ready. I opened the window wide, and fired them one +after another into the tree. After I had closed the window, he hopped +down nearer, and cawed louder than ever. I think he wanted me to throw +more stones at him: he appeared to regard the whole proceeding as a game. +On the third night, as I heard nothing of him, I flattered myself that, +in spite of his bravado, I had discouraged him. I might have known rooks +better. + +What happened when the Club was being formed, I take it, was this: + +“Where shall we fix upon for our Club House?” said the secretary, all +other points having been disposed of. One suggested this tree, another +suggested that. Then up spoke this particular rook: + +“I’ll tell you where,” said he, “in the yew tree opposite the porch. And +I’ll tell you for why. Just about an hour before dawn a man comes to the +window over the porch, dressed in the most comical costume you ever set +eyes upon. I’ll tell you what he reminds me of—those little statues that +men use for decorating fields. He opens the window, and throws a lot of +things out upon the lawn, and then he dances and sings. It’s awfully +interesting, and you can see it all from the yew tree.” + +That, I am convinced, is how the Club came to fix upon the tree next my +window. I have had the satisfaction of denying them the exhibition they +anticipated, and I cheer myself with the hope that they have visited +their disappointment upon their misleader. + +There is a difference between Rook Clubs and ours. In our clubs the +respectable members arrive early, and leave at a reasonable hour; in Rook +Clubs, it would appear, this principle is reversed. The Mad Hatter would +have liked this Club—it would have been a club after his own heart. It +opens at half-past two in the morning, and the first to arrive are the +most disreputable members. In Rook-land the rowdy-dowdy, randy-dandy, +rollicky-ranky boys get up very early in the morning and go to bed in the +afternoon. Towards dawn, the older, more orderly members drop in for +reasonable talk, and the Club becomes more respectable. The tree closes +about six. For the first two hours, however, the goings-on are +disgraceful. The proceedings, as often as not, open with a fight. If no +two gentlemen can be found to oblige with a fight, the next noisiest +thing to fall back upon is held to be a song. It is no satisfaction to +me to be told that rooks cannot sing. _I_ know that, without the trouble +of referring to the natural history book. It is the rook who does not +know it; _he_ thinks he can; and as a matter of fact, he does. You can +criticize his singing, you can call it what you like, but you can’t stop +it—at least, that is my experience. The song selected is sure to be one +with a chorus. Towards the end it becomes mainly chorus, unless the +soloist be an extra powerful bird, determined to insist upon his rights. + +The President knows nothing of this Club. He gets up himself about +seven—three hours after all the others have finished breakfast—and then +fusses round under the impression that he is waking up the colony, the +fat-headed old fool. He is the poorest thing in Presidents I have ever +heard of. A South American Republic would supply a better article. The +rooks themselves, the married majority, fathers of families, respectable +nestholders, are as indignant as I am. I hear complaints from all +quarters. + +Reflection comes to one as, towards the close of these chill afternoons +in early spring, one leans upon the paddock gate watching the noisy +bustling in the bare elms. + +So the earth is growing green again, and love is come again unto the +hearts of us old sober-coated fellows. Oh, Madam, your feathers gleam +wondrous black, and your bonnie bright eye stabs deep. Come, sit by our +side, and we’ll tell you a tale such as rook never told before. It’s the +tale of a nest in a topmost bough, that sways in the good west wind. +It’s strong without, but it’s soft within, where the little green eggs +lie safe. And there sits in that nest a lady sweet, and she caws with +joy, for, afar, she sees the rook she loves the best. Oh, he has been +east, and he has been west, and his crop it is full of worms and slugs, +and they are all for her. + +We are old, old rooks, so many of us. The white is mingling with the +purple black upon our breasts. We have seen these tall elms grow from +saplings; we have seen the old trees fall and die. Yet each season come +to us again the young thoughts. So we mate and build and gather that +again our old, old hearts may quiver to the thin cry of our newborn. + +Mother Nature has but one care, the children. We talk of Love as the +Lord of Life: it is but the Minister. Our novels end where Nature’s tale +begins. The drama that our curtain falls upon, is but the prologue to +her play. How the ancient Dame must laugh as she listens to the prattle +of her children. “Is Marriage a Failure?” “Is Life worth Living?” “The +New Woman _versus_ the Old.” So, perhaps, the waves of the Atlantic +discuss vehemently whether they shall flow east or west. + +Motherhood is the law of the Universe. The whole duty of man is to be a +mother. We labour: to what end? the children—the woman in the home, the +man in the community. The nation takes thought for its future: why? In +a few years its statesmen, its soldiers, its merchants, its toilers, will +be gathered unto their fathers. Why trouble we ourselves about the +future? The country pours its blood and treasure into the earth that the +children may reap. Foolish Jacques Bonhomie, his addled brain full of +dreams, rushes with bloody hands to give his blood for Liberty, Equality, +Fraternity. He will not live to see, except in vision, the new world he +gives his bones to build—even his spinning word-whipped head knows that. +But the children! they shall live sweeter lives. The peasant leaves his +fireside to die upon the battle-field. What is it to him, a grain in the +human sand, that Russia should conquer the East, that Germany should be +united, that the English flag should wave above new lands? the heritage +his fathers left him shall be greater for his sons. Patriotism! what is +it but the mother instinct of a people? + +Take it that the decree has gone forth from Heaven: There shall be no +more generations, with this life the world shall die. Think you we +should move another hand? The ships would rot in the harbours, the grain +would rot in the ground. Should we paint pictures, write books, make +music? hemmed in by that onward creeping sea of silence. Think you with +what eyes husband and wife would look on one another. Think you of the +wooing—the spring of Love dried up; love only a pool of stagnant water. + +How little we seem to realize this foundation of our life. Herein, if +nowhere else, lies our eternity. This Ego shall never die—unless the +human race from beginning to end be but a passing jest of the Gods, to be +swept aside when wearied of, leaving room for new experiments. These +features of mine—we will not discuss their æsthetic value—shall never +disappear; modified, varied, but in essential the same, they shall +continue in ever increasing circles to the end of Time. This temperament +of mine—this good and evil that is in me, it shall grow with every age, +spreading ever wider, combining, amalgamating. I go into my children and +my children’s children, I am eternal. I am they, they are I. The tree +withers and you clear the ground, thankful if out of its dead limbs you +can make good firewood; but its spirit, its life, is in fifty saplings. +The tree dies not, it changes. + +These men and women that pass me in the street, this one hurrying to his +office, this one to his club, another to his love, they are the mothers +of the world to come. + +This greedy trickster in stocks and shares, he cheats, he lies, he wrongs +all men—for what? Follow him to his luxurious home in the suburbs: what +do you find? A man with children on his knee, telling them stories, +promising them toys. His anxious, sordid life, for what object is it +lived? That these children may possess the things that he thinks good +for them. Our very vices, side by side with our virtues, spring from +this one root, Motherhood. It is the one seed of the Universe. The +planets are but children of the sun, the moon but an offspring of the +earth, stone of her stone, iron of her iron. What is the Great Centre of +us all, life animate and inanimate—if any life _be_ inanimate? Is the +eternal universe one dim figure, Motherhood, filling all space? + +This scheming Mother of Mayfair, angling for a rich son-in-law! Not a +pleasing portrait to look upon, from one point of view. Let us look at +it, for a moment, from another. How weary she must be! This is her +third “function” to-night; the paint is running off her poor face. She +has been snubbed a dozen times by her social superiors, openly insulted +by a Duchess; yet she bears it with a patient smile. It is a pitiful +ambition, hers: it is that her child shall marry money, shall have +carriages and many servants, live in Park Lane, wear diamonds, see her +name in the Society Papers. At whatever cost to herself, her daughter +shall, if possible, enjoy these things. She could so much more +comfortably go to bed, and leave the child to marry some well-to-do +commercial traveller. Justice, Reader, even for such. Her sordid +scheming is but the deformed child of Motherhood. + +Motherhood! it is the gamut of God’s orchestra, savageness and cruelty at +the one end, tenderness and self-sacrifice at the other. + +The sparrow-hawk fights the hen: he seeking food for his brood, she +defending hers with her life. The spider sucks the fly to feed its +myriad young; the cat tortures the mouse to give its still throbbing +carcase to her kittens, and man wrongs man for children’s sake. Perhaps +when the riot of the world reaches us whole, not broken, we shall learn +it is a harmony, each jangling discord fallen into its place around the +central theme, Motherhood. + + + + +ON THE INADVISABILITY OF FOLLOWING ADVICE + + +I WAS pacing the Euston platform late one winter’s night, waiting for the +last train to Watford, when I noticed a man cursing an automatic machine. +Twice he shook his fist at it. I expected every moment to see him strike +it. Naturally curious, I drew near softly. I wanted to catch what he +was saying. However, he heard my approaching footsteps, and turned on +me. “Are you the man,” said he, “who was here just now?” + +“Just where?” I replied. I had been pacing up and down the platform for +about five minutes. + +“Why here, where we are standing,” he snapped out. “Where do you think +‘here’ is—over there?” He seemed irritable. + +“I may have passed this spot in the course of my peregrinations, if that +is what you mean,” I replied. I spoke with studied politeness; my idea +was to rebuke his rudeness. + +“I mean,” he answered, “are you the man that spoke to me, just a minute +ago?” + +“I am not that man,” I said; “good-night.” + +“Are you sure?” he persisted. + +“One is not likely to forget talking to you,” I retorted. + +His tone had been most offensive. “I beg your pardon,” he replied +grudgingly. “I thought you looked like the man who spoke to me a minute +or so ago.” + +I felt mollified; he was the only other man on the platform, and I had a +quarter of an hour to wait. “No, it certainly wasn’t me,” I returned +genially, but ungrammatically. “Why, did you want him?” + +“Yes, I did,” he answered. “I put a penny in the slot here,” he +continued, feeling apparently the need of unburdening himself: “wanted a +box of matches. I couldn’t get anything put, and I was shaking the +machine, and swearing at it, as one does, when there came along a man, +about your size, and—you’re _sure_ it wasn’t you?” + +“Positive,” I again ungrammatically replied; “I would tell you if it had +been. What did he do?” + +“Well, he saw what had happened, or guessed it. He said, ‘They are +troublesome things, those machines; they want understanding.’ I said, +‘They want taking up and flinging into the sea, that’s what they want!’ +I was feeling mad because I hadn’t a match about me, and I use a lot. He +said, ‘They stick sometimes; the thing to do is to put another penny in; +the weight of the first penny is not always sufficient. The second penny +loosens the drawer and tumbles out itself; so that you get your purchase +together with your first penny back again. I have often succeeded that +way.’ Well, it seemed a silly explanation, but he talked as if he had +been weaned by an automatic machine, and I was sawney enough to listen to +him. I dropped in what I thought was another penny. I have just +discovered it was a two-shilling piece. The fool was right to a certain +extent; I have got something out. I have got this.” + +He held it towards me; I looked at it. It was a packet of Everton +toffee. + +“Two and a penny,” he remarked, bitterly. “I’ll sell it for a third of +what it cost me.” + +“You have put your money into the wrong machine,” I suggested. + +“Well, I know that!” he answered, a little crossly, as it seemed to me—he +was not a nice man: had there been any one else to talk to I should have +left him. “It isn’t losing the money I mind so much; it’s getting this +damn thing, that annoys me. If I could find that idiot Id ram it down +his throat.” + +We walked to the end of the platform, side by side, in silence. + +“There are people like that,” he broke out, as we turned, “people who +will go about, giving advice. I’ll be getting six months over one of +them, I’m always afraid. I remember a pony I had once.” (I judged the +man to be a small farmer; he talked in a wurzelly tone. I don’t know if +you understand what I mean, but an atmosphere of wurzels was the thing +that somehow he suggested.) “It was a thoroughbred Welsh pony, as sound +a little beast as ever stepped. I’d had him out to grass all the winter, +and one day in the early spring I thought I’d take him for a run. I had +to go to Amersham on business. I put him into the cart, and drove him +across; it is just ten miles from my place. He was a bit uppish, and had +lathered himself pretty freely by the time we reached the town. + +“A man was at the door of the hotel. He says, ‘That’s a good pony of +yours.’ + +“‘Pretty middling,’ I says. + +“‘It doesn’t do to over-drive ’em, when they’re young,’ he says. + +“I says, ‘He’s done ten miles, and I’ve done most of the pulling. I +reckon I’m a jolly sight more exhausted than he is. + +“I went inside and did my business, and when I came out the man was still +there. ‘Going back up the hill?’ he says to me. + +“Somehow, I didn’t cotton to him from the beginning. ‘Well, I’ve got to +get the other side of it,’ I says, ‘and unless you know any patent way of +getting over a hill without going up it, I reckon I am.’ + +“He says, ‘You take my advice: give him a pint of old ale before you +start.’ + +“‘Old ale,’ I says; ‘why he’s a teetotaler.’ + +“‘Never you mind that,’ he answers; ‘you give him a pint of old ale. I +know these ponies; he’s a good ’un, but he ain’t set. A pint of old ale, +and he’ll take you up that hill like a cable tramway, and not hurt +himself.’ + +“I don’t know what it is about this class of man. One asks oneself +afterwards why one didn’t knock his hat over his eyes and run his head +into the nearest horse-trough. But at the time one listens to them. I +got a pint of old ale in a hand-bowl, and brought it out. About +half-a-dozen chaps were standing round, and of course there was a good +deal of chaff. + +“‘You’re starting him on the downward course, Jim,’ says one of them. +‘He’ll take to gambling, rob a bank, and murder his mother. That’s +always the result of a glass of ale, ’cording to the tracts.’ + +“‘He won’t drink it like that,’ says another; ‘it’s as flat as ditch +water. Put a head on it for him.’ + +“‘Ain’t you got a cigar for him?’ says a third. + +“‘A cup of coffee and a round of buttered toast would do him a sight more +good, a cold day like this,’ says a fourth. + +“I’d half a mind then to throw the stuff away, or drink it myself; it +seemed a piece of bally nonsense, giving good ale to a four-year-old +pony; but the moment the beggar smelt the bowl he reached out his head, +and lapped it up as though he’d been a Christian; and I jumped into the +cart and started off, amid cheers. We got up the hill pretty steady. +Then the liquor began to work into his head. I’ve taken home a drunken +man more than once and there’s pleasanter jobs than that. I’ve seen a +drunken woman, and they’re worse. But a drunken Welsh pony I never want +to have anything more to do with so long as I live. Having four legs he +managed to hold himself up; but as to guiding himself, he couldn’t; and +as for letting me do it, he wouldn’t. First we were one side of the +road, and then we were the other. When we were not either side, we were +crossways in the middle. I heard a bicycle bell behind me, but I dared +not turn my head. All I could do was to shout to the fellow to keep +where he was. + +“‘I want to pass you,’ he sang out, so soon as he was near enough. + +“‘Well, you can’t do it,’ I called back. + +“‘Why can’t I?’ he answered. ‘How much of the road do _you_ want?’ + +“‘All of it and a bit over,’ I answered him, ‘for this job, and nothing +in the way.’ + +“He followed me for half-a-mile, abusing me; and every time he thought he +saw a chance he tried to pass me. But the pony was always a bit too +smart for him. You might have thought the brute was doing it on purpose. + +“‘You’re not fit to be driving,’ he shouted. He was quite right; I +wasn’t. I was feeling just about dead beat. + +“‘What do you think you are?’ he continued, ‘the charge of the Light +Brigade?’ (He was a common sort of fellow.) ‘Who sent _you_ home with +the washing?’ + +“Well, he was making me wild by this time. ‘What’s the good of talking +to me?’ I shouted back. ‘Come and blackguard the pony if you want to +blackguard anybody. I’ve got all I can do without the help of that alarm +clock of yours. Go away, you’re only making him worse.’ + +“‘What’s the matter with the pony?’ he called out. + +“‘Can’t you see?’ I answered. ‘He’s drunk.’ + +“Well, of course it sounded foolish; the truth often does. + +“‘One of you’s drunk,’ he retorted; ‘for two pins I’d come and haul you +out of the cart.’ + +“I wish to goodness he had; I’d have given something to be out of that +cart. But he didn’t have the chance. At that moment the pony gave a +sudden swerve; and I take it he must have been a bit too close. I heard +a yell and a curse, and at the same instant I was splashed from head to +foot with ditch water. Then the brute bolted. A man was coming along, +asleep on the top of a cart-load of windsor chairs. It’s disgraceful the +way those wagoners go to sleep; I wonder there are not more accidents. I +don’t think he ever knew what had happened to him. I couldn’t look round +to see what became of him; I only saw him start. Half-way down the hill +a policeman holla’d to me to stop. I heard him shouting out something +about furious driving. Half-a-mile this side of Chesham we came upon a +girls’ school walking two and two—a ‘crocodile’ they call it, I think. I +bet you those girls are still talking about it. It must have taken the +old woman a good hour to collect them together again. + +“It was market-day in Chesham; and I guess there has not been a busier +market-day in Chesham before or since. We went through the town at about +thirty miles an hour. I’ve never seen Chesham so lively—it’s a sleepy +hole as a rule. A mile outside the town I sighted the High Wycombe +coach. I didn’t feel I minded much; I had got to that pass when it +didn’t seem to matter to me what happened; I only felt curious. A dozen +yards off the coach the pony stopped dead; that jerked me off the seat to +the bottom of the cart. I couldn’t get up, because the seat was on top +of me. I could see nothing but the sky, and occasionally the head of the +pony, when he stood upon his hind legs. But I could hear what the driver +of the coach said, and I judged he was having trouble also. + +“‘Take that damn circus out of the road,’ he shouted. If he’d had any +sense he’d have seen how helpless I was. I could hear his cattle +plunging about; they are like that, horses—if they see one fool, then +they all want to be fools. + +“‘Take it home, and tie it up to its organ,’ shouted the guard. + +“Then an old woman went into hysterics, and began laughing like an hyena. +That started the pony off again, and, as far as I could calculate by +watching the clouds, we did about another four miles at the gallop. Then +he thought he’d try to jump a gate, and finding, I suppose, that the cart +hampered him, he started kicking it to pieces. I’d never have thought a +cart could have been separated into so many pieces, if I hadn’t seen it +done. When he had got rid of everything but half a wheel and the +splashboard he bolted again. I remained behind with the other ruins, and +glad I was to get a little rest. He came back later in the afternoon, +and I was pleased to sell him the next week for a five-pound-note: it +cost me about another ten to repair myself. + +“To this day I am chaffed about that pony, and the local temperance +society made a lecture out of me. That’s what comes of following +advice.” + +I sympathized with him. I have suffered from advice myself. I have a +friend, a City man, whom I meet occasionally. One of his most ardent +passions in life is to make my fortune. He button-holes me in +Threadneedle Street. “The very man I wanted to see,” he says; “I’m going +to let you in for a good thing. We are getting up a little syndicate.” +He is for ever “getting up” a little syndicate, and for every hundred +pounds you put into it you take a thousand out. Had I gone into all his +little syndicates, I could have been worth at the present moment, I +reckon, two million five hundred thousand pounds. But I have not gone +into all his little syndicates. I went into one, years ago, when I was +younger. I am still in it; my friend is confident that my holding, later +on, will yield me thousands. Being, however, hard-up for ready money, I +am willing to part with my share to any deserving person at a genuine +reduction, upon a cash basis. Another friend of mine knows another man +who is “in the know” as regards racing matters. I suppose most people +possess a friend of this type. He is generally very popular just before +a race, and extremely unpopular immediately afterwards. A third +benefactor of mine is an enthusiast upon the subject of diet. One day he +brought me something in a packet, and pressed it into my hand with the +air of a man who is relieving you of all your troubles. + +“What is it?” I asked. + +“Open it and see,” he answered, in the tone of a pantomime fairy. + +I opened it and looked, but I was no wiser. + +“It’s tea,” he explained. + +“Oh!” I replied; “I was wondering if it could be snuff.” + +“Well, it’s not exactly tea,” he continued, “it’s a sort of tea. You +take one cup of that—one cup, and you will never care for any other kind +of tea again.” + +He was quite right, I took one cup. After drinking it I felt I didn’t +care for any other tea. I felt I didn’t care for anything, except to die +quietly and inoffensively. He called on me a week later. + +“You remember that tea I gave you?” he said. + +“Distinctly,” I answered; “I’ve got the taste of it in my mouth now.” + +“Did it upset you?” he asked. + +“It annoyed me at the time,” I answered; “but that’s all over now.” + +He seemed thoughtful. “You were quite correct,” he answered; “it _was_ +snuff, a very special snuff, sent me all the way from India.” + +“I can’t say I liked it,” I replied. + +“A stupid mistake of mine,” he went on—“I must have mixed up the +packets!” + +“Oh, accidents will happen,” I said, “and you won’t make another mistake, +I feel sure; so far as I am concerned.” + +We can all give advice. I had the honour once of serving an old +gentleman whose profession it was to give legal advice, and excellent +legal advice he always gave. In common with most men who know the law, +he had little respect for it. I have heard him say to a would-be +litigant— + +“My dear sir, if a villain stopped me in the street and demanded of me my +watch and chain, I should refuse to give it to him. If he thereupon +said, ‘Then I shall take it from you by brute force,’ I should, old as I +am, I feel convinced, reply to him, ‘Come on.’ But if, on the other +hand, he were to say to me, ‘Very well, then I shall take proceedings +against you in the Court of Queen’s Bench to compel you to give it up to +me,’ I should at once take it from my pocket, press it into his hand, and +beg of him to say no more about the matter. And I should consider I was +getting off cheaply.” + +Yet that same old gentleman went to law himself with his next-door +neighbour over a dead poll parrot that wasn’t worth sixpence to anybody, +and spent from first to last a hundred pounds, if he spent a penny. + +“I know I’m a fool,” he confessed. “I have no positive proof that it +_was_ his cat; but I’ll make him pay for calling me an Old Bailey +Attorney, hanged if I don’t!” + +We all know how the pudding _ought_ to be made. We do not profess to be +able to make it: that is not our business. Our business is to criticize +the cook. It seems our business to criticize so many things that it is +not our business to do. We are all critics nowadays. I have my opinion +of you, Reader, and you possibly have your own opinion of me. I do not +seek to know it; personally, I prefer the man who says what he has to say +of me behind my back. I remember, when on a lecturing tour, the +ground-plan of the hall often necessitated my mingling with the audience +as they streamed out. This never happened but I would overhear somebody +in front of me whisper to his or her companion—“Take care, he’s just +behind you.” I always felt so grateful to that whisperer. + +At a Bohemian Club, I was once drinking coffee with a Novelist, who +happened to be a broad-shouldered, athletic man. A fellow-member, +joining us, said to the Novelist, “I have just finished that last book of +yours; I’ll tell you my candid opinion of it.” Promptly replied the +Novelist, “I give you fair warning—if you do, I shall punch your head.” +We never heard that candid opinion. + +Most of our leisure time we spend sneering at one another. It is a +wonder, going about as we do with our noses so high in the air, we do not +walk off this little round world into space, all of us. The Masses sneer +at the Classes. The morals of the Classes are shocking. If only the +Classes would consent as a body to be taught behaviour by a Committee of +the Masses, how very much better it would be for them. If only the +Classes would neglect their own interests and devote themselves to the +welfare of the Masses, the Masses would be more pleased with them. + +The Classes sneer at the Masses. If only the Masses would follow the +advice given them by the Classes; if only they would be thrifty on their +ten shillings a week; if only they would all be teetotalers, or drink old +claret, which is not intoxicating; if only all the girls would be +domestic servants on five pounds a year, and not waste their money on +feathers; if only the men would be content to work for fourteen hours a +day, and to sing in tune, “God bless the Squire and his relations,” and +would consent to be kept in their proper stations, all things would go +swimmingly—for the Classes. + +The New Woman pooh-poohs the Old; the Old Woman is indignant with the +New. The Chapel denounces the Stage; the Stage ridicules Little Bethel; +the Minor Poet sneers at the world; the world laughs at the Minor Poet. + +Man criticizes Woman. We are not altogether pleased with woman. We +discuss her shortcomings, we advise her for her good. If only English +wives would dress as French wives, talk as American wives, cook as German +wives! if only women would be precisely what we want them to be—patient +and hard-working, brilliantly witty and exhaustively domestic, +bewitching, amenable, and less suspicious; how very much better it would +be for them—also for us. We work so hard to teach them, but they will +not listen. Instead of paying attention to our wise counsel, the +tiresome creatures are wasting their time criticizing us. It is a +popular game, this game of school. All that is needful is a doorstep, a +cane, and six other children. The difficulty is the six other children. +Every child wants to be the schoolmaster; they will keep jumping up, +saying it is their turn. + +Woman wants to take the stick now, and put man on the doorstep. There +are one or two things she has got to say to him. He is not at all the +man she approves of. He must begin by getting rid of all his natural +desires and propensities; that done, she will take him in hand and make +of him—not a man, but something very much superior. + +It would be the best of all possible worlds if everybody would only +follow our advice. I wonder, would Jerusalem have been the cleanly city +it is reported, if, instead of troubling himself concerning his own +twopenny-halfpenny doorstep, each citizen had gone out into the road and +given eloquent lectures to all the other inhabitants on the subject of +sanitation? + +We have taken to criticizing the Creator Himself of late. The world is +wrong, we are wrong. If only He had taken our advice, during those first +six days! + +Why do I seem to have been scooped out and filled up with lead? Why do I +hate the smell of bacon, and feel that nobody cares for me? It is +because champagne and lobsters have been made wrong. + +Why do Edwin and Angelina quarrel? It is because Edwin has been given a +fine, high-spirited nature that will not brook contradiction; while +Angelina, poor girl, has been cursed with contradictory instincts. + +Why is excellent Mr. Jones brought down next door to beggary? Mr. Jones +had an income of a thousand a year, secured by the Funds. But there came +along a wicked Company promoter (why are wicked Company promoters +permitted?) with a prospectus, telling good Mr. Jones how to obtain a +hundred per cent. for his money by investing it in some scheme for the +swindling of Mr. Jones’s fellow-citizens. + +The scheme does not succeed; the people swindled turn out, contrary to +the promise of the prospectus, to be Mr. Jones and his fellow-investors. +Why does Heaven allow these wrongs? + +Why does Mrs. Brown leave her husband and children, to run off with the +New Doctor? It is because an ill-advised Creator has given Mrs. Brown +and the New Doctor unduly strong emotions. Neither Mrs. Brown nor the +New Doctor are to be blamed. If any human being be answerable it is, +probably, Mrs. Brown’s grandfather, or some early ancestor of the New +Doctor’s. + +We shall criticize Heaven when we get there. I doubt if any of us will +be pleased with the arrangements; we have grown so exceedingly critical. + +It was once said of a very superior young man that he seemed to be under +the impression that God Almighty had made the universe chiefly to hear +what he would say about it. Consciously or unconsciously, most of us are +of this way of thinking. It is an age of mutual improvement societies—a +delightful idea, everybody’s business being to improve everybody else; of +amateur parliaments, of literary councils, of playgoers’ clubs. + +First Night criticism seems to have died out of late, the Student of the +Drama having come to the conclusion, possibly, that plays are not worth +criticizing. But in my young days we were very earnest at this work. We +went to the play, less with the selfish desire of enjoying our evening, +than with the noble aim of elevating the Stage. Maybe we did good, maybe +we were needed—let us think so. Certain it is, many of the old +absurdities have disappeared from the Theatre, and our rough-and-ready +criticism may have helped the happy dispatch. A folly is often served by +an unwise remedy. + +The dramatist in those days had to reckon with his audience. Gallery and +Pit took an interest in his work such as Galleries and Pits no longer +take. I recollect witnessing the production of a very blood-curdling +melodrama at, I think, the old Queen’s Theatre. The heroine had been +given by the author a quite unnecessary amount of conversation, so we +considered. The woman, whenever she appeared on the stage, talked by the +yard; she could not do a simple little thing like cursing the Villain +under about twenty lines. When the hero asked her if she loved him she +stood up and made a speech about it that lasted three minutes by the +watch. One dreaded to see her open her mouth. In the Third Act, +somebody got hold of her and shut her up in a dungeon. He was not a nice +man, speaking generally, but we felt he was the man for the situation, +and the house cheered him to the echo. We flattered ourselves we had got +rid of her for the rest of the evening. Then some fool of a turnkey came +along, and she appealed to him, through the grating, to let her out for a +few minutes. The turnkey, a good but soft-hearted man, hesitated. + +“Don’t you do it,” shouted one earnest Student of the Drama, from the +Gallery; “she’s all right. Keep her there!” + +The old idiot paid no attention to our advice; he argued the matter to +himself. “’Tis but a trifling request,” he remarked; “and it will make +her happy.” + +“Yes, but what about us?” replied the same voice from the Gallery. “You +don’t know her. You’ve only just come on; we’ve been listening to her +all the evening. She’s quiet now, you let her be.” + +“Oh, let me out, if only for one moment!” shrieked the poor woman. “I +have something that I must say to my child.” + +“Write it on a bit of paper, and pass it out,” suggested a voice from the +Pit. “We’ll see that he gets it.” + +“Shall I keep a mother from her dying child?” mused the turnkey. “No, it +would be inhuman.” + +“No, it wouldn’t,” persisted the voice of the Pit; “not in this instance. +It’s too much talk that has made the poor child ill.” + +The turnkey would not be guided by us. He opened the cell door amidst +the execrations of the whole house. She talked to her child for about +five minutes, at the end of which time it died. + +“Ah, he is dead!” shrieked the distressed parent. + +“Lucky beggar!” was the unsympathetic rejoinder of the house. + +Sometimes the criticism of the audience would take the form of remarks, +addressed by one gentleman to another. We had been listening one night +to a play in which action seemed to be unnecessarily subordinated to +dialogue, and somewhat poor dialogue at that. Suddenly, across the +wearying talk from the stage, came the stentorian whisper— + +“Jim!” + +“Hallo!” + +“Wake me up when the play begins.” + +This was followed by an ostentatious sound as of snoring. Then the voice +of the second speaker was heard— + +“Sammy!” + +His friend appeared to awake. + +“Eh? Yes? What’s up? Has anything happened?” + +“Wake you up at half-past eleven in any event, I suppose?” + +“Thanks, do, sonny.” And the critic slept again. + +Yes, we took an interest in our plays then. I wonder shall I ever enjoy +the British Drama again as I enjoyed it in those days? Shall I ever +enjoy a supper again as I enjoyed the tripe and onions washed down with +bitter beer at the bar of the old Albion? I have tried many suppers +after the theatre since then, and some, when friends have been in +generous mood, have been expensive and elaborate. The cook may have come +from Paris, his portrait may be in the illustrated papers, his salary may +be reckoned by hundreds; but there is something wrong with his art, for +all that, I miss a flavour in his meats. There is a sauce lacking. + +Nature has her coinage, and demands payment in her own currency. At +Nature’s shop it is you yourself must pay. Your unearned increment, your +inherited fortune, your luck, are not legal tenders across her counter. + +You want a good appetite. Nature is quite willing to supply you. +“Certainly, sir,” she replies, “I can do you a very excellent article +indeed. I have here a real genuine hunger and thirst that will make your +meal a delight to you. You shall eat heartily and with zest, and you +shall rise from the table refreshed, invigorated, and cheerful.” + +“Just the very thing I want,” exclaims the gourmet delightedly. “Tell me +the price.” + +“The price,” answers Mrs. Nature, “is one long day’s hard work.” + +The customer’s face falls; he handles nervously his heavy purse. + +“Cannot I pay for it in money?” he asks. “I don’t like work, but I am a +rich man, I can afford to keep French cooks, to purchase old wines.” + +Nature shakes her head. + +“I cannot take your cheques, tissue and nerve are my charges. For these +I can give you an appetite that will make a rump-steak and a tankard of +ale more delicious to you than any dinner that the greatest _chef_ in +Europe could put before you. I can even promise you that a hunk of bread +and cheese shall be a banquet to you; but you must pay my price in my +money; I do not deal in yours.” + +And next the Dilettante enters, demanding a taste for Art and Literature, +and this also Nature is quite prepared to supply. + +“I can give you true delight in all these things,” she answers. “Music +shall be as wings to you, lifting you above the turmoil of the world. +Through Art you shall catch a glimpse of Truth. Along the pleasant paths +of Literature you shall walk as beside still waters.” + +“And your charge?” cries the delighted customer. + +“These things are somewhat expensive,” replies Nature. “I want from you +a life lived simply, free from all desire of worldly success, a life from +which passion has been lived out; a life to which appetite has been +subdued.” + +“But you mistake, my dear lady,” replies the Dilettante; “I have many +friends, possessed of taste, and they are men who do not pay this price +for it. Their houses are full of beautiful pictures, they rave about +‘nocturnes’ and ‘symphonies,’ their shelves are packed with first +editions. Yet they are men of luxury and wealth and fashion. They +trouble much concerning the making of money, and Society is their heaven. +Cannot I be as one of these?” + +“I do not deal in the tricks of apes,” answers Nature coldly; “the +culture of these friends of yours is a mere pose, a fashion of the hour, +their talk mere parrot chatter. Yes, you can purchase such culture as +this, and pretty cheaply, but a passion for skittles would be of more +service to you, and bring you more genuine enjoyment. My goods are of a +different class. I fear we waste each other’s time.” + +And next comes the boy, asking with a blush for love, and Nature’s +motherly old heart goes out to him, for it is an article she loves to +sell, and she loves those who come to purchase it of her. So she leans +across the counter, smiling, and tells him that she has the very thing he +wants, and he, trembling with excitement, likewise asks the figure. + +“It costs a good deal,” explains Nature, but in no discouraging tone; “it +is the most expensive thing in all my shop.” + +“I am rich,” replies the lad. “My father worked hard and saved, and he +has left me all his wealth. I have stocks and shares, and lands and +factories; and will pay any price in reason for this thing.” + +But Nature, looking graver, lays her hand upon his arm. + +“Put by your purse, boy,” she says, “my price is not a price in reason, +nor is gold the metal that I deal in. There are many shops in various +streets where your bank-notes will be accepted. But if you will take an +old woman’s advice, you will not go to them. The thing they will sell +you will bring sorrow and do evil to you. It is cheap enough, but, like +all things cheap, it is not worth the buying. No man purchases it, only +the fool.” + +“And what is the cost of the thing _you_ sell then?” asks the lad. + +“Self-forgetfulness, tenderness, strength,” answers the old Dame; “the +love of all things that are of good repute, the hate of all things +evil—courage, sympathy, self-respect, these things purchase love. Put by +your purse, lad, it will serve you in other ways, but it will not buy for +you the goods upon my shelves.” + +“Then am I no better off than the poor man?” demands the lad. + +“I know not wealth or poverty as you understand it,” answers Nature. +“Here I exchange realities only for realities. You ask for my treasures, +I ask for your brain and heart in exchange—yours, boy, not your father’s, +not another’s.” + +“And this price,” he argues, “how shall I obtain it?” + +“Go about the world,” replies the great Lady. “Labour, suffer, help. +Come back to me when you have earned your wages, and according to how +much you bring me so we will do business.” + +Is real wealth so unevenly distributed as we think? Is not Fate the true +Socialist? Who is the rich man, who the poor? Do we know? Does even +the man himself know? Are we not striving for the shadow, missing the +substance? Take life at its highest; which was the happier man, rich +Solomon or poor Socrates? Solomon seems to have had most things that +most men most desire—maybe too much of some for his own comfort. +Socrates had little beyond what he carried about with him, but that was a +good deal. According to our scales, Solomon should have been one of the +happiest men that ever lived, Socrates one of the most wretched. But was +it so? + +Or taking life at its lowest, with pleasure its only goal. Is my lord +Tom Noddy, in the stalls, so very much jollier than ’Arry in the gallery? +Were beer ten shillings the bottle, and champagne fourpence a quart, +which, think you, we should clamour for? If every West End Club had its +skittle alley, and billiards could only be played in East End pubs, which +game, my lord, would you select? Is the air of Berkeley Square so much +more joy-giving than the atmosphere of Seven Dials? I find myself a +piquancy in the air of Seven Dials, missing from Berkeley Square. Is +there so vast a difference between horse-hair and straw, when you are +tired? Is happiness multiplied by the number of rooms in one’s house? +Are Lady Ermintrude’s lips so very much sweeter than Sally’s of the +Alley? What _is_ success in life? + + + + +ON THE PLAYING OF MARCHES AT THE FUNERALS OF MARIONETTES + + +HE began the day badly. He took me out and lost me. It would be so much +better, would he consent to the usual arrangement, and allow me to take +him out. I am far the abler leader: I say it without conceit. I am +older than he is, and I am less excitable. I do not stop and talk with +every person I meet, and then forget where I am. I do less to distract +myself: I rarely fight, I never feel I want to run after cats, I take but +little pleasure in frightening children. I have nothing to think about +but the walk, and the getting home again. If, as I say, he would give up +taking me out, and let me take him out, there would be less trouble all +round. But into this I have never been able to persuade him. + +He had mislaid me once or twice, but in Sloane Square he lost me +entirely. When he loses me, he stands and barks for me. If only he +would remain where he first barked, I might find my way to him; but, +before I can cross the road, he is barking half-way down the next street. +I am not so young as I was and I sometimes think he exercises me more +than is good for me. I could see him from where I was standing in the +King’s Road. Evidently he was most indignant. I was too far off to +distinguish the barks, but I could guess what he was saying— + +“Damn that man, he’s off again.” + +He made inquiries of a passing dog— + +“You haven’t smelt my man about anywhere, have you?” + +(A dog, of course, would never speak of _seeing_ anybody or anything, +smell being his leading sense. Reaching the top of a hill, he would say +to his companion—“Lovely smell from here, I always think; I could sit and +sniff here all the afternoon.” Or, proposing a walk, he would say—“I +like the road by the canal, don’t you? There’s something interesting to +catch your nose at every turn.”) + +“No, I haven’t smelt any man in particular,” answered the other dog. +“What sort of a smelling man is yours?” + +“Oh, an egg-and-bacony sort of a man, with a dash of soap about him.” + +“That’s nothing to go by,” retorted the other; “most men would answer to +that description, this time of the morning. Where were you when you last +noticed him?” + +At this moment he caught sight of me, and came up, pleased to find me, +but vexed with me for having got lost. + +“Oh, here you are,” he barked; “didn’t you see me go round the corner? +Do keep closer. Bothered if half my time isn’t taken up, finding you and +losing you again.” + +The incident appeared to have made him bad-tempered; he was just in the +humour for a row of any sort. At the top of Sloane Street a stout +military-looking gentleman started running after the Chelsea bus. With a +“Hooroo” William Smith was after him. Had the old gentleman taken no +notice, all would have been well. A butcher boy, driving just behind, +would—I could read it in his eye—have caught Smith a flick as he darted +into the road, which would have served him right; the old gentleman would +have captured his bus; and the affair would have been ended. +Unfortunately, he was that type of retired military man all gout and +curry and no sense. He stopped to swear at the dog. That, of course, +was what Smith wanted. It is not often he gets a scrimmage with a +full-grown man. “They’re a poor-spirited lot, most of them,” he thinks; +“they won’t even answer you back. I like a man who shows a bit of +pluck.” He was frenzied with delight at his success. He flew round his +victim, weaving whooping circles and curves that paralyzed the old +gentleman as though they had been the mystic figures of a Merlin. The +colonel clubbed his umbrella, and attempted to defend himself. I called +to the dog, I gave good advice to the colonel (I judged him to be a +colonel; the louder he spoke, the less one could understand him), but +both were too excited to listen to me. A sympathetic bus driver leaned +over, and whispered hoarse counsel. + +“Ketch ’im by the tail, sir,” he advised the old gentleman; “don’t you be +afraid of him; you ketch ’im firmly by the tail.” + +A milkman, on the other hand, sought rather to encourage Smith, shouting +as he passed— + +“Good dog, kill him!” + +A child, brained within an inch by the old gentleman’s umbrella, began to +cry. The nurse told the old gentleman he was a fool—a remark which +struck me as singularly apt The old gentleman gasped back that +perambulators were illegal on the pavement; and, between his exercises, +inquired after myself. A crowd began to collect; and a policeman +strolled up. + +It was not the right thing: I do not defend myself; but, at this point, +the temptation came to me to desert William Smith. He likes a street +row, I don’t. These things are matters of temperament. I have also +noticed that he has the happy instinct of knowing when to disappear from +a crisis, and the ability to do so; mysteriously turning up, quarter of a +mile off, clad in a peaceful and pre-occupied air, and to all appearances +another and a better dog. + +Consoling myself with the reflection that I could be of no practical +assistance to him and remembering with some satisfaction that, by a +fortunate accident, he was without his collar, which bears my name and +address, I slipped round the off side of a Vauxhall bus, making no +attempt at ostentation, and worked my way home through Lowndes Square and +the Park. + +Five minutes after I had sat down to lunch, he flung open the dining-room +door, and marched in. It is his customary “entrance.” In a previous +state of existence, his soul was probably that of an Actor-Manager. + +From his exuberant self-satisfaction, I was inclined to think he must +have succeeded in following the milkman’s advice; at all events, I have +not seen the colonel since. His bad temper had disappeared, but his +“uppishness” had, if possible, increased. Previous to his return, I had +given The O’Shannon a biscuit. The O’Shannon had been insulted; he did +not want a dog biscuit; if he could not have a grilled kidney he did not +want anything. He had thrown the biscuit on the floor. Smith saw it and +made for it. Now Smith never eats biscuits. I give him one +occasionally, and he at once proceeds to hide it. He is a thrifty dog; +he thinks of the future. “You never know what may happen,” he says; +“suppose the Guv’nor dies, or goes mad, or bankrupt, I may be glad even +of this biscuit; I’ll put it under the door-mat—no, I won’t, somebody +will find it there. I’ll scratch a hole in the tennis lawn, and bury it +there. That’s a good idea; perhaps it’ll grow!” Once I caught him +hiding it in my study, behind the shelf devoted to my own books. It +offended me, his doing that; the argument was so palpable. Generally, +wherever he hides it somebody finds it. We find it under our +pillows—inside our boots; no place seems safe. This time he had said to +himself—“By Jove! a whole row of the Guv’nor’s books. Nobody will ever +want to take these out; I’ll hide it here.” One feels a thing like that +from one’s own dog. + +But The O’Shannon’s biscuit was another matter. Honesty is the best +policy; but dishonesty is the better fun. He made a dash for it, and +commenced to devour it greedily; you might have thought he had not tasted +food for a week. + +The indignation of The O’Shannon was a sight for the gods. He has the +good-nature of his race: had Smith asked him for the biscuit he would +probably have given it to him; it was the insult—the immorality of the +proceeding, that maddened The O’Shannon. + +For a moment he was paralyzed. + +“Well, of all the— Did ye see that now?” he said to me with his eyes. +Then he made a rush and snatched the biscuit out of Smith’s very jaws. +“Ye onprincipled black Saxon thief,” growled The O’Shannon; “how dare ye +take my biscuit?” + +“You miserable Irish cur,” growled Smith; “how was I to know it was your +biscuit? Does everything on the floor belong to you? Perhaps you think +I belong to you, I’m on the floor. I don’t believe it is your biscuit, +you long-eared, snubbed-nosed bog-trotter; give it me back.” + +“I don’t require any of your argument, you flop-eared son of a tramp with +half a tail,” replied The O’Shannon. “You come and take it, if you think +you are dog enough.” + +He did think he was dog enough. He is half the size of The O’Shannon, +but such considerations weigh not with him. His argument is, if a dog is +too big for you to fight the whole of him, take a bit of him and fight +that. He generally gets licked, but what is left of him invariably +swaggers about afterwards under the impression it is the victor. When he +is dead, he will say to himself, as he settles himself in his +grave—“Well, I flatter myself I’ve laid out that old world at last. It +won’t trouble _me_ any more, I’m thinking.” + +On this occasion, _I_ took a hand in the fight. It becomes necessary at +intervals to remind Master Smith that the man, as the useful and faithful +friend of dog, has his rights. I deemed such interval had arrived. He +flung himself on to the sofa, muttering. It sounded like—“Wish I’d never +got up this morning. Nobody understands me.” + +Nothing, however, sobers him for long. Half-an-hour later, he was +killing the next-door cat. He will never learn sense; he has been +killing that cat for the last three months. Why the next morning his +nose is invariably twice its natural size, while for the next week he can +see objects on one side of his head only, he never seems to grasp; I +suppose he attributes it to change in the weather. + +He ended up the afternoon with what he no doubt regarded as a complete +and satisfying success. Dorothea had invited a lady to take tea with her +that day. I heard the sound of laughter, and, being near the nursery, I +looked in to see what was the joke. Smith was worrying a doll. I have +rarely seen a more worried-looking doll. Its head was off, and its +sawdust strewed the floor. Both the children were crowing with delight; +Dorothea, in particular, was in an ecstasy of amusement. + +“Whose doll is it?” I asked. + +“Eva’s,” answered Dorothea, between her peals of laughter. + +“Oh no, it isn’t,” explained Eva, in a tone of sweet content; “here’s my +doll.” She had been sitting on it, and now drew it forth, warm but whole. +“That’s Dorry’s doll.” + +The change from joy to grief on the part of Dorothea was distinctly +dramatic. Even Smith, accustomed to storm, was nonplussed at the +suddenness of the attack upon him. + +Dorothea’s sorrow lasted longer than I had expected. I promised her +another doll. But it seemed she did not want another; that was the only +doll she would ever care for so long as life lasted; no other doll could +ever take its place; no other doll would be to her what that doll had +been. These little people are so absurd: as if it could matter whether +you loved one doll or another, when all are so much alike! They have +curly hair, and pink-and-white complexions, big eyes that open and shut, +a little red mouth, two little hands. Yet these foolish little people! +they will love one, while another they will not look upon. I find the +best plan is not to reason with them, but to sympathize. Later on—but +not too soon—introduce to them another doll. They will not care for it +at first, but in time they will come to take an interest in it. Of +course, it cannot make them forget the first doll; no doll ever born in +Lowther Arcadia could be as that, but still— It is many weeks before +they forget entirely the first love. + +We buried Dolly in the country under the yew tree. A friend of mine who +plays the fiddle came down on purpose to assist. We buried her in the +hot spring sunshine, while the birds from shady nooks sang joyously of +life and love. And our chief mourner cried real tears, just for all the +world as though it were not the fate of dolls, sooner or later, to get +broken—the little fragile things, made for an hour, to be dressed and +kissed; then, paintless and stript, to be thrown aside on the nursery +floor. Poor little dolls! I wonder do they take themselves seriously, +not knowing the springs that stir their sawdust bosoms are but clockwork, +not seeing the wires to which they dance? Poor little marionettes! do +they talk together, I wonder, when the lights of the booth are out? + +You, little sister doll, were the heroine. You lived in the white-washed +cottage, all honeysuckle and clematis without—earwiggy and damp within, +maybe. How pretty you always looked in your simple, neatly-fitting print +dress. How good you were! How nobly you bore your poverty. How patient +you were under your many wrongs. You never harboured an evil thought, a +revengeful wish—never, little doll? Were there never moments when you +longed to play the wicked woman’s part, live in a room with many doors, +be-clad in furs and jewels, with lovers galore at your feet? In those +long winter evenings? the household work is done—the greasy dishes +washed, the floor scrubbed; the excellent child is asleep in the corner; +the one-and-elevenpenny lamp sheds its dismal light on the darned +table-cloth; you sit, busy at your coarse sewing, waiting for Hero Dick, +knowing—guessing, at least, where he is—! Yes, dear, I remember your +fine speeches, when you told her, in stirring language the gallery +cheered to the echo, what you thought of her and of such women as she; +when, lifting your hand to heaven, you declared you were happier in your +attic, working your fingers to the bone, than she in her gilded salon—I +think “gilded salon” was the term, was it not?—furnished by sin. But +speaking of yourself, weak little sister doll, not of your fine speeches, +the gallery listening, did you not, in your secret heart, envy her? Did +you never, before blowing out the one candle, stand for a minute in front +of the cracked glass, and think to yourself that you, too, would look +well in low-cut dresses from Paris, the diamonds flashing on your white +smooth skin? Did you never, toiling home through the mud, bearing your +bundle of needlework, feel bitter with the wages of virtue, as she +splashed you, passing by in her carriage? Alone, over your cup of weak +tea, did you never feel tempted to pay the price for champagne suppers, +and gaiety, and admiration? Ah, yes, it is easy for folks who have had +their good time, to prepare copybooks for weary little inkstained +fingers, longing for play. The fine maxims sound such cant when we are +in that mood, do they not? You, too, were young and handsome: did the +author of the play think you were never hungry for the good things of +life? Did he think that reading tracts to crotchety old women was joy to +a full-blooded girl in her twenties? Why should _she_ have all the love, +and all the laughter? How fortunate that the villain, the Wicked +Baronet, never opened the cottage door at that moment, eh, dear! He +always came when you were strong, when you felt that you could denounce +him, and scorn his temptations. Would that the villain came to all of us +at such time; then we would all, perhaps, be heroes and heroines. + +Ah well, it was only a play: it is over now. You and I, little tired +dolls, lying here side by side, waiting to know our next part, we can +look back and laugh. Where is she, this wicked dolly, that made such a +stir on our tiny stage? Ah, here you are, Madam; I thought you could not +be far; they have thrown us all into this corner together. But how +changed you are, Dolly: your paint rubbed off, your golden hair worn to a +wisp. No wonder; it was a trying part you had to play. How tired you +must have grown of the glare and the glitter! And even hope was denied +you. The peace you so longed for you knew you had lost the power to +enjoy. Like the girl bewitched in the fairy tale, you knew you must +dance ever faster and faster, with limbs growing palsied, with face +growing ashen, and hair growing grey, till Death should come to release +you; and your only prayer was he might come ere your dancing grew comic. + +Like the smell of the roses to Nancy, hawking them through the hot +streets, must the stifling atmosphere of love have been to you. The song +of passion, how monotonous in your ears, sung now by the young and now by +the old; now shouted, now whined, now shrieked; but ever the one strident +tune. Do you remember when first you heard it? You dreamt it the +morning hymn of Heaven. You came to think it the dance music of Hell, +ground from a cracked hurdy-gurdy, lent out by the Devil on hire. + +An evil race we must have seemed to you, Dolly Faustine, as to some Old +Bailey lawyer. You saw but one side of us. You lived in a world upside +down, where the leaves and the blossoms were hidden, and only the roots +saw your day. You imagined the worm-beslimed fibres the plant, and all +things beautiful you deemed cant. Chivalry, love, honour! how you +laughed at the lying words. You knew the truth—as you thought: aye, half +the truth. We were swine while your spell was upon us, Daughter of +Circe, and you, not knowing your island secret, deemed it our natural +shape. + +No wonder, Dolly, your battered waxen face is stamped with an angry +sneer. The Hero, who eventually came into his estates amid the plaudits +of the Pit, while you were left to die in the streets! you remembered, +but the house had forgotten those earlier scenes in always wicked Paris. +The good friend of the family, the breezy man of the world, the _Deus ex +Machina_ of the play, who was so good to everybody, whom everybody loved! +aye, _you_ loved him once—but that was in the Prologue. In the Play +proper, he was respectable. (How you loathed that word, that meant to +you all you vainly longed for!) To him the Prologue was a period past +and dead; a memory, giving flavour to his life. To you, it was the First +Act of the Play, shaping all the others. His sins the house had +forgotten: at yours, they held up their hands in horror. No wonder the +sneer lies on your waxen lips. + +Never mind, Dolly; it was a stupid house. Next time, perhaps, you will +play a better part; and then they will cheer, instead of hissing you. +You were wasted, I am inclined to think, on modern comedy. You should +have been cast for the heroine of some old-world tragedy. The strength +of character, the courage, the power of self-forgetfulness, the +enthusiasm were yours: it was the part that was lacking. You might have +worn the mantle of a Judith, a Boadicea, or a Jeanne d’Arc, had such +plays been popular in your time. Perhaps they, had they played in your +day, might have had to be content with such a part as yours. They could +not have played the meek heroine, and what else would there have been for +them in modern drama? Catherine of Russia! had she been a waiter’s +daughter in the days of the Second Empire, should we have called her +Great? The Magdalene! had her lodging in those days been in some +bye-street of Rome instead of in Jerusalem, should we mention her name in +our churches? + +You were necessary, you see, Dolly, to the piece. We cannot all play +heroes and heroines. There must be wicked people in the play, or it +would not interest. Think of it, Dolly, a play where all the women were +virtuous, all the men honest! We might close the booth; the world would +be as dull as an oyster-bed. Without you wicked folk there would be no +good. How should we have known and honoured the heroine’s worth, but by +contrast with your worthlessness? Where would have been her fine +speeches, but for you to listen to them? Where lay the hero’s strength, +but in resisting temptation of you? Had not you and the Wicked Baronet +between you robbed him of his estates, falsely accused him of crime, he +would have lived to the end of the play an idle, unheroic, incomplete +existence. You brought him down to poverty; you made him earn his own +bread—a most excellent thing for him; gave him the opportunity to play +the man. But for your conduct in the Prologue, of what value would have +been that fine scene at the end of the Third Act, that stirred the house +to tears and laughter? You and your accomplice, the Wicked Baronet, made +the play possible. How would Pit and Gallery have known they were +virtuous, but for the indignation that came to them, watching your +misdeeds? Pity, sympathy, excitement, all that goes to the making of a +play, you were necessary for. It was ungrateful of the house to hiss +you. + +And you, Mr. Merryman, the painted grin worn from your pale lips, you too +were dissatisfied, if I remember rightly, with your part. You wanted to +make the people cry, not laugh. Was it a higher ambition? The poor +tired people! so much happens in their life to make them weep, is it not +good sport to make them merry for awhile? Do you remember that old soul +in the front row of the Pit? How she laughed when you sat down on the +pie! I thought she would have to be carried out. I heard her talking to +her companion as they passed the stage-door on their way home. “I have +not laughed, my dear, till to-night,” she was saying, the good, gay tears +still in her eyes, “since the day poor Sally died.” Was not that alone +worth the old stale tricks you so hated? Aye, they were commonplace and +conventional, those antics of yours that made us laugh; are not the +antics that make us weep commonplace and conventional also? Are not all +the plays, played since the booth was opened, but of one pattern, the +plot old-fashioned now, the scenes now commonplace? Hero, villain, +cynic—are their parts so much the fresher? The love duets, are they so +very new? The death-bed scenes, would you call them _un_commonplace? +Hate, and Evil, and Wrong—are _their_ voices new to the booth? What are +you waiting for, people? a play with a plot that is novel, with +characters that have never strutted before? It will be ready for you, +perhaps, when you are ready for it, with new tears and new laughter. + +You, Mr. Merryman, were the true philosopher. You saved us from +forgetting the reality when the fiction grew somewhat strenuous. How we +all applauded your gag in answer to the hero, when, bewailing his sad +fate, he demanded of Heaven how much longer he was to suffer evil +fortune. “Well, there cannot be much more of it in store for you,” you +answered him; “it’s nearly nine o’clock already, and the show closes at +ten.” And true to your prophecy the curtain fell at the time appointed, +and his troubles were of the past. You showed us the truth behind the +mask. When pompous Lord Shallow, in ermine and wig, went to take his +seat amid the fawning crowd, you pulled the chair from under him, and +down he sat plump on the floor. His robe flew open, his wig flew off. +No longer he awed us. His aped dignity fell from him; we saw him a +stupid-eyed, bald little man; he imposed no longer upon us. It is your +fool who is the only true wise man. + +Yours was the best part in the play, Brother Merryman, had you and the +audience but known it. But you dreamt of a showier part, where you loved +and fought. I have heard you now and again, when you did not know I was +near, shouting with sword in hand before your looking-glass. You had +thrown your motley aside to don a dingy red coat; you were the hero of +the play, you performed the gallant deeds, you made the noble speeches. +I wonder what the play would be like, were we all to write our own parts. +There would be no clowns, no singing chambermaids. We would all be +playing lead in the centre of the stage, with the lime-light exclusively +devoted to ourselves. Would it not be so? + +What grand acting parts they are, these characters we write for ourselves +alone in our dressing-rooms. We are always brave and noble—wicked +sometimes, but if so, in a great, high-minded way; never in a mean or +little way. What wondrous deeds we do, while the house looks on and +marvels. Now we are soldiers, leading armies to victory. What if we +die: it is in the hour of triumph, and a nation is left to mourn. Not in +some forgotten skirmish do we ever fall; not for some “affair of +outposts” do we give our blood, our very name unmentioned in the +dispatches home. Now we are passionate lovers, well losing a world for +love—a very different thing to being a laughter-provoking co-respondent +in a sordid divorce case. + +And the house is always crowded when we play. Our fine speeches always +fall on sympathetic ears, our brave deeds are noted and applauded. It is +so different in the real performance. So often we play our parts to +empty benches, or if a thin house be present, they misunderstand, and +laugh at the pathetic passages. And when our finest opportunity comes, +the royal box, in which _he_ or _she_ should be present to watch us, is +vacant. + +Poor little dolls, how seriously we take ourselves, not knowing the +springs that stir our bosoms are but clockwork, not seeing the wires to +which we dance. Poor little marionettes, shall we talk together, I +wonder, when the lights of the booth are out? + +We are little wax dollies with hearts. We are little tin soldiers with +souls. Oh, King of many toys, are you merely playing with us? _Is_ it +only clockwork within us, this thing that throbs and aches? Have you +wound us up but to let us run down? Will you wind us again to-morrow, or +leave us here to rust? _Is_ it only clockwork to which we respond and +quiver? Now we laugh, now we cry, now we dance; our little arms go out +to clasp one another, our little lips kiss, then say good-bye. We +strive, and we strain, and we struggle. We reach now for gold, now for +laurel. We call it desire and ambition: are they only wires that you +play? Will you throw the clockwork aside, or use it again, O Master? + +The lights of the booth grow dim. The springs are broken that kept our +eyes awake. The wire that held us erect is snapped, and helpless we fall +in a heap on the stage. Oh, brother and sister dollies we played beside, +where are you? Why is it so dark and silent? Why are we being put into +this black box? And hark! the little doll orchestra—how far away the +music sounds! what is it they are playing:— + + [Picture: First few bars of Gounod’s Funeral March of a Marionette] + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECOND THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE +FELLOW*** + + +******* This file should be named 1915-0.txt or 1915-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/1/1915 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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Jerome + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Second Thoughts of an Idle Fellow + + +Author: Jerome K. Jerome + + + +Release Date: May 20, 2015 [eBook #1915] +[This file was first posted in February 17, 1999] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECOND THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE +FELLOW*** +</pre> +<p>This etext was prepared by Les Bowler from the 1899 Hurst and +Blackett edition.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" + src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>The Second Thoughts<br /> +of<br /> +An Idle Fellow</h1> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">By</span><br /> +JEROME K. JEROME<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AUTHOR OF</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">‘THREE MEN IN A BOAT,’ +‘IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW,’</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">‘STAGELAND,’ ‘JOHN +INGERFIELD,’ ETC.</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">LONDON</span><br /> +HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED<br /> +13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET<br /> +1899<br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><i>All rights reserved</i></span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="gutindent">First printing published August 17, 1898.<br +/> +Second printing published September 2, 1898.<br /> +Third printing published November 1, 1898.<br /> +Fourth printing published January 1, 1899.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall"><span +class="smcap">Richard Clay</span></span><span class="GutSmall"> +& </span><span class="GutSmall"><span +class="smcap">Sons</span></span><span class="GutSmall">, +</span><span class="GutSmall"><span +class="smcap">Limited</span></span><span class="GutSmall">, +</span><span class="GutSmall"><span +class="smcap">London</span></span><span class="GutSmall"> & +</span><span class="GutSmall"><span +class="smcap">Bungay</span></span><span +class="GutSmall">.</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Art of Making Up One’s +Mind</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Disadvantage of Not Getting +What One Wants</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Exceptional Merit attaching to +the Things We Meant To Do</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Preparation and Employment of +Love Philtres</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Delights and Benefits of +Slavery</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Care and Management of +Women</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page149">149</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Minding of Other People’s +Business</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page175">175</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Time Wasted in Looking Before +One Leaps</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page215">215</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Nobility of +Ourselves</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page245">245</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Motherliness of Man</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page271">271</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Inadvisability of Following +Advice</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page301">301</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Playing of Marches at the +Funerals Of Marionettes</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page335">335</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>ON THE +ART OF MAKING UP ONE’S MIND</h2> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Now</span>, which would you advise, +dear? You see, with the red I shan’t be able to wear +my magenta hat.”</p> +<p>“Well then, why not have the grey?”</p> +<p>“Yes—yes, I think the grey will be <i>more +useful</i>.”</p> +<p>“It’s a good material.”</p> +<p>“Yes, and it’s a <i>pretty</i> grey. You +know what I mean, dear; not a <i>common</i> grey. Of course +grey is always an <i>uninteresting</i> colour.”</p> +<p>“It’s quiet.”</p> +<p>“And then again, what I feel about the red is that it is +so warm-looking. Red makes you <i>feel</i> warm even when +you’re <i>not</i> warm. You know what I mean, +dear!”</p> +<p>“Well then, why not have the red? It suits +you—red.”</p> +<p>“No; do you really think so?”</p> +<p>“Well, when you’ve got a colour, I mean, of +course!”</p> +<p>“Yes, that is the drawback to red. No, I think, on +the whole, the grey is <i>safer</i>.”</p> +<p>“Then you will take the grey, madam?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I think I’d better; don’t you, +dear?”</p> +<p>“I like it myself very much.”</p> +<p>“And it is good wearing stuff. I shall have it +trimmed with— Oh! you haven’t cut it off, have +you?”</p> +<p>“I was just about to, madam.”</p> +<p>“Well, don’t for a moment. Just let me have +another look at the red. You see, dear, it has just +occurred to me—that chinchilla would look so well on the +red!”</p> +<p>“So it would, dear!”</p> +<p>“And, you see, I’ve <i>got</i> the +chinchilla.”</p> +<p>“Then have the red. Why not?”</p> +<p>“Well, there is the hat I’m thinking +of.”</p> +<p>“You haven’t anything else you could wear with +that?”</p> +<p>“Nothing at all, and it would go so <i>beautifully</i> +with the grey.—Yes, I think I’ll have the grey. +It’s always a safe colour—grey.”</p> +<p>“Fourteen yards I think you said, madam?”</p> +<p>“Yes, fourteen yards will be enough; because I shall mix +it with—One minute. You see, dear, if I take the grey +I shall have nothing to wear with my black jacket.”</p> +<p>“Won’t it go with grey?”</p> +<p>“Not well—not so well as with red.”</p> +<p>“I should have the red then. You evidently fancy +it yourself.”</p> +<p>“No, personally I prefer the grey. But then one +must think of <i>everything</i>, and—Good gracious! +that’s surely not the right time?”</p> +<p>“No, madam, it’s ten minutes slow. We always +keep our clocks a little slow!”</p> +<p>“And we were too have been at Madame Jannaway’s at +a quarter past twelve. How long shopping does take! +Why, whatever time did we start?”</p> +<p>“About eleven, wasn’t it?”</p> +<p>“Half-past ten. I remember now; because, you know, +we said we’d start at half-past nine. We’ve +been two hours already!”</p> +<p>“And we don’t seem to have done much, do +we?”</p> +<p>“Done literally nothing, and I meant to have done so +much. I <i>must</i> go to Madame Jannaway’s. +Have you got my purse, dear? Oh, it’s all right, +I’ve got it.”</p> +<p>“Well, now you haven’t decided whether +you’re going to have the grey or the red.”</p> +<p>“I’m sure I don’t know what I <i>do</i> want +now. I had made up my mind a minute ago, and now it’s +all gone again—oh yes, I remember, the red. Yes, +I’ll have the red. No, I don’t mean the red, I +mean the grey.”</p> +<p>“You were talking about the red last time, if you +remember, dear.”</p> +<p>“Oh, so I was, you’re quite right. +That’s the worst of shopping. Do you know I get quite +confused sometimes.”</p> +<p>“Then you will decide on the red, madam?”</p> +<p>“Yes—yes, I shan’t do any better, shall I, +dear? What do <i>you</i> think? You haven’t got +any other shades of red, have you? This is such an +<i>ugly</i> red.”</p> +<p>The shopman reminds her that she has seen all the other reds, +and that this is the particular shade she selected and +admired.</p> +<p>“Oh, very well,” she replies, with the air of one +from whom all earthly cares are falling, “I must take that +then, I suppose. I can’t be worried about it any +longer. I’ve wasted half the morning +already.”</p> +<p>Outside she recollects three insuperable objections to the +red, and four unanswerable arguments why she should have selected +the grey. She wonders would they change it, if she went +back and asked to see the shop-walker? Her friend, who +wants her lunch, thinks not.</p> +<p>“That is what I hate about shopping,” she +says. “One never has time to really +<i>think</i>.”</p> +<p>She says she shan’t go to that shop again.</p> +<p>We laugh at her, but are we so very much better? Come, +my superior male friend, have you never stood, amid your +wardrobe, undecided whether, in her eyes, you would appear more +imposing, clad in the rough tweed suit that so admirably displays +your broad shoulders; or in the orthodox black frock, that, after +all, is perhaps more suitable to the figure of a man +approaching—let us say, the nine-and-twenties? Or, +better still, why not riding costume? Did we not hear her +say how well Jones looked in his top-boots and breeches, and, +“hang it all,” we have a better leg than Jones. +What a pity riding-breeches are made so baggy nowadays. Why +is it that male fashions tend more and more to hide the male +leg? As women have become less and less ashamed of theirs, +we have become more and more reticent of ours. Why are the +silken hose, the tight-fitting pantaloons, the neat kneebreeches +of our forefathers impossible to-day? Are we grown more +modest—or has there come about a falling off, rendering +concealment advisable?</p> +<p>I can never understand, myself, why women love us. It +must be our honest worth, our sterling merit, that attracts +them—certainly not our appearance, in a pair of tweed +“dittos,” black angora coat and vest, stand-up +collar, and chimney-pot hat! No, it must be our sheer force +of character that compels their admiration.</p> +<p>What a good time our ancestors must have had was borne in upon +me when, on one occasion, I appeared in character at a fancy +dress ball. What I represented I am unable to say, and I +don’t particularly care. I only know it was something +military. I also remember that the costume was two sizes +too small for me in the chest, and thereabouts; and three sizes +too large for me in the hat. I padded the hat, and dined in +the middle of the day off a chop and half a glass of +soda-water. I have gained prizes as a boy for mathematics, +also for scripture history—not often, but I have done +it. A literary critic, now dead, once praised a book of +mine. I know there have been occasions when my conduct has +won the approbation of good men; but never—never in my +whole life, have I felt more proud, more satisfied with myself +than on that evening when, the last hook fastened, I gazed at my +full-length Self in the cheval glass. I was a dream. +I say it who should not; but I am not the only one who said +it. I was a glittering dream. The groundwork was red, +trimmed with gold braid wherever there was room for gold braid; +and where there was no more possible room for gold braid there +hung gold cords, and tassels, and straps. Gold buttons and +buckles fastened me, gold embroidered belts and sashes caressed +me, white horse-hair plumes waved o’er me. I am not +sure that everything was in its proper place, but I managed to +get everything on somehow, and I looked well. It suited +me. My success was a revelation to me of female human +nature. Girls who had hitherto been cold and distant +gathered round me, timidly solicitous of notice. Girls on +whom I smiled lost their heads and gave themselves airs. +Girls who were not introduced to me sulked and were rude to girls +that had been. For one poor child, with whom I sat out two +dances (at least she sat, while I stood gracefully beside +her—I had been advised, by the costumier, <i>not</i> to +sit), I was sorry. He was a worthy young fellow, the son of +a cotton broker, and he would have made her a good husband, I +feel sure. But he was foolish to come as a beer-bottle.</p> +<p>Perhaps, after all, it is as well those old fashions have gone +out. A week in that suit might have impaired my natural +modesty.</p> +<p>One wonders that fancy dress balls are not more popular in +this grey age of ours. The childish instinct to +“dress up,” to “make believe,” is with us +all. We grow so tired of being always ourselves. A +tea-table discussion, at which I once assisted, fell into +this:—Would any one of us, when it came to the point, +change with anybody else, the poor man with the millionaire, the +governess with the princess—change not only outward +circumstances and surroundings, but health and temperament, +heart, brain, and soul; so that not one mental or physical +particle of one’s original self one would retain, save only +memory? The general opinion was that we would not, but one +lady maintained the affirmative.</p> +<p>“Oh no, you wouldn’t really, dear,” argued a +friend; “you <i>think</i> you would.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I would,” persisted the first lady; “I +am tired of myself. I’d even be you, for a +change.”</p> +<p>In my youth, the question chiefly important to me +was—What sort of man shall I decide to be? At +nineteen one asks oneself this question; at thirty-nine we say, +“I wish Fate hadn’t made me this sort of +man.”</p> +<p>In those days I was a reader of much well-meant advice to +young men, and I gathered that, whether I should become a Sir +Lancelot, a Herr Teufelsdrockh, or an Iago was a matter for my +own individual choice. Whether I should go through life +gaily or gravely was a question the pros and cons of which I +carefully considered. For patterns I turned to books. +Byron was then still popular, and many of us made up our minds to +be gloomy, saturnine young men, weary with the world, and prone +to soliloquy. I determined to join them.</p> +<p>For a month I rarely smiled, or, when I did, it was with a +weary, bitter smile, concealing a broken heart—at least +that was the intention. Shallow-minded observers +misunderstood.</p> +<p>“I know exactly how it feels,” they would say, +looking at me sympathetically, “I often have it +myself. It’s the sudden change in the weather, I +think;” and they would press neat brandy upon me, and +suggest ginger.</p> +<p>Again, it is distressing to the young man, busy burying his +secret sorrow under a mound of silence, to be slapped on the back +by commonplace people and asked—“Well, how’s +‘the hump’ this morning?” and to hear his mood +of dignified melancholy referred to, by those who should know +better, as “the sulks.”</p> +<p>There are practical difficulties also in the way of him who +would play the Byronic young gentleman. He must be +supernaturally wicked—or rather must <i>have been</i>; +only, alas! in the unliterary grammar of life, where the future +tense stands first, and the past is formed, not from the +indefinite, but from the present indicative, “to have +been” is “to be”; and to be wicked on a small +income is impossible. The ruin of even the simplest of +maidens costs money. In the Courts of Love one cannot sue +in <i>formâ pauperis</i>; nor would it be the Byronic +method.</p> +<p>“To drown remembrance in the cup” sounds well, but +then the “cup,” to be fitting, should be of some +expensive brand. To drink deep of old Tokay or Asti is +poetical; but when one’s purse necessitates that the +draught, if it is to be deep enough to drown anything, should be +of thin beer at five-and-nine the four and a half gallon cask, or +something similar in price, sin is robbed of its flavour.</p> +<p>Possibly also—let me think it—the conviction may +have been within me that Vice, even at its daintiest, is but an +ugly, sordid thing, repulsive in the sunlight; that +though—as rags and dirt to art—it may afford +picturesque material to Literature, it is an evil-smelling +garment to the wearer; one that a good man, by reason of poverty +of will, may come down to, but one to be avoided with all +one’s effort, discarded with returning mental +prosperity.</p> +<p>Be this as it may, I grew weary of training for a saturnine +young man; and, in the midst of my doubt, I chanced upon a book +the hero of which was a debonnaire young buck, own cousin to Tom +and Jerry. He attended fights, both of cocks and men, +flirted with actresses, wrenched off door-knockers, extinguished +street lamps, played many a merry jest upon many an +unappreciative night watch-man. For all the which he was +much beloved by the women of the book. Why should not I +flirt with actresses, put out street lamps, play pranks on +policemen, and be beloved? London life was changed since +the days of my hero, but much remained, and the heart of woman is +eternal. If no longer prizefighting was to be had, at least +there were boxing competitions, so called, in dingy back parlours +out Whitechapel way. Though cockfighting was a lost sport, +were there not damp cellars near the river where for twopence a +gentleman might back mongrel terriers to kill rats against time, +and feel himself indeed a sportsman? True, the atmosphere +of reckless gaiety, always surrounding my hero, I missed myself +from these scenes, finding in its place an atmosphere more +suggestive of gin, stale tobacco, and nervous apprehension of the +police; but the essentials must have been the same, and the next +morning I could exclaim in the very words of my +prototype—“Odds crickets, but I feel as though the +devil himself were in my head. Peste take me for a +fool.”</p> +<p>But in this direction likewise my fatal lack of means opposed +me. (It affords much food to the philosophic mind, this influence +of income upon character.) Even fifth-rate “boxing +competitions,” organized by “friendly leads,” +and ratting contests in Rotherhithe slums, become expensive, when +you happen to be the only gentleman present possessed of a +collar, and are expected to do the honours of your class in +dog’s-nose. True, climbing lamp-posts and putting out +the gas is fairly cheap, providing always you are not caught in +the act, but as a recreation it lacks variety. Nor is the +modern London lamp-post adapted to sport. Anything more +difficult to grip—anything with less “give” in +it—I have rarely clasped. The disgraceful amount of +dirt allowed to accumulate upon it is another drawback from the +climber’s point of view. By the time you have swarmed +up your third post a positive distaste for “gaiety” +steals over you. Your desire is towards arnica and a +bath.</p> +<p>Nor in jokes at the expense of policemen is the fun entirely +on your side. Maybe I did not proceed with judgment. +It occurs to me now, looking back, that the neighbourhoods of +Covent Garden and Great Marlborough Street were ill-chosen for +sport of this nature. To bonnet a fat policeman is +excellent fooling. While he is struggling with his helmet +you can ask him comic questions, and by the time he has got his +head free you are out of sight. But the game should be +played in a district where there is not an average of three +constables to every dozen square yards. When two other +policemen, who have had their eye on you for the past ten +minutes, are watching the proceedings from just round the next +corner, you have little or no leisure for due enjoyment of the +situation. By the time you have run the whole length of +Great Titchfield Street and twice round Oxford Market, you are of +opinion that a joke should never be prolonged beyond the point at +which there is danger of its becoming wearisome; and that the +time has now arrived for home and friends. The +“Law,” on the other hand, now raised by +reinforcements to a strength of six or seven men, is just +beginning to enjoy the chase. You picture to yourself, +while doing Hanover Square, the scene in Court the next +morning. You will be accused of being drunk and +disorderly. It will be idle for you to explain to the +magistrate (or to your relations afterwards) that you were only +trying to live up to a man who did this sort of thing in a book +and was admired for it. You will be fined the usual forty +shillings; and on the next occasion of your calling at the +Mayfields’ the girls will be out, and Mrs. Mayfield, an +excellent lady, who has always taken a motherly interest in you, +will talk seriously to you and urge you to sign the pledge.</p> +<p>Thanks to your youth and constitution you shake off the +pursuit at Notting Hill; and, to avoid any chance of unpleasant +<i>contretemps</i> on the return journey, walk home to Bloomsbury +by way of Camden Town and Islington.</p> +<p>I abandoned sportive tendencies as the result of a vow made by +myself to Providence, during the early hours of a certain Sunday +morning, while clinging to the waterspout of an unpretentious +house situate in a side street off Soho. I put it to +Providence as man to man. “Let me only get out of +this,” I think were the muttered words I used, “and +no more ‘sport’ for me.” Providence +closed on the offer, and did let me get out of it. True, it +was a complicated “get out,” involving a broken +skylight and three gas globes, two hours in a coal cellar, and a +sovereign to a potman for the loan of an ulster; and when at +last, secure in my chamber, I took stock of myself—what was +left of me,—I could not but reflect that Providence might +have done the job neater. Yet I experienced no desire to +escape the terms of the covenant; my inclining for the future was +towards a life of simplicity.</p> +<p>Accordingly, I cast about for a new character, and found one +to suit me. The German professor was becoming popular as a +hero about this period. He wore his hair long and was +otherwise untidy, but he had “a heart of steel,” +occasionally of gold. The majority of folks in the book, +judging him from his exterior together with his +conversation—in broken English, dealing chiefly with his +dead mother and his little sister Lisa,—dubbed him +uninteresting, but then they did not know about the heart. +His chief possession was a lame dog which he had rescued from a +brutal mob; and when he was not talking broken English he was +nursing this dog.</p> +<p>But his speciality was stopping runaway horses, thereby saving +the heroine’s life. This, combined with the broken +English and the dog, rendered him irresistible.</p> +<p>He seemed a peaceful, amiable sort of creature, and I decided +to try him. I could not of course be a German professor, +but I could, and did, wear my hair long in spite of much public +advice to the contrary, voiced chiefly by small boys. I +endeavoured to obtain possession of a lame dog, but failed. +A one-eyed dealer in Seven Dials, to whom, as a last resource, I +applied, offered to lame one for me for an extra five shillings, +but this suggestion I declined. I came across an +uncanny-looking mongrel late one night. He was not lame, +but he seemed pretty sick; and, feeling I was not robbing anybody +of anything very valuable, I lured him home and nursed him. +I fancy I must have over-nursed him. He got so healthy in +the end, there was no doing anything with him. He was an +ill-conditioned cur, and he was too old to be taught. He +became the curse of the neighbourhood. His idea of sport +was killing chickens and sneaking rabbits from outside +poulterers’ shops. For recreation he killed cats and +frightened small children by yelping round their legs. +There were times when I could have lamed him myself, if only I +could have got hold of him. I made nothing by running that +dog—nothing whatever. People, instead of admiring me +for nursing him back to life, called me a fool, and said that if +I didn’t drown the brute they would. He spoilt my +character utterly—I mean my character at this period. +It is difficult to pose as a young man with a heart of gold, when +discovered in the middle of the road throwing stones at your own +dog. And stones were the only things that would reach and +influence him.</p> +<p>I was also hampered by a scarcity in runaway horses. The +horse of our suburb was not that type of horse. Once and +only once did an opportunity offer itself for practice. It +was a good opportunity, inasmuch as he was not running away very +greatly. Indeed, I doubt if he knew himself that he was +running away. It transpired afterwards that it was a habit +of his, after waiting for his driver outside the Rose and Crown +for what he considered to be a reasonable period, to trot home on +his own account. He passed me going about seven miles an +hour, with the reins dragging conveniently beside him. He +was the very thing for a beginner, and I prepared myself. +At the critical moment, however, a couple of officious policemen +pushed me aside and did it themselves.</p> +<p>There was nothing for me to regret, as the matter turned +out. I should only have rescued a bald-headed commercial +traveller, very drunk, who swore horribly, and pelted the crowd +with empty collar-boxes.</p> +<p>From the window of a very high flat I once watched three men, +resolved to stop a runaway horse. Each man marched +deliberately into the middle of the road and took up his +stand. My window was too far away for me to see their +faces, but their attitude suggested heroism unto death. The +first man, as the horse came charging towards him, faced it with +his arms spread out. He never flinched until the horse was +within about twenty yards of him. Then, as the animal was +evidently determined to continue its wild career, there was +nothing left for him to do but to retire again to the kerb, where +he stood looking after it with evident sorrow, as though saying +to himself—“Oh, well, if you are going to be +headstrong I have done with you.”</p> +<p>The second man, on the catastrophe being thus left clear for +him, without a moment’s hesitation, walked up a bye street +and disappeared. The third man stood his ground, and, as +the horse passed him, yelled at it. I could not hear what +he said. I have not the slightest doubt it was excellent +advice, but the animal was apparently too excited even to +listen. The first and the third man met afterwards, and +discussed the matter sympathetically. I judged they were +regretting the pig-headedness of runaway horses in general, and +hoping that nobody had been hurt.</p> +<p>I forget the other characters I assumed about this +period. One, I know, that got me into a good deal of +trouble was that of a downright, honest, hearty, outspoken young +man who always said what he meant.</p> +<p>I never knew but one man who made a real success of speaking +his mind. I have heard him slap the table with his open +hand and exclaim—</p> +<p>“You want me to flatter you—to stuff you up with a +pack of lies. That’s not me, that’s not Jim +Compton. But if you care for my honest opinion, all I can +say is, that child is the most marvellous performer on the piano +I’ve ever heard. I don’t say she is a genius, +but I have heard Liszt and Metzler and all the crack players, and +I prefer <i>her</i>. That’s my opinion. I speak +my mind, and I can’t help it if you’re +offended.”</p> +<p>“How refreshing,” the parents would say, “to +come across a man who is not afraid to say what he really +thinks. Why are we not all outspoken?”</p> +<p>The last character I attempted I thought would be easy to +assume. It was that of a much admired and beloved young +man, whose great charm lay in the fact that he was always +just—himself. Other people posed and acted. He +never made any effort to be anything but his own natural, simple +self.</p> +<p>I thought I also would be my own natural, simple self. +But then the question arose—What was my own natural, simple +self?</p> +<p>That was the preliminary problem I had to solve; I have +not solved it to this day. What am I? I am a great +gentleman, walking through the world with dauntless heart and +head erect, scornful of all meanness, impatient of all +littleness. I am a mean-thinking, little-daring +man—the type of man that I of the dauntless heart and the +erect head despise greatly—crawling to a poor end by +devious ways, cringing to the strong, timid of all pain. +I—but, dear reader, I will not sadden your sensitive ears +with details I could give you, showing how contemptible a +creature this wretched I happens to be. Nor would you +understand me. You would only be astonished, discovering +that such disreputable specimens of humanity contrive to exist in +this age. It is best, my dear sir, or madam, you should +remain ignorant of these evil persons. Let me not trouble +you with knowledge.</p> +<p>I am a philosopher, greeting alike the thunder and the +sunshine with frolic welcome. Only now and then, when all +things do not fall exactly as I wish them, when foolish, wicked +people will persist in doing foolish, wicked acts, affecting my +comfort and happiness, I rage and fret a goodish deal.</p> +<p>As Heine said of himself, I am knight, too, of the Holy Grail, +valiant for the Truth, reverent of all women, honouring all men, +eager to yield life to the service of my great Captain.</p> +<p>And next moment, I find myself in the enemy’s lines, +fighting under the black banner. (It must be confusing to +these opposing Generals, all their soldiers being deserters from +both armies.) What are women but men’s +playthings! Shall there be no more cakes and ale for me +because thou art virtuous! What are men but hungry dogs, +contending each against each for a limited supply of bones! +Do others lest thou be done. What is the Truth but an +unexploded lie!</p> +<p>I am a lover of all living things. You, my poor sister, +struggling with your heavy burden on your lonely way, I would +kiss the tears from your worn cheeks, lighten with my love the +darkness around your feet. You, my patient brother, +breathing hard as round and round you tramp the trodden path, +like some poor half-blind gin-horse, stripes your only +encouragement, scanty store of dry chaff in your manger! I +would jog beside you, taking the strain a little from your aching +shoulders; and we would walk nodding, our heads side by side, and +you, remembering, should tell me of the fields where long ago you +played, of the gallant races that you ran and won. And you, +little pinched brats, with wondering eyes, looking from +dirt-encrusted faces, I would take you in my arms and tell you +fairy stories. Into the sweet land of make-believe we would +wander, leaving the sad old world behind us for a time, and you +should be Princes and Princesses, and know Love.</p> +<p>But again, a selfish, greedy man comes often, and sits in my +clothes. A man who frets away his life, planning how to get +more money—more food, more clothes, more pleasures for +himself; a man so busy thinking of the many things he needs he +has no time to dwell upon the needs of others. He deems +himself the centre of the universe. You would imagine, +hearing him grumbling, that the world had been created and got +ready against the time when he should come to take his pleasure +in it. He would push and trample, heedless, reaching +towards these many desires of his; and when, grabbing, he misses, +he curses Heaven for its injustice, and men and women for getting +in his path. He is not a nice man, in any way. I +wish, as I say, he would not come so often and sit in my +clothes. He persists that he is I, and that I am only a +sentimental fool, spoiling his chances. Sometimes, for a +while, I get rid of him, but he always comes back; and then he +gets rid of me and I become him. It is very +confusing. Sometimes I wonder if I really am myself.</p> +<h2><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>ON THE +DISADVANTAGE OF NOT GETTING WHAT ONE WANTS</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Long</span>, long ago, when you and I, +dear Reader, were young, when the fairies dwelt in the hearts of +the roses, when the moonbeams bent each night beneath the weight +of angels’ feet, there lived a good, wise man. Or +rather, I should say, there had lived, for at the time of which I +speak the poor old gentleman lay dying. Waiting each moment +the dread summons, he fell a-musing on the life that stretched +far back behind him. How full it seemed to him at that +moment of follies and mistakes, bringing bitter tears not to +himself alone but to others also. How much brighter a road +might it have been, had he been wiser, had he known!</p> +<p>“Ah, me!” said the good old gentleman, “if +only I could live my life again in the light of +experience.”</p> +<p>Now as he spoke these words he felt the drawing near to him of +a Presence, and thinking it was the One whom he expected, raising +himself a little from his bed, he feebly cried,</p> +<p>“I am ready.”</p> +<p>But a hand forced him gently back, a voice saying, “Not +yet; I bring life, not death. Your wish shall be +granted. You shall live your life again, and the knowledge +of the past shall be with you to guide you. See you use +it. I will come again.”</p> +<p>Then a sleep fell upon the good man, and when he awoke, he was +again a little child, lying in his mother’s arms; but, +locked within his brain was the knowledge of the life that he had +lived already.</p> +<p>So once more he lived and loved and laboured. So a +second time he lay an old, worn man with life behind him. +And the angel stood again beside his bed; and the voice said,</p> +<p>“Well, are you content now?”</p> +<p>“I am well content,” said the old gentleman. +“Let Death come.”</p> +<p>“And have you understood?” asked the angel.</p> +<p>“I think so,” was the answer; “that +experience is but as of the memory of the pathways he has trod to +a traveller journeying ever onward into an unknown land. I +have been wise only to reap the reward of folly. Knowledge +has ofttimes kept me from my good. I have avoided my old +mistakes only to fall into others that I knew not of. I +have reached the old errors by new roads. Where I have +escaped sorrow I have lost joy. Where I have grasped +happiness I have plucked pain also. Now let me go with +Death that I may learn..”</p> +<p>Which was so like the angel of that period, the giving of a +gift, bringing to a man only more trouble. Maybe I am +overrating my coolness of judgment under somewhat startling +circumstances, but I am inclined to think that, had I lived in +those days, and had a fairy or an angel come to me, wanting to +give me something—my soul’s desire, or the sum of my +ambition, or any trifle of that kind I should have been short +with him.</p> +<p>“You pack up that precious bag of tricks of +yours,” I should have said to him (it would have been rude, +but that is how I should have felt), “and get outside with +it. I’m not taking anything in your line +to-day. I don’t require any supernatural aid to get +me into trouble. All the worry I want I can get down here, +so it’s no good your calling. You take that little +joke of yours,—I don’t know what it is, but I know +enough not to want to know,—and run it off on some other +idiot. I’m not priggish. I have no objection to +an innocent game of ‘catch-questions’ in the ordinary +way, and when I get a turn myself. But if I’ve got to +pay every time, and the stakes are to be my earthly happiness +plus my future existence—why, I don’t play. +There was the case of Midas; a nice, shabby trick you fellows +played off upon him! making pretence you did not understand him, +twisting round the poor old fellow’s words, just for all +the world as though you were a pack of Old Bailey lawyers, trying +to trip up a witness; I’m ashamed of the lot of you, and I +tell you so—coming down here, fooling poor unsuspecting +mortals with your nonsense, as though we had not enough to harry +us as it was. Then there was that other case of the poor +old peasant couple to whom you promised three wishes, the whole +thing ending in a black pudding. And they never got even +that. You thought that funny, I suppose. That was +your fairy humour! A pity, I say, you have not, all of you, +something better to do with your time. As I said before, +you take that celestial ‘Joe Miller’ of yours and +work it off on somebody else. I have read my fairy lore, +and I have read my mythology, and I don’t want any of your +blessings. And what’s more, I’m not going to +have them. When I want blessings I will put up with the +usual sort we are accustomed to down here. You know the +ones I mean, the disguised brand—the blessings that no +human being would think were blessings, if he were not told; the +blessings that don’t look like blessings, that don’t +feel like blessings; that, as a matter of fact, are not +blessings, practically speaking; the blessings that other people +think are blessings for us and that we don’t. +They’ve got their drawbacks, but they are better than +yours, at any rate, and they are sooner over. I don’t +want your blessings at any price. If you leave one here I +shall simply throw it out after you.”</p> +<p>I feel confident I should have answered in that strain, and I +feel it would have done good. Somebody ought to have spoken +plainly, because with fairies and angels of that sort fooling +about, no one was ever safe for a moment. Children could +hardly have been allowed outside the door. One never could +have told what silly trick some would-be funny fairy might be +waiting to play off on them. The poor child would not know, +and would think it was getting something worth having. The +wonder to me is that some of those angels didn’t get tarred +and feathered.</p> +<p>I am doubtful whether even Cinderella’s luck was quite +as satisfying as we are led to believe. After the +carpetless kitchen and the black beetles, how beautiful the +palace must have seemed—for the first year, perhaps for the +first two. And the Prince! how loving, how gallant, how +tender—for the first year, perhaps for the first two. +And after? You see he was a Prince, brought up in a Court, +the atmosphere of which is not conducive to the development of +the domestic virtues; and she—was Cinderella. And +then the marriage altogether was rather a hurried affair. +Oh yes, she is a good, loving little woman; but perhaps our Royal +Highness-ship did act too much on the impulse of the +moment. It was her dear, dainty feet that danced their way +into our heart. How they flashed and twinkled, eased in +those fairy slippers. How like a lily among tulips she +moved that night amid the over-gorgeous Court dames. She +was so sweet, so fresh, so different to all the others whom we +knew so well. How happy she looked as she put her trembling +little hand in ours. What possibilities might lie behind +those drooping lashes. And we were in amorous mood that +night, the music in our feet, the flash and glitter in our +eyes. And then, to pique us further, she disappeared as +suddenly and strangely as she had come. Who was she? +Whence came she? What was the mystery surrounding +her? Was she only a delicious dream, a haunting phantasy +that we should never look upon again, never clasp again within +our longing arms? Was our heart to be for ever hungry, +haunted by the memory of—No, by heavens, she is real, and a +woman. Here is her dear slipper, made surely to be +kissed. Of a size too that a man may well wear within the +breast of his doublet. Had any woman—nay, fairy, +angel, such dear feet! Search the whole kingdom through, +but find her, find her. The gods have heard our prayers, +and given us this clue. “Suppose she be not all she +seemed. Suppose she be not of birth fit to mate with our +noble house!” Out upon thee, for an earth-bound, +blind curmudgeon of a Lord High Chancellor. How could a +woman, whom such slipper fitted, be but of the noblest and the +best, as far above us, mere Princelet that we are, as the stars +in heaven are brighter than thy dull old eyes! Go, search +the kingdom, we tell thee, from east to west, from north to +south, and see to it that thou findest her, or it shall go hard +with thee. By Venus, be she a swineherd’s daughter, +she shall be our Queen—an she deign to accept of us, and of +our kingdom.</p> +<p>Ah well, of course, it was not a wise piece of business, that +goes without saying; but we were young, and Princes are only +human. Poor child, she could not help her education, or +rather her lack of it. Dear little thing, the wonder is +that she has contrived to be no more ignorant than she is, +dragged up as she was, neglected and overworked. Nor does +life in a kitchen, amid the companionship of peasants and +menials, tend to foster the intellect. Who can blame her +for being shy and somewhat dull of thought? not we, +generous-minded, kind-hearted Prince that we are. And she +is very affectionate. The family are trying, certainly; +father-in-law not a bad sort, though a little prosy when upon the +subject of his domestic troubles, and a little too fond of his +glass; mamma-in-law, and those two ugly, ill-mannered sisters, +decidedly a nuisance about the palace. Yet what can we do? +they are our relations now, and they do not forget to let us know +it. Well, well, we had to expect that, and things might +have been worse. Anyhow she is not jealous—thank +goodness.</p> +<p>So the day comes when poor little Cinderella sits alone of a +night in the beautiful palace. The courtiers have gone home +in their carriages. The Lord High Chancellor has bowed +himself out backwards. The Gold-Stick-in-Waiting and the +Grooms of the Chamber have gone to their beds. The Maids of +Honour have said “Good-night,” and drifted out of the +door, laughing and whispering among themselves. The clock +strikes twelve—one—two, and still no footstep creaks +upon the stair. Once it followed swiftly upon the +“good-night” of the maids, who did not laugh or +whisper then.</p> +<p>At last the door opens, and the Prince enters, none too +pleased at finding Cinderella still awake. “So sorry +I’m late, my love—detained on affairs of state. +Foreign policy very complicated, dear. Have only just this +moment left the Council Chamber.”</p> +<p>And little Cinderella, while the Prince sleeps, lies sobbing +out her poor sad heart into the beautiful royal pillow, +embroidered with the royal arms and edged with the royal monogram +in lace. “Why did he ever marry me? I should +have been happier in the old kitchen. The black beetles did +frighten me a little, but there was always the dear old cat; and +sometimes, when mother and the girls were out, papa would call +softly down the kitchen stairs for me to come up, and we would +have such a merry evening together, and sup off sausages: dear +old dad, I hardly ever see him now. And then, when my work +was done, how pleasant it was to sit in front of the fire, and +dream of the wonderful things that would come to me some +day. I was always going to be a Princess, even in my +dreams, and live in a palace, but it was so different to +this. Oh, how I hate it, this beastly palace where +everybody sneers at me—I know they do, though they bow and +scrape, and pretend to be so polite. And I’m not +clever and smart as they are. I hate them. I hate +these bold-faced women who are always here. That is the +worst of a palace, everybody can come in. Oh, I hate +everybody and everything. Oh, god-mamma, god-mamma, come +and take me away. Take me back to my old kitchen. +Give me back my old poor frock. Let me dance again with the +fire-tongs for a partner, and be happy, dreaming.”</p> +<p>Poor little Cinderella, perhaps it would have been better had +god-mamma been less ambitious for you, dear; had you married some +good, honest yeoman, who would never have known that you were not +brilliant, who would have loved you because you were just amiable +and pretty; had your kingdom been only a farmhouse, where your +knowledge of domestic economy, gained so hardly, would have been +useful; where you would have shone instead of being overshadowed; +where Papa would have dropped in of an evening to smoke his pipe +and escape from his domestic wrangles; where you would have been +<i>real</i> Queen.</p> +<p>But then you know, dear, you would not have been +content. Ah yes, with your present experience—now you +know that Queens as well as little drudges have their troubles; +but <i>without</i> that experience? You would have looked +in the glass when you were alone; you would have looked at your +shapely hands and feet, and the shadows would have crossed your +pretty face. “Yes,” you would have said to +yourself—“John is a dear, kind fellow, and I love him +very much, and all that, but—” and the old dreams, +dreamt in the old low-ceilinged kitchen before the dying fire, +would have come back to you, and you would have been discontented +then as now, only in a different way. Oh yes, you would, +Cinderella, though you gravely shake your gold-crowned +head. And let me tell you why. It is because you are +a woman, and the fate of all us, men and women alike, is to be +for ever wanting what we have not, and to be finding, when we +have it, that it is not what we wanted. That is the law of +life, dear. Do you think as you lie upon the floor with +your head upon your arms, that you are the only woman whose tears +are soaking into the hearthrug at that moment? My dear +Princess, if you could creep unseen about your City, peeping at +will through the curtain-shielded windows, you would come to +think that all the world was little else than a big nursery full +of crying children with none to comfort them. The doll is +broken: no longer it sweetly squeaks in answer to our pressure, +“I love you, kiss me.” The drum lies silent +with the drumstick inside; no longer do we make a brave noise in +the nursery. The box of tea-things we have clumsily put our +foot upon; there will be no more merry parties around the +three-legged stool. The tin trumpet will not play the note +we want to sound; the wooden bricks keep falling down; the toy +cannon has exploded and burnt our fingers. Never mind, +little man, little woman, we will try and mend things +to-morrow.</p> +<p>And after all, Cinderella dear, you do live in a fine palace, +and you have jewels and grand dresses and—No, no, do not be +indignant with <i>me</i>. Did not you dream of these things +<i>as well as</i> of love? Come now, be honest. It +was always a prince, was it not, or, at the least, an exceedingly +well-to-do party, that handsome young gentleman who bowed to you +so gallantly from the red embers? He was never a virtuous +young commercial traveller, or cultured clerk, earning a salary +of three pounds a week, was he, Cinderella? Yet there are +many charming commercial travellers, many delightful clerks with +limited incomes, quite sufficient, however, to a sensible man and +woman desiring but each other’s love. Why was it +always a prince, Cinderella? Had the palace and the +liveried servants, and the carriages and horses, and the jewels +and the dresses, <i>nothing</i> to do with the dream?</p> +<p>No, Cinderella, you were human, that is all. The artist, +shivering in his conventional attic, dreaming of Fame!—do +you think he is not hoping she will come to his loving arms in +the form Jove came to Danae? Do you think he is not +reckoning also upon the good dinners and the big cigars, the fur +coat and the diamond studs, that her visits will enable him to +purchase?</p> +<p>There is a certain picture very popular just now. You +may see it, Cinderella, in many of the shop-windows of the +town. It is called “The Dream of Love,” and it +represents a beautiful young girl, sleeping in a very beautiful +but somewhat disarranged bed. Indeed, one hopes, for the +sleeper’s sake, that the night is warm, and that the room +is fairly free from draughts. A ladder of light streams +down from the sky into the room, and upon this ladder crowd and +jostle one another a small army of plump Cupids, each one laden +with some pledge of love. Two of the Imps are emptying a +sack of jewels upon the floor. Four others are bearing, +well displayed, a magnificent dress (a “confection,” +I believe, is the proper term) cut somewhat low, but making up in +train what is lacking elsewhere. Others bear bonnet boxes +from which peep stylish toques and bewitching hoods. Some, +representing evidently wholesale houses, stagger under silks and +satins in the piece. Cupids are there from the shoemakers +with the daintiest of <i>bottines</i>. Stockings, garters, +and even less mentionable articles, are not forgotten. +Caskets, mirrors, twelve-buttoned gloves, scent-bottles and +handkerchiefs, hair-pins, and the gayest of parasols, has the God +of Love piled into the arms of his messengers. Really a +most practical, up-to-date God of Love, moving with the +times! One feels that the modern Temple of Love must be a +sort of Swan and Edgar’s; the god himself a kind of +celestial shop-walker; while his mother, Venus, no doubt +superintends the costume department. Quite an Olympian +Whiteley, this latter-day Eros; he has forgotten nothing, for, at +the back of the picture, I notice one Cupid carrying a rather fat +heart at the end of a string.</p> +<p>You, Cinderella, could give good counsel to that sleeping +child. You would say to her—“Awake from such +dreams. The contents of a pawnbroker’s store-room +will not bring you happiness. Dream of love if you will; +that is a wise dream, even if it remain ever a dream. But +these coloured beads, these Manchester goods! are you +then—you, heiress of all the ages—still at heart only +as some poor savage maiden but little removed above the monkeys +that share the primeval forest with her? Will you sell your +gold to the first trader that brings you <i>this</i> +barter? These things, child, will only dazzle your eyes for +a few days. Do you think the Burlington Arcade is the gate +of Heaven?”</p> +<p>Ah, yes, I too could talk like that—I, writer of books, +to the young lad, sick of his office stool, dreaming of a +literary career leading to fame and fortune. “And do +you think, lad, that by that road you will reach Happiness sooner +than by another? Do you think interviews with yourself in +penny weeklies will bring you any satisfaction after the first +halfdozen? Do you think the gushing female who has read all +your books, and who wonders what it must feel like to be so +clever, will be welcome to you the tenth time you meet her? +Do you think press cuttings will always consist of wondering +admiration of your genius, of paragraphs about your charming +personal appearance under the heading, ‘Our +Celebrities’? Have you thought of the Uncomplimentary +criticisms, of the spiteful paragraphs, of the everlasting fear +of slipping a few inches down the greasy pole called +‘popular taste,’ to which you are condemned to cling +for life, as some lesser criminal to his weary tread-mill, +struggling with no hope but not to fall! Make a home, lad, +for the woman who loves you; gather one or two friends about you; +work, think, and play, that will bring you happiness. Shun +this roaring gingerbread fair that calls itself, forsooth, the +‘World of art and letters.’ Let its clowns and +its contortionists fight among themselves for the plaudits and +the halfpence of the mob. Let it be with its shouting and +its surging, its blare and its cheap flare. Come away, the +summer’s night is just the other side of the hedge, with +its silence and its stars.”</p> +<p>You and I, Cinderella, are experienced people, and can +therefore offer good advice, but do you think we should be +listened to?</p> +<p>“Ah, no, my Prince is not as yours. Mine will love +me always, and I am peculiarly fitted for the life of a +palace. I have the instinct and the ability for it. I +am sure I was made for a princess. Thank you, Cinderella, +for your well-meant counsel, but there is much difference between +you and me.”</p> +<p>That is the answer you would receive, Cinderella; and my young +friend would say to me, “Yes, I can understand <i>your</i> +finding disappointment in the literary career; but then, you see, +our cases are not quite similar. <i>I</i> am not likely to +find much trouble in keeping my position. <i>I</i> shall +not fear reading what the critics say of <i>me</i>. No +doubt there are disadvantages, when you are among the ruck, but +there is always plenty of room at the top. So thank you, +and goodbye.”</p> +<p>Besides, Cinderella dear, we should not quite mean +it—this excellent advice. We have grown accustomed to +these gew-gaws, and we should miss them in spite of our knowledge +of their trashiness: you, your palace and your little gold crown; +I, my mountebank’s cap, and the answering laugh that goes +up from the crowd when I shake my bells. We want +everything. All the happiness that earth and heaven are +capable of bestowing. Creature comforts, and heart and soul +comforts also; and, proud-spirited beings that we are, we will +not be put off with a part. Give us only everything, and we +will be content. And, after all, Cinderella, you have had +your day. Some little dogs never get theirs. You must +not be greedy. You have <i>known</i> happiness. The +palace was Paradise for those few months, and the Prince’s +arms were about you, Cinderella, the Prince’s kisses on +your lips; the gods themselves cannot take <i>that</i> from +you.</p> +<p>The cake cannot last for ever if we will eat of it so +greedily. There must come the day when we have picked +hungrily the last crumb—when we sit staring at the empty +board, nothing left of the feast, Cinderella, but the pain that +comes of feasting.</p> +<p>It is a naïve confession, poor Human Nature has made to +itself, in choosing, as it has, this story of Cinderella for its +leading moral:—Be good, little girl. Be meek under +your many trials. Be gentle and kind, in spite of your hard +lot, and one day—you shall marry a prince and ride in your +own carriage. Be brave and true, little boy. Work +hard and wait with patience, and in the end, with God’s +blessing, you shall earn riches enough to come back to London +town and marry your master’s daughter.</p> +<p>You and I, gentle Reader, could teach these young folks a +truer lesson, an we would. We know, alas! that the road of +all the virtues does not lead to wealth, rather the contrary; +else how explain our limited incomes? But would it be well, +think you, to tell them bluntly the truth—that honesty is +the most expensive luxury a man can indulge in; that virtue, if +persisted in, leads, generally speaking, to a six-roomed house in +an outlying suburb? Maybe the world is wise: the fiction +has its uses.</p> +<p>I am acquainted with a fairly intelligent young lady. +She can read and write, knows her tables up to six times, and can +argue. I regard her as representative of average Humanity +in its attitude towards Fate; and this is a dialogue I lately +overheard between her and an older lady who is good enough to +occasionally impart to her the wisdom of the world—</p> +<p>“I’ve been good this morning, haven’t +I?”</p> +<p>“Yes—oh yes, fairly good, for you.”</p> +<p>“You think Papa <i>will</i> take me to the circus +to-night?”</p> +<p>“Yes, if you keep good. If you don’t get +naughty this afternoon.”</p> +<p>A pause.</p> +<p>“I was good on Monday, you may remember, +nurse.”</p> +<p>“Tolerably good.”</p> +<p>“<i>Very</i> good, you said, nurse.”</p> +<p>“Well, yes, you weren’t bad.”</p> +<p>“And I was to have gone to the pantomime, and I +didn’t.”</p> +<p>“Well, that was because your aunt came up suddenly, and +your Papa couldn’t get another seat. Poor auntie +wouldn’t have gone at all if she hadn’t gone +then.”</p> +<p>“Oh, wouldn’t she?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>Another pause.</p> +<p>“Do you think she’ll come up suddenly +to-day?”</p> +<p>“Oh no, I don’t think so.”</p> +<p>“No, I hope she doesn’t. I want to go to the +circus to-night. Because, you see, nurse, if I don’t +it will discourage me.”</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>So, perhaps the world is wise in promising us the +circus. We believe her at first. But after a while, I +fear, we grow discouraged.</p> +<h2><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>ON THE +EXCEPTIONAL MERIT ATTACHING TO THE THINGS WE MEANT TO DO</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">can</span> remember—but then I can +remember a long time ago. You, gentle Reader, just entering +upon the prime of life, that age by thoughtless youth called +middle, I cannot, of course, expect to follow me—when there +was in great demand a certain periodical ycleped <i>The +Amateur</i>. Its aim was noble. It sought to teach +the beautiful lesson of independence, to inculcate the fine +doctrine of self-help. One chapter explained to a man how +he might make flower-pots out of Australian meat cans; another +how he might turn butter-tubs into music-stools; a third how he +might utilize old bonnet boxes for Venetian blinds: that was the +principle of the whole scheme, you made everything from something +not intended for it, and as ill-suited to the purpose as +possible.</p> +<p>Two pages, I distinctly recollect, were devoted to the +encouragement of the manufacture of umbrella stands out of old +gaspiping. Anything less adapted to the receipt of hats and +umbrellas than gas-piping I cannot myself conceive: had there +been, I feel sure the author would have thought of it, and would +have recommended it.</p> +<p>Picture-frames you fashioned out of ginger-beer corks. +You saved your ginger-beer corks, you found a picture—and +the thing was complete. How much ginger-beer it would be +necessary to drink, preparatory to the making of each frame; and +the effect of it upon the frame-maker’s physical, mental +and moral well-being, did not concern <i>The Amateur</i>. I +calculate that for a fair-sized picture sixteen dozen bottles +might suffice. Whether, after sixteen dozen of ginger-beer, +a man would take any interest in framing a picture—whether +he would retain any pride in the picture itself, is +doubtful. But this, of course, was not the point.</p> +<p>One young gentleman of my acquaintance—the son of the +gardener of my sister, as friend Ollendorff would have described +him—did succeed in getting through sufficient ginger-beer +to frame his grandfather, but the result was not +encouraging. Indeed, the gardener’s wife herself was +but ill satisfied.</p> +<p>“What’s all them corks round father?” was +her first question.</p> +<p>“Can’t you see,” was the somewhat indignant +reply, “that’s the frame.”</p> +<p>“Oh! but why corks?”</p> +<p>“Well, the book said corks.”</p> +<p>Still the old lady remained unimpressed.</p> +<p>“Somehow it don’t look like father now,” she +sighed.</p> +<p>Her eldest born grew irritable: none of us appreciate +criticism!</p> +<p>“What does it look like, then?” he growled.</p> +<p>“Well, I dunno. Seems to me to look like nothing +but corks.”</p> +<p>The old lady’s view was correct. Certain schools +of art possibly lend themselves to this method of framing. +I myself have seen a funeral card improved by it; but, generally +speaking, the consequence was a predominance of frame at the +expense of the thing framed. The more honest and tasteful +of the framemakers would admit as much themselves.</p> +<p>“Yes, it is ugly when you look at it,” said one to +me, as we stood surveying it from the centre of the room. +“But what one feels about it is that one has done it +oneself.”</p> +<p>Which reflection, I have noticed, reconciles us to many other +things beside cork frames.</p> +<p>Another young gentleman friend of mine—for I am bound to +admit it was youth that profited most by the advice and counsel +of <i>The Amateur</i>: I suppose as one grows older one grows +less daring, less industrious—made a rocking-chair, +according to the instructions of this book, out of a couple of +beer barrels. From every practical point of view it was a +bad rocking-chair. It rocked too much, and it rocked in too +many directions at one and the same time. I take it, a man +sitting on a rocking-chair does not want to be continually +rocking. There comes a time when he says to +himself—“Now I have rocked sufficiently for the +present; now I will sit still for a while, lest a worse thing +befall me.” But this was one of those headstrong +rocking-chairs that are a danger to humanity, and a nuisance to +themselves. Its notion was that it was made to rock, and +that when it was not rocking, it was wasting its time. Once +started nothing could stop it—nothing ever did stop it, +until it found itself topsy turvy on its own occupant. That +was the only thing that ever sobered it.</p> +<p>I had called, and had been shown into the empty +drawing-room. The rocking-chair nodded invitingly at +me. I never guessed it was an amateur rocking-chair. +I was young in those days, with faith in human nature, and I +imagined that, whatever else a man might attempt without +knowledge or experience, no one would be fool enough to +experiment upon a rocking-chair.</p> +<p>I threw myself into it lightly and carelessly. I +immediately noticed the ceiling. I made an instinctive +movement forward. The window and a momentary glimpse of the +wooded hills beyond shot upwards and disappeared. The +carpet flashed across my eyes, and I caught sight of my own boots +vanishing beneath me at the rate of about two hundred miles an +hour. I made a convulsive effort to recover them. I +suppose I over-did it. I saw the whole of the room at once, +the four walls, the ceiling, and the floor at the same +moment. It was a sort of vision. I saw the cottage +piano upside down, and I again saw my own boots flash past me, +this time over my head, soles uppermost. Never before had I +been in a position where my own boots had seemed so +all-pervading. The next moment I lost my boots, and stopped +the carpet with my head just as it was rushing past me. At +the same instant something hit me violently in the small of the +back. Reason, when recovered, suggested that my assailant +must be the rocking-chair.</p> +<p>Investigation proved the surmise correct. Fortunately I +was still alone, and in consequence was able, a few minutes +later, to meet my hostess with calm and dignity. I said +nothing about the rocking-chair. As a matter of fact, I was +hoping to have the pleasure, before I went, of seeing some other +guest arrive and sample it: I had purposely replaced it in the +most prominent and convenient position. But though I felt +capable of schooling myself to silence, I found myself unable to +agree with my hostess when she called for my admiration of the +thing. My recent experiences had too deeply embittered +me.</p> +<p>“Willie made it himself,” explained the fond +mother. “Don’t you think it was very clever of +him?”</p> +<p>“Oh yes, it was clever,” I replied, “I am +willing to admit that.”</p> +<p>“He made it out of some old beer barrels,” she +continued; she seemed proud of it.</p> +<p>My resentment, though I tried to keep it under control, was +mounting higher.</p> +<p>“Oh! did he?” I said; “I should have thought +he might have found something better to do with them.”</p> +<p>“What?” she asked.</p> +<p>“Oh! well, many things,” I retorted. +“He might have filled them again with beer.”</p> +<p>My hostess looked at me astonished. I felt some reason +for my tone was expected.</p> +<p>“You see,” I explained, “it is not a +well-made chair. These rockers are too short, and they are +too curved, and one of them, if you notice, is higher than the +other and of a smaller radius; the back is at too obtuse an +angle. When it is occupied the centre of gravity +becomes—”</p> +<p>My hostess interrupted me.</p> +<p>“You have been sitting on it,” she said.</p> +<p>“Not for long,” I assured her.</p> +<p>Her tone changed. She became apologetic.</p> +<p>“I am so sorry,” she said. “It looks +all right.”</p> +<p>“It does,” I agreed; “that is where the dear +lad’s cleverness displays itself. Its appearance +disarms suspicion. With judgment that chair might be made +to serve a really useful purpose. There are mutual +acquaintances of ours—I mention no names, you will know +them—pompous, self-satisfied, superior persons who would be +improved by that chair. If I were Willie I should disguise +the mechanism with some artistic drapery, bait the thing with a +couple of exceptionally inviting cushions, and employ it to +inculcate modesty and diffidence. I defy any human being to +get out of that chair, feeling as important as when he got into +it. What the dear boy has done has been to construct an +automatic exponent of the transitory nature of human +greatness. As a moral agency that chair should prove a +blessing in disguise.”</p> +<p>My hostess smiled feebly; more, I fear, from politeness than +genuine enjoyment.</p> +<p>“I think you are too severe,” she said. +“When you remember that the boy has never tried his hand at +anything of the kind before, that he has no knowledge and no +experience, it really is not so bad.”</p> +<p>Considering the matter from that point of view I was bound to +concur. I did not like to suggest to her that before +entering upon a difficult task it would be better for young men +to <i>acquire</i> knowledge and experience: that is so unpopular +a theory.</p> +<p>But the thing that <i>The Amateur</i> put in the front and +foremost of its propaganda was the manufacture of household +furniture out of egg-boxes. Why egg-boxes I have never been +able to understand, but egg-boxes, according to the prescription +of <i>The Amateur</i>, formed the foundation of household +existence. With a sufficient supply of egg-boxes, and what +<i>The Amateur</i> termed a “natural deftness,” no +young couple need hesitate to face the furnishing problem. +Three egg-boxes made a writing-table; on another egg-box you sat +to write; your books were ranged in egg-boxes around +you—and there was your study, complete.</p> +<p>For the dining-room two egg-boxes made an overmantel; four +egg-boxes and a piece of looking-glass a sideboard; while six +egg-boxes, with some wadding and a yard or so of cretonne, +constituted a so-called “cosy corner.” About +the “corner” there could be no possible doubt. +You sat on a corner, you leant against a corner; whichever way +you moved you struck a fresh corner. The +“cosiness,” however, I deny. Egg-boxes I admit +can be made useful; I am even prepared to imagine them +ornamental; but “cosy,” no. I have sampled +egg-boxes in many shapes. I speak of years ago, when the +world and we were younger, when our fortune was the Future; +secure in which, we hesitated not to set up house upon incomes +folks with lesser expectations might have deemed +insufficient. Under such circumstances, the sole +alternative to the egg-box, or similar school of furniture, would +have been the strictly classical, consisting of a doorway joined +to architectural proportions.</p> +<p>I have from Saturday to Monday, as honoured guest, hung my +clothes in egg-boxes.</p> +<p>I have sat on an egg-box at an egg-box to take my dish of +tea. I have made love on egg-boxes.—Aye, and to feel +again the blood running through my veins as then it ran, I would +be content to sit only on egg-boxes till the time should come +when I could be buried in an egg-box, with an egg-box reared +above me as tombstone.—I have spent many an evening on an +egg-box; I have gone to bed in egg-boxes. They have their +points—I am intending no pun—but to claim for them +cosiness would be but to deceive.</p> +<p>How quaint they were, those home-made rooms! They rise +out of the shadows and shape themselves again before my +eyes. I see the knobbly sofa; the easy-chairs that might +have been designed by the Grand Inquisitor himself; the dented +settle that was a bed by night; the few blue plates, purchased in +the slums off Wardour Street; the enamelled stool to which one +always stuck; the mirror framed in silk; the two Japanese fans +crossed beneath each cheap engraving; the piano cloth embroidered +in peacock’s feathers by Annie’s sister; the +tea-cloth worked by Cousin Jenny. We dreamt, sitting on +those egg-boxes—for we were young ladies and gentlemen with +artistic taste—of the days when we would eat in Chippendale +dining-rooms; sip our coffee in Louis Quatorze drawing-rooms; and +be happy. Well, we have got on, some of us, since then, as +Mr. Bumpus used to say; and I notice, when on visits, that some +of us have contrived so that we do sit on Chippendale chairs, at +Sheraton dining-tables, and are warmed from Adam’s +fireplaces; but, ah me, where are the dreams, the hopes, the +enthusiasms that clung like the scent of a March morning about +those gim-crack second floors? In the dustbin, I fear, with +the cretonne-covered egg-boxes and the penny fans. Fate is +so terribly even-handed. As she gives she ever takes +away. She flung us a few shillings and hope, where now she +doles us out pounds and fears. Why did not we know how +happy we were, sitting crowned with sweet conceit upon our +egg-box thrones?</p> +<p>Yes, Dick, you have climbed well. You edit a great +newspaper. You spread abroad the message—well, the +message that Sir Joseph Goldbug, your proprietor, instructs you +to spread abroad. You teach mankind the lessons that Sir +Joseph Goldbug wishes them to learn. They say he is to have +a peerage next year. I am sure he has earned it; and +perhaps there may be a knighthood for you, Dick.</p> +<p>Tom, you are getting on now. You have abandoned those +unsaleable allegories. What rich art patron cares to be +told continually by his own walls that Midas had ass’s +ears; that Lazarus sits ever at the gate? You paint +portraits now, and everybody tells me you are the coming +man. That “Impression” of old Lady Jezebel was +really wonderful. The woman looks quite handsome, and yet +it is her ladyship. Your touch is truly marvellous.</p> +<p>But into your success, Tom—Dick, old friend, do not +there creep moments when you would that we could fish up those +old egg-boxes from the past, refurnish with them the dingy rooms +in Camden Town, and find there our youth, our loves, and our +beliefs?</p> +<p>An incident brought back to my mind, the other day, the +thought of all these things. I called for the first time +upon a man, an actor, who had asked me to come and see him in the +little home where he lives with his old father. To my +astonishment—for the craze, I believe, has long since died +out—I found the house half furnished out of packing cases, +butter tubs, and egg-boxes. My friend earns his twenty +pounds a week, but it was the old father’s hobby, so he +explained to me, the making of these monstrosities; and of them +he was as proud as though they were specimen furniture out of the +South Kensington Museum.</p> +<p>He took me into the dining-room to show me the latest +outrage—a new book-case. A greater disfigurement to +the room, which was otherwise prettily furnished, could hardly be +imagined. There was no need for him to assure me, as he +did, that it had been made out of nothing but egg-boxes. +One could see at a glance that it was made out of egg-boxes, and +badly constructed egg-boxes at that—egg-boxes that were a +disgrace to the firm that had turned them out; egg-boxes not +worthy the storage of “shop ’uns” at eighteen +the shilling.</p> +<p>We went upstairs to my friend’s bedroom. He opened +the door as a man might open the door of a museum of gems.</p> +<p>“The old boy,” he said, as he stood with his hand +upon the door-knob, “made everything you see here, +everything,” and we entered. He drew my attention to +the wardrobe. “Now I will hold it up,” he said, +“while you pull the door open; I think the floor must be a +bit uneven, it wobbles if you are not careful.” It +wobbled notwithstanding, but by coaxing and humouring we +succeeded without mishap. I was surprised to notice a very +small supply of clothes within, although my friend is a dressy +man.</p> +<p>“You see,” he explained, “I dare not use it +more than I can help. I am a clumsy chap, and as likely as +not, if I happened to be in a hurry, I’d have the whole +thing over:” which seemed probable.</p> +<p>I asked him how he contrived. “I dress in the +bath-room as a rule,” he replied; “I keep most of my +things there. Of course the old boy doesn’t +know.”</p> +<p>He showed me a chest of drawers. One drawer stood half +open.</p> +<p>“I’m bound to leave that drawer open,” he +said; “I keep the things I use in that. They +don’t shut quite easily, these drawers; or rather, they +shut all right, but then they won’t open. It is the +weather, I think. They will open and shut all right in the +summer, I dare say.” He is of a hopeful +disposition.</p> +<p>But the pride of the room was the washstand.</p> +<p>“What do you think of this?” cried he +enthusiastically, “real marble top—”</p> +<p>He did not expatiate further. In his excitement he had +laid his hand upon the thing, with the natural result that it +collapsed. More by accident than design I caught the jug in +my arms. I also caught the water it contained. The +basin rolled on its edge and little damage was done, except to me +and the soap-box.</p> +<p>I could not pump up much admiration for this washstand; I was +feeling too wet.</p> +<p>“What do you do when you want to wash?” I asked, +as together we reset the trap.</p> +<p>There fell upon him the manner of a conspirator revealing +secrets. He glanced guiltily round the room; then, creeping +on tip-toe, he opened a cupboard behind the bed. Within was +a tin basin and a small can.</p> +<p>“Don’t tell the old boy,” he said. +“I keep these things here, and wash on the +floor.”</p> +<p>That was the best thing I myself ever got out of +egg-boxes—that picture of a deceitful son stealthily +washing himself upon the floor behind the bed, trembling at every +footstep lest it might be the “old boy” coming to the +door.</p> +<p>One wonders whether the Ten Commandments are so all-sufficient +as we good folk deem them—whether the eleventh is not worth +the whole pack of them: “that ye love one another” +with just a common-place, human, practical love. Could not +the other ten be comfortably stowed away into a corner of +that! One is inclined, in one’s anarchic moments, to +agree with Louis Stevenson, that to be amiable and cheerful is a +good religion for a work-a-day world. We are so busy +<i>not</i> killing, <i>not</i> stealing, <i>not</i> coveting our +neighbour’s wife, we have not time to be even just to one +another for the little while we are together here. Need we +be so cocksure that our present list of virtues and vices is the +only possibly correct and complete one? Is the kind, +unselfish man necessarily a villain because he does not always +succeed in suppressing his natural instincts? Is the +narrow-hearted, sour-souled man, incapable of a generous thought +or act, necessarily a saint because he has none? Have we +not—we unco guid—arrived at a wrong method of +estimating our frailer brothers and sisters? We judge them, +as critics judge books, not by the good that is in them, but by +their faults. Poor King David! What would the local +Vigilance Society have had to say to him? Noah, according +to our plan, would be denounced from every teetotal platform in +the country, and Ham would head the Local Vestry poll as a reward +for having exposed him. And St. Peter! weak, frail St. +Peter, how lucky for him that his fellow-disciples and their +Master were not as strict in their notions of virtue as are we +to-day.</p> +<p>Have we not forgotten the meaning of the word +“virtue”? Once it stood for the good that was +in a man, irrespective of the evil that might lie there also, as +tares among the wheat. We have abolished virtue, and for it +substituted virtues. Not the hero—he was too full of +faults—but the blameless valet; not the man who does any +good, but the man who has not been found out in any evil, is our +modern ideal. The most virtuous thing in nature, according +to this new theory, should be the oyster. He is always at +home, and always sober. He is not noisy. He gives no +trouble to the police. I cannot think of a single one of +the Ten Commandments that he ever breaks. He never enjoys +himself, and he never, so long as he lives, gives a +moment’s pleasure to any other living thing.</p> +<p>I can imagine the oyster lecturing a lion on the subject of +morality.</p> +<p>“You never hear me,” the oyster might say, +“howling round camps and villages, making night hideous, +frightening quiet folk out of their lives. Why don’t +you go to bed early, as I do? I never prowl round the +oyster-bed, fighting other gentlemen oysters, making love to lady +oysters already married. I never kill antelopes or +missionaries. Why can’t you live as I do on salt +water and germs, or whatever it is that I do live on? Why +don’t you try to be more like me?”</p> +<p>An oyster has no evil passions, therefore we say he is a +virtuous fish. We never ask ourselves—“Has he +any good passions?” A lion’s behaviour is often +such as no just man could condone. Has he not his good +points also?</p> +<p>Will the fat, sleek, “virtuous” man be as Welcome +at the gate of heaven as he supposes?</p> +<p>“Well,” St. Peter may say to him, opening the door +a little way and looking him up and down, “what is it +now?”</p> +<p>“It’s me,” the virtuous man will reply, with +an oily, self-satisfied smile; “I should say, +I—I’ve come.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I see you have come; but what is your claim to +admittance? What have you done with your three score years +and ten?”</p> +<p>“Done!” the virtuous man will answer, “I +have done nothing, I assure you.”</p> +<p>“Nothing!”</p> +<p>“Nothing; that is my strong point; that is why I am +here. I have never done any wrong.”</p> +<p>“And what good have you done?”</p> +<p>“What good!”</p> +<p>“Aye, what good? Do not you even know the meaning +of the word? What human creature is the better for your +having eaten and drunk and slept these years? You have done +no harm—no harm to yourself. Perhaps, if you had you +might have done some good with it; the two are generally to be +found together down below, I remember. What good have you +done that you should enter here? This is no mummy chamber; +this is the place of men and women who have lived, who have +wrought good—and evil also, alas!—for the sinners who +fight for the right, not the righteous who run with their souls +from the fight.”</p> +<p>It was not, however, to speak of these things that I +remembered <i>The Amateur</i> and its lessons. My intention +was but to lead up to the story of a certain small boy, who in +the doing of tasks not required of him was exceedingly +clever. I wish to tell you his story, because, as do most +true tales, it possesses a moral, and stories without a moral I +deem to be but foolish literature, resembling roads that lead to +nowhere, such as sick folk tramp for exercise.</p> +<p>I have known this little boy to take an expensive eight-day +clock to pieces, and make of it a toy steamboat. True, it +was not, when made, very much of a steamboat; but taking into +consideration all the difficulties—the inadaptability of +eight-day clock machinery to steamboat requirements, the +necessity of getting the work accomplished quickly, before +conservatively-minded people with no enthusiasm for science could +interfere—a good enough steamboat. With merely an +ironing-board and a few dozen meat-skewers, he +would—provided the ironing-board was not missed in +time—turn out quite a practicable rabbit-hutch. He +could make a gun out of an umbrella and a gas-bracket, which, if +not so accurate as a Martini-Henry, was, at all events, more +deadly. With half the garden-hose, a copper scalding-pan +out of the dairy, and a few Dresden china ornaments off the +drawing-room mantelpiece, he would build a fountain for the +garden. He could make bookshelves out of kitchen tables, +and crossbows out of crinolines. He could dam you a stream +so that all the water would flow over the croquet lawn. He +knew how to make red paint and oxygen gas, together with many +other suchlike commodities handy to have about a house. +Among other things he learned how to make fireworks, and after a +few explosions of an unimportant character, came to make them +very well indeed. The boy who can play a good game of +cricket is liked. The boy who can fight well is +respected. The boy who can cheek a master is loved. +But the boy who can make fireworks is revered above all others as +a boy belonging to a superior order of beings. The fifth of +November was at hand, and with the consent of an indulgent +mother, he determined to give to the world a proof of his +powers. A large party of friends, relatives, and +school-mates was invited, and for a fortnight beforehand the +scullery was converted into a manufactory for fireworks. +The female servants went about in hourly terror of their lives, +and the villa, did we judge exclusively by smell, one might have +imagined had been taken over by Satan, his main premises being +inconveniently crowded, as an annex. By the evening of the +fourth all was in readiness, and samples were tested to make sure +that no contretemps should occur the following night. All +was found to be perfect.</p> +<p>The rockets rushed heavenward and descended in stars, the +Roman candles tossed their fiery balls into the darkness, the +Catherine wheels sparkled and whirled, the crackers cracked, and +the squibs banged. That night he went to bed a proud and +happy boy, and dreamed of fame. He stood surrounded by +blazing fireworks, and the vast crowd cheered him. His +relations, most of whom, he knew, regarded him as the coming +idiot of the family, were there to witness his triumph; so too +was Dickey Bowles, who laughed at him because he could not throw +straight. The girl at the bun-shop, she also was there, and +saw that he was clever.</p> +<p>The night of the festival arrived, and with it the +guests. They sat, wrapped up in shawls and cloaks, outside +the hall door—uncles, cousins, aunts, little boys and big +boys, little girls and big girls, with, as the theatre posters +say, villagers and retainers, some forty of them in all, and +waited.</p> +<p>But the fireworks did not go off. Why they did not go +off I cannot explain; nobody ever <i>could</i> explain. The +laws of nature seemed to be suspended for that night only. +The rockets fell down and died where they stood. No human +agency seemed able to ignite the squibs. The crackers gave +one bang and collapsed. The Roman candles might have been +English rushlights. The Catherine wheels became mere +revolving glow-worms. The fiery serpents could not collect +among them the spirit of a tortoise. The set piece, a ship +at sea, showed one mast and the captain, and then went out. +One or two items did their duty, but this only served to render +the foolishness of the whole more striking. The little +girls giggled, the little boys chaffed, the aunts and cousins +said it was beautiful, the uncles inquired if it was all over, +and talked about supper and trains, the “villagers and +retainers” dispersed laughing, the indulgent mother said +“never mind,” and explained how well everything had +gone off yesterday; the clever little boy crept upstairs to his +room, and blubbered his heart out in the dark.</p> +<p>Hours later, when the crowd had forgotten him, he stole out +again into the garden. He sat down amid the ruins of his +hope, and wondered what could have caused the fiasco. Still +puzzled, he drew from his pocket a box of matches, and, lighting +one, he held it to the seared end of a rocket he had tried in +vain to light four hours ago. It smouldered for an instant, +then shot with a swish into the air and broke into a hundred +points of fire. He tried another and another with the same +result. He made a fresh attempt to fire the set +piece. Point by point the whole picture—minus the +captain and one mast—came out of the night, and stood +revealed in all the majesty of flame. Its sparks fell upon +the piled-up heap of candles, wheels, and rockets that a little +while before had obstinately refused to burn, and that, one after +another, had been thrown aside as useless. Now with the +night frost upon them, they leaped to light in one grand volcanic +eruption. And in front of the gorgeous spectacle he stood +with only one consolation—his mother’s hand in +his.</p> +<p>The whole thing was a mystery to him at the time, but, as he +learned to know life better, he came to understand that it was +only one example of a solid but inexplicable fact, ruling all +human affairs—<i>your fireworks won’t go off while +the crowd is around</i>.</p> +<p>Our brilliant repartees do not occur to us till the door is +closed upon us and we are alone in the street, or, as the French +would say, are coming down the stairs. Our after-dinner +oratory, that sounded so telling as we delivered it before the +looking-glass, falls strangely flat amidst the clinking of the +glasses. The passionate torrent of words we meant to pour +into her ear becomes a halting rigmarole, at which—small +blame to her—she only laughs.</p> +<p>I would, gentle Reader, you could hear the stories that I +meant to tell you. You judge me, of course, by the stories +of mine that you have read—by this sort of thing, perhaps; +but that is not just to me. The stories I have not told +you, that I am going to tell you one day, I would that you judge +me by those.</p> +<p>They are so beautiful; you will say so; over them, you will +laugh and cry with me.</p> +<p>They come into my brain unbidden, they clamour to be written, +yet when I take my pen in hand they are gone. It is as +though they were shy of publicity, as though they would say to +me—“You alone, you shall read us, but you must not +write us; we are too real, too true. We are like the +thoughts you cannot speak. Perhaps a little later, when you +know more of life, then you shall tell us.”</p> +<p>Next to these in merit I would place, were I writing a +critical essay on myself, the stories I have begun to write and +that remain unfinished, why I cannot explain to myself. +They are good stories, most of them; better far than the stories +I have accomplished. Another time, perhaps, if you care to +listen, I will tell you the beginning of one or two and you shall +judge. Strangely enough, for I have always regarded myself +as a practical, commonsensed man, so many of these still-born +children of my mind I find, on looking through the cupboard where +their thin bodies lie, are ghost stories. I suppose the +hope of ghosts is with us all. The world grows somewhat +interesting to us heirs of all the ages. Year by year, +Science with broom and duster tears down the moth-worn tapestry, +forces the doors of the locked chambers, lets light into the +secret stairways, cleans out the dungeons, explores the hidden +passages—finding everywhere only dust. This echoing +old castle, the world, so full of mystery in the days when we +were children, is losing somewhat its charm for us as we grow +older. The king sleeps no longer in the hollow of the +hills. We have tunnelled through his mountain +chamber. We have shivered his beard with our pick. We +have driven the gods from Olympus. No wanderer through the +moonlit groves now fears or hopes the sweet, death-giving gleam +of Aphrodite’s face. Thor’s hammer echoes not +among the peaks—’tis but the thunder of the excursion +train. We have swept the woods of the fairies. We +have filtered the sea of its nymphs. Even the ghosts are +leaving us, chased by the Psychical Research Society.</p> +<p>Perhaps of all, they are the least, however, to be +regretted. They were dull old fellows, clanking their rusty +chains and groaning and sighing. Let them go.</p> +<p>And yet how interesting they might be, if only they +would. The old gentleman in the coat of mail, who lived in +King John’s reign, who was murdered, so they say, on the +outskirts of the very wood I can see from my window as I +write—stabbed in the back, poor gentleman, as he was riding +home, his body flung into the moat that to this day is called +Tor’s tomb. Dry enough it is now, and the primroses +love its steep banks; but a gloomy enough place in those days, no +doubt, with its twenty feet of stagnant water. Why does he +haunt the forest paths at night, as they tell me he does, +frightening the children out of their wits, blanching the faces +and stilling the laughter of the peasant lads and lasses, +slouching home from the village dance? Instead, why does he +not come up here and talk to me? He should have my +easy-chair and welcome, would he only be cheerful and +companionable.</p> +<p>What brave tales could he not tell me. He fought in the +first Crusade, heard the clarion voice of Peter, met the great +Godfrey face to face, stood, hand on sword-hilt, at Runny-mede, +perhaps. Better than a whole library of historical novels +would an evening’s chat be with such a ghost. What +has he done with his eight hundred years of death? where has he +been? what has he seen? Maybe he has visited Mars; has +spoken to the strange spirits who can live in the liquid fires of +Jupiter. What has he learned of the great secret? Has +he found the truth? or is he, even as I, a wanderer still seeking +the unknown?</p> +<p>You, poor, pale, grey nun—they tell me that of midnights +one may see your white face peering from the ruined belfry +window, hear the clash of sword and shield among the cedar-trees +beneath.</p> +<p>It was very sad, I quite understand, my dear lady. Your +lovers both were killed, and you retired to a convent. +Believe me, I am sincerely sorry for you, but why waste every +night renewing the whole painful experience? Would it not +be better forgotten? Good Heavens, madam, suppose we living +folk were to spend our lives wailing and wringing our hands +because of the wrongs done to us when we were children? It +is all over now. Had he lived, and had you married him, you +might not have been happy. I do not wish to say anything +unkind, but marriages founded upon the sincerest mutual love have +sometimes turned out unfortunately, as you must surely know.</p> +<p>Do take my advice. Talk the matter over with the young +men themselves. Persuade them to shake hands and be +friends. Come in, all of you, out of the cold, and let us +have some reasonable talk.</p> +<p>Why seek you to trouble us, you poor pale ghosts? Are we +not your children? Be our wise friends. Tell me, how +loved the young men in your young days? how answered the +maidens? Has the world changed much, do you think? +Had you not new women even then? girls who hated the everlasting +tapestry frame and spinning-wheel? Your father’s +servants, were they so much worse off than the freemen who live +in our East-end slums and sew slippers for fourteen hours a day +at a wage of nine shillings a week? Do you think Society +much improved during the last thousand years? Is it worse? +is it better? or is it, on the whole, about the same, save that +we call things by other names? Tell me, what have +<i>you</i> learned?</p> +<p>Yet might not familiarity breed contempt, even for ghosts.</p> +<p>One has had a tiring day’s shooting. One is +looking forward to one’s bed. As one opens the door, +however, a ghostly laugh comes from behind the bed-curtains, and +one groans inwardly, knowing what is in store for one: a two or +three hours’ talk with rowdy old Sir Lanval—he of the +lance. We know all his tales by heart, and he will shout +them. Suppose our aunt, from whom we have expectations, and +who sleeps in the next room, should wake and overhear! They +were fit and proper enough stories, no doubt, for the Round +Table, but we feel sure our aunt would not appreciate +them:—that story about Sir Agravain and the cooper’s +wife! and he always will tell that story.</p> +<p>Or imagine the maid entering after dinner to say—</p> +<p>“Oh, if you please, sir, here is the veiled +lady.”</p> +<p>“What, again!” says your wife, looking up from her +work.</p> +<p>“Yes, ma’am; shall I show her up into the +bedroom?”</p> +<p>“You had better ask your master,” is the +reply. The tone is suggestive of an unpleasant five minutes +so soon as the girl shall have withdrawn, but what are you to +do?</p> +<p>“Yes, yes, show her up,” you say, and the girl +goes out, closing the door.</p> +<p>Your wife gathers her work together, and rises.</p> +<p>“Where are you going?” you ask.</p> +<p>“To sleep with the children,” is the frigid +answer.</p> +<p>“It will look so rude,” you urge. “We +must be civil to the poor thing; and you see it really is her +room, as one might say. She has always haunted +it.”</p> +<p>“It is very curious,” returns the wife of your +bosom, still more icily, “that she never haunts it except +when you are down here. Where she goes when you are in town +I’m sure I don’t know.”</p> +<p>This is unjust. You cannot restrain your +indignation.</p> +<p>“What nonsense you talk, Elizabeth,” you reply; +“I am only barely polite to her.”</p> +<p>“Some men have such curious notions of +politeness,” returns Elizabeth. “But pray do +not let us quarrel. I am only anxious not to disturb +you. Two are company, you know. I don’t choose +to be the third, that’s all.” With which she +goes out.</p> +<p>And the veiled lady is still waiting for you up-stairs. +You wonder how long she will stop, also what will happen after +she is gone.</p> +<p>I fear there is no room for you, ghosts, in this our +world. You remember how they came to Hiawatha—the +ghosts of the departed loved ones. He had prayed to them +that they would come back to him to comfort him, so one day they +crept into his wigwam, sat in silence round his fireside, chilled +the air for Hiawatha, froze the smiles of Laughing Water.</p> +<p>There is no room for you, oh you poor pale ghosts, in this our +world. Do not trouble us. Let us forget. You, +stout elderly matron, your thin locks turning grey, your eyes +grown weak, your chin more ample, your voice harsh with much +scolding and complaining, needful, alas! to household management, +I pray you leave me. I loved you while you lived. How +sweet, how beautiful you were. I see you now in your white +frock among the apple-blossom. But you are dead, and your +ghost disturbs my dreams. I would it haunted me not.</p> +<p>You, dull old fellow, looking out at me from the glass at +which I shave, why do you haunt me? You are the ghost of a +bright lad I once knew well. He might have done much, had +he lived. I always had faith in him. Why do you haunt +me? I would rather think of him as I remember him. I +never imagined he would make such a poor ghost.</p> +<h2><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>ON THE +PREPARATION AND EMPLOYMENT OF LOVE PHILTRES</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Occasionally</span> a friend will ask me +some such question as this, Do you prefer dark women or +fair? Another will say, Do you like tall women or +short? A third, Do you think light-hearted women, or +serious, the more agreeable company? I find myself in the +position that, once upon a time, overtook a certain charming +young lady of taste who was asked by an anxious parent, the years +mounting, and the family expenditure not decreasing, which of the +numerous and eligible young men, then paying court to her, she +liked the best. She replied, that was her difficulty. +She could not make up her mind which she liked the best. +They were all so nice. She could not possibly select one to +the exclusion of all the others. What she would have liked +would have been to marry the lot, but that, she presumed, was +impracticable.</p> +<p>I feel I resemble that young lady, not so much, perhaps, in +charm and beauty as indecision of mind, when questions such as +the above are put to me. It is as if one were asked +one’s favourite food. There are times when one +fancies an egg with one’s tea. On other occasions one +dreams of a kipper. To-day one clamours for lobsters. +To-morrow one feels one never wishes to see a lobster again; one +determines to settle down, for a time, to a diet of bread and +milk and rice-pudding. Asked suddenly to say whether I +preferred ices to soup, or beefsteaks to caviare, I should be +nonplussed.</p> +<p>I like tall women and short, dark women and fair, merry women +and grave.</p> +<p>Do not blame me, Ladies, the fault lies with you. Every +right-thinking man is an universal lover; how could it be +otherwise? You are so diverse, yet each so charming of your +kind; and a man’s heart is large. You have no idea, +fair Reader, how large a man’s heart is: that is his +trouble—sometimes yours.</p> +<p>May I not admire the daring tulip, because I love also the +modest lily? May I not press a kiss upon the sweet violet, +because the scent of the queenly rose is precious to me?</p> +<p>“Certainly not,” I hear the Rose reply. +“If you can see anything in her, you shall have nothing to +do with me.”</p> +<p>“If you care for that bold creature,” says the +Lily, trembling, “you are not the man I took you for. +Good-bye.”</p> +<p>“Go to your baby-faced Violet,” cries the Tulip, +with a toss of her haughty head. “You are just fitted +for each other.”</p> +<p>And when I return to the Lily, she tells me that she cannot +trust me. She has watched me with those others. She +knows me for a gad-about. Her gentle face is full of +pain.</p> +<p>So I must live unloved merely because I love too much.</p> +<p>My wonder is that young men ever marry. The difficulty +of selection must be appalling. I walked the other evening +in Hyde Park. The band of the Life Guards played +heart-lifting music, and the vast crowd were basking in a sweet +enjoyment such as rarely woos the English toiler. I +strolled among them, and my attention was chiefly drawn towards +the women. The great majority of them were, I suppose, +shop-girls, milliners, and others belonging to the lower +middle-class. They had put on their best frocks, their +bonniest hats, their newest gloves. They sat or walked in +twos and threes, chattering and preening, as happy as young +sparrows on a clothes line. And what a handsome crowd they +made! I have seen German crowds, I have seen French crowds, +I have seen Italian crowds; but nowhere do you find such a +proportion of pretty women as among the English +middle-class. Three women out of every four were worth +looking at, every other woman was pretty, while every fourth, one +might say without exaggeration, was beautiful. As I passed +to and fro the idea occurred to me: suppose I were an +unprejudiced young bachelor, free from predilection, looking for +a wife; and let me suppose—it is only a fancy—that +all these girls were ready and willing to accept me. I have +only to choose! I grew bewildered. There were fair +girls, to look at whom was fatal; dark girls that set one’s +heart aflame; girls with red gold hair and grave grey eyes, whom +one would follow to the confines of the universe; baby-faced +girls that one longed to love and cherish; girls with noble +faces, whom a man might worship; laughing girls, with whom one +could dance through life gaily; serious girls, with whom life +would be sweet and good, domestic-looking girls—one felt +such would make delightful wives; they would cook, and sew, and +make of home a pleasant, peaceful place. Then +wicked-looking girls came by, at the stab of whose bold eyes all +orthodox thoughts were put to a flight, whose laughter turned the +world into a mad carnival; girls one could mould; girls from whom +one could learn; sad girls one wanted to comfort; merry girls who +would cheer one; little girls, big girls, queenly girls, +fairy-like girls.</p> +<p>Suppose a young man had to select his wife in this fashion +from some twenty or thirty thousand; or that a girl were suddenly +confronted with eighteen thousand eligible young bachelors, and +told to take the one she wanted and be quick about it? +Neither boy nor girl would ever marry. Fate is kinder to +us. She understands, and assists us. In the hall of a +Paris hotel I once overheard one lady asking another to recommend +her a milliner’s shop.</p> +<p>“Go to the Maison Nouvelle,” advised the +questioned lady, with enthusiasm. “They have the +largest selection there of any place in Paris.”</p> +<p>“I know they have,” replied the first lady, +“that is just why I don’t mean to go there. It +confuses me. If I see six bonnets I can tell the one I want +in five minutes. If I see six hundred I come away without +any bonnet at all. Don’t you know a little +shop?”</p> +<p>Fate takes the young man or the young woman aside.</p> +<p>“Come into this village, my dear,” says Fate; +“into this by-street of this salubrious suburb, into this +social circle, into this church, into this chapel. Now, my +dear boy, out of these seventeen young ladies, which will you +have?—out of these thirteen young men, which would you like +for your very own, my dear?”</p> +<p>“No, miss, I am sorry, but I am not able to show you our +up-stairs department to-day, the lift is not working. But I +am sure we shall be able to find something in this room to suit +you. Just look round, my dear, perhaps you will see +something.”</p> +<p>“No, sir, I cannot show you the stock in the next room, +we never take that out except for our very special +customers. We keep our most expensive goods in that +room. (Draw that curtain, Miss Circumstance, please. +I have told you of that before.) Now, sir, wouldn’t +you like this one? This colour is quite the rage this +season; we are getting rid of quite a lot of these.”</p> +<p>“<i>No</i>, sir! Well, of course, it would not do +for every one’s taste to be the same. Perhaps +something dark would suit you better. Bring out those two +brunettes, Miss Circumstance. Charming girls both of them, +don’t you think so, sir? I should say the taller one +for you, sir. Just one moment, sir, allow me. Now, +what do you think of that, sir? might have been made to fit you, +I’m sure. <i>You prefer the shorter one</i>. +Certainly, sir, no difference to us at all. Both are the +same price. There’s nothing like having one’s +own fancy, I always say. <i>No</i>, sir, I cannot put her +aside for you, we never do that. Indeed, there’s +rather a run on brunettes just at present. I had a +gentleman in only this morning, looking at this particular one, +and he is going to call again to-night. Indeed, I am not at +all sure—Oh, of course, sir, if you like to settle on this +one now, that ends the matter. (Put those others away, Miss +Circumstance, please, and mark this one sold.) I feel sure +you’ll like her, sir, when you get her home. Thank +<i>you</i>, sir. Good-morning!”</p> +<p>“Now, miss, have <i>you</i> seen anything you +fancy? <i>Yes</i>, miss, this is all we have at anything +near your price. (Shut those other cupboards, Miss +Circumstance; never show more stock than you are obliged to, it +only confuses customers. How often am I to tell you +that?) <i>Yes</i>, miss, you are quite right, there +<i>is</i> a slight blemish. They all have some slight +flaw. The makers say they can’t help +it—it’s in the material. It’s not once in +a season we get a perfect specimen; and when we do ladies +don’t seem to care for it. Most of our customers +prefer a little faultiness. They say it gives +character. Now, look at this, miss. This sort of +thing wears very well, warm and quiet. You’d like one +with more colour in it? Certainly. Miss Circumstance, +reach me down the art patterns. <i>No</i>, miss, we +don’t guarantee any of them over the year, so much depends +on how you use them. <i>Oh yes</i>, miss, they’ll +stand a fair amount of wear. People do tell you the quieter +patterns last longer; but my experience is that one is much the +same as another. There’s really no telling any of +them until you come to try them. We never recommend one +more than another. There’s a lot of chance about +these goods, it’s in the nature of them. What I +always say to ladies is—‘Please yourself, it’s +you who have got to wear it; and it’s no good having an +article you start by not liking.’ <i>Yes</i>, miss, +it <i>is</i> pretty and it looks well against you: it does +indeed. Thank you, miss. Put that one aside, Miss +Circumstance, please. See that it doesn’t get mixed +up with the unsold stock.”</p> +<p>It is a useful philtre, the juice of that small western +flower, that Oberon drops upon our eyelids as we sleep. It +solves all difficulties in a trice. Why of course Helena is +the fairer. Compare her with Hermia! Compare the +raven with the dove! How could we ever have doubted for a +moment? Bottom is an angel, Bottom is as wise as he is +handsome. Oh, Oberon, we thank you for that drug. +Matilda Jane is a goddess; Matilda Jane is a queen; no woman ever +born of Eve was like Matilda Jane. The little pimple on her +nose—her little, sweet, tip-tilted nose—how beautiful +it is. Her bright eyes flash with temper now and then; how +piquant is a temper in a woman. William is a dear old +stupid, how lovable stupid men can be—especially when wise +enough to love us. William does not shine in conversation; +how we hate a magpie of a man. William’s chin is what +is called receding, just the sort of chin a beard looks well +on. Bless you, Oberon darling, for that drug; rub it on our +eyelids once again. Better let us have a bottle, Oberon, to +keep by us.</p> +<p>Oberon, Oberon, what are you thinking of? You have given +the bottle to Puck. Take it away from him, quick. +Lord help us all if that Imp has the bottle. Lord save us +from Puck while we sleep.</p> +<p>Or may we, fairy Oberon, regard your lotion as an eye-opener, +rather than as an eye-closer? You remember the story the +storks told the children, of the little girl who was a toad by +day, only her sweet dark eyes being left to her. But at +night, when the Prince clasped her close to his breast, lo! again +she became the king’s daughter, fairest and fondest of +women. There be many royal ladies in Marshland, with bad +complexion and thin straight hair, and the silly princes sneer +and ride away to woo some kitchen wench decked out in +queen’s apparel. Lucky the prince upon whose eyelids +Oberon has dropped the magic philtre.</p> +<p>In the gallery of a minor Continental town I have forgotten, +hangs a picture that lives with me. The painting I cannot +recall, whether good or bad; artists must forgive me for +remembering only the subject. It shows a man, crucified by +the roadside. No martyr he. If ever a man deserved +hanging it was this one. So much the artist has made +clear. The face, even under its mask of agony, is an evil, +treacherous face. A peasant girl clings to the cross; she +stands tip-toe upon a patient donkey, straining her face upward +for the half-dead man to stoop and kiss her lips.</p> +<p>Thief, coward, blackguard, they are stamped upon his face, but +<i>under</i> the face, under the evil outside? Is there no +remnant of manhood—nothing tender, nothing, true? A +woman has crept to the cross to kiss him: no evidence in his +favour, my Lord? Love is blind-aye, to our faults. +Heaven help us all; Love’s eyes would be sore indeed if it +were not so. But for the good that is in us her eyes are +keen. You, crucified blackguard, stand forth. A +hundred witnesses have given their evidence against you. +Are there none to give evidence for him? A woman, great +Judge, who loved him. Let her speak.</p> +<p>But I am wandering far from Hyde Park and its show of +girls.</p> +<p>They passed and re-passed me, laughing, smiling, +talking. Their eyes were bright with merry thoughts; their +voices soft and musical. They were pleased, and they wanted +to please. Some were married, some had evidently reasonable +expectations of being married; the rest hoped to be. And +we, myself, and some ten thousand other young men. I repeat +it—myself and some ten thousand other young men; for who +among us ever thinks of himself but as a young man? It is +the world that ages, not we. The children cease their +playing and grow grave, the lasses’ eyes are dimmer. +The hills are a little steeper, the milestones, surely, further +apart. The songs the young men sing are less merry than the +songs we used to sing. The days have grown a little colder, +the wind a little keener. The wine has lost its flavour +somewhat; the new humour is not like the old. The other +boys are becoming dull and prosy; but we are not changed. +It is the world that is growing old. Therefore, I brave +your thoughtless laughter, youthful Reader, and repeat that we, +myself and some ten thousand other young men, walked among these +sweet girls; and, using our boyish eyes, were fascinated, +charmed, and captivated. How delightful to spend our lives +with them, to do little services for them that would call up +these bright smiles. How pleasant to jest with them, and +hear their flute-like laughter, to console them and read their +grateful eyes. Really life is a pleasant thing, and the +idea of marriage undoubtedly originated in the brain of a kindly +Providence.</p> +<p>We smiled back at them, and we made way for them; we rose from +our chairs with a polite, “Allow me, miss,” +“Don’t mention it, I prefer standing.” +“It is a delightful evening, is it not?” And +perhaps—for what harm was there?—we dropped into +conversation with these chance fellow-passengers upon the stream +of life. There were those among us—bold daring +spirits—who even went to the length of mild +flirtation. Some of us knew some of them, and in such happy +case there followed interchange of pretty pleasantries. +Your English middle-class young man and woman are not adepts at +the game of flirtation. I will confess that our methods +were, perhaps, elephantine, that we may have grown a trifle noisy +as the evening wore on. But we meant no evil; we did but +our best to enjoy ourselves, to give enjoyment, to make the too +brief time, pass gaily.</p> +<p>And then my thoughts travelled to small homes in distant +suburbs, and these bright lads and lasses round me came to look +older and more careworn. But what of that? Are not +old faces sweet when looked at by old eyes a little dimmed by +love, and are not care and toil but the parents of peace and +joy?</p> +<p>But as I drew nearer, I saw that many of the faces were seared +with sour and angry looks, and the voices that rose round me +sounded surly and captious. The pretty compliment and +praise had changed to sneers and scoldings. The dimpled +smile had wrinkled to a frown. There seemed so little +desire to please, so great a determination not to be pleased.</p> +<p>And the flirtations! Ah me, they had forgotten how to +flirt! Oh, the pity of it! All the jests were bitter, +all the little services were given grudgingly. The air +seemed to have grown chilly. A darkness had come over all +things.</p> +<p>And then I awoke to reality, and found I had been sitting in +my chair longer than I had intended. The band-stand was +empty, the sun had set; I rose and made my way home through the +scattered crowd.</p> +<p>Nature is so callous. The Dame irritates one at times by +her devotion to her one idea, the propagation of the species.</p> +<p>“Multiply and be fruitful; let my world be ever more and +more peopled.”</p> +<p>For this she trains and fashions her young girls, models them +with cunning hand, paints them with her wonderful red and white, +crowns them with her glorious hair, teaches them to smile and +laugh, trains their voices into music, sends them out into the +world to captivate, to enslave us.</p> +<p>“See how beautiful she is, my lad,” says the +cunning old woman. “Take her; build your little nest +with her in your pretty suburb; work for her and live for her; +enable her to keep the little ones that I will send.”</p> +<p>And to her, old hundred-breasted Artemis whispers, “Is +he not a bonny lad? See how he loves you, how devoted he is +to you! He will work for you and make you happy; he will +build your home for you. You will be the mother of his +children.”</p> +<p>So we take each other by the hand, full of hope and love, and +from that hour Mother Nature has done with us. Let the +wrinkles come; let our voices grow harsh; let the fire she +lighted in our hearts die out; let the foolish selfishness we +both thought we had put behind us for ever creep back to us, +bringing unkindness and indifference, angry thoughts and cruel +words into our lives. What cares she? She has caught +us, and chained us to her work. She is our universal +mother-in-law. She has done the match-making; for the rest, +she leaves it to ourselves. We can love or we can fight; it +is all one to her, confound her.</p> +<p>I wonder sometimes if good temper might not be taught. +In business we use no harsh language, say no unkind things to one +another. The shopkeeper, leaning across the counter, is all +smiles and affability, he might put up his shutters were he +otherwise. The commercial gent, no doubt, thinks the +ponderous shopwalker an ass, but refrains from telling him +so. Hasty tempers are banished from the City. Can we +not see that it is just as much to our interest to banish them +from Tooting and Hampstead?</p> +<p>The young man who sat in the chair next to me, how carefully +he wrapped the cloak round the shoulders of the little milliner +beside him. And when she said she was tired of sitting +still, how readily he sprang from his chair to walk with her, +though it was evident he was very comfortable where he was. +And she! She had laughed at his jokes; they were not very +clever jokes, they were not very new. She had probably read +them herself months before in her own particular weekly +journal. Yet the harmless humbug made him happy. I +wonder if ten years hence she will laugh at such old humour, if +ten years hence he will take such clumsy pains to put her cape +about her. Experience shakes her head, and is amused at my +question.</p> +<p>I would have evening classes for the teaching of temper to +married couples, only I fear the institution would languish for +lack of pupils. The husbands would recommend their wives to +attend, generously offering to pay the fee as a birthday +present. The wife would be indignant at the suggestion of +good money being thus wasted. “No, John, dear,” +she would unselfishly reply, “you need the lessons more +than I do. It would be a shame for me to take them away +from you,” and they would wrangle upon the subject for the +rest of the day.</p> +<p>Oh! the folly of it. We pack our hamper for life’s +picnic with such pains. We spend so much, we work so +hard. We make choice pies, we cook prime joints, we prepare +so carefully the mayonnaise, we mix with loving hands the salad, +we cram the basket to the lid with every delicacy we can think +of. Everything to make the picnic a success is there except +the salt. Ah! woe is me, we forget the salt. We slave +at our desks, in our workshops, to make a home for those we love; +we give up our pleasures, we give up our rest. We toil in +our kitchen from morning till night, and we render the whole +feast tasteless for want of a ha’porth of salt—for +want of a soupcon of amiability, for want of a handful of kindly +words, a touch of caress, a pinch of courtesy.</p> +<p>Who does not know that estimable housewife, working from eight +till twelve to keep the house in what she calls order? She +is so good a woman, so untiring, so unselfish, so conscientious, +so irritating. Her rooms are so clean, her servants so well +managed, her children so well dressed, her dinners so well +cooked; the whole house so uninviting. Everything about her +is in apple-pie order, and everybody wretched.</p> +<p>My good Madam, you polish your tables, you scour your kettles, +but the most valuable piece of furniture in the whole house you +are letting to rack and ruin for want of a little pains. +You will find it in your own room, my dear Lady, in front of your +own mirror. It is getting shabby and dingy, old-looking +before its time; the polish is rubbed off it, Madam, it is losing +its brightness and charm. Do you remember when he first +brought it home, how proud he was of it? Do you think you +have used it well, knowing how he valued it? A little less +care of your pots and your pans, Madam, a little more of yourself +were wiser. Polish yourself up, Madam; you had a pretty wit +once, a pleasant laugh, a conversation that was not confined +exclusively to the short-comings of servants, the wrong-doings of +tradesmen. My dear Madam, we do not live on spotless linen, +and crumbless carpets. Hunt out that bundle of old letters +you keep tied up in faded ribbon at the back of your bureau +drawer—a pity you don’t read them oftener. He +did not enthuse about your cuffs and collars, gush over the +neatness of your darning. It was your tangled hair he raved +about, your sunny smile (we have not seen it for some years, +Madam—the fault of the Cook and the Butcher, I presume), +your little hands, your rosebud mouth—it has lost its +shape, Madam, of late. Try a little less scolding of Mary +Ann, and practise a laugh once a day: you might get back the +dainty curves. It would be worth trying. It was a +pretty mouth once.</p> +<p>Who invented that mischievous falsehood that the way to a +man’s heart was through his stomach? How many a silly +woman, taking it for truth, has let love slip out of the parlour, +while she was busy in the kitchen. Of course, if you were +foolish enough to marry a pig, I suppose you must be content to +devote your life to the preparation of hog’s-wash. +But are you sure that he <i>is</i> a pig? If by any chance +he be not?—then, Madam, you are making a grievous +mistake. My dear Lady, you are too modest. If I may +say so without making you unduly conceited, even at the +dinner-table itself, you are of much more importance than the +mutton. Courage, Madam, be not afraid to tilt a lance even +with your own cook. You can be more piquant than the sauce +<i>à la Tartare</i>, more soothing surely than the melted +butter. There was a time when he would not have known +whether he was eating beef or pork with you the other side of the +table. Whose fault is it? Don’t think so poorly +of us. We are not ascetics, neither are we all gourmets: +most of us plain men, fond of our dinner, as a healthy man should +be, but fonder still of our sweethearts and wives, let us +hope. Try us. A moderately-cooked dinner—let us +even say a not-too-well-cooked dinner, with you looking your +best, laughing and talking gaily and cleverly—as you can, +you know—makes a pleasanter meal for us, after the +day’s work is done, than that same dinner, cooked to +perfection, with you silent, jaded, and anxious, your pretty hair +untidy, your pretty face wrinkled with care concerning the sole, +with anxiety regarding the omelette.</p> +<p>My poor Martha, be not troubled about so many things. +<i>You</i> are the one thing needful—if the bricks and +mortar are to be a home. See to it that <i>you</i> are well +served up, that <i>you</i> are done to perfection, that +<i>you</i> are tender and satisfying, that <i>you</i> are worth +sitting down to. We wanted a wife, a comrade, a friend; not +a cook and a nurse on the cheap.</p> +<p>But of what use is it to talk? the world will ever follow its +own folly. When I think of all the good advice that I have +given it, and of the small result achieved, I confess I grow +discouraged. I was giving good advice to a lady only the +other day. I was instructing her as to the proper treatment +of aunts. She was sucking a lead-pencil, a thing I am +always telling her not to do. She took it out of her mouth +to speak.</p> +<p>“I suppose you know how everybody ought to do +everything,” she said.</p> +<p>There are times when it is necessary to sacrifice one’s +modesty to one’s duty.</p> +<p>“Of course I do,” I replied.</p> +<p>“And does Mama know how everybody ought to do +everything?” was the second question.</p> +<p>My conviction on this point was by no means so strong, but for +domestic reasons I again sacrificed myself to expediency.</p> +<p>“Certainly,” I answered; “and take that +pencil out of your mouth. I’ve told you of that +before. You’ll swallow it one day, and then +you’ll get perichondritis and die.”</p> +<p>She appeared to be solving a problem.</p> +<p>“All grown-up people seem to know everything,” she +summarized.</p> +<p>There are times when I doubt if children are as simple as they +look. If it be sheer stupidity that prompts them to make +remarks of this character, one should pity them, and seek to +improve them. But if it be not stupidity? well then, one +should still seek to improve them, but by a different method.</p> +<p>The other morning I overheard the nurse talking to this +particular specimen. The woman is a most worthy creature, +and she was imparting to the child some really sound +advice. She was in the middle of an unexceptional +exhortation concerning the virtue of silence, when Dorothea +interrupted her with—</p> +<p>“Oh, do be quiet, Nurse. I never get a +moment’s peace from your chatter.”</p> +<p>Such an interruption discourages a woman who is trying to do +her duty.</p> +<p>Last Tuesday evening she was unhappy. Myself, I think +that rhubarb should never be eaten before April, and then never +with lemonade. Her mother read her a homily upon the +subject of pain. It was impressed upon her that we must be +patient, that we must put up with the trouble that God sends +us. Dorothea would descend to details, as children +will.</p> +<p>“Must we put up with the cod-liver oil that God sends +us?”</p> +<p>“Yes, decidedly.”</p> +<p>“And with the nurses that God sends us?”</p> +<p>“Certainly; and be thankful that you’ve got them, +some little girls haven’t any nurse. And don’t +talk so much.”</p> +<p>On Friday I found the mother in tears.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Oh, nothing,” was the answer; “only +Baby. She’s such a strange child. I can’t +make her out at all.”</p> +<p>“What has she been up to now?”</p> +<p>“Oh, she will argue, you know.”</p> +<p>She has that failing. I don’t know where she gets +it from, but she’s got it.</p> +<p>“Well?”</p> +<p>“Well, she made me cross; and, to punish her, I told her +she shouldn’t take her doll’s perambulator out with +her.”</p> +<p>“Yes?”</p> +<p>“Well, she didn’t say anything then, but so soon +as I was outside the door, I heard her talking to +herself—you know her way?”</p> +<p>“Yes?”</p> +<p>“She said—”</p> +<p>“Yes, she said?”</p> +<p>“She said, ‘I must be patient. I must put up +with the mother God has sent me.’”</p> +<p>She lunches down-stairs on Sundays. We have her with us +once a week to give her the opportunity of studying manners and +behaviour. Milson had dropped in, and we were discussing +politics. I was interested, and, pushing my plate aside, +leant forward with my elbows on the table. Dorothea has a +habit of talking to herself in a high-pitched whisper capable of +being heard above an Adelphi love scene. I heard her +say—</p> +<p>“I must sit up straight. I mustn’t sprawl +with my elbows on the table. It is only common, vulgar +people behave that way.”</p> +<p>I looked across at her; she was sitting most correctly, and +appeared to be contemplating something a thousand miles +away. We had all of us been lounging! We sat up +stiffly, and conversation flagged.</p> +<p>Of course we made a joke of it after the child was gone. +But somehow it didn’t seem to be <i>our</i> joke.</p> +<p>I wish I could recollect my childhood. I should so like +to know if children are as simple as they can look.</p> +<h2><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>ON +THE DELIGHTS AND BENEFITS OF SLAVERY</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">My</span> study window looks down upon +Hyde Park, and often, to quote the familiar promise of each new +magazine, it amuses and instructs me to watch from my tower the +epitome of human life that passes to and fro beneath. At +the opening of the gates, creeps in the woman of the +streets. Her pitiful work for the time being is over. +Shivering in the chill dawn, she passes to her brief rest. +Poor Slave! Lured to the galley’s lowest deck, then +chained there. Civilization, tricked fool, they say has +need of such. You serve as the dogs of Eastern towns. +But at least, it seems to me, we need not spit on you. Home +to your kennel! Perchance, if the Gods be kind, they may +send you dreams of a cleanly hearth, where you lie with a silver +collar round your neck.</p> +<p>Next comes the labourer—the hewer of wood, the drawer of +water—slouching wearily to his toil; sleep clinging still +about his leaden eyes, his pittance of food carried tied up in a +dish-clout. The first stroke of the hour clangs from Big +Ben. Haste thee, fellow-slave, lest the overseer’s +whip, “Out, we will have no lie-a-beds here,” descend +upon thy patient back.</p> +<p>Later, the artisan, with his bag of tools across his +shoulder. He, too, listens fearfully to the chiming of the +bells. For him also there hangs ready the whip.</p> +<p>After him, the shop boy and the shop girl, making love as they +walk, not to waste time. And after these the slaves of the +desk and of the warehouse, employers and employed, clerks and +tradesmen, office boys and merchants. To your places, +slaves of all ranks. Get you unto your burdens.</p> +<p>Now, laughing and shouting as they run, the children, the sons +and daughters of the slaves. Be industrious, little +children, and learn your lessons, that when the time comes you +may be ready to take from our hands the creaking oar, to slip +into our seat at the roaring loom. For we shall not be +slaves for ever, little children. It is the good law of the +land. So many years in the galleys, so many years in the +fields; then we can claim our freedom. Then we shall go, +little children, back to the land of our birth. And you we +must leave behind us to take up the tale of our work. So, +off to your schools, little children, and learn to be good little +slaves.</p> +<p>Next, pompous and sleek, come the educated +slaves—journalists, doctors, judges, and poets; the +attorney, the artist, the player, the priest. They likewise +scurry across the Park, looking anxiously from time to time at +their watches, lest they be late for their appointments; thinking +of the rates and taxes to be earned, of the bonnets to be paid +for, the bills to be met. The best scourged, perhaps, of +all, these slaves. The cat reserved for them has fifty +tails in place of merely two or three. Work, you higher +middle-class slave, or you shall come down to the smoking of +twopenny cigars; harder yet, or you shall drink shilling claret; +harder, or you shall lose your carriage and ride in a penny bus; +your wife’s frocks shall be of last year’s fashion; +your trousers shall bag at the knees; from Kensington you shall +be banished to Kilburn, if the tale of your bricks run +short. Oh, a many-thonged whip is yours, my genteel +brother.</p> +<p>The slaves of fashion are the next to pass beneath me in +review. They are dressed and curled with infinite +pains. The liveried, pampered footman these, kept more for +show than use; but their senseless tasks none the less labour to +them. Here must they come every day, merry or sad. By +this gravel path and no other must they walk; these phrases shall +they use when they speak to one another. For an hour they +must go slowly up and down upon a bicycle from Hyde Park Corner +to the Magazine and back. And these clothes must they wear; +their gloves of this colour, their neck-ties of this +pattern. In the afternoon they must return again, this time +in a carriage, dressed in another livery, and for an hour they +must pass slowly to and fro in foolish procession. For +dinner they must don yet another livery, and after dinner they +must stand about at dreary social functions till with weariness +and boredom their heads feel dropping from their shoulders.</p> +<p>With the evening come the slaves back from their work: +barristers, thinking out their eloquent appeals; school-boys, +conning their dog-eared grammars; City men, planning their +schemes; the wearers of motley, cudgelling their poor brains for +fresh wit with which to please their master; shop boys and shop +girls, silent now as, together, they plod homeward; the artisan; +the labourer. Two or three hours you shall have to +yourselves, slaves, to think and love and play, if you be not too +tired to think, or love, or play. Then to your litter, that +you may be ready for the morrow’s task.</p> +<p>The twilight deepens into dark; there comes back the woman of +the streets. As the shadows, she rounds the City’s +day. Work strikes its tent. Evil creeps from its +peering place.</p> +<p>So we labour, driven by the whip of necessity, an army of +slaves. If we do not our work, the whip descends upon us; +only the pain we feel in our stomach instead of on our +back. And because of that, we call ourselves free men.</p> +<p>Some few among us bravely struggle to be really free: they are +our tramps and outcasts. We well-behaved slaves shrink from +them, for the wages of freedom in this world are vermin and +starvation. We can live lives worth living only by placing +the collar round our neck.</p> +<p>There are times when one asks oneself: Why this endless +labour? Why this building of houses, this cooking of food, +this making of clothes? Is the ant so much more to be +envied than the grasshopper, because she spends her life in +grubbing and storing, and can spare no time for singing? +Why this complex instinct, driving us to a thousand labours to +satisfy a thousand desires? We have turned the world into a +workshop to provide ourselves with toys. To purchase luxury +we have sold our ease.</p> +<p>Oh, Children of Israel! why were ye not content in your +wilderness? It seems to have been a pattern +wilderness. For you, a simple wholesome food, ready cooked, +was provided. You took no thought for rent and taxes; you +had no poor among you—no poor-rate collectors. You +suffered not from indigestion, nor the hundred ills that follow +over-feeding; an omer for every man was your portion, neither +more nor less. You knew not you had a liver. Doctors +wearied you not with their theories, their physics, and their +bills. You were neither landowners nor leaseholders, +neither shareholders nor debenture holders. The weather and +the market reports troubled you not. The lawyer was unknown +to you; you wanted no advice; you had nought to quarrel about +with your neighbour. No riches were yours for the moth and +rust to damage. Your yearly income and expenditure you knew +would balance to a fraction. Your wife and children were +provided for. Your old age caused you no anxiety; you knew +you would always have enough to live upon in comfort. Your +funeral, a simple and tasteful affair, would be furnished by the +tribe. And yet, poor, foolish child, fresh from the +Egyptian brickfield, you could not rest satisfied. You +hungered for the fleshpots, knowing well what flesh-pots entail: +the cleaning of the flesh-pots, the forging of the flesh-pots, +the hewing of wood to make the fires for the boiling of the +flesh-pots, the breeding of beasts to fill the pots, the growing +of fodder to feed the beasts to fill the pots.</p> +<p>All the labour of our life is centred round our +flesh-pots. On the altar of the flesh-pot we sacrifice our +leisure, our peace of mind. For a mess of pottage we sell +our birthright.</p> +<p>Oh! Children of Israel, saw you not the long punishment you +were preparing for yourselves, when in your wilderness you set up +the image of the Calf, and fell before it, +crying—“This shall be our God.”</p> +<p>You would have veal. Thought you never of the price man +pays for Veal? The servants of the Golden Calf! I see +them, stretched before my eyes, a weary, endless throng. I +see them toiling in the mines, the black sweat on their +faces. I see them in sunless cities, silent, and grimy, and +bent. I see them, ague-twisted, in the rain-soaked +fields. I see them, panting by the furnace doors. I +see them, in loin-cloth and necklace, the load upon their +head. I see them in blue coats and red coats, marching to +pour their blood as an offering on the altar of the Calf. I +see them in homespun and broadcloth, I see them in smock and +gaiters, I see them in cap and apron, the servants of the +Calf. They swarm on the land and they dot the sea. +They are chained to the anvil and counter; they are chained to +the bench and the desk. They make ready the soil, they till +the fields where the Golden Calf is born. They build the +ship, and they sail the ship that carries the Golden Calf. +They fashion the pots, they mould the pans, they carve the +tables, they turn the chairs, they dream of the sauces, they dig +for the salt, they weave the damask, they mould the dish to serve +the Golden Calf.</p> +<p>The work of the world is to this end, that we eat of the +Calf. War and Commerce, Science and Law! what are they but +the four pillars supporting the Golden Calf? He is our +God. It is on his back that we have journeyed from the +primeval forest, where our ancestors ate nuts and fruit. He +is our God. His temple is in every street. His +blue-robed priest stands ever at the door, calling to the people +to worship. Hark! his voice rises on the gas-tainted +air—“Now’s your time! Now’s your +time! Buy! Buy! ye people. Bring hither the +sweat of your brow, the sweat of your brain, the ache of your +heart, buy Veal with it. Bring me the best years of your +life. Bring me your thoughts, your hopes, your loves; ye +shall have Veal for them. Now’s your time! +Now’s your time! Buy! Buy!”</p> +<p>Oh! Children of Israel, was Veal, even with all its trimmings, +quite worth the price?</p> +<p>And we! what wisdom have we learned, during the +centuries? I talked with a rich man only the other +evening. He calls himself a Financier, whatever that may +mean. He leaves his beautiful house, some twenty miles out +of London, at a quarter to eight, summer and winter, after a +hurried breakfast by himself, while his guests still sleep, and +he gets back just in time to dress for an elaborate dinner he +himself is too weary or too preoccupied to more than touch. +If ever he is persuaded to give himself a holiday it is for a +fortnight in Ostend, when it is most crowded and +uncomfortable. He takes his secretary with him, receives +and despatches a hundred telegrams a day, and has a private +telephone, through which he can speak direct to London, brought +up into his bedroom.</p> +<p>I suppose the telephone is really a useful invention. +Business men tell me they wonder how they contrived to conduct +their affairs without it. My own wonder always is, how any +human being with the ordinary passions of his race can conduct +his business, or even himself, creditably, within a hundred yards +of the invention. I can imagine Job, or Griselda, or +Socrates liking to have a telephone about them as exercise. +Socrates, in particular, would have made quite a reputation for +himself out of a three months’ subscription to a +telephone. Myself, I am, perhaps, too sensitive. I +once lived for a month in an office with a telephone, if one +could call it life. I was told that if I had stuck to the +thing for two or three months longer, I should have got used to +it. I know friends of mine, men once fearless and +high-spirited, who now stand in front of their own telephone for +a quarter of an hour at a time, and never so much as answer it +back. They tell me that at first they used to swear and +shout at it as I did; but now their spirit seems crushed. +That is what happens: you either break the telephone, or the +telephone breaks you. You want to see a man two streets +off. You might put on your hat, and be round at his office +in five minutes. You are on the point of starting when the +telephone catches your eye. You think you will ring him up +to make sure he is in. You commence by ringing up some +half-dozen times before anybody takes any notice of you +whatever. You are burning with indignation at this neglect, +and have left the instrument to sit down and pen a stinging +letter of complaint to the Company when the ring-back re-calls +you. You seize the ear trumpets, and shout—</p> +<p>“How is it that I can never get an answer when I +ring? Here have I been ringing for the last +half-hour. I have rung twenty times.” (This is +a falsehood. You have rung only six times, and the +“half-hour” is an absurd exaggeration; but you feel +the mere truth would not be adequate to the occasion.) +“I think it disgraceful,” you continue, “and I +shall complain to the Company. What is the use of my having +a telephone if I can’t get any answer when I ring? +Here I pay a large sum for having this thing, and I can’t +get any notice taken. I’ve been ringing all the +morning. Why is it?”</p> +<p>Then you wait for the answer.</p> +<p>“What—what do you say? I can’t hear +what you say.”</p> +<p>“I say I’ve been ringing here for over an hour, +and I can’t get any reply,” you call back. +“I shall complain to the Company.”</p> +<p>“You want what? Don’t stand so near the +tube. I can’t hear what you say. What +number?”</p> +<p>“Bother the number; I say why is it I don’t get an +answer when I ring?”</p> +<p>“Eight hundred and what?”</p> +<p>You can’t argue any more, after that. The machine +would give way under the language you want to make use of. +Half of what you feel would probably cause an explosion at some +point where the wire was weak. Indeed, mere language of any +kind would fall short of the requirements of the case. A +hatchet and a gun are the only intermediaries through which you +could convey your meaning by this time. So you give up all +attempt to answer back, and meekly mention that you want to be +put in communication with four-five-seven-six.</p> +<p>“Four-nine-seven-six?” says the girl.</p> +<p>“No; four-five-seven-six.”</p> +<p>“Did you say seven-six or six-seven?”</p> +<p>“Six-seven—no! I mean seven-six: +no—wait a minute. I don’t know what I do mean +now.”</p> +<p>“Well, I wish you’d find out,” says the +young lady severely. “You are keeping me here all the +morning.”</p> +<p>So you look up the number in the book again, and at last she +tells you that you are in connection; and then, ramming the +trumpet tight against your ear, you stand waiting.</p> +<p>And if there is one thing more than another likely to make a +man feel ridiculous it is standing on tip-toe in a corner, +holding a machine to his head, and listening intently to +nothing. Your back aches and your head aches, your very +hair aches. You hear the door open behind you and somebody +enter the room. You can’t turn your head. You +swear at them, and hear the door close with a bang. It +immediately occurs to you that in all probability it was +Henrietta. She promised to call for you at half-past +twelve: you were to take her to lunch. It was twelve +o’clock when you were fool enough to mix yourself up with +this infernal machine, and it probably is half-past twelve by +now. Your past life rises before you, accompanied by dim +memories of your grandmother. You are wondering how much +longer you can bear the strain of this attitude, and whether +after all you do really want to see the man in the next street +but two, when the girl in the exchange-room calls up to know if +you’re done.</p> +<p>“Done!” you retort bitterly; “why, I +haven’t begun yet.”</p> +<p>“Well, be quick,” she says, “because +you’re wasting time.”</p> +<p>Thus admonished, you attack the thing again. +“<i>Are</i> you there?” you cry in tones that ought +to move the heart of a Charity Commissioner; and then, oh joy! oh +rapture! you hear a faint human voice replying—</p> +<p>“Yes, what is it?”</p> +<p>“Oh! Are you four-five-seven-six?”</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“Are you four-five-seven-six, Williamson?”</p> +<p>“What! who are you?”</p> +<p>“Eight-one-nine, Jones.”</p> +<p>“Bones?”</p> +<p>“No, <i>J</i>ones. Are you +four-five-seven-six?”</p> +<p>“Yes; what is it?”</p> +<p>“Is Mr. Williamson in?”</p> +<p>“Will I what—who are you?”</p> +<p>“Jones! Is Mr. Williamson in?”</p> +<p>“Who?”</p> +<p>“Williamson. Will-i-am-son!”</p> +<p>“You’re the son of what? I can’t hear +what you say.”</p> +<p>Then you gather yourself for one final effort, and succeed, by +superhuman patience, in getting the fool to understand that you +wish to know if Mr. Williamson is in, and he says, so it sounds +to you, “Be in all the morning.”</p> +<p>So you snatch up your hat and run round.</p> +<p>“Oh, I’ve come to see Mr. Williamson,” you +say.</p> +<p>“Very sorry, sir,” is the polite reply, “but +he’s out.”</p> +<p>“Out? Why, you just now told me through the +telephone that he’d be in all the morning.”</p> +<p>“No, I said, he ‘<i>won’t</i> be in all the +morning.’”</p> +<p>You go back to the office, and sit down in front of that +telephone and look at it. There it hangs, calm and +imperturbable. Were it an ordinary instrument, that would +be its last hour. You would go straight down-stairs, get +the coal-hammer and the kitchen-poker, and divide it into +sufficient pieces to give a bit to every man in London. But +you feel nervous of these electrical affairs, and there is a +something about that telephone, with its black hole and curly +wires, that cows you. You have a notion that if you +don’t handle it properly something may come and shock you, +and then there will be an inquest, and bother of that sort, so +you only curse it.</p> +<p>That is what happens when you want to use the telephone from +your end. But that is not the worst that the telephone can +do. A sensible man, after a little experience, can learn to +leave the thing alone. Your worst troubles are not of your +own making. You are working against time; you have given +instructions not to be disturbed. Perhaps it is after +lunch, and you are thinking with your eyes closed, so that your +thoughts shall not be distracted by the objects about the +room. In either case you are anxious not to leave your +chair, when off goes that telephone bell and you spring from your +chair, uncertain, for the moment, whether you have been shot, or +blown up with dynamite. It occurs to you in your weakness +that if you persist in taking no notice, they will get tired, and +leave you alone. But that is not their method. The +bell rings violently at ten-second intervals. You have +nothing to wrap your head up in. You think it will be +better to get this business over and done with. You go to +your fate and call back savagely—</p> +<p>“What is it? What do you want?”</p> +<p>No answer, only a confused murmur, prominent out of which come +the voices of two men swearing at one another. The language +they are making use of is disgraceful. The telephone seems +peculiarly adapted for the conveyance of blasphemy. +Ordinary language sounds indistinct through it; but every word +those two men are saying can be heard by all the telephone +subscribers in London.</p> +<p>It is useless attempting to listen till they have done. +When they are exhausted, you apply to the tube again. No +answer is obtainable. You get mad, and become sarcastic; +only being sarcastic when you are not sure that anybody is at the +other end to hear you is unsatisfying.</p> +<p>At last, after a quarter of an hour or so of saying, +“Are you there?” “Yes, I’m +here,” “Well?” the young lady at the +Exchange asks what you want.</p> +<p>“I don’t want anything,” you reply.</p> +<p>“Then why do you keep talking?” she retorts; +“you mustn’t play with the thing.”</p> +<p>This renders you speechless with indignation for a while, upon +recovering from which you explain that somebody rang you up.</p> +<p>“<i>Who</i> rang you up?” she asks.</p> +<p>“I don’t know.”</p> +<p>“I wish you did,” she observes.</p> +<p>Generally disgusted, you slam the trumpet up and return to +your chair. The instant you are seated the bell clangs +again; and you fly up and demand to know what the thunder they +want, and who the thunder they are.</p> +<p>“Don’t speak so loud, we can’t hear +you. What do you want?” is the answer.</p> +<p>“I don’t want anything. What do you +want? Why do you ring me up, and then not answer me? +Do leave me alone, if you can!”</p> +<p>“We can’t get Hong Kongs at +seventy-four.”</p> +<p>“Well, I don’t care if you can’t.”</p> +<p>“Would you like Zulus?”</p> +<p>“What are you talking about?” you reply; “I +don’t know what you mean.”</p> +<p>“Would you like Zulus—Zulus at seventy-three and a +half?”</p> +<p>“I wouldn’t have ’em at six a penny. +What are you talking about?”</p> +<p>“Hong Kongs—we can’t get them at +seventy-four. Oh, half-a-minute” (the half-a-minute +passes). “Are you there?”</p> +<p>“Yes, but you are talking to the wrong man.”</p> +<p>“We can get you Hong Kongs at seventy-four and +seven-eights.”</p> +<p>“Bother Hong Kongs, and you too. I tell you, you +are talking to the wrong man. I’ve told you +once.”</p> +<p>“Once what?”</p> +<p>“Why, that I am the wrong man—I mean that you are +talking to the wrong man.”</p> +<p>“Who are you?”</p> +<p>“Eight-one-nine, Jones.”</p> +<p>“Oh, aren’t you one-nine-eight?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Oh, good-bye.”</p> +<p>“Good-bye.”</p> +<p>How can a man after that sit down and write pleasantly of the +European crisis? And, if it were needed, herein lies +another indictment against the telephone. I was engaged in +an argument, which, if not in itself serious, was at least +concerned with a serious enough subject, the unsatisfactory +nature of human riches; and from that highly moral discussion +have I been lured, by the accidental sight of the word +“telephone,” into the writing of matter which can +have the effect only of exciting to frenzy all critics of the New +Humour into whose hands, for their sins, this book may +come. Let me forget my transgression and return to my +sermon, or rather to the sermon of my millionaire +acquaintance.</p> +<p>It was one day after dinner, we sat together in his +magnificently furnished dining-room. We had lighted our +cigars at the silver lamp. The butler had withdrawn.</p> +<p>“These cigars we are smoking,” my friend suddenly +remarked, <i>à propos</i> apparently of nothing, +“they cost me five shillings apiece, taking them by the +thousand.”</p> +<p>“I can quite believe it,” I answered; “they +are worth it.”</p> +<p>“Yes, to you,” he replied, almost savagely. +“What do you usually pay for your cigars?”</p> +<p>We had known each other years ago. When I first met him +his offices consisted of a back room up three flights of stairs +in a dingy by-street off the Strand, which has since +disappeared. We occasionally dined together, in those days, +at a restaurant in Great Portland Street, for one and nine. +Our acquaintanceship was of sufficient standing to allow of such +a question.</p> +<p>“Threepence,” I answered. “They work +out at about twopence three-farthings by the box.”</p> +<p>“Just so,” he growled; “and your +twopenny-three-farthing weed gives you precisely the same amount +of satisfaction that this five shilling cigar affords me. +That means four and ninepence farthing wasted every time I +smoke. I pay my cook two hundred a year. I +don’t enjoy my dinner as much as when it cost me four +shillings, including a quarter flask of Chianti. What is +the difference, personally, to me whether I drive to my office in +a carriage and pair, or in an omnibus? I often do ride in a +bus: it saves trouble. It is absurd wasting time looking +for one’s coachman, when the conductor of an omnibus that +passes one’s door is hailing one a few yards off. +Before I could afford even buses—when I used to walk every +morning to the office from Hammersmith—I was +healthier. It irritates me to think how hard I work for no +earthly benefit to myself. My money pleases a lot of people +I don’t care two straws about, and who are only my friends +in the hope of making something out of me. If I could eat a +hundred-guinea dinner myself every night, and enjoy it four +hundred times as much as I used to enjoy a five-shilling dinner, +there would be some sense in it. Why do I do it?”</p> +<p>I had never heard him talk like this before. In his +excitement he rose from the table, and commenced pacing the +room.</p> +<p>“Why don’t I invest my money in the two and a half +per cents?” he continued. “At the very worst I +should be safe for five thousand a year. What, in the name +of common sense, does a man want with more? I am always +saying to myself, I’ll do it; why don’t I?</p> +<p>“Well, why not?” I echoed.</p> +<p>“That’s what I want you to tell me,” he +returned. “You set up for understanding human nature, +it’s a mystery to me. In my place, you would do as I +do; you know that. If somebody left you a hundred thousand +pounds to-morrow, you would start a newspaper, or build a +theatre—some damn-fool trick for getting rid of the money +and giving yourself seventeen hours’ anxiety a day; you +know you would.”</p> +<p>I hung my head in shame. I felt the justice of the +accusation. It has always been my dream to run a newspaper +and own a theatre.</p> +<p>“If we worked only for what we could spend,” he +went on, “the City might put up its shutters to-morrow +morning. What I want to get at the bottom of is this +instinct that drives us to work apparently for work’s own +sake. What is this strange thing that gets upon our back +and spurs us?”</p> +<p>A servant entered at that moment with a cablegram from the +manager of one of his Austrian mines, and he had to leave me for +his study. But, walking home, I fell to pondering on his +words. <i>Why</i> this endless work? Why each morning +do we get up and wash and dress ourselves, to undress ourselves +at night and go to bed again? Why do we work merely to earn +money to buy food; and eat food so as to gain strength that we +may work? Why do we live, merely in the end to say good-bye +to one another? Why do we labour to bring children into the +world that they may die and be buried?</p> +<p>Of what use our mad striving, our passionate desire? +Will it matter to the ages whether, once upon a time, the Union +Jack or the Tricolour floated over the battlements of +Badajoz? Yet we poured our blood into its ditches to decide +the question. Will it matter, in the days when the glacial +period shall have come again, to clothe the earth with silence, +whose foot first trod the Pole? Yet, generation after +generation, we mile its roadway with our whitening bones. +So very soon the worms come to us; does it matter whether we +love, or hate? Yet the hot blood rushes through our veins, +we wear out heart and brain for shadowy hopes that ever fade as +we press forward.</p> +<p>The flower struggles up from seed-pod, draws the sweet sap +from the ground, folds its petals each night, and sleeps. +Then love comes to it in a strange form, and it longs to mingle +its pollen with the pollen of some other flower. So it puts +forth its gay blossoms, and the wandering insect bears the +message from seed-pod to seed-pod. And the seasons pass, +bringing with them the sunshine and the rain, till the flower +withers, never having known the real purpose for which it lived, +thinking the garden was made for it, not it for the garden. +The coral insect dreams in its small soul, which is possibly its +small stomach, of home and food. So it works and strives +deep down in the dark waters, never knowing of the continents it +is fashioning.</p> +<p>But the question still remains: for what purpose is it +all? Science explains it to us. By ages of strife and +effort we improve the race; from ether, through the monkey, man +is born. So, through the labour of the coming ages, he will +free himself still further from the brute. Through sorrow +and through struggle, by the sweat of brain and brow, he will +lift himself towards the angels. He will come into his +kingdom.</p> +<p>But why the building? Why the passing of the countless +ages? Why should he not have been born the god he is to be, +imbued at birth with all the capabilities his ancestors have died +acquiring? Why the Pict and Hun that <i>I</i> may be? +Why <i>I</i>, that a descendant of my own, to whom I shall seem a +savage, shall come after me? Why, if the universe be +ordered by a Creator to whom all things are possible, the +protoplasmic cell? Why not the man that is to be? +Shall all the generations be so much human waste that he may +live? Am I but another layer of the soil preparing for +him?</p> +<p>Or, if our future be in other spheres, then why the need of +this planet? Are we labouring at some Work too vast for us +to perceive? Are our passions and desires mere whips and +traces by the help of which we are driven? Any theory seems +more hopeful than the thought that all our eager, fretful lives +are but the turning of a useless prison crank. Looking back +the little distance that our dim eyes can penetrate the past, +what do we find? Civilizations, built up with infinite +care, swept aside and lost. Beliefs for which men lived and +died, proved to be mockeries. Greek Art crushed to the dust +by Gothic bludgeons. Dreams of fraternity, drowned in blood +by a Napoleon. What is left to us, but the hope that the +work itself, not the result, is the real monument? Maybe, +we are as children, asking, “Of what use are these +lessons? What good will they ever be to us?” +But there comes a day when the lad understands why he learnt +grammar and geography, when even dates have a meaning for +him. But this is not until he has left school, and gone out +into the wider world. So, perhaps, when we are a little +more grown up, we too may begin to understand the reason for our +living.</p> +<h2><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>ON +THE CARE AND MANAGEMENT OF WOMEN</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">talked</span> to a woman once on the +subject of honeymoons. I said, “Would you recommend a +long honeymoon, or a Saturday to Monday somewhere?” A +silence fell upon her. I gathered she was looking back +rather than forward to her answer.</p> +<p>“I would advise a long honeymoon,” she replied at +length, “the old-fashioned month.”</p> +<p>“Why,” I persisted, “I thought the tendency +of the age was to cut these things shorter and +shorter.”</p> +<p>“It is the tendency of the age,” she answered, +“to seek escape from many things it would be wiser to +face. I think myself that, for good or evil, the sooner it +is over—the sooner both the man and the woman +know—the better.”</p> +<p>“The sooner what is over?” I asked.</p> +<p>If she had a fault, this woman, about which I am not sure, it +was an inclination towards enigma.</p> +<p>She crossed to the window and stood there, looking out.</p> +<p>“Was there not a custom,” she said, still gazing +down into the wet, glistening street, “among one of the +ancient peoples, I forget which, ordaining that when a man and +woman, loving one another, or thinking that they loved, had been +joined together, they should go down upon their wedding night to +the temple? And into the dark recesses of the temple, +through many winding passages, the priest led them until they +came to the great chamber where dwelt the voice of their +god. There the priest left them, clanging-to the massive +door behind him, and there, alone in silence, they made their +sacrifice; and in the night the Voice spoke to them, showing them +their future life—whether they had chosen well; whether +their love would live or die. And in the morning the priest +returned and led them back into the day; and they dwelt among +their fellows. But no one was permitted to question them, +nor they to answer should any do so. Well, do you know, our +nineteenth-century honeymoon at Brighton, Switzerland, or +Ramsgate, as the choice or necessity may be, always seems to me +merely another form of that night spent alone in the temple +before the altar of that forgotten god. Our young men and +women marry, and we kiss them and congratulate them; and, +standing on the doorstep, throw rice and old slippers, and shout +good wishes after them; and he waves his gloved hand to us, and +she flutters her little handkerchief from the carriage window; +and we watch their smiling faces and hear their laughter until +the corner hides them from our view. Then we go about our +own business, and a short time passes by; and one day we meet +them again, and their faces have grown older and graver; and I +always wonder what the Voice has told them during that little +while that they have been absent from our sight. But of +course it would not do to ask them. Nor would they answer +truly if we did.”</p> +<p>My friend laughed, and, leaving the window, took her place +beside the tea-things, and other callers dropping in, we fell to +talk of pictures, plays, and people.</p> +<p>But I felt it would be unwise to act on her sole advice, much +as I have always valued her opinion.</p> +<p>A woman takes life too seriously. It is a serious affair +to most of us, the Lord knows. That is why it is well not +to take it more seriously than need be.</p> +<p>Little Jack and little Jill fall down the hill, hurting their +little knees, and their little noses, spilling the hard-earned +water. We are very philosophical.</p> +<p>“Oh, don’t cry!” we tell them, “that +is babyish. Little boys and little girls must learn to bear +pain. Up you get, fill the pail again, and try once +more.”</p> +<p>Little Jack and little Jill rub their dirty knuckles into +their little eyes, looking ruefully at their bloody little knees, +and trot back with the pail. We laugh at them, but not +ill-naturedly.</p> +<p>“Poor little souls,” we say; “how they did +hullabaloo. One might have thought they were +half-killed. And it was only a broken crown, after +all. What a fuss children make!” We bear with +much stoicism the fall of little Jack and little Jill.</p> +<p>But when <i>we</i>—grown-up Jack with moustache turning +grey; grown-up Jill with the first faint “crow’s +feet” showing—when <i>we</i> tumble down the hill, +and <i>our</i> pail is spilt. Ye Heavens! what a tragedy +has happened. Put out the stars, turn off the sun, suspend +the laws of nature. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill, coming down the +hill—what they were doing on the hill we will not +inquire—have slipped over a stone, placed there surely by +the evil powers of the universe. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill +have bumped their silly heads. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill have +hurt their little hearts, and stand marvelling that the world can +go about its business in the face of such disaster.</p> +<p>Don’t take the matter quite so seriously, Jack and +Jill. You have spilled your happiness, you must toil up the +hill again and refill the pail. Carry it more carefully +next time. What were you doing? Playing some +fool’s trick, I’ll be bound.</p> +<p>A laugh and a sigh, a kiss and good-bye, is our life. Is +it worth so much fretting? It is a merry life on the +whole. Courage, comrade. A campaign cannot be all +drum and fife and stirrup-cup. The marching and the +fighting must come into it somewhere. There are pleasant +bivouacs among the vineyards, merry nights around the camp +fires. White hands wave a welcome to us; bright eyes dim at +our going. Would you run from the battle-music? What +have you to complain of? Forward: the medal to some, the +surgeon’s knife to others; to all of us, sooner or later, +six feet of mother earth. What are you afraid of? +Courage, comrade.</p> +<p>There is a mean between basking through life with the smiling +contentment of the alligator, and shivering through it with the +aggressive sensibility of the Lama determined to die at every +cross word. To bear it as a man we must also feel it as a +man. My philosophic friend, seek not to comfort a brother +standing by the coffin of his child with the cheery suggestion +that it will be all the same a hundred years hence, because, for +one thing, the observation is not true: the man is changed for +all eternity—possibly for the better, but don’t add +that. A soldier with a bullet in his neck is never quite +the man he was. But he can laugh and he can talk, drink his +wine and ride his horse. Now and again, towards evening, +when the weather is trying, the sickness will come upon +him. You will find him on a couch in a dark corner.</p> +<p>“Hallo! old fellow, anything up?”</p> +<p>“Oh, just a twinge, the old wound, you know. I +will be better in a little while.”</p> +<p>Shut the door of the dark room quietly. I should not +stay even to sympathize with him if I were you. The men +will be coming to screw the coffin down soon. I think he +would like to be alone with it till then. Let us leave +him. He will come back to the club later on in the +season. For a while we may have to give him another ten +points or so, but he will soon get back his old form. Now +and again, when he meets the other fellows’ boys shouting +on the towing-path; when Brown rushes up the drive, paper in +hand, to tell him how that young scapegrace Jim has won his +Cross; when he is congratulating Jones’s eldest on having +passed with honours, the old wound may give him a nasty +twinge. But the pain will pass away. He will laugh at +our stories and tell us his own; eat his dinner, play his +rubber. It is only a wound.</p> +<p>Tommy can never be ours, Jenny does not love us. We +cannot afford claret, so we will have to drink beer. Well, +what would you have us do? Yes, let us curse Fate by all +means—some one to curse is always useful. Let us cry +and wring our hands—for how long? The dinner-bell +will ring soon, and the Smiths are coming. We shall have to +talk about the opera and the picture-galleries. Quick, +where is the eau-de-Cologne? where are the curling-tongs? +Or would you we committed suicide? Is it worth while? +Only a few more years—perhaps to-morrow, by aid of a piece +of orange peel or a broken chimney-pot—and Fate will save +us all that trouble.</p> +<p>Or shall we, as sulky children, mope day after day? We +are a broken-hearted little Jack—little Jill. We will +never smile again; we will pine away and die, and be buried in +the spring. The world is sad, and life so cruel, and heaven +so cold. Oh dear! oh dear! we have hurt ourselves.</p> +<p>We whimper and whine at every pain. In old strong days +men faced real dangers, real troubles every hour; they had no +time to cry. Death and disaster stood ever at the +door. Men were contemptuous of them. Now in each snug +protected villa we set to work to make wounds out of +scratches. Every head-ache becomes an agony, every +heart-ache a tragedy. It took a murdered father, a drowned +sweetheart, a dishonoured mother, a ghost, and a slaughtered +Prime Minister to produce the emotions in Hamlet that a modern +minor poet obtains from a chorus girl’s frown, or a +temporary slump on the Stock Exchange. Like Mrs. Gummidge, +we feel it more. The lighter and easier life gets the more +seriously we go out to meet it. The boatmen of Ulysses +faced the thunder and the sunshine alike with frolic +welcome. We modern sailors have grown more sensitive. +The sunshine scorches us, the rain chills us. We meet both +with loud self-pity.</p> +<p>Thinking these thoughts, I sought a second friend—a man +whose breezy common-sense has often helped me, and him likewise I +questioned on this subject of honeymoons.</p> +<p>“My dear boy,” he replied; “take my advice, +if ever you get married, arrange it so that the honeymoon shall +only last a week, and let it be a bustling week into the +bargain. Take a Cook’s circular tour. Get +married on the Saturday morning, cut the breakfast and all that +foolishness, and catch the eleven-ten from Charing Cross to +Paris. Take her up the Eiffel Tower on Sunday. Lunch +at Fontainebleau. Dine at the Maison Doree, and show her +the Moulin Rouge in the evening. Take the night train for +Lucerne. Devote Monday and Tuesday to doing Switzerland, +and get into Rome by Thursday morning, taking the Italian lakes +<i>en route</i>. On Friday cross to Marseilles, and from +there push along to Monte Carlo. Let her have a flutter at +the tables. Start early Saturday morning for Spain, cross +the Pyrenees on mules, and rest at Bordeaux on Sunday. Get +back to Paris on Monday (Monday is always a good day for the +opera), and on Tuesday evening you will be at home, and glad to +get there. Don’t give her time to criticize you until +she has got used to you. No man will bear unprotected +exposure to a young girl’s eyes. The honeymoon is the +matrimonial microscope. Wobble it. Confuse it with +many objects. Cloud it with other interests. +Don’t sit still to be examined. Besides, remember +that a man always appears at his best when active, and a woman at +her worst. Bustle her, my dear boy, bustle her: I +don’t care who she may be. Give her plenty of luggage +to look after; make her catch trains. Let her see the +average husband sprawling comfortably over the railway cushions, +while his wife has to sit bolt upright in the corner left to +her. Let her hear how other men swear. Let her smell +other men’s tobacco. Hurry up, and get her accustomed +quickly to the sight of mankind. Then she will be less +surprised and shocked as she grows to know you. One of the +best fellows I ever knew spoilt his married life beyond repair by +a long quiet honeymoon. They went off for a month to a +lonely cottage in some heaven-forsaken spot, where never a soul +came near them, and never a thing happened but morning, +afternoon, and night. There for thirty days she overhauled +him. When he yawned—and he yawned pretty often, I +guess, during that month—she thought of the size of his +mouth, and when he put his heels upon the fender she sat and +brooded upon the shape of his feet. At meal-time, not +feeling hungry herself, having nothing to do to make her hungry, +she would occupy herself with watching him eat; and at night, not +feeling sleepy for the same reason, she would lie awake and +listen to his snoring. After the first day or two he grew +tired of talking nonsense, and she of listening to it (it sounded +nonsense now they could speak it aloud; they had fancied it +poetry when they had had to whisper it); and having no other +subject, as yet, of common interest, they would sit and stare in +front of them in silence. One day some trifle irritated him +and he swore. On a busy railway platform, or in a crowded +hotel, she would have said, ‘Oh!’ and they would both +have laughed. From that echoing desert the silly words rose +up in widening circles towards the sky, and that night she cried +herself to sleep. Bustle them, my dear boy, bustle +them. We all like each other better the less we think about +one another, and the honeymoon is an exceptionally critical +time. Bustle her, my dear boy, bustle her.”</p> +<p>My very worst honeymoon experience took place in the South of +England in eighteen hundred and—well, never mind the exact +date, let us say a few years ago. I was a shy young man at +that time. Many complain of my reserve to this day, but +then some girls expect too much from a man. We all have our +shortcomings. Even then, however, I was not so shy as +she. We had to travel from Lyndhurst in the New Forest to +Ventnor, an awkward bit of cross-country work in those days.</p> +<p>“It’s so fortunate you are going too,” said +her aunt to me on the Tuesday; “Minnie is always nervous +travelling alone. You will be able to look after her, and I +shan’t be anxious.”</p> +<p>I said it would be a pleasure, and at the time I honestly +thought it. On the Wednesday I went down to the coach +office, and booked two places for Lymington, from where we took +the steamer. I had not a suspicion of trouble.</p> +<p>The booking-clerk was an elderly man. He said—</p> +<p>“I’ve got the box seat, and the end place on the +back bench.”</p> +<p>I said—</p> +<p>“Oh, can’t I have two together?”</p> +<p>He was a kindly-looking old fellow. He winked at +me. I wondered all the way home why he had winked at +me. He said—</p> +<p>“I’ll manage it somehow.”</p> +<p>I said—</p> +<p>“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure.”</p> +<p>He laid his hand on my shoulder. He struck me as +familiar, but well-intentioned. He said—</p> +<p>“We have all of us been there.”</p> +<p>I thought he was alluding to the Isle of Wight. I +said—</p> +<p>“And this is the best time of the year for it, so +I’m told.” It was early summer time.</p> +<p>He said—“It’s all right in summer, and +it’s good enough in winter—<i>while it +lasts</i>. You make the most of it, young ’un;” +and he slapped me on the back and laughed.</p> +<p>He would have irritated me in another minute. I paid for +the seats and left him.</p> +<p>At half-past eight the next morning Minnie and I started for +the coach-office. I call her Minnie, not with any wish to +be impertinent, but because I have forgotten her surname. +It must be ten years since I last saw her. She was a pretty +girl, too, with those brown eyes that always cloud before they +laugh. Her aunt did not drive down with us as she had +intended, in consequence of a headache. She was good enough +to say she felt every confidence in me.</p> +<p>The old booking-clerk caught sight of us when we were about a +quarter of a mile away, and drew to us the attention of the +coachman, who communicated the fact of our approach to the +gathered passengers. Everybody left off talking, and waited +for us. The boots seized his horn, and blew—one could +hardly call it a blast; it would be difficult to say what he +blew. He put his heart into it, but not sufficient +wind. I think his intention was to welcome us, but it +suggested rather a feeble curse. We learnt subsequently +that he was a beginner on the instrument.</p> +<p>In some mysterious way the whole affair appeared to be our +party. The booking-clerk bustled up and helped Minnie from +the cart. I feared, for a moment, he was going to kiss +her. The coachman grinned when I said good-morning to +him. The passengers grinned, the boots grinned. Two +chamber-maids and a waiter came out from the hotel, and they +grinned. I drew Minnie aside, and whispered to her. I +said—</p> +<p>“There’s something funny about us. All these +people are grinning.”</p> +<p>She walked round me, and I walked round her, but we could +neither of us discover anything amusing about the other. +The booking-clerk said—</p> +<p>“It’s all right. I’ve got you young +people two places just behind the box-seat. We’ll +have to put five of you on that seat. You won’t mind +sitting a bit close, will you?”</p> +<p>The booking-clerk winked at the coachman, the coachman winked +at the passengers, the passengers winked at one +another—those of them who could wink—and everybody +laughed. The two chamber-maids became hysterical, and had +to cling to each other for support. With the exception of +Minnie and myself, it seemed to be the merriest coach party ever +assembled at Lyndhurst.</p> +<p>We had taken our places, and I was still busy trying to fathom +the joke, when a stout lady appeared on the scene, and demanded +to know her place.</p> +<p>The clerk explained to her that it was in the middle behind +the driver.</p> +<p>“We’ve had to put five of you on that seat,” +added the clerk.</p> +<p>The stout lady looked at the seat.</p> +<p>“Five of us can’t squeeze into that,” she +said.</p> +<p>Five of her certainly could not. Four ordinary sized +people with her would find it tight.</p> +<p>“Very well then,” said the clerk, “you can +have the end place on the back seat.”</p> +<p>“Nothing of the sort,” said the stout lady. +“I booked my seat on Monday, and you told me any of the +front places were vacant.</p> +<p>“<i>I’ll</i> take the back place,” I said, +“I don’t mind it.</p> +<p>“You stop where you are, young ’un,” said +the clerk, firmly, “and don’t be a fool. +I’ll fix <i>her</i>.”</p> +<p>I objected to his language, but his tone was kindness +itself.</p> +<p>“Oh, let <i>me</i> have the back seat,” said +Minnie, rising, “I’d so like it.”</p> +<p>For answer the coachman put both his hands on her +shoulders. He was a heavy man, and she sat down again.</p> +<p>“Now then, mum,” said the clerk, addressing the +stout lady, “are you going up there in the middle, or are +you coming up here at the back?”</p> +<p>“But why not let one of them take the back seat?” +demanded the stout lady, pointing her reticule at Minnie and +myself; “they say they’d like it. Let them have +it.”</p> +<p>The coachman rose, and addressed his remarks generally.</p> +<p>“Put her up at the back, or leave her behind,” he +directed. “Man and wife have never been separated on +this coach since I started running it fifteen year ago, and they +ain’t going to be now.”</p> +<p>A general cheer greeted this sentiment. The stout lady, +now regarded as a would-be blighter of love’s young dream, +was hustled into the back seat, the whip cracked, and away we +rolled.</p> +<p>So here was the explanation. We were in a honeymoon +district, in June—the most popular month in the whole year +for marriage. Every two out of three couples found +wandering about the New Forest in June are honeymoon couples; the +third are going to be. When they travel anywhere it is to +the Isle of Wight. We both had on new clothes. Our +bags happened to be new. By some evil chance our very +umbrellas were new. Our united ages were +thirty-seven. The wonder would have been had we <i>not</i> +been mistaken for a young married couple.</p> +<p>A day of greater misery I have rarely passed. To Minnie, +so her aunt informed me afterwards, the journey was the most +terrible experience of her life, but then her experience, up to +that time, had been limited. She was engaged, and devotedly +attached, to a young clergyman; I was madly in love with a +somewhat plump girl named Cecilia who lived with her mother at +Hampstead. I am positive as to her living at +Hampstead. I remember so distinctly my weekly walk down the +hill from Church Row to the Swiss Cottage station. When +walking down a steep hill all the weight of the body is forced +into the toe of the boot, and when the boot is two sizes too +small for you, and you have been living in it since the early +afternoon, you remember a thing like that. But all my +recollections of Cecilia are painful, and it is needless to +pursue them.</p> +<p>Our coach-load was a homely party, and some of the jokes were +broad—harmless enough in themselves, had Minnie and I +really been the married couple we were supposed to be, but even +in that case unnecessary. I can only hope that Minnie did +not understand them. Anyhow, she looked as if she +didn’t.</p> +<p>I forget where we stopped for lunch, but I remember that lamb +and mint sauce was on the table, and that the circumstance +afforded the greatest delight to all the party, with the +exception of the stout lady, who was still indignant, Minnie and +myself. About my behaviour as a bridegroom opinion appeared +to be divided. “He’s a bit standoffish with +her,” I overheard one lady remark to her husband; “I +like to see ’em a bit kittenish myself.” A +young waitress, on the other hand, I am happy to say, showed more +sense of natural reserve. “Well, I respect him for +it,” she was saying to the barmaid, as we passed through +the hall; “I’d just hate to be fuzzled over with +everybody looking on.” Nobody took the trouble to +drop their voices for our benefit. We might have been a +pair of prize love birds on exhibition, the way we were openly +discussed. By the majority we were clearly regarded as a +sulky young couple who would not go through their tricks.</p> +<p>I have often wondered since how a real married couple would +have faced the situation. Possibly, had we consented to +give a short display of marital affection, “by +desire,” we might have been left in peace for the remainder +of the journey.</p> +<p>Our reputation preceded us on to the steamboat. Minnie +begged and prayed me to let it be known we were not +married. How I was to let it be known, except by requesting +the captain to summon the whole ship’s company on deck, and +then making them a short speech, I could not think. Minnie +said she could not bear it any longer, and retired to the +ladies’ cabin. She went off crying. Her trouble +was attributed by crew and passengers to my coldness. One +fool planted himself opposite me with his legs apart, and shook +his head at me.</p> +<p>“Go down and comfort her,” he began. +“Take an old man’s advice. Put your arms around +her.” (He was one of those sentimental idiots.) +“Tell her that you love her.”</p> +<p>I told him to go and hang himself, with so much vigour that he +all but fell overboard. He was saved by a poultry crate: I +had no luck that day.</p> +<p>At Ryde the guard, by superhuman effort, contrived to keep us +a carriage to ourselves. I gave him a shilling, because I +did not know what else to do. I would have made it +half-a-sovereign if he had put eight other passengers in with +us. At every station people came to the window to look in +at us.</p> +<p>I handed Minnie over to her father on Ventnor platform; and I +took the first train the next morning, to London. I felt I +did not want to see her again for a little while; and I felt +convinced she could do without a visit from me. Our next +meeting took place the week before her marriage.</p> +<p>“Where are you going to spend your honeymoon?” I +asked her; “in the New Forest?”</p> +<p>“No,” she replied; “nor in the Isle of +Wight.”</p> +<p>To enjoy the humour of an incident one must be at some +distance from it either in time or relationship. I remember +watching an amusing scene in Whitefield Street, just off +Tottenham Court Road, one winter’s Saturday night. A +woman—a rather respectable looking woman, had her hat only +been on straight—had just been shot out of a +public-house. She was very dignified, and very drunk. +A policeman requested her to move on. She called him +“Fellow,” and demanded to know of him if he +considered that was the proper tone in which to address a +lady. She threatened to report him to her cousin, the Lord +Chancellor.</p> +<p>“Yes; this way to the Lord Chancellor,” retorted +the policeman. “You come along with me;” and he +caught hold of her by the arm.</p> +<p>She gave a lurch, and nearly fell. To save her the man +put his arm round her waist. She clasped him round the +neck, and together they spun round two or three times; while at +the very moment a piano-organ at the opposite corner struck up a +waltz.</p> +<p>“Choose your partners, gentlemen, for the next +dance,” shouted a wag, and the crowd roared.</p> +<p>I was laughing myself, for the situation was undeniably +comical, the constable’s expression of disgust being quite +Hogarthian, when the sight of a child’s face beneath the +gas-lamp stayed me. Her look was so full of terror that I +tried to comfort her.</p> +<p>“It’s only a drunken woman,” I said; +“he’s not going to hurt her.”</p> +<p>“Please, sir,” was the answer, “it’s +my mother.”</p> +<p>Our joke is generally another’s pain. The man who +sits down on the tin-tack rarely joins in the laugh.</p> +<h2><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 175</span>ON +THE MINDING OF OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">walked</span> one bright September +morning in the Strand. I love London best in the +autumn. Then only can one see the gleam of its white +pavements, the bold, unbroken outline of its streets. I +love the cool vistas one comes across of mornings in the parks, +the soft twilights that linger in the empty bye-streets. In +June the restaurant manager is off-hand with me; I feel I am but +in his way. In August he spreads for me the table by the +window, pours out for me my wine with his own fat hands. I +cannot doubt his regard for me: my foolish jealousies are +stilled. Do I care for a drive after dinner through the +caressing night air, I can climb the omnibus stair without a +preliminary fight upon the curb, can sit with easy conscience and +unsquashed body, not feeling I have deprived some hot, tired +woman of a seat. Do I desire the play, no harsh, forbidding +“House full” board repels me from the door. +During her season, London, a harassed hostess, has no time for +us, her intimates. Her rooms are overcrowded, her servants +overworked, her dinners hurriedly cooked, her tone +insincere. In the spring, to be truthful, the great lady +condescends to be somewhat vulgar—noisy and +ostentatious. Not till the guests are departed is she +herself again, the London that we, her children, love.</p> +<p>Have you, gentle Reader, ever seen London—not the London +of the waking day, coated with crawling life, as a blossom with +blight, but the London of the morning, freed from her rags, the +patient city, clad in mists? Get you up with the dawn one +Sunday in summer time. Wake none else, but creep down +stealthily into the kitchen, and make your own tea and toast.</p> +<p>Be careful you stumble not over the cat. She will worm +herself insidiously between your legs. It is her way; she +means it in friendship. Neither bark your shins against the +coal-box. Why the kitchen coal-box has its fixed place in +the direct line between the kitchen door and the gas-bracket I +cannot say. I merely know it as an universal law; and I +would that you escaped that coal-box, lest the frame of mind I +desire for you on this Sabbath morning be dissipated.</p> +<p>A spoon to stir your tea, I fear you must dispense with. +Knives and forks you will discover in plenty; blacking brushes +you will put your hand upon in every drawer; of emery paper, did +one require it, there are reams; but it is a point with every +housekeeper that the spoons be hidden in a different place each +night. If anybody excepting herself can find them in the +morning, it is a slur upon her. No matter, a stick of +firewood, sharpened at one end, makes an excellent +substitute.</p> +<p>Your breakfast done, turn out the gas, remount the stairs +quietly, open gently the front door and slip out. You will +find yourself in an unknown land. A strange city grown +round you in the night.</p> +<p>The sweet long streets lie silent in sunlight. Not a +living thing is to be seen save some lean Tom that slinks from +his gutter feast as you approach. From some tree there will +sound perhaps a fretful chirp: but the London sparrow is no early +riser; he is but talking in his sleep. The slow tramp of +unseen policeman draws near or dies away. The clatter of +your own footsteps goes with you, troubling you. You find +yourself trying to walk softly, as one does in echoing +cathedrals. A voice is everywhere about you whispering to +you “Hush.” Is this million-breasted City then +some tender Artemis, seeking to keep her babes asleep? +“Hush, you careless wayfarer; do not waken them. Walk +lighter; they are so tired, these myriad children of mine, +sleeping in my thousand arms. They are over-worked and +over-worried; so many of them are sick, so many fretful, many of +them, alas, so full of naughtiness. But all of them so +tired. Hush! they worry me with their noise and riot when +they are awake. They are so good now they are asleep. +Walk lightly, let them rest.”</p> +<p>Where the ebbing tide flows softly through worn arches to the +sea, you may hear the stone-faced City talking to the restless +waters: “Why will you never stay with me? Why come +but to go?”</p> +<p>“I cannot say, I do not understand. From the deep +sea I come, but only as a bird loosed from a child’s hand +with a cord. When she calls I must return.”</p> +<p>“It is so with these children of mine. They come +to me, I know not whence. I nurse them for a little while, +till a hand I do not see plucks them back. And others take +their place.”</p> +<p>Through the still air there passes a ripple of sound. +The sleeping City stirs with a faint sigh. A distant +milk-cart rattling by raises a thousand echoes; it is the +vanguard of a yoked army. Soon from every street there +rises the soothing cry, +“Mee’hilk—mee’hilk.”</p> +<p>London like some Gargantuan babe, is awake, crying for its +milk. These be the white-smocked nurses hastening with its +morning nourishment. The early church bells ring. +“You have had your milk, little London. Now come and +say your prayers. Another week has just begun, baby +London. God knows what will happen, say your +prayers.”</p> +<p>One by one the little creatures creep from behind the blinds +into the streets. The brooding tenderness is vanished from +the City’s face. The fretful noises of the day have +come again. Silence, her lover of the night, kisses her +stone lips, and steals away. And you, gentle Reader, return +home, garlanded with the self-sufficiency of the early riser.</p> +<p>But it was of a certain week-day morning, in the Strand that I +was thinking. I was standing outside Gatti’s +Restaurant, where I had just breakfasted, listening leisurely to +an argument between an indignant lady passenger, presumably of +Irish extraction, and an omnibus conductor.</p> +<p>“For what d’ye want thin to paint Putney on +ye’r bus, if ye don’t <i>go</i> to Putney?” +said the lady.</p> +<p>“We <i>do</i> go to Putney,” said the +conductor.</p> +<p>“Thin why did ye put me out here?”</p> +<p>“I didn’t put you out, yer got out.”</p> +<p>“Shure, didn’t the gintleman in the corner tell me +I was comin’ further away from Putney ivery +minit?”</p> +<p>“Wal, and so yer was.”</p> +<p>“Thin whoy didn’t you tell me?”</p> +<p>“How was I to know yer wanted to go to Putney? Yer +sings out Putney, and I stops and in yer jumps.”</p> +<p>“And for what d’ye think I called out Putney +thin?”</p> +<p>“’Cause it’s my name, or rayther the +bus’s name. This ’ere <i>is</i> a +Putney.”</p> +<p>“How can it be a Putney whin it isn’t goin’ +to Putney, ye gomerhawk?”</p> +<p>“Ain’t you an Hirishwoman?” retorted the +conductor. “Course yer are. But yer +aren’t always goin’ to Ireland. We’re +goin’ to Putney in time, only we’re a-going to +Liverpool Street fust. ’Igher up, Jim.”</p> +<p>The bus moved on, and I was about cross the road, when a man, +muttering savagely to himself, walked into me. He would +have swept past me had I not, recognizing him, arrested +him. It was my friend B—, a busy editor of magazines +and journals. It was some seconds before he appeared able +to struggle out of his abstraction, and remember himself. +“Halloo,” he then said, “who would have thought +of seeing <i>you</i> here?”</p> +<p>“To judge by the way you were walking,” I replied, +“one would imagine the Strand the last place in which you +expected to see any human being. Do you ever walk into a +short-tempered, muscular man?”</p> +<p>“Did I walk into you?” he asked surprised.</p> +<p>“Well, not right in,” I answered, “I if we +are to be literal. You walked on to me; if I had not +stopped you, I suppose you would have walked over me.”</p> +<p>“It is this confounded Christmas business,” he +explained. “It drives me off my head.”</p> +<p>“I have heard Christmas advanced as an excuse for many +things,” I replied, “but not early in +September.”</p> +<p>“Oh, you know what I mean,” he answered, “we +are in the middle of our Christmas number. I am working day +and night upon it. By the bye,” he added, “that +puts me in mind. I am arranging a symposium, and I want you +to join. ‘Should Christmas,’”—I +interrupted him.</p> +<p>“My dear fellow,” I said, “I commenced my +journalistic career when I was eighteen, and I have continued it +at intervals ever since. I have written about Christmas +from the sentimental point of view; I have analyzed it from the +philosophical point of view; and I have scarified it from the +sarcastic standpoint. I have treated Christmas humorously +for the Comics, and sympathetically for the Provincial +Weeklies. I have said all that is worth saying on the +subject of Christmas—maybe a trifle more. I have told +the new-fashioned Christmas story—you know the sort of +thing: your heroine tries to understand herself, and, failing, +runs off with the man who began as the hero; your good woman +turns out to be really bad when one comes to know her; while the +villain, the only decent person in the story, dies with an +enigmatic sentence on his lips that looks as if it meant +something, but which you yourself would be sorry to have to +explain. I have also written the old-fashioned Christmas +story—you know that also: you begin with a good +old-fashioned snowstorm; you have a good old-fashioned squire, +and he lives in a good old-fashioned Hall; you work in a good +old-fashioned murder; and end up with a good old-fashioned +Christmas dinner. I have gathered Christmas guests together +round the crackling logs to tell ghost stories to each other on +Christmas Eve, while without the wind howled, as it always does +on these occasions, at its proper cue. I have sent children +to Heaven on Christmas Eve—it must be quite a busy time for +St. Peter, Christmas morning, so many good children die on +Christmas Eve. It has always been a popular night with +them.—I have revivified dead lovers and brought them back +well and jolly, just in time to sit down to the Christmas +dinner. I am not ashamed of having done these things. +At the time I thought them good. I once loved currant wine +and girls with towzley hair. One’s views change as +one grows older. I have discussed Christmas as a religious +festival. I have arraigned it as a social incubus. If +there be any joke connected with Christmas that I have not +already made I should be glad to hear it. I have trotted +out the indigestion jokes till the sight of one of them gives me +indigestion myself. I have ridiculed the family +gathering. I have scoffed at the Christmas present. I +have made witty use of paterfamilias and his bills. I +have—”</p> +<p>“Did I ever show you,” I broke off to ask as we +were crossing the Haymarket, “that little parody of mine on +Poe’s poem of ‘The Bells’? It +begins—” He interrupted me in his +turn—</p> +<p>“Bills, bills, bills,” he repeated.</p> +<p>“You are quite right,” I admitted. “I +forgot I ever showed it to you.”</p> +<p>“You never did,” he replied.</p> +<p>“Then how do you know how it begins?” I asked.</p> +<p>“I don’t know for certain,” he admitted, +“but I get, on an average, sixty-five a year submitted to +me, and they all begin that way. I thought, perhaps, yours +did also.”</p> +<p>“I don’t see how else it could begin,” I +retorted. He had rather annoyed me. “Besides, +it doesn’t matter how a poem begins, it is how it goes on +that is the important thing and anyhow, I’m not going to +write you anything about Christmas. Ask me to make you a +new joke about a plumber; suggest my inventing something original +and not too shocking for a child to say about heaven; propose my +running you off a dog story that can be believed by a man of +average determination and we may come to terms. But on the +subject of Christmas I am taking a rest.”</p> +<p>By this time we had reached Piccadilly Circus.</p> +<p>“I don’t blame you,” he said, “if you +are as sick of the subject as I am. So soon as these +Christmas numbers are off my mind, and Christmas is over till +next June at the office, I shall begin it at home. The +housekeeping is gone up a pound a week already. I know what +that means. The dear little woman is saving up to give me +an expensive present that I don’t want. I think the +presents are the worst part of Christmas. Emma will give me +a water-colour that she has painted herself. She always +does. There would be no harm in that if she did not expect +me to hang it in the drawing room. Have you ever seen my +cousin Emma’s water-colours?” he asked.</p> +<p>“I think I have,” I replied.</p> +<p>“There’s no thinking about it,” he retorted +angrily. “They’re not the sort of water-colours +you forget.”</p> +<p>He apostrophized the Circus generally.</p> +<p>“Why do people do these things?” he +demanded. “Even an amateur artist must have +<i>some</i> sense. Can’t they see what is +happening? There’s that thing of hers hanging in the +passage. I put it in the passage because there’s not +much light in the passage. She’s labelled it +Reverie. If she had called it Influenza I could have +understood it. I asked her where she got the idea from, and +she said she saw the sky like that one evening in Norfolk. +Great Heavens! then why didn’t she shut her eyes or go home +and hide behind the bed-curtains? If I had seen a sky like +that in Norfolk I should have taken the first train back to +London. I suppose the poor girl can’t help seeing +these things, but why paint them?”</p> +<p>I said, “I suppose painting is a necessity to some +natures.”</p> +<p>“But why give the things to me?” he pleaded.</p> +<p>I could offer him no adequate reason.</p> +<p>“The idiotic presents that people give you!” he +continued. “I said I’d like Tennyson’s +poems one year. They had worried me to know what I did +want. I didn’t want anything really; that was the +only thing I could think of that I wasn’t dead sure I +didn’t want. Well, they clubbed together, four of +them, and gave me Tennyson in twelve volumes, illustrated with +coloured photographs. They meant kindly, of course. +If you suggest a tobacco-pouch they give you a blue velvet bag +capable of holding about a pound, embroidered with flowers, +life-size. The only way one could use it would be to put a +strap to it and wear it as a satchel. Would you believe it, +I have got a velvet smoking-jacket, ornamented with +forget-me-nots and butterflies in coloured silk; I’m not +joking. And they ask me why I never wear it. +I’ll bring it down to the Club one of these nights and wake +the place up a bit: it needs it.”</p> +<p>We had arrived by this at the steps of the +‘Devonshire.’</p> +<p>“And I’m just as bad,” he went on, +“when I give presents. I never give them what they +want. I never hit upon anything that is of any use to +anybody. If I give Jane a chinchilla tippet, you may be +certain chinchilla is the most out-of-date fur that any woman +could wear. ‘Oh! that is nice of you,’ she +says; ‘now that is just the very thing I wanted. I +will keep it by me till chinchilla comes in again.’ I +give the girls watch-chains when nobody is wearing +watch-chains. When watch-chains are all the rage I give +them ear-rings, and they thank me, and suggest my taking them to +a fancy-dress ball, that being their only chance to wear the +confounded things. I waste money on white gloves with black +backs, to find that white gloves with black backs stamp a woman +as suburban. I believe all the shop-keepers in London save +their old stock to palm it off on me at Christmas time. And +why does it always take half-a-dozen people to serve you with a +pair of gloves, I’d like to know? Only last week Jane +asked me to get her some gloves for that last Mansion House +affair. I was feeling amiable, and I thought I would do the +thing handsomely. I hate going into a draper’s shop; +everybody stares at a man as if he were forcing his way into the +ladies’ department of a Turkish bath. One of those +marionette sort of men came up to me and said it was a fine +morning. What the devil did I want to talk about the +morning to him for? I said I wanted some gloves. I +described them to the best of my recollection. I said, +‘I want them four buttons, but they are not to be +button-gloves; the buttons are in the middle and they reach up to +the elbow, if you know what I mean.’ He bowed, and +said he understood exactly what I meant, which was a damned sight +more than I did. I told him I wanted three pair cream and +three pair fawn-coloured, and the fawn-coloured were to be +swedes. He corrected me. He said I meant +‘Suede.’ I dare say he was right, but the +interruption put me off, and I had to begin over again. He +listened attentively until I had finished. I guess I was +about five minutes standing with him there close to the +door. He said, ‘Is that all you require, sir, this +morning?’ I said it was.</p> +<p>“‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied. +‘This way, please, sir.’</p> +<p>“He took me into another room, and there we met a man +named Jansen, to whom he briefly introduced me as a gentleman who +‘desired gloves.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ said +Mr. Jansen; and what sort of gloves do you desire?’</p> +<p>“I told him I wanted six pairs altogether—three +suede, fawn-coloured, and three cream-coloured—kids.</p> +<p>“He said, ‘Do you mean kid gloves, sir, or gloves +for children?’</p> +<p>“He made me angry by that. I told him I was not in +the habit of using slang. Nor am I when buying +gloves. He said he was sorry. I explained to him +about the buttons, so far as I could understand it myself, and +about the length. I asked him to see to it that the buttons +were sewn on firmly, and that the stitching everywhere was +perfect, adding that the last gloves my wife had had of his firm +had been most unsatisfactory. Jane had impressed upon me to +add that. She said it would make them more careful.</p> +<p>“He listened to me in rapt ecstacy. I might have +been music.</p> +<p>“‘And what size, sir?’ he asked.</p> +<p>“I had forgotten that. ‘Oh, sixes,’ I +answered, ‘unless they are very stretchy indeed, in which +case they had better be five and three-quarter.’</p> +<p>“‘Oh, and the stitching on the cream is to be +black,’ I added. That was another thing I had +forgotten.</p> +<p>“‘Thank you very much,’ said Mr. Jansen; +‘is there anything else that you require this +morning?’</p> +<p>“‘No, thank you,’ I replied, ‘not this +morning.’ I was beginning to like the man.</p> +<p>“He took me for quite a walk, and wherever we went +everybody left off what they were doing to stare at me. I +was getting tired when we reached the glove department. He +marched me up to a young man who was sticking pins into +himself. He said ‘Gloves,’ and disappeared +through a curtain. The young man left off sticking pins +into himself, and leant across the counter.</p> +<p>“‘Ladies’ gloves or gentlemen’s +gloves?’ he said.</p> +<p>“Well, I was pretty mad by this time, as you can +guess. It is funny when you come to think of it afterwards, +but the wonder then was that I didn’t punch his head.</p> +<p>“I said, ‘Are you ever busy in this shop? +Does there ever come a time when you feel you would like to get +your work done, instead of lingering over it and spinning it out +for pure love of the thing?’</p> +<p>“He did not appear to understand me. I said, +‘I met a man at your door a quarter of an hour ago, and we +talked about these gloves that I want, and I told him all my +ideas on the subject. He took me to your Mr. Jansen, and +Mr. Jansen and I went over the whole business again. Now +Mr. Jansen leaves it with you—you who do not even know +whether I want ladies’ or gentlemen’s gloves. +Before I go over this story for the third time, I want to know +whether you are the man who is going to serve me, or whether you +are merely a listener, because personally I am tired of the +subject?’</p> +<p>“Well, this was the right man at last, and I got my +gloves from him. But what is the explanation—what is +the idea? I was in that shop from first to last +five-and-thirty minutes. And then a fool took me out the +wrong way to show me a special line in sleeping-socks. I +told him I was not requiring any. He said he didn’t +want me to buy, he only wanted me to see them. No wonder +the drapers have had to start luncheon and tea-rooms. +They’ll fix up small furnished flats soon, where a woman +can live for a week.”</p> +<p>I said it was very trying, shopping. I also said, as he +invited me, and as he appeared determined to go on talking, that +I would have a brandy-and-soda. We were in the smoke-room +by this time.</p> +<p>“There ought to be an association,” he continued, +“a kind of clearing-house for the collection and +distribution of Christmas presents. One would give them a +list of the people from whom to collect presents, and of the +people to whom to send. Suppose they collected on my +account twenty Christmas presents, value, say, ten pounds, while +on the other hand they sent out for me thirty presents at a cost +of fifteen pounds. They would debit me with the balance of +five pounds, together with a small commission. I should pay +it cheerfully, and there would be no further trouble. +Perhaps one might even make a profit. The idea might +include birthdays and weddings. A firm would do the +business thoroughly. They would see that all your friends +paid up—I mean sent presents; and they would not forget to +send to your most important relative. There is only one +member of our family capable of leaving a shilling; and of course +if I forget to send to any one it is to him. When I +remember him I generally make a muddle of the business. Two +years ago I gave him a bath—I don’t mean I washed +him—an india-rubber thing, that he could pack in his +portmanteau. I thought he would find it useful for +travelling. Would you believe it, he took it as a personal +affront, and wouldn’t speak to me for a month, the snuffy +old idiot.”</p> +<p>“I suppose the children enjoy it,” I said.</p> +<p>“Enjoy what?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Why, Christmas,” I explained.</p> +<p>“I don’t believe they do,” he snapped; +“nobody enjoys it. We excite them for three weeks +beforehand, telling them what a good time they are going to have, +over-feed them for two or three days, take them to something they +do not want to see, but which we do, and then bully them for a +fortnight to get them back into their normal condition. I +was always taken to the Crystal Palace and Madame Tussaud’s +when I was a child, I remember. How I did hate that Crystal +Palace! Aunt used to superintend. It was always a +bitterly cold day, and we always got into the wrong train, and +travelled half the day before we got there. We never had +any dinner. It never occurs to a woman that anybody can +want their meals while away from home. She seems to think +that nature is in suspense from the time you leave the house till +the time you get back to it. A bun and a glass of milk was +her idea of lunch for a school-boy. Half her time was taken +up in losing us, and the other half in slapping us when she had +found us. The only thing we really enjoyed was the row with +the cabman coming home.”</p> +<p>I rose to go.</p> +<p>“Then you won’t join that symposium?” said +B—. “It would be an easy enough thing to knock +off—‘Why Christmas should be +abolished.’”</p> +<p>“It sounds simple,” I answered. “But +how do you propose to abolish it?” The lady editor of +an “advanced” American magazine once set the +discussion—“Should sex be abolished?” and +eleven ladies and gentlemen seriously argued the question.</p> +<p>“Leave it to die of inanition,” said B—; +“the first step is to arouse public opinion. Convince +the public that it should be abolished.”</p> +<p>“But why should it be abolished?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Great Scott! man,” he exclaimed; +“don’t you want it abolished?”</p> +<p>“I’m not sure that I do,” I replied.</p> +<p>“Not sure,” he retorted; “you call yourself +a journalist, and admit there is a subject under Heaven of which +you are not sure!”</p> +<p>“It has come over me of late years,” I +replied. “It used not to be my failing, as you +know.”</p> +<p>He glanced round to make sure we were out of earshot, then +sunk his voice to a whisper.</p> +<p>“Between ourselves,” he said, “I’m not +so sure of everything myself as I used to be. Why is +it?”</p> +<p>“Perhaps we are getting older,” I suggested.</p> +<p>He said—“I started golf last year, and the first +time I took the club in my hand I sent the ball a furlong. +‘It seems an easy game,’ I said to the man who was +teaching me. ‘Yes, most people find it easy at the +beginning,’ he replied dryly. He was an old golfer +himself; I thought he was jealous. I stuck well to the +game, and for about three weeks I was immensely pleased with +myself. Then, gradually, I began to find out the +difficulties. I feel I shall never make a good +player. Have you ever gone through that +experience?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” I replied; “I suppose that is the +explanation. The game seems so easy at the +beginning.”</p> +<p>I left him to his lunch, and strolled westward, musing on the +time when I should have answered that question of his about +Christmas, or any other question, off-hand. That good youth +time when I knew everything, when life presented no problems, +dangled no doubts before me!</p> +<p>In those days, wishful to give the world the benefit of my +wisdom, and seeking for a candle-stick wherefrom my brilliancy +might be visible and helpful unto men, I arrived before a dingy +portal in Chequers Street, St. Luke’s, behind which a +conclave of young men, together with a few old enough to have +known better, met every Friday evening for the purpose of +discussing and arranging the affairs of the universe. +“Speaking members” were charged ten-and-sixpence per +annum, which must have worked out at an extremely moderate rate +per word; and “gentlemen whose subscriptions were more than +three months in arrear,” became, by Rule seven, powerless +for good or evil. We called ourselves “The Stormy +Petrels,” and, under the sympathetic shadow of those wings, +I laboured two seasons towards the reformation of the human race; +until, indeed, our treasurer, an earnest young man, and a +tireless foe of all that was conventional, departed for the East, +leaving behind him a balance sheet, showing that the club owed +forty-two pounds fifteen and fourpence, and that the +subscriptions for the current year, amounting to a little over +thirty-eight pounds, had been “carried forward,” but +as to where, the report afforded no indication. Whereupon +our landlord, a man utterly without ideals, seized our furniture, +offering to sell it back to us for fifteen pounds. We +pointed out to him that this was an extravagant price, and +tendered him five.</p> +<p>The negotiations terminated with ungentlemanly language on his +part, and “The Stormy Petrels” scattered, never to be +foregathered together again above the troubled waters of +humanity. Now-a-days, listening to the feeble plans of +modern reformers, I cannot help but smile, remembering what was +done in Chequers Street, St. Luke’s, in an age when Mrs. +Grundy still gave the law to literature, while yet the British +matron was the guide to British art. I am informed that +there is abroad the question of abolishing the House of +Lords! Why, “The Stormy Petrels” abolished the +aristocracy and the Crown in one evening, and then only adjourned +for the purpose of appointing a committee to draw up and have +ready a Republican Constitution by the following Friday +evening. They talk of Empire lounges! We closed the +doors of every music-hall in London eighteen years ago by +twenty-nine votes to seventeen. They had a patient hearing, +and were ably defended; but we found that the tendency of such +amusements was anti-progressive, and against the best interests +of an intellectually advancing democracy. I met the mover +of the condemnatory resolution at the old “Pav” the +following evening, and we continued the discussion over a bottle +of Bass. He strengthened his argument by persuading me to +sit out the whole of the three songs sung by the “Lion +Comique”; but I subsequently retorted successfully, by +bringing under his notice the dancing of a lady in blue tights +and flaxen hair. I forget her name but never shall I cease +to remember her exquisite charm and beauty. Ah, me! how +charming and how beautiful “artistes” were in those +golden days! Whence have they vanished? Ladies in +blue tights and flaxen hair dance before my eyes to-day, but move +me not, unless it be towards boredom. Where be the tripping +witches of twenty years ago, whom to see once was to dream of for +a week, to touch whose white hand would have been joy, to kiss +whose red lips would have been to foretaste Heaven. I heard +only the other day that the son of an old friend of mine had +secretly married a lady from the front row of the ballet, and +involuntarily I exclaimed, “Poor devil!” There +was a time when my first thought would have been, “Lucky +beggar! is he worthy of her?” For then the ladies of +the ballet were angels. How could one gaze at +them—from the shilling pit—and doubt it? They +danced to keep a widowed mother in comfort, or to send a younger +brother to school. Then they were glorious creatures a +young man did well to worship; but now-a-days—</p> +<p>It is an old jest. The eyes of youth see through +rose-tinted glasses. The eyes of age are dim behind +smoke-clouded spectacles. My flaxen friend, you are not the +angel I dreamed you, nor the exceptional sinner some would paint +you; but under your feathers, just a woman—a bundle of +follies and failings, tied up with some sweetness and +strength. You keep a brougham I am sure you cannot afford +on your thirty shillings a week. There are ladies I know, +in Mayfair, who have paid an extravagant price for theirs. +You paint and you dye, I am told: it is even hinted you +pad. Don’t we all of us deck ourselves out in virtues +that are not our own? When the paint and the powder, my +sister, is stripped both from you and from me, we shall know +which of us is entitled to look down on the other in scorn.</p> +<p>Forgive me, gentle Reader, for digressing. The lady led +me astray. I was speaking of “The Stormy +Petrels,” and of the reforms they accomplished, which were +many. We abolished, I remember, capital punishment and war; +we were excellent young men at heart. Christmas we reformed +altogether, along with Bank Holidays, by a majority of +twelve. I never recollect any proposal to abolish anything +ever being lost when put to the vote. There were few things +that we “Stormy Petrels” did not abolish. We +attacked Christmas on grounds of expediency, and killed it by +ridicule. We exposed the hollow mockery of Christmas +sentiment; we abused the indigestible Christmas dinner, the +tiresome Christmas party, the silly Christmas pantomime. +Our funny member was side-splitting on the subject of Christmas +Waits; our social reformer bitter upon Christmas drunkenness; our +economist indignant upon Christmas charities. Only one +argument of any weight with us was advanced in favour of the +festival, and that was our leading cynic’s suggestion that +it was worth enduring the miseries of Christmas, to enjoy the +soul-satisfying comfort of the after reflection that it was all +over, and could not occur again for another year.</p> +<p>But since those days when I was prepared to put this old world +of ours to rights upon all matters, I have seen many sights and +heard many sounds, and I am not quite so sure as I once was that +my particular views are the only possibly correct ones. +Christmas seems to me somewhat meaningless; but I have looked +through windows in poverty-stricken streets, and have seen dingy +parlours gay with many chains of coloured paper. They +stretched from corner to corner of the smoke-grimed ceiling, they +fell in clumsy festoons from the cheap gasalier, they framed the +fly-blown mirror and the tawdry pictures; and I know tired hands +and eyes worked many hours to fashion and fix those foolish +chains, saying, “It will please him—she will like to +see the room look pretty;” and as I have looked at them +they have grown, in some mysterious manner, beautiful to +me. The gaudy-coloured child and dog irritates me, I +confess; but I have watched a grimy, inartistic personage, +smoothing it affectionately with toil-stained hand, while eager +faces crowded round to admire and wonder at its blatant +crudity. It hangs to this day in its cheap frame above the +chimney-piece, the one bright spot relieving those damp-stained +walls; dull eyes stare and stare again at it, catching a vista, +through its flashy tints, of the far-off land of art. +Christmas Waits annoy me, and I yearn to throw open the window +and fling coal at them—as once from the window of a high +flat in Chelsea I did. I doubted their being genuine +Waits. I was inclined to the opinion they were young men +seeking excuse for making a noise. One of them appeared to +know a hymn with a chorus, another played the concertina, while a +third accompanied with a step dance. Instinctively I felt +no respect for them; they disturbed me in my work, and the desire +grew upon me to injure them. It occurred to me it would be +good sport if I turned out the light, softly opened the window, +and threw coal at them. It would be impossible for them to +tell from which window in the block the coal came, and thus +subsequent unpleasantness would be avoided. They were a +compact little group, and with average luck I was bound to hit +one of them.</p> +<p>I adopted the plan. I could not see them very +clearly. I aimed rather at the noise; and I had thrown +about twenty choice lumps without effect, and was feeling +somewhat discouraged, when a yell, followed by language +singularly unappropriate to the season, told me that Providence +had aided my arm. The music ceased suddenly, and the party +dispersed, apparently in high glee—which struck me as +curious.</p> +<p>One man I noticed remained behind. He stood under the +lamp-post, and shook his fist at the block generally.</p> +<p>“Who threw that lump of coal?” he demanded in +stentorian tones.</p> +<p>To my horror, it was the voice of the man at Eighty-eight, an +Irish gentleman, a journalist like myself. I saw it all, as +the unfortunate hero always exclaims, too late, in the +play. He—number Eighty-eight—also disturbed by +the noise, had evidently gone out to expostulate with the +rioters. Of course my lump of coal had hit him—him +the innocent, the peaceful (up till then), the virtuous. +That is the justice Fate deals out to us mortals here +below. There were ten to fourteen young men in that crowd, +each one of whom fully deserved that lump of coal; he, the one +guiltless, got it—seemingly, so far as the dim light from +the gas lamp enabled me to judge, full in the eye.</p> +<p>As the block remained silent in answer to his demand, he +crossed the road and mounted the stairs. On each landing he +stopped and shouted—</p> +<p>“Who threw that lump of coal? I want the man who +threw that lump of coal. Out you come.”</p> +<p>Now a good man in my place would have waited till number +Eighty-eight arrived on his landing, and then, throwing open the +door would have said with manly candour—</p> +<p>“<i>I</i> threw that lump of coal. I +was—,” He would not have got further, because +at that point, I feel confident, number Eighty—eight would +have punched his head. There would have been an unseemly +fracas on the staircase, to the annoyance of all the other +tenants and later, there would have issued a summons and a +cross-summons. Angry passions would have been roused, +bitter feeling engendered which might have lasted for years.</p> +<p>I do not pretend to be a good man. I doubt if the +pretence would be of any use were I to try: I am not a +sufficiently good actor. I said to myself, as I took off my +boots in the study, preparatory to retiring to my +bedroom—“Number Eighty-eight is evidently not in a +frame of mind to listen to my story. It will be better to +let him shout himself cool; after which he will return to his own +flat, bathe his eye, and obtain some refreshing sleep. In +the morning, when we shall probably meet as usual on our way to +Fleet Street, I will refer to the incident casually, and +sympathize with him. I will suggest to him the +truth—that in all probability some fellow-tenant, irritated +also by the noise, had aimed coal at the Waits, hitting him +instead by a regrettable but pure accident. With tact I may +even be able to make him see the humour of the incident. +Later on, in March or April, choosing my moment with judgment, I +will, perhaps, confess that I was that fellow-tenant, and over a +friendly brandy-and-soda we will laugh the whole trouble +away.”</p> +<p>As a matter of fact, that is what happened. Said number +Eighty-eight—he was a big man, as good a fellow at heart as +ever lived, but impulsive—“Damned lucky for you, old +man, you did not tell me at the time.”</p> +<p>“I felt,” I replied, “instinctively that it +was a case for delay.”</p> +<p>There are times when one should control one’s passion +for candour; and as I was saying, Christmas waits excite no +emotion in my breast save that of irritation. But I have +known “Hark, the herald angels sing,” wheezily +chanted by fog-filled throats, and accompanied, hopelessly out of +tune, by a cornet and a flute, bring a great look of gladness to +a work-worn face. To her it was a message of hope and love, +making the hard life taste sweet. The mere thought of +family gatherings, so customary at Christmas time, bores us +superior people; but I think of an incident told me by a certain +man, a friend of mine. One Christmas, my friend, visiting +in the country, came face to face with a woman whom in town he +had often met amid very different surroundings. The door of +the little farmhouse was open; she and an older woman were +ironing at a table, and as her soft white hands passed to and +fro, folding and smoothing the rumpled heap, she laughed and +talked, concerning simple homely things. My friend’s +shadow fell across her work, and she looking up, their eyes met; +but her face said plainly, “I do not know you here, and +here you do not know me. Here I am a woman loved and +respected.” My friend passed in and spoke to the +older woman, the wife of one of his host’s tenants, and she +turned towards, and introduced the younger—“My +daughter, sir. We do not see her very often. She is +in a place in London, and cannot get away. But she always +spends a few days with us at Christmas.”</p> +<p>“It is the season for family re-unions,” answered +my friend with just the suggestion of a sneer, for which he hated +himself.</p> +<p>“Yes, sir,” said the woman, not noticing; +“she has never missed her Christmas with us, have you, +Bess?”</p> +<p>“No, mother,” replied the girl simply, and bent +her head again over her work.</p> +<p>So for these few days every year this woman left her furs and +jewels, her fine clothes and dainty foods, behind her, and lived +for a little space with what was clean and wholesome. It +was the one anchor holding her to womanhood; and one likes to +think that it was, perhaps, in the end strong enough to save her +from the drifting waters. All which arguments in favour of +Christmas and of Christmas customs are, I admit, purely +sentimental ones, but I have lived long enough to doubt whether +sentiment has not its legitimate place in the economy of +life.</p> +<h2><a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 215</span>ON +THE TIME WASTED IN LOOKING BEFORE ONE LEAPS</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Have</span> you ever noticed the going out +of a woman?</p> +<p>When a man goes out, he says—“I’m going out, +shan’t be long.”</p> +<p>“Oh, George,” cries his wife from the other end of +the house, “don’t go for a moment. I want you +to—” She hears a falling of hats, followed by +the slamming of the front door.</p> +<p>“Oh, George, you’re not gone!” she +wails. It is but the voice of despair. As a matter of +fact, she knows he is gone. She reaches the hall, +breathless.</p> +<p>“He might have waited a minute,” she mutters to +herself, as she picks up the hats, “there were so many +things I wanted him to do.”</p> +<p>She does not open the door and attempt to stop him, she knows +he is already half-way down the street. It is a mean, +paltry way of going out, she thinks; so like a man.</p> +<p>When a woman, on the other hand, goes out, people know about +it. She does not sneak out. She says she is going +out. She says it, generally, on the afternoon of the day +before; and she repeats it, at intervals, until tea-time. +At tea, she suddenly decides that she won’t, that she will +leave it till the day after to-morrow instead. An hour +later she thinks she will go to-morrow, after all, and makes +arrangements to wash her hair overnight. For the next hour +or so she alternates between fits of exaltation, during which she +looks forward to going out, and moments of despondency, when a +sense of foreboding falls upon her. At dinner she persuades +some other woman to go with her; the other woman, once persuaded, +is enthusiastic about going, until she recollects that she +cannot. The first woman, however, convinces her that she +can.</p> +<p>“Yes,” replies the second woman, “but then, +how about you, dear? You are forgetting the +Joneses.”</p> +<p>“So I was,” answers the first woman, completely +non-plussed. “How very awkward, and I can’t go +on Wednesday. I shall have to leave it till Thursday, +now.”</p> +<p>“But <i>I</i> can’t go Thursday,” says the +second woman.</p> +<p>“Well, you go without me, dear,” says the first +woman, in the tone of one who is sacrificing a life’s +ambition.</p> +<p>“Oh no, dear, I should not think of it,” nobly +exclaims the second woman. “We will wait and go +together, Friday!”</p> +<p>“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” says +the first woman. “We will start early” (this is +an inspiration), “and be back before the Joneses +arrive.”</p> +<p>They agree to sleep together; there is a lurking suspicion in +both their minds that this may be their last sleep on +earth. They retire early with a can of hot water. At +intervals, during the night, one overhears them splashing water, +and talking.</p> +<p>They come down very late for breakfast, and both very +cross. Each seems to have argued herself into the belief +that she has been lured into this piece of nonsense, against her +better judgment, by the persistent folly of the other one. +During the meal each one asks the other, every five minutes, if +she is quite ready. Each one, it appears, has only her hat +to put on. They talk about the weather, and wonder what it +is going to do. They wish it would make up its mind, one +way or the other. They are very bitter on weather that +cannot make up its mind. After breakfast it still looks +cloudy, and they decide to abandon the scheme altogether. +The first woman then remembers that it is absolutely necessary +for her, at all events, to go.</p> +<p>“But there is no need for you to come, dear,” she +says.</p> +<p>Up to that point the second woman was evidently not sure +whether she wished to go or whether she didn’t. Now +she knows.</p> +<p>“Oh yes, I’ll come,” she says, “then +it will be over!”</p> +<p>“I am sure you don’t want to go,” urges the +first woman, “and I shall be quicker by myself. I am +ready to start now.”</p> +<p>The second woman bridles.</p> +<p>“<i>I</i> shan’t be a couple of minutes,” +she retorts. “You know, dear, it’s generally +<i>I</i> who have to wait for <i>you</i>.”</p> +<p>“But you’ve not got your boots on,” the +first woman reminds her.</p> +<p>“Well, they won’t take <i>any</i> time,” is +the answer. “But of course, dear, if you’d +really rather I did not come, say so.” By this time +she is on the verge of tears.</p> +<p>“Of course, I would like you to come, dear,” +explains the first in a resigned tone. “I thought +perhaps you were only coming to please me.”</p> +<p>“Oh no, I’d <i>like</i> to come,” says the +second woman.</p> +<p>“Well, we must hurry up,” says the first; “I +shan’t be more than a minute myself, I’ve merely got +to change my skirt.”</p> +<p>Half-an-hour later you hear them calling to each other, from +different parts of the house, to know if the other one is +ready. It appears they have both been ready for quite a +long while, waiting only for the other one.</p> +<p>“I’m afraid,” calls out the one whose turn +it is to be down-stairs, “it’s going to +rain.”</p> +<p>“Oh, don’t say that,” calls back the other +one.</p> +<p>“Well, it looks very like it.”</p> +<p>“What a nuisance,” answers the up-stairs woman; +“shall we put it off?”</p> +<p>“Well, what do <i>you</i> think, dear?” replies +the down-stairs.</p> +<p>They decide they will go, only now they will have to change +their boots, and put on different hats.</p> +<p>For the next ten minutes they are still shouting and running +about. Then it seems as if they really were ready, nothing +remaining but for them to say “Good-bye,” and go.</p> +<p>They begin by kissing the children. A woman never leaves +her house without secret misgivings that she will never return to +it alive. One child cannot be found. When it is found +it wishes it hadn’t been. It has to be washed, +preparatory to being kissed. After that, the dog has to be +found and kissed, and final instructions given to the cook.</p> +<p>Then they open the front door.</p> +<p>“Oh, George,” calls out the first woman, turning +round again. “Are you there?”</p> +<p>“Hullo,” answers a voice from the distance. +“Do you want me?”</p> +<p>“No, dear, only to say good-bye. I’m +going.”</p> +<p>“Oh, good-bye.”</p> +<p>“Good-bye, dear. Do you think it’s going to +rain?”</p> +<p>“Oh no, I should not say so.”</p> +<p>“George.”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Have you got any money?”</p> +<p>Five minutes later they come running back; the one has +forgotten her parasol, the other her purse.</p> +<p>And speaking of purses, reminds one of another essential +difference between the male and female human animal. A man +carries his money in his pocket. When he wants to use it, +he takes it out and lays it down. This is a crude way of +doing things, a woman displays more subtlety. Say she is +standing in the street, and wants fourpence to pay for a bunch of +violets she has purchased from a flower-girl. She has two +parcels in one hand, and a parasol in the other. With the +remaining two fingers of the left hand she secures the +violets. The question then arises, how to pay the +girl? She flutters for a few minutes, evidently not quite +understanding why it is she cannot do it. The reason then +occurs to her: she has only two hands and both these are +occupied. First she thinks she will put the parcels and the +flowers into her right hand, then she thinks she will put the +parasol into her left. Then she looks round for a table or +even a chair, but there is not such a thing in the whole +street. Her difficulty is solved by her dropping the +parcels and the flowers. The girl picks them up for her and +holds them. This enables her to feel for her pocket with +her right hand, while waving her open parasol about with her +left. She knocks an old gentleman’s hat off into the +gutter, and nearly blinds the flower-girl before it occurs to her +to close it. This done, she leans it up against the +flower-girl’s basket, and sets to work in earnest with both +hands. She seizes herself firmly by the back, and turns the +upper part of her body round till her hair is in front and her +eyes behind. Still holding herself firmly with her left +hand—did she let herself go, goodness knows where she would +spin to;—with her right she prospects herself. The +purse is there, she can feel it, the problem is how to get at +it. The quickest way would, of course, be to take off the +skirt, sit down on the kerb, turn it inside out, and work from +the bottom of the pocket upwards. But this simple idea +never seems to occur to her. There are some thirty folds at +the back of the dress, between two of these folds commences the +secret passage. At last, purely by chance, she suddenly +discovers it, nearly upsetting herself in the process, and the +purse is brought up to the surface. The difficulty of +opening it still remains. She knows it opens with a spring, +but the secret of that spring she has never mastered, and she +never will. Her plan is to worry it generally until it does +open. Five minutes will always do it, provided she is not +flustered.</p> +<p>At last it does open. It would be incorrect to say that +she opens it. It opens because it is sick of being mauled +about; and, as likely as not, it opens at the moment when she is +holding it upside down. If you happen to be near enough to +look over her shoulder, you will notice that the gold and silver +lies loose within it. In an inner sanctuary, carefully +secured with a second secret spring, she keeps her coppers, +together with a postage-stamp and a draper’s receipt, nine +months old, for elevenpence three-farthings.</p> +<p>I remember the indignation of an old Bus-conductor, +once. Inside we were nine women and two men. I sat +next the door, and his remarks therefore he addressed to +me. It was certainly taking him some time to collect the +fares, but I think he would have got on better had he been less +bustling; he worried them, and made them nervous.</p> +<p>“Look at that,” he said, drawing my attention to a +poor lady opposite, who was diving in the customary manner for +her purse, “they sit on their money, women do. Blest +if you wouldn’t think they was trying to ’atch +it.”</p> +<p>At length the lady drew from underneath herself an exceedingly +fat purse.</p> +<p>“Fancy riding in a bumpby bus, perched up on that +thing,” he continued. “Think what a stamina +they must have.” He grew confidential. +“I’ve seen one woman,” he said, “pull out +from underneath ’er a street doorkey, a tin box of +lozengers, a pencil-case, a whopping big purse, a packet of +hair-pins, and a smelling-bottle. Why, you or me would be +wretched, sitting on a plain door-knob, and them women goes about +like that all day. I suppose they gets used to it. +Drop ’em on an eider-down pillow, and they’d +scream. The time it takes me to get tuppence out of them, +why, it’s ’eart-breaking. First they tries one +side, then they tries the other. Then they gets up and +shakes theirselves till the bus jerks them back again, and there +they are, a more ’opeless ’eap than ever. If I +’ad my way I’d make every bus carry a female searcher +as could over’aul ’em one at a time, and take the +money from ’em. Talk about the poor pickpocket. +What I say is, that a man as finds his way into a woman’s +pocket—well, he deserves what he gets.”</p> +<p>But it was the thought of more serious matters that lured me +into reflections concerning the over-carefulness of women. +It is a theory of mine—wrong possibly; indeed I have so +been informed—that we pick our way through life with too +much care. We are for ever looking down upon the +ground. Maybe, we do avoid a stumble or two over a stone or +a brier, but also we miss the blue of the sky, the glory of the +hills. These books that good men write, telling us that +what they call “success” in life depends on our +flinging aside our youth and wasting our manhood in order that we +may have the means when we are eighty of spending a rollicking +old age, annoy me. We save all our lives to invest in a +South Sea Bubble; and in skimping and scheming, we have grown +mean, and narrow, and hard. We will put off the gathering +of the roses till to-morrow, to-day it shall be all work, all +bargain-driving, all plotting. Lo, when to-morrow comes, +the roses are blown; nor do we care for roses, idle things of +small marketable value; cabbages are more to our fancy by the +time to-morrow comes.</p> +<p>Life is a thing to be lived, not spent, to be faced, not +ordered. Life is not a game of chess, the victory to the +most knowing; it is a game of cards, one’s hand by skill to +be made the best of. Is it the wisest who is always the +most successful? I think not. The luckiest +whist-player I ever came across was a man who was never +<i>quite</i> certain what were trumps, and whose most frequent +observation during the game was “I really beg your +pardon,” addressed to his partner; a remark which generally +elicited the reply, “Oh, don’t apologize. +All’s well that ends well.” The man I knew who +made the most rapid fortune was a builder in the outskirts of +Birmingham, who could not write his name, and who, for thirty +years of his life, never went to bed sober. I do not say +that forgetfulness of trumps should be cultivated by +whist-players. I think my builder friend might have been +even more successful had he learned to write his name, and had he +occasionally—not overdoing it—enjoyed a sober +evening. All I wish to impress is, that virtue is not the +road to success—of the kind we are dealing with. We +must find other reasons for being virtuous; maybe, there are +some. The truth is, life is a gamble pure and simple, and +the rules we lay down for success are akin to the infallible +systems with which a certain class of idiot goes armed each +season to Monte Carlo. We can play the game with coolness +and judgment, decide when to plunge and when to stake small; but +to think that wisdom will decide it, is to imagine that we have +discovered the law of chance. Let us play the game of life +as sportsmen, pocketing our winnings with a smile, leaving our +losings with a shrug. Perhaps that is why we have been +summoned to the board and the cards dealt round: that we may +learn some of the virtues of the good gambler; his self-control, +his courage under misfortune, his modesty under the strain of +success, his firmness, his alertness, his general indifference to +fate. Good lessons these, all of them. If by the game +we learn some of them our time on the green earth has not been +wasted. If we rise from the table having learned only +fretfulness and self-pity I fear it has been.</p> +<p>The grim Hall Porter taps at the door: “Number Five +hundred billion and twenty-eight, your boatman is waiting, +sir.”</p> +<p>So! is it time already? We pick up our counters. +Of what use are they? In the country the other side of the +river they are no tender. The blood-red for gold, and the +pale-green for love, to whom shall we fling them? Here is +some poor beggar longing to play, let us give them to him as we +pass out. Poor devil! the game will amuse him—for a +while.</p> +<p>Keep your powder dry, and trust in Providence, is the motto of +the wise. Wet powder could never be of any possible use to +you. Dry, it may be, <i>with</i> the help of +Providence. We will call it Providence, it is a prettier +name than Chance—perhaps also a truer.</p> +<p>Another mistake we make when we reason out our lives is this: +we reason as though we were planning for reasonable +creatures. It is a big mistake. Well-meaning ladies +and gentlemen make it when they picture their ideal worlds. +When marriage is reformed, and the social problem solved, when +poverty and war have been abolished by acclamation, and sin and +sorrow rescinded by an overwhelming parliamentary majority! +Ah, then the world will be worthy of our living in it. You +need not wait, ladies and gentlemen, so long as you think for +that time. No social revolution is needed, no slow +education of the people is necessary. It would all come +about to-morrow, <i>if only we were reasonable creatures</i>.</p> +<p>Imagine a world of reasonable beings! The Ten +Commandments would be unnecessary: no reasoning being sins, no +reasoning creature makes mistakes. There would be no rich +men, for what reasonable man cares for luxury and +ostentation? There would be no poor: that I should eat +enough for two while my brother in the next street, as good a man +as I, starves, is not reasonable. There would be no +difference of opinion on any two points: there is only one +reason. You, dear Reader, would find, that on all subjects +you were of the same opinion as I. No novels would be +written, no plays performed; the lives of reasonable creatures do +not afford drama. No mad loves, no mad laughter, no +scalding tears, no fierce unreasoning, brief-lived joys, no +sorrows, no wild dreams—only reason, reason everywhere.</p> +<p>But for the present we remain unreasonable. If I eat +this mayonnaise, drink this champagne, I shall suffer in my +liver. Then, why do I eat it? Julia is a charming +girl, amiable, wise, and witty; also she has a share in a +brewery. Then, why does John marry Ann? who is +short-tempered, to say the least of it, who, he feels, will not +make him so good a house-wife, who has extravagant notions, who +has no little fortune. There is something about Ann’s +chin that fascinates him—he could not explain to you +what. On the whole, Julia is the better-looking of the +two. But the more he thinks of Julia, the more he is drawn +towards Ann. So Tom marries Julia and the brewery fails, +and Julia, on a holiday, contracts rheumatic fever, and is a +helpless invalid for life; while Ann comes in for ten thousand +pounds left to her by an Australian uncle no one had ever heard +of.</p> +<p>I have been told of a young man, who chose his wife with +excellent care. Said he to himself, very wisely, “In +the selection of a wife a man cannot be too +circumspect.” He convinced himself that the girl was +everything a helpmate should be. She had every virtue that +could be expected in a woman, no faults, but such as are +inseparable from a woman. Speaking practically, she was +perfection. He married her, and found she was all he had +thought her. Only one thing could he urge against +her—that he did not like her. And that, of course, +was not her fault.</p> +<p>How easy life would be did we know ourselves. Could we +always be sure that to-morrow we should think as we do +to-day. We fall in love during a summer holiday; she is +fresh, delightful, altogether charming; the blood rushes to our +head every time we think of her. Our ideal career is one of +perpetual service at her feet. It seems impossible that +Fate could bestow upon us any greater happiness than the +privilege of cleaning her boots, and kissing the hem of her +garment—if the hem be a little muddy that will please us +the more. We tell her our ambition, and at that moment +every word we utter is sincere. But the summer holiday +passes, and with it the holiday mood, and winter finds us +wondering how we are going to get out of the difficulty into +which we have landed ourselves. Or worse still, perhaps, +the mood lasts longer than is usual. We become formally +engaged. We marry—I wonder how many marriages are the +result of a passion that is burnt out before the altar-rails are +reached?—and three months afterwards the little lass is +broken-hearted to find that we consider the lacing of her boots a +bore. Her feet seem to have grown bigger. There is no +excuse for us, save that we are silly children, never sure of +what we are crying for, hurting one another in our play, crying +very loudly when hurt ourselves.</p> +<p>I knew an American lady once who used to bore me with long +accounts of the brutalities exercised upon her by her +husband. She had instituted divorce proceedings against +him. The trial came on, and she was highly +successful. We all congratulated her, and then for some +months she dropped out of my life. But there came a day +when we again found ourselves together. One of the problems +of social life is to know what to say to one another when we +meet; every man and woman’s desire is to appear sympathetic +and clever, and this makes conversation difficult, because, +taking us all round, we are neither sympathetic nor +clever—but this by the way.</p> +<p>Of course, I began to talk to her about her former +husband. I asked her how he was getting on. She +replied that she thought he was very comfortable.</p> +<p>“Married again?” I suggested.</p> +<p>“Yes,” she answered.</p> +<p>“Serve him right,” I exclaimed, “and his +wife too.” She was a pretty, bright-eyed little +woman, my American friend, and I wished to ingratiate +myself. “A woman who would marry such a man, knowing +what she must have known of him, is sure to make him wretched, +and we may trust him to be a curse to her.”</p> +<p>My friend seemed inclined to defend him.</p> +<p>“I think he is greatly improved,” she argued.</p> +<p>“Nonsense!” I returned, “a man never +improves. Once a villain, always a villain.”</p> +<p>“Oh, hush!” she pleaded, “you mustn’t +call him that.”</p> +<p>“Why not?” I answered. “I have heard +you call him a villain yourself.”</p> +<p>“It was wrong of me,” she said, flushing. +“I’m afraid he was not the only one to be blamed; we +were both foolish in those days, but I think we have both learned +a lesson.”</p> +<p>I remained silent, waiting for the necessary explanation.</p> +<p>“You had better come and see him for yourself,” +she added, with a little laugh; “to tell the truth, I am +the woman who has married him. Tuesday is my day, Number 2, +K— Mansions,” and she ran off, leaving me staring +after her.</p> +<p>I believe an enterprising clergyman who would set up a little +church in the Strand, just outside the Law Courts, might do quite +a trade, re-marrying couples who had just been divorced. A +friend of mine, a respondent, told me he had never loved his wife +more than on two occasions—the first when she refused him, +the second when she came into the witness-box to give evidence +against him.</p> +<p>“You are curious creatures, you men,” remarked a +lady once to another man in my presence. “You never +seem to know your own mind.”</p> +<p>She was feeling annoyed with men generally. I do not +blame her, I feel annoyed with them myself sometimes. There +is one man in particular I am always feeling intensely irritated +against. He says one thing, and acts another. He will +talk like a saint and behave like a fool, knows what is right and +does what is wrong. But we will not speak further of +him. He will be all he should be one day, and then we will +pack him into a nice, comfortably-lined box, and screw the lid +down tight upon him, and put him away in a quiet little spot near +a church I know of, lest he should get up and misbehave himself +again.</p> +<p>The other man, who is a wise man as men go, looked at his fair +critic with a smile.</p> +<p>“My dear madam,” he replied, “you are +blaming the wrong person. I confess I do not know my mind, +and what little I do know of it I do not like. I did not +make it, I did not select it. I am more dissatisfied with +it than you can possibly be. It is a greater mystery to me +than it is to you, and I have to live with it. You should +pity not blame me.”</p> +<p>There are moods in which I fall to envying those old hermits +who frankly, and with courageous cowardice, shirked the problem +of life. There are days when I dream of an existence +unfettered by the thousand petty strings with which our souls lie +bound to Lilliputia land. I picture myself living in some +Norwegian sater, high above the black waters of a rockbound +fiord. No other human creature disputes with me my +kingdom. I am alone with the whispering fir forests and the +stars. How I live I am not quite sure. Once a month I +could journey down into the villages and return laden. I +should not need much. For the rest, my gun and fishing-rod +would supply me. I would have with me a couple of big dogs, +who would talk to me with their eyes, so full of dumb thought, +and together we would wander over the uplands, seeking our +dinner, after the old primitive fashion of the men who dreamt not +of ten-course dinners and Savoy suppers. I would cook the +food myself, and sit down to the meal with a bottle of good wine, +such as starts a man’s thoughts (for I am inconsistent, as +I acknowledge, and that gift of civilization I would bear with me +into my hermitage). Then in the evening, with pipe in +mouth, beside my log-wood fire, I would sit and think, until new +knowledge came to me. Strengthened by those silent voices +that are drowned in the roar of Streetland, I might, perhaps, +grow into something nearer to what it was intended that a man +should be—might catch a glimpse, perhaps, of the meaning of +life.</p> +<p>No, no, my dear lady, into this life of renunciation I would +not take a companion, certainly not of the sex you are thinking +of, even would she care to come, which I doubt. There are +times when a man is better without the woman, when a woman is +better without the man. Love drags us from the depths, +makes men and women of us, but if we would climb a little nearer +to the stars we must say good-bye to it. We men and women +do not show ourselves to each other at our best; too often, I +fear, at our worst. The woman’s highest ideal of man +is the lover; to a man the woman is always the possible +beloved. We see each other’s hearts, but not each +other’s souls. In each other’s presence we +never shake ourselves free from the earth. Match-making +mother Nature is always at hand to prompt us. A woman lifts +us up into manhood, but there she would have us stay. +“Climb up to me,” she cries to the lad, walking with +soiled feet in muddy ways; “be a true man that you may be +worthy to walk by my side; be brave to protect me, kind and +tender, and true; but climb no higher, stay here by my +side.” The martyr, the prophet, the leader of the +world’s forlorn hopes, she would wake from his dream. +Her arms she would fling about his neck holding him down.</p> +<p>To the woman the man says, “You are my wife. Here +is your America, within these walls, here is your work, your +duty.” True, in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases +out of every thousand, but men and women are not made in moulds, +and the world’s work is various. Sometimes to her +sorrow, a woman’s work lies beyond the home. The duty +of Mary was not to Joseph.</p> +<p>The hero in the popular novel is the young man who says, +“I love you better than my soul.” Our favourite +heroine in fiction is the woman who cries to her lover, “I +would go down into Hell to be with you.” There are men and +women who cannot answer thus—the men who dream dreams, the +women who see visions—impracticable people from the +Bayswater point of view. But Bayswater would not be the +abode of peace it is had it not been for such.</p> +<p>Have we not placed sexual love on a pedestal higher than it +deserves? It is a noble passion, but it is not the +noblest. There is a wider love by the side of which it is +but as the lamp illumining the cottage, to the moonlight bathing +the hills and valleys. There were two women once. +This is a play I saw acted in the daylight. They had been +friends from girlhood, till there came between them the usual +trouble—a man. A weak, pretty creature not worth a +thought from either of them; but women love the unworthy; there +would be no over-population problem did they not; and this poor +specimen, ill-luck had ordained they should contend for.</p> +<p>Their rivalry brought out all that was worst in both of +them. It is a mistake to suppose love only elevates; it can +debase. It was a mean struggle for what to an onlooker must +have appeared a remarkably unsatisfying prize. The loser +might well have left the conqueror to her poor triumph, even +granting it had been gained unfairly. But the old, ugly, +primeval passions had been stirred in these women, and the +wedding-bells closed only the first act.</p> +<p>The second is not difficult to guess. It would have +ended in the Divorce Court had not the deserted wife felt that a +finer revenge would be secured to her by silence.</p> +<p>In the third, after an interval of only eighteen months, the +man died—the first piece of good fortune that seems to have +occurred to him personally throughout the play. His +position must have been an exceedingly anxious one from the +beginning. Notwithstanding his flabbiness, one cannot but +regard him with a certain amount of pity—not unmixed with +amusement. Most of life’s dramas can be viewed as +either farce or tragedy according to the whim of the +spectator. The actors invariably play them as tragedy; but +then that is the essence of good farce acting.</p> +<p>Thus was secured the triumph of legal virtue and the +punishment of irregularity, and the play might be dismissed as +uninterestingly orthodox were it not for the fourth act, showing +how the wronged wife came to the woman she had once wronged to +ask and grant forgiveness. Strangely as it may sound, they +found their love for one another unchanged. They had been +long parted: it was sweet to hold each other’s hands +again. Two lonely women, they agreed to live +together. Those who knew them well in this later time say +that their life was very beautiful, filled with graciousness and +nobility.</p> +<p>I do not say that such a story could ever be common, but it is +more probable than the world might credit. Sometimes the +man is better without the woman, the woman without the man.</p> +<h2><a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 245</span>ON +THE NOBILITY OF OURSELVES</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">An</span> old Anglicized Frenchman, I used +to meet often in my earlier journalistic days, held a theory, +concerning man’s future state, that has since come to +afford me more food for reflection than, at the time, I should +have deemed possible. He was a bright-eyed, eager little +man. One felt no Lotus land could be Paradise to him. +We build our heaven of the stones of our desires: to the old, +red-bearded Norseman, a foe to fight and a cup to drain; to the +artistic Greek, a grove of animated statuary; to the Red Indian, +his happy hunting ground; to the Turk, his harem; to the Jew, his +New Jerusalem, paved with gold; to others, according to their +taste, limited by the range of their imagination.</p> +<p>Few things had more terrors for me, when a child, than +Heaven—as pictured for me by certain of the good folks +round about me. I was told that if I were a good lad, kept +my hair tidy, and did not tease the cat, I would probably, when I +died, go to a place where all day long I would sit still and sing +hymns. (Think of it! as reward to a healthy boy for being +good.) There would be no breakfast and no dinner, no tea +and no supper. One old lady cheered me a little with a hint +that the monotony might be broken by a little manna; but the idea +of everlasting manna palled upon me, and my suggestions, +concerning the possibilities of sherbet or jumbles, were scouted +as irreverent. There would be no school, but also there +would be no cricket and no rounders. I should feel no +desire, so I was assured, to do another angel’s +“dags” by sliding down the heavenly banisters. +My only joy would be to sing.</p> +<p>“Shall we start singing the moment we get up in the +morning?” I asked.</p> +<p>“There won’t be any morning,” was the +answer. “There will be no day and no night. It +will all be one long day without end.”</p> +<p>“And shall we always be singing?” I persisted.</p> +<p>“Yes, you will be so happy, you will always want to +sing.”</p> +<p>“Shan’t I ever get tired?”</p> +<p>“No, you will never get tired, and you will never get +sleepy or hungry or thirsty.”</p> +<p>“And does it go on like that for ever?”</p> +<p>“Yes, for ever and ever.”</p> +<p>“Will it go on for a million years?”</p> +<p>“Yes, a million years, and then another million years, +and then another million years after that. There will never +be any end to it.”</p> +<p>I can remember to this day the agony of those nights, when I +would lie awake, thinking of this endless heaven, from which +there seemed to be no possible escape. For the other place +was equally eternal, or I might have been tempted to seek refuge +there.</p> +<p>We grown-up folk, our brains dulled by the slowly acquired +habit of not thinking, do wrong to torture children with these +awful themes. Eternity, Heaven, Hell are meaningless words +to us. We repeat them, as we gabble our prayers, telling +our smug, self-satisfied selves that we are miserable +sinners. But to the child, the “intelligent +stranger” in the land, seeking to know, they are fearful +realities. If you doubt me, Reader, stand by yourself, +beneath the stars, one night, and <i>solve</i> this thought, +Eternity. Your next address shall be the County Lunatic +Asylum.</p> +<p>My actively inclined French friend held cheerier views than +are common of man’s life beyond the grave. His belief +was that we were destined to constant change, to everlasting +work. We were to pass through the older planets, to labour +in the greater suns.</p> +<p>But for such advanced career a more capable being was +needed. No one of us was sufficient, he argued, to be +granted a future existence all to himself. His idea was +that two or three or four of us, according to our intrinsic +value, would be combined to make a new and more important +individuality, fitted for a higher existence. Man, he +pointed out, was already a collection of the beasts. +“You and I,” he would say, tapping first my chest and +then his own, “we have them all here—the ape, the +tiger, the pig, the motherly hen, the gamecock, the good ant; we +are all, rolled into one. So the man of the future, he will +be made up of many men—the courage of one, the wisdom of +another, the kindliness of a third.”</p> +<p>“Take a City man,” he would continue, “say +the Lord Mayor; add to him a poet, say Swinburne; mix them with a +religious enthusiast, say General Booth. There you will +have the man fit for the higher life.”</p> +<p>Garibaldi and Bismarck, he held, should make a very fine +mixture, correcting one another; if needful, extract of Ibsen +might be added, as seasoning. He thought that Irish +politicians would mix admirably with Scotch divines; that Oxford +Dons would go well with lady novelists. He was convinced +that Count Tolstoi, a few Gaiety Johnnies (we called them +“mashers” in those days), together with a +humourist—he was kind enough to suggest myself—would +produce something very choice. Queen Elizabeth, he fancied, +was probably being reserved to go—let us hope in the long +distant future—with Ouida. It sounds a whimsical +theory, set down here in my words, not his; but the old fellow +was so much in earnest that few of us ever thought to laugh as he +talked. Indeed, there were moments on starry nights, as +walking home from the office, we would pause on Waterloo Bridge +to enjoy the witchery of the long line of the Embankment lights, +when I could almost believe, as I listened to him, in the not +impossibility of his dreams.</p> +<p>Even as regards this world, it would often be a gain, one +thinks, and no loss, if some half-dozen of us were rolled +together, or boiled down, or whatever the process necessary might +be, and something made out of us in that way.</p> +<p>Have not you, my fair Reader, sometimes thought to yourself +what a delightful husband Tom this, plus Harry that, plus Dick +the other, would make? Tom is always so cheerful and +good-tempered, yet you feel that in the serious moments of life +he would be lacking. A delightful hubby when you felt +merry, yes; but you would not go to him for comfort and strength +in your troubles, now would you? No, in your hour of +sorrow, how good it would be to have near you grave, earnest +Harry. He is a “good sort,” Harry. +Perhaps, after all, he is the best of the three—solid, +staunch, and true. What a pity he is just a trifle +commonplace and unambitious. Your friends, not knowing his +sterling hidden qualities, would hardly envy you; and a husband +that no other girl envies you—well, that would hardly be +satisfactory, would it? Dick, on the other hand, is clever +and brilliant. He will make his way; there will come a day, +you are convinced, when a woman will be proud to bear his +name. If only he were not so self-centred, if only he were +more sympathetic.</p> +<p>But a combination of the three, or rather of the best +qualities of the three—Tom’s good temper, +Harry’s tender strength, Dick’s brilliant +masterfulness: that is the man who would be worthy of you.</p> +<p>The woman David Copperfield wanted was Agnes and Dora rolled +into one. He had to take them one after the other, which +was not so nice. And did he really love Agnes, Mr. Dickens; +or merely feel he ought to? Forgive me, but I am doubtful +concerning that second marriage of Copperfield’s. +Come, strictly between ourselves, Mr. Dickens, was not David, +good human soul! now and again a wee bit bored by the immaculate +Agnes? She made him an excellent wife, I am sure. +<i>She</i> never ordered oysters by the barrel, unopened. +It would, on any day, have been safe to ask Traddles home to +dinner; in fact, Sophie and the whole rose-garden might have +accompanied him, Agnes would have been equal to the +occasion. The dinner would have been perfectly cooked and +served, and Agnes’ sweet smile would have pervaded the +meal. But <i>after</i> the dinner, when David and Traddles +sat smoking alone, while from the drawing-room drifted down the +notes of high-class, elevating music, played by the saintly +Agnes, did they never, glancing covertly towards the empty chair +between them, see the laughing, curl-framed face of a very +foolish little woman—one of those foolish little women that +a wise man thanks God for making—and wish, in spite of all, +that it were flesh and blood, not shadow?</p> +<p>Oh, you foolish wise folk, who would remodel human +nature! Cannot you see how great is the work given unto +childish hands? Think you that in well-ordered housekeeping +and high-class conversation lies the whole making of a man? +Foolish Dora, fashioned by clever old magician Nature, who knows +that weakness and helplessness are as a talisman calling forth +strength and tenderness in man, trouble yourself not unduly about +those oysters nor the underdone mutton, little woman. Good +plain cooks at twenty pounds a year will see to these things for +us; and, now and then, when a windfall comes our way, we will +dine together at a moderate-priced restaurant where these things +are managed even better. Your work, Dear, is to teach us +gentleness and kindliness. Lay your curls here, +child. It is from such as you that we learn wisdom. +Foolish wise folk sneer at you; foolish wise folk would pull up +the useless lilies, the needless roses, from the garden, would +plant in their places only serviceable wholesome cabbage. +But the Gardener knowing better, plants the silly short-lived +flowers; foolish wise folk, asking for what purpose.</p> +<p>As for Agnes, Mr. Dickens, do you know what she always makes +me think of? You will not mind my saying?—the woman +one reads about. Frankly, I don’t believe in +her. I do not refer to Agnes in particular, but the woman +of whom she is a type, the faultless woman we read of. +Women have many faults, but, thank God, they have one redeeming +virtue—they are none of them faultless.</p> +<p>But the heroine of fiction! oh, a terrible dragon of virtue is +she. May heaven preserve us poor men, undeserving though we +be, from a life with the heroine of fiction. She is all +soul, and heart, and intellect, with never a bit of human nature +to catch hold of her by. Her beauty, it appals one, it is +so painfully indescribable. Whence comes she, whither goes +she, why do we never meet her like? Of women I know a +goodish few, and I look among them for her prototype; but I find +it not. They are charming, they are beautiful, all these +women that I know. It would not be right for me to tell +you, Ladies, the esteem and veneration with which I regard you +all. You yourselves, blushing, would be the first to cheek +my ardour. But yet, dear Ladies, seen even through my eyes, +you come not near the ladies that I read about. You are +not—if I may be permitted an expressive vulgarism—in +the same street with them. Your beauty I can look upon, and +retain my reason—for whatever value that may be to +me. Your conversation, I admit, is clever and brilliant in +the extreme; your knowledge vast and various; your culture quite +Bostonian; yet you do not—I hardly know how to express +it—you do not shine with the sixteen full-moon-power of the +heroine of fiction. You do not—and I thank you for +it—impress me with the idea that you are the only women on +earth. You, even you, possess tempers of your own. I +am inclined to think you take an interest in your clothes. +I would not be sure, even, that you do not mingle a little of +“your own hair” (you know what I mean) with the hair +of your head. There is in your temperament a vein of +vanity, a suggestion of selfishness, a spice of laziness. I +have known you a trifle unreasonable, a little inconsiderate, +slightly exacting. Unlike the heroine of fiction, you have +a certain number of human appetites and instincts; a few human +follies, perhaps, a human fault, or shall we say two? In +short, dear Ladies, you also, even as we men, are the children of +Adam and Eve. Tell me, if you know, where I may meet with +this supernatural sister of yours, this woman that one reads +about. She never keeps any one waiting while she does her +back hair, she is never indignant with everybody else in the +house because she cannot find her own boots, she never scolds the +servants, she is never cross with the children, she never slams +the door, she is never jealous of her younger sister, she never +lingers at the gate with any cousin but the right one.</p> +<p>Dear me, where <i>do</i> they keep them, these women that one +reads about? I suppose where they keep the pretty girl of +Art. You have seen her, have you not, Reader, the pretty +girl in the picture? She leaps the six-barred gate with a +yard and a half to spare, turning round in her saddle the while +to make some smiling remark to the comic man behind, who, of +course, is standing on his head in the ditch. She floats +gracefully off Dieppe on stormy mornings. Her +<i>baigneuse</i>—generally of chiffon and old point +lace—has not lost a curve. The older ladies, bathing +round her, look wet. Their dress clings damply to their +limbs. But the pretty girl of Art dives, and never a curl +of her hair is disarranged. The pretty girl of Art stands +lightly on tip-toe and volleys a tennis-ball six feet above her +head. The pretty girl of Art keeps the head of the punt +straight against a stiff current and a strong wind. +<i>She</i> never gets the water up her sleeve, and down her back, +and all over the cushions. <i>Her</i> pole never sticks in +the mud, with the steam launch ten yards off and the man looking +the other way. The pretty girl of Art skates in high-heeled +French shoes at an angle of forty-five to the surface of the ice, +both hands in her muff. <i>She</i> never sits down plump, +with her feet a yard apart, and says “Ough.” The +pretty girl of Art drives tandem down Piccadilly, during the +height of the season, at eighteen miles an hour. It never +occurs to <i>her</i> leader that the time has now arrived for him +to turn round and get into the cart. The pretty girl of Art +rides her bicycle through the town on market day, carrying a +basket of eggs, and smiling right and left. <i>She</i> +never throws away both her handles and runs into a cow. The +pretty girl of Art goes trout fishing in open-work stockings, +under a blazing sun, with a bunch of dew-bespangled primroses in +her hair; and every time she gracefully flicks her rod she hauls +out a salmon. <i>She</i> never ties herself up to a tree, +or hooks the dog. <i>She</i> never comes home, soaked and +disagreeable, to tell you that she caught six, but put them all +back again, because they were merely two or three-pounders, and +not worth the trouble of carrying. The pretty girl of Art +plays croquet with one hand, and looks as if she enjoyed the +game. <i>She</i> never tries to accidentally kick her ball +into position when nobody is noticing, or stands it out that she +is through a hoop that she knows she isn’t.</p> +<p>She is a good, all-round sportswoman, is the pretty girl in +the picture. The only thing I have to say against her is +that she makes one dissatisfied with the girl out of the +picture—the girl who mistakes a punt for a teetotum, so +that you land feeling as if you had had a day in the Bay of +Biscay; and who, every now and again, stuns you with the thick +end of the pole: the girl who does not skate with her hands in +her muff; but who, throwing them up to heaven, says, +“I’m going,” and who goes, taking care that you +go with her: the girl who, as you brush her down, and try to +comfort her, explains to you indignantly that the horse took the +corner too sharply and never noticed the mile-stone; the girl +whose hair sea water does <i>not</i> improve.</p> +<p>There can be no doubt about it: that is where they keep the +good woman of Fiction, where they keep the pretty girl of +Art.</p> +<p>Does it not occur to you, <i>Messieurs les Auteurs</i>, that +you are sadly disturbing us? These women that are a +combination of Venus, St. Cecilia, and Elizabeth Fry! you paint +them for us in your glowing pages: it is not kind of you, +knowing, as you must, the women we have to put up with.</p> +<p>Would we not be happier, we men and women, were we to idealize +one another less? My dear young lady, you have nothing +whatever to complain to Fate about, I assure you. Unclasp +those pretty hands of yours, and come away from the darkening +window. Jack is as good a fellow as you deserve; +don’t yearn so much. Sir Galahad, my dear—Sir +Galahad rides and fights in the land that lies beyond the sunset, +far enough away from this noisy little earth where you and I +spend much of our time tittle-tattling, flirting, wearing fine +clothes, and going to shows. And besides, you must +remember, Sir Galahad was a bachelor: as an idealist he was +wise. Your Jack is by no means a bad sort of knight, as +knights go nowadays in this un-idyllic world. There is much +solid honesty about him, and he does not pose. He is not +exceptional, I grant you; but, my dear, have you ever tried the +exceptional man? Yes, he is very nice in a drawing-room, +and it is interesting to read about him in the Society papers: +you will find most of his good qualities <i>there</i>: take my +advice, don’t look into him too closely. You be +content with Jack, and thank heaven he is no worse. We are +not saints, we men—none of us, and our beautiful thoughts, +I fear, we write in poetry not action. The White Knight, my +dear young lady, with his pure soul, his heroic heart, his +life’s devotion to a noble endeavour, does not live down +here to any great extent. They have tried it, one or two of +them, and the world—you and I: the world is made up of you +and I—has generally starved, and hooted them. There +are not many of them left now: do you think you would care to be +the wife of one, supposing one were to be found for you? +Would you care to live with him in two furnished rooms in +Clerkenwell, die with him on a chair bedstead? A century +hence they will put up a statue to him, and you may be honoured +as the wife who shared with him his sufferings. Do you +think you are woman enough for that? If not, thank your +stars you have secured, for your own exclusive use, one of us +<i>un</i>exceptional men, who knows no better than to admire +you. <i>You</i> are not exceptional.</p> +<p>And in us ordinary men there is some good. It wants +finding, that is all. We are not so commonplace as you +think us. Even your Jack, fond of his dinner, his +conversation four-cornered by the Sporting Press—yes, I +agree he is not interesting, as he sits snoring in the +easy-chair; but, believe it or not, there are the makings of a +great hero in Jack, if Fate would but be kinder to him, and shake +him out of his ease.</p> +<p>Dr. Jekyll contained beneath his ample waist-coat not two +egos, but three—not only Hyde but another, a greater than +Jekyll—a man as near to the angels as Hyde was to the +demons. These well-fed City men, these Gaiety Johnnies, +these plough-boys, apothecaries, thieves! within each one lies +hidden the hero, did Fate, the sculptor, choose to use his +chisel. That little drab we have noticed now and then, our +way taking us often past the end of the court, there was nothing +by which to distinguish her. She was not over-clean, could +use coarse language on occasion—just the spawn of the +streets: take care lest the cloak of our child should brush +her.</p> +<p>One morning the district Coroner, not, generally speaking, a +poet himself, but an adept at discovering poetry buried under +unlikely rubbish-heaps, tells us more about her. She earned +six shillings a week, and upon it supported a bed-ridden mother +and three younger children. She was housewife, nurse, +mother, breadwinner, rolled into one. Yes, there are +heroines <i>out</i> of fiction.</p> +<p>So loutish Tom has won the Victoria Cross—dashed out +under a storm of bullets and rescued the riddled flag. Who +would have thought it of loutish Tom? The village alehouse +one always deemed the goal of his endeavours. Chance comes +to Tom and we find him out. To Harry the Fates were less +kind. A ne’er-do-well was Harry—drank, knocked +his wife about, they say. Bury him, we are well rid of him, +he was good for nothing. Are we sure?</p> +<p>Let us acknowledge we are sinners. We know, those of us +who dare to examine ourselves, that we are capable of every +meanness, of every wrong under the sun. It is by the +accident of circumstance, aided by the helpful watchfulness of +the policeman, that our possibilities of crime are known only to +ourselves. But having acknowledged our evil, let us also +acknowledge that we are capable of greatness. The martyrs +who faced death and torture unflinchingly for conscience’ +sake, were men and women like ourselves. They had their +wrong side. Before the small trials of daily life they no +doubt fell as we fall. By no means were they the pick of +humanity. Thieves many of them had been, and murderers, +evil-livers, and evil-doers. But the nobility was there +also, lying dormant, and their day came. Among them must +have been men who had cheated their neighbours over the counter; +men who had been cruel to their wives and children; selfish, +scandal-mongering women. In easier times their virtue might +never have been known to any but their Maker.</p> +<p>In every age and in every period, when and where Fate has +called upon men and women to play the man, human nature has not +been found wanting. They were a poor lot, those French +aristocrats that the Terror seized: cowardly, selfish, greedy had +been their lives. Yet there must have been good, even in +them. When the little things that in their little lives +they had thought so great were swept away from them, when they +found themselves face to face with the realities; then even they +played the man. Poor shuffling Charles the First, crusted +over with weakness and folly, deep down in him at last we find +the great gentleman.</p> +<p>I like to hear stories of the littleness of great men. I +like to think that Shakespeare was fond of his glass. I +even cling to the tale of that disgraceful final orgie with +friend Ben Jonson. Possibly the story may not be true, but +I hope it was. I like to think of him as poacher, as +village ne’er-do-well, denounced by the local +grammar-school master, preached at by the local J. P. of the +period. I like to reflect that Cromwell had a wart on his +nose; the thought makes me more contented with my own +features. I like to think that he put sweets upon the +chairs, to see finely-dressed ladies spoil their frocks; to tell +myself that he roared with laughter at the silly jest, like any +East End ’Arry with his Bank Holiday squirt of dirty +water. I like to read that Carlyle threw bacon at his wife +and occasionally made himself highly ridiculous over small +annoyances, that would have been smiled at by a man of +well-balanced mind. I think of the fifty foolish things a +week <i>I</i> do, and say to myself, “I, too, am a literary +man.”</p> +<p>I like to think that even Judas had his moments of nobility, +his good hours when he would willingly have laid down his life +for his Master. Perhaps even to him there came, before the +journey’s end, the memory of a voice +saying—“Thy sins be forgiven thee.” There +must have been good, even in Judas.</p> +<p>Virtue lies like the gold in quartz, there is not very much of +it, and much pains has to be spent on the extracting of it. +But Nature seems to think it worth her while to fashion these +huge useless stones, if in them she may hide away her precious +metals. Perhaps, also, in human nature, she cares little +for the mass of dross, provided that by crushing and cleansing +she can extract from it a little gold, sufficient to repay her +for the labour of the world. We wonder why she troubles to +make the stone. Why cannot the gold lie in nuggets on the +surface? But her methods are secrets to us. Perchance +there is a reason for the quartz. Perchance there is a +reason for the evil and folly, through which run, unseen to the +careless eye, the tiny veins of virtue.</p> +<p>Aye, the stone predominates, but the gold is there. We +claim to have it valued. The evil that there is in man no +tongue can tell. We are vile among the vile, a little evil +people. But we are great. Pile up the bricks of our +sins till the tower knocks at Heaven’s gate, calling for +vengeance, yet we are great—with a greatness and a virtue +that the untempted angels may not reach to. The written +history of the human race, it is one long record of cruelty, of +falsehood, of oppression. Think you the world would be +spinning round the sun unto this day, if that written record were +all? Sodom, God would have spared had there been found ten +righteous men within its walls. The world is saved by its +just men. History sees them not; she is but the newspaper, +a report of accidents. Judge you life by that? Then +you shall believe that the true Temple of Hymen is the Divorce +Court; that men are of two classes only, the thief and the +policeman; that all noble thought is but a politician’s +catchword. History sees only the destroying conflagrations, +she takes no thought of the sweet fire-sides. History notes +the wrong; but the patient suffering, the heroic endeavour, that, +slowly and silently, as the soft processes of Nature re-clothing +with verdure the passion-wasted land, obliterate that wrong, she +has no eyes for. In the days of cruelty and +oppression—not altogether yet of the past, one +fears—must have lived gentle-hearted men and women, healing +with their help and sympathy the wounds that else the world had +died of. After the thief, riding with jingle of sword and +spur, comes, mounted on his ass, the good Samaritan. The +pyramid of the world’s evil—God help us! it rises +high, shutting out almost the sun. But the record of +man’s good deeds, it lies written in the laughter of the +children, in the light of lovers’ eyes, in the dreams of +the young men; it shall not be forgotten. The fires of +persecution served as torches to show Heaven the heroism that was +in man. From the soil of tyranny sprang self-sacrifice, and +daring for the Right. Cruelty! what is it but the vile +manure, making the ground ready for the flowers of tenderness and +pity? Hate and Anger shriek to one another across the ages, +but the voices of Love and Comfort are none the less existent +that they speak in whispers, lips to ear.</p> +<p>We have done wrong, oh, ye witnessing Heavens, but we have +done good. We claim justice. We have laid down our +lives for our friends: greater love hath no man than this. +We have fought for the Right. We have died for the +Truth—as the Truth seemed to us. We have done noble +deeds; we have lived noble lives; we have comforted the +sorrowful; we have succoured the weak. Failing, falling, +making in our blindness many a false step, yet we have +striven. For the sake of the army of just men and true, for +the sake of the myriads of patient, loving women, for the sake of +the pitiful and helpful, for the sake of the good that lies +hidden within us,—spare us, O Lord.</p> +<h2><a name="page271"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 271</span>ON +THE MOTHERLINESS OF MAN</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was only a piece of broken +glass. From its shape and colour, I should say it had, in +its happier days, formed portion of a cheap scent-bottle. +Lying isolated on the grass, shone upon by the early morning sun, +it certainly appeared at its best. It attracted him.</p> +<p>He cocked his head, and looked at it with his right eye. +Then he hopped round to the other side, and looked at it with his +left eye. With either optic it seemed equally +desirable.</p> +<p>That he was an inexperienced young rook goes without +saying. An older bird would not have given a second glance +to the thing. Indeed, one would have thought his own +instinct might have told him that broken glass would be a mistake +in a bird’s nest. But its glitter drew him too +strongly for resistance. I am inclined to suspect that at +some time, during the growth of his family tree, there must have +occurred a <i>mésalliance</i>, perhaps worse. +Possibly a strain of magpie blood?—one knows the character +of magpies, or rather their lack of character—and such +things have happened. But I will not pursue further so +painful a train: I throw out the suggestion as a possible +explanation, that is all.</p> +<p>He hopped nearer. Was it a sweet illusion, this flashing +fragment of rainbow; a beautiful vision to fade upon approach, +typical of so much that is un-understandable in rook life? +He made a dart forward and tapped it with his beak. No, it +was real—as fine a lump of jagged green glass as any +newly-married rook could desire, and to be had for the +taking. <i>She</i> would be pleased with it. He was a +well-meaning bird; the mere upward inclination of his tail +suggested earnest though possibly ill-directed endeavour.</p> +<p>He turned it over. It was an awkward thing to carry; it +had so very many corners. But he succeeded at last in +getting it firmly between his beak, and in haste, lest some other +bird should seek to dispute with him its possession, at once flew +off with it.</p> +<p>A second rook who had been watching the proceedings from the +lime tree, called to a third who was passing. Even with my +limited knowledge of the language I found it easy to follow the +conversation: it was so obvious.</p> +<p>“Issachar!”</p> +<p>“Hallo!”</p> +<p>“What do you think? Zebulan’s found a piece +of broken bottle. He’s going to line his nest with +it.”</p> +<p>“No!”</p> +<p>“God’s truth. Look at him. There he +goes, he’s got it in his beak.”</p> +<p>“Well, I’m—!”</p> +<p>And they both burst into a laugh.</p> +<p>But Zebulan heeded them not. If he overheard, he +probably put down the whole dialogue to jealousy. He made +straight for his tree. By standing with my left cheek +pressed close against the window-pane, I was able to follow +him. He is building in what we call the Paddock +elms—a suburb commenced only last season, but rapidly +growing. I wanted to see what his wife would say.</p> +<p>At first she said nothing. He laid it carefully down on +the branch near the half-finished nest, and she stretched up her +head and looked at it.</p> +<p>Then she looked at him. For about a minute neither +spoke. I could see that the situation was becoming +strained. When she did open her beak, it was with a subdued +tone, that had a vein of weariness running through it.</p> +<p>“What is it?” she asked.</p> +<p>He was evidently chilled by her manner. As I have +explained, he is an inexperienced young rook. This is +clearly his first wife, and he stands somewhat in awe of her.</p> +<p>“Well, I don’t exactly know what it’s +<i>called</i>,” he answered.</p> +<p>“Oh.”</p> +<p>“No. But it’s pretty, isn’t it?” +he added. He moved it, trying to get it where the sun might +reach it. It was evident he was admitting to himself that, +seen in the shade, it lost much of its charm.</p> +<p>“Oh, yes; very pretty,” was the rejoinder; +“perhaps you’ll tell me what you’re going to do +with it.”</p> +<p>The question further discomforted him. It was growing +upon him that this thing was not going to be the success he had +anticipated. It would be necessary to proceed warily.</p> +<p>“Of course, it’s not a twig,” he began.</p> +<p>“I see it isn’t.”</p> +<p>“No. You see, the nest is nearly all twigs as it +is, and I thought—”</p> +<p>“Oh, you did think.”</p> +<p>“Yes, my dear. I thought—unless you are of +opinion that it’s too showy—I thought we might work +it in somewhere.”</p> +<p>Then she flared out.</p> +<p>“Oh, did you? You thought that a good idea. +An A1 prize idiot I seem to have married, I do. +You’ve been gone twenty minutes, and you bring me back an +eight-cornered piece of broken glass, which you think we might +‘work into’ the nest. You’d like to see +me sitting on it for a month, you would. You think it would +make a nice bed for the children to lie on. You don’t +think you could manage to find a packet of mixed pins if you went +down again, I suppose. They’d look pretty +‘worked in’ somewhere, don’t you +think?—Here, get out of my way. I’ll finish +this nest by myself.” She always had been short with +him.</p> +<p>She caught up the offending object—it was a fairly heavy +lump of glass—and flung it out of the tree with all her +force. I heard it crash through the cucumber frame. +That makes the seventh pane of glass broken in that cucumber +frame this week. The couple in the branch above are the +worst. Their plan of building is the most extravagant, the +most absurd I ever heard of. They hoist up ten times as +much material as they can possibly use; you might think they were +going to build a block, and let it out in flats to the other +rooks. Then what they don’t want they fling down +again. Suppose we built on such a principle? Suppose +a human husband and wife were to start erecting their house in +Piccadilly Circus, let us say; and suppose the man spent all the +day steadily carrying bricks up the ladder while his wife laid +them, never asking her how many she wanted, whether she +didn’t think he had brought up sufficient, but just +accumulating bricks in a senseless fashion, bringing up every +brick he could find. And then suppose, when evening came, +and looking round, they found they had some twenty cart-loads of +bricks lying unused upon the scaffold, they were to commence +flinging them down into Waterloo Place. They would get +themselves into trouble; somebody would be sure to speak to them +about it. Yet that is precisely what those birds do, and +nobody says a word to them. They are supposed to have a +President. He lives by himself in the yew tree outside the +morning-room window. What I want to know is what he is +supposed to be good for. This is the sort of thing I want +him to look into. I would like him to be worming underneath +one evening when those two birds are tidying up: perhaps he would +do something then. I have done all I can. I have +thrown stones at them, that, in the course of nature, have +returned to earth again, breaking more glass. I have blazed +at them with a revolver; but they have come to regard this +proceeding as a mere expression of light-heartedness on my part, +possibly confusing me with the Arab of the Desert, who, I am +given to understand, expresses himself thus in moments of deep +emotion. They merely retire to a safe distance to watch me; +no doubt regarding me as a poor performer, inasmuch as I do not +also dance and shout between each shot. I have no objection +to their building there, if they only would build sensibly. +I want somebody to speak to them to whom they will pay +attention.</p> +<p>You can hear them in the evening, discussing the matter of +this surplus stock.</p> +<p>“Don’t you work any more,” he says, as he +comes up with the last load, “you’ll tire +yourself.”</p> +<p>“Well, I am feeling a bit done up,” she answers, +as she hops out of the nest and straightens her back.</p> +<p>“You’re a bit peckish, too, I expect,” he +adds sympathetically. “I know I am. We will +have a scratch down, and be off.”</p> +<p>“What about all this stuff?” she asks, while +titivating herself; “we’d better not leave it about, +it looks so untidy.”</p> +<p>“Oh, we’ll soon get rid of that,” he +answers. “I’ll have that down in a +jiffy.”</p> +<p>To help him, she seizes a stick and is about to drop it. +He darts forward and snatches it from her.</p> +<p>“Don’t you waste that one,” he cries, +“that’s a rare one, that is. You see me hit the +old man with it.”</p> +<p>And he does. What the gardener says, I will leave you to +imagine.</p> +<p>Judged from its structure, the rook family is supposed to come +next in intelligence to man himself. Judging from the +intelligence displayed by members of certain human families with +whom I have come in contact, I can quite believe it. That +rooks talk I am positive. No one can spend half-an-hour +watching a rookery without being convinced of this. Whether +the talk be always wise and witty, I am not prepared to maintain; +but that there is a good deal of it is certain. A young +French gentleman of my acquaintance, who visited England to study +the language, told me that the impression made upon him by his +first social evening in London was that of a parrot-house. +Later on, when he came to comprehend, he, of course, recognized +the brilliancy and depth of the average London drawing-room talk; +but that is how, not comprehending, it impressed him at +first. Listening to the riot of a rookery is much the same +experience. The conversation to us sounds meaningless; the +rooks themselves would probably describe it as sparkling.</p> +<p>There is a Misanthrope I know who hardly ever goes into +Society. I argued the question with him one day. +“Why should I?” he replied; “I know, say, a +dozen men and women with whom intercourse is a pleasure; they +have ideas of their own which they are not afraid to voice. +To rub brains with such is a rare and goodly thing, and I thank +Heaven for their friendship; but they are sufficient for my +leisure. What more do I require? What is this +‘Society’ of which you all make so much ado? I +have sampled it, and I find it unsatisfying. Analyze it +into its elements, what is it? Some person I know very +slightly, who knows me very slightly, asks me to what you call an +‘At Home.’ The evening comes, I have done my +day’s work and I have dined. I have been to a theatre +or concert, or I have spent a pleasant hour or so with a +friend. I am more inclined for bed than anything else, but +I pull myself together, dress, and drive to the house. +While I am taking off my hat and coat in the hall, a man enters I +met a few hours ago at the Club. He is a man I have very +little opinion of, and he, probably, takes a similar view of +me. Our minds have no thought in common, but as it is +necessary to talk, I tell him it is a warm evening. Perhaps +it is a warm evening, perhaps it isn’t; in either case he +agrees with me. I ask him if he is going to Ascot. I +do not care a straw whether he is going to Ascot or not. He +says he is not quite sure, but asks me what chance Passion Flower +has for the Thousand Guineas. I know he doesn’t value +my opinion on the subject at a brass farthing—he would be a +fool if he did, but I cudgel my brains to reply to him, as though +he were going to stake his shirt on my advice. We reach the +first floor, and are mutually glad to get rid of one +another. I catch my hostess’ eye. She looks +tired and worried; she would be happier in bed, only she +doesn’t know it. She smiles sweetly, but it is clear +she has not the slightest idea who I am, and is waiting to catch +my name from the butler. I whisper it to him. Perhaps +he will get it right, perhaps he won’t; it is quite +immaterial. They have asked two hundred and forty guests, +some seventy-five of whom they know by sight, for the rest, any +chance passer-by, able, as the theatrical advertisements say, +‘to dress and behave as a gentleman,’ would do every +bit as well. Indeed, I sometimes wonder why people go to +the trouble and expense of invitation cards at all. A +sandwich-man outside the door would answer the purpose. +‘Lady Tompkins, At Home, this afternoon from three to +seven; Tea and Music. Ladies and Gentlemen admitted on +presentation of visiting card. Afternoon dress +indispensable.’ The crowd is the thing wanted; as for +the items, well, tell me, what is the difference, from the +Society point of view, between one man in a black frock-coat and +another?</p> +<p>“I remember being once invited to a party at a house in +Lancaster Gate. I had met the woman at a picnic. In +the same green frock and parasol I might have recognized her the +next time I saw her. In any other clothes I did not expect +to. My cabman took me to the house opposite, where they +were also giving a party. It made no difference to any of +us. The hostess—I never learnt her name—said it +was very good of me to come, and then shunted me off on to a +Colonial Premier (I did not catch his name, and he did not catch +mine, which was not extraordinary, seeing that my hostess did not +know it) who, she whispered to me, had come over, from wherever +it was (she did not seem to be very sure) principally to make my +acquaintance. Half through the evening, and by accident, I +discovered my mistake, but judged it too late to say anything +then. I met a couple of people I knew, had a little supper +with them, and came away. The next afternoon I met my right +hostess—the lady who should have been my hostess. She +thanked me effusively for having sacrificed the previous evening +to her and her friends; she said she knew how seldom I went out: +that made her feel my kindness all the more. She told me +that the Brazilian Minister’s wife had told her that I was +the cleverest man she had ever met. I often think I should +like to meet that man, whoever he may be, and thank him.</p> +<p>“But perhaps the butler does pronounce my name rightly, +and perhaps my hostess actually does recognize me. She +smiles, and says she was so afraid I was not coming. She +implies that all the other guests are but as a feather in her +scales of joy compared with myself. I smile in return, +wondering to myself how I look when I do smile. I have +never had the courage to face my own smile in the +looking-glass. I notice the Society smile of other men, and +it is not reassuring. I murmur something about my not +having been likely to forget this evening; in my turn, seeking to +imply that I have been looking forward to it for weeks. A +few men shine at this sort of thing, but they are a small +percentage, and without conceit I regard myself as no bigger a +fool than the average male. Not knowing what else to say, I +tell her also that it is a warm evening. She smiles archly +as though there were some hidden witticism in the remark, and I +drift away, feeling ashamed of myself. To talk as an idiot +when you <i>are</i> an idiot brings no discomfort; to behave as +an idiot when you have sufficient sense to know it, is +painful. I hide myself in the crowd, and perhaps I’ll +meet a woman I was introduced to three weeks ago at a picture +gallery. We don’t know each other’s names, but, +both of us feeling lonesome, we converse, as it is called. +If she be the ordinary type of woman, she asks me if I am going +on to the Johnsons’. I tell her no. We stand +silent for a moment, both thinking what next to say. She +asks me if I was at the Thompsons’ the day before +yesterday. I again tell her no. I begin to feel +dissatisfied with myself that I was not at the +Thompsons’. Trying to get even with her, I ask her if +she is going to the Browns’ next Monday. (There are +no Browns, she will have to say, No.) She is not, and her +tone suggests that a social stigma rests upon the Browns. I +ask her if she has been to Barnum’s Circus; she +hasn’t, but is going. I give her my impressions of +Barnum’s Circus, which are precisely the impressions of +everybody else who has seen the show.</p> +<p>“Or if luck be against me, she is possibly a smart +woman, that is to say, her conversation is a running fire of +spiteful remarks at the expense of every one she knows, and of +sneers at the expense of every one she doesn’t. I +always feel I could make a better woman myself, out of a bottle +of vinegar and a penn’orth of mixed pins. Yet it +usually takes one about ten minutes to get away from her.</p> +<p>“Even when, by chance, one meets a flesh-and-blood man +or woman at such gatherings, it is not the time or place for real +conversation; and as for the shadows, what person in their senses +would exhaust a single brain cell upon such? I remember a +discussion once concerning Tennyson, considered as a social +item. The dullest and most densely-stupid bore I ever came +across was telling how he had sat next to Tennyson at +dinner. ‘I found him a most uninteresting man,’ +so he confided to us; ‘he had nothing to say for +himself—absolutely nothing.’ I should like to +resuscitate Dr. Samuel Johnson for an evening, and throw him into +one of these ‘At Homes’ of yours.”</p> +<p>My friend is an admitted misanthrope, as I have explained; but +one cannot dismiss him as altogether unjust. That there is +a certain mystery about Society’s craving for Society must +be admitted. I stood one evening trying to force my way +into the supper room of a house in Berkeley Square. A lady, +hot and weary, a few yards in front of me was struggling to the +same goal.</p> +<p>“Why,” remarked she to her companion, “why +do we come to these places, and fight like a Bank Holiday crowd +for eighteenpenny-worth of food?”</p> +<p>“We come here,” replied the man, whom I judged to +be a philosopher, “to say we’ve been here.”</p> +<p>I met A— the other evening, and asked him to dine with +me on Monday. I don’t know why I ask A— to dine +with me, but about once a month I do. He is an +uninteresting man.</p> +<p>“I can’t,” he said, “I’ve got to +go to the B—s’; confounded nuisance, it will be +infernally dull.”</p> +<p>“Why go?” I asked.</p> +<p>“I really don’t know,” he replied.</p> +<p>A little later B— met me, and asked me to dine with him +on Monday.</p> +<p>“I can’t,” I answered, “some friends +are coming to us that evening. It’s a duty dinner, +you know the sort of thing.”</p> +<p>“I wish you could have managed it,” he said, +“I shall have no one to talk to. The A—s are +coming, and they bore me to death.”</p> +<p>“Why do you ask him?” I suggested.</p> +<p>“Upon my word, I really don’t know,” he +replied.</p> +<p>But to return to our rooks. We were speaking of their +social instincts. Some dozen of them—the +“scallywags” and bachelors of the community, I judge +them to be—have started a Club. For a month past I +have been trying to understand what the affair was. Now I +know: it is a Club.</p> +<p>And for their Club House they have chosen, of course, the tree +nearest my bedroom window. I can guess how that came about; +it was my own fault, I never thought of it. About two +months ago, a single rook—suffering from indigestion or an +unhappy marriage, I know not—chose this tree one night for +purposes of reflection. He woke me up: I felt angry. +I opened the window, and threw an empty soda-water bottle at +him. Of course it did not hit him, and finding nothing else +to throw, I shouted at him, thinking to frighten him away. +He took no notice, but went on talking to himself. I +shouted louder, and woke up my own dog. The dog barked +furiously, and woke up most things within a quarter of a +mile. I had to go down with a boot-jack—the only +thing I could find handy—to soothe the dog. Two hours +later I fell asleep from exhaustion. I left the rook still +cawing.</p> +<p>The next night he came again. I should say he was a bird +with a sense of humour. Thinking this might happen, I had, +however, taken the precaution to have a few stones ready. I +opened the window wide, and fired them one after another into the +tree. After I had closed the window, he hopped down nearer, +and cawed louder than ever. I think he wanted me to throw +more stones at him: he appeared to regard the whole proceeding as +a game. On the third night, as I heard nothing of him, I +flattered myself that, in spite of his bravado, I had discouraged +him. I might have known rooks better.</p> +<p>What happened when the Club was being formed, I take it, was +this:</p> +<p>“Where shall we fix upon for our Club House?” said +the secretary, all other points having been disposed of. +One suggested this tree, another suggested that. Then up +spoke this particular rook:</p> +<p>“I’ll tell you where,” said he, “in +the yew tree opposite the porch. And I’ll tell you +for why. Just about an hour before dawn a man comes to the +window over the porch, dressed in the most comical costume you +ever set eyes upon. I’ll tell you what he reminds me +of—those little statues that men use for decorating +fields. He opens the window, and throws a lot of things out +upon the lawn, and then he dances and sings. It’s +awfully interesting, and you can see it all from the yew +tree.”</p> +<p>That, I am convinced, is how the Club came to fix upon the +tree next my window. I have had the satisfaction of denying +them the exhibition they anticipated, and I cheer myself with the +hope that they have visited their disappointment upon their +misleader.</p> +<p>There is a difference between Rook Clubs and ours. In +our clubs the respectable members arrive early, and leave at a +reasonable hour; in Rook Clubs, it would appear, this principle +is reversed. The Mad Hatter would have liked this +Club—it would have been a club after his own heart. +It opens at half-past two in the morning, and the first to arrive +are the most disreputable members. In Rook-land the +rowdy-dowdy, randy-dandy, rollicky-ranky boys get up very early +in the morning and go to bed in the afternoon. Towards +dawn, the older, more orderly members drop in for reasonable +talk, and the Club becomes more respectable. The tree +closes about six. For the first two hours, however, the +goings-on are disgraceful. The proceedings, as often as +not, open with a fight. If no two gentlemen can be found to +oblige with a fight, the next noisiest thing to fall back upon is +held to be a song. It is no satisfaction to me to be told +that rooks cannot sing. <i>I</i> know that, without the +trouble of referring to the natural history book. It is the +rook who does not know it; <i>he</i> thinks he can; and as a +matter of fact, he does. You can criticize his singing, you +can call it what you like, but you can’t stop it—at +least, that is my experience. The song selected is sure to +be one with a chorus. Towards the end it becomes mainly +chorus, unless the soloist be an extra powerful bird, determined +to insist upon his rights.</p> +<p>The President knows nothing of this Club. He gets up +himself about seven—three hours after all the others have +finished breakfast—and then fusses round under the +impression that he is waking up the colony, the fat-headed old +fool. He is the poorest thing in Presidents I have ever +heard of. A South American Republic would supply a better +article. The rooks themselves, the married majority, +fathers of families, respectable nestholders, are as indignant as +I am. I hear complaints from all quarters.</p> +<p>Reflection comes to one as, towards the close of these chill +afternoons in early spring, one leans upon the paddock gate +watching the noisy bustling in the bare elms.</p> +<p>So the earth is growing green again, and love is come again +unto the hearts of us old sober-coated fellows. Oh, Madam, +your feathers gleam wondrous black, and your bonnie bright eye +stabs deep. Come, sit by our side, and we’ll tell you +a tale such as rook never told before. It’s the tale +of a nest in a topmost bough, that sways in the good west +wind. It’s strong without, but it’s soft +within, where the little green eggs lie safe. And there +sits in that nest a lady sweet, and she caws with joy, for, afar, +she sees the rook she loves the best. Oh, he has been east, +and he has been west, and his crop it is full of worms and slugs, +and they are all for her.</p> +<p>We are old, old rooks, so many of us. The white is +mingling with the purple black upon our breasts. We have +seen these tall elms grow from saplings; we have seen the old +trees fall and die. Yet each season come to us again the +young thoughts. So we mate and build and gather that again +our old, old hearts may quiver to the thin cry of our +newborn.</p> +<p>Mother Nature has but one care, the children. We talk of +Love as the Lord of Life: it is but the Minister. Our +novels end where Nature’s tale begins. The drama that +our curtain falls upon, is but the prologue to her play. +How the ancient Dame must laugh as she listens to the prattle of +her children. “Is Marriage a Failure?” +“Is Life worth Living?” “The New Woman +<i>versus</i> the Old.” So, perhaps, the waves of the +Atlantic discuss vehemently whether they shall flow east or +west.</p> +<p>Motherhood is the law of the Universe. The whole duty of +man is to be a mother. We labour: to what end? the +children—the woman in the home, the man in the +community. The nation takes thought for its future: +why? In a few years its statesmen, its soldiers, its +merchants, its toilers, will be gathered unto their +fathers. Why trouble we ourselves about the future? +The country pours its blood and treasure into the earth that the +children may reap. Foolish Jacques Bonhomie, his addled +brain full of dreams, rushes with bloody hands to give his blood +for Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. He will not live to see, +except in vision, the new world he gives his bones to +build—even his spinning word-whipped head knows that. +But the children! they shall live sweeter lives. The +peasant leaves his fireside to die upon the battle-field. +What is it to him, a grain in the human sand, that Russia should +conquer the East, that Germany should be united, that the English +flag should wave above new lands? the heritage his fathers left +him shall be greater for his sons. Patriotism! what is it +but the mother instinct of a people?</p> +<p>Take it that the decree has gone forth from Heaven: There +shall be no more generations, with this life the world shall +die. Think you we should move another hand? The ships +would rot in the harbours, the grain would rot in the +ground. Should we paint pictures, write books, make music? +hemmed in by that onward creeping sea of silence. Think you +with what eyes husband and wife would look on one another. +Think you of the wooing—the spring of Love dried up; love +only a pool of stagnant water.</p> +<p>How little we seem to realize this foundation of our +life. Herein, if nowhere else, lies our eternity. +This Ego shall never die—unless the human race from +beginning to end be but a passing jest of the Gods, to be swept +aside when wearied of, leaving room for new experiments. +These features of mine—we will not discuss their +æsthetic value—shall never disappear; modified, +varied, but in essential the same, they shall continue in ever +increasing circles to the end of Time. This temperament of +mine—this good and evil that is in me, it shall grow with +every age, spreading ever wider, combining, amalgamating. I +go into my children and my children’s children, I am +eternal. I am they, they are I. The tree withers and +you clear the ground, thankful if out of its dead limbs you can +make good firewood; but its spirit, its life, is in fifty +saplings. The tree dies not, it changes.</p> +<p>These men and women that pass me in the street, this one +hurrying to his office, this one to his club, another to his +love, they are the mothers of the world to come.</p> +<p>This greedy trickster in stocks and shares, he cheats, he +lies, he wrongs all men—for what? Follow him to his +luxurious home in the suburbs: what do you find? A man with +children on his knee, telling them stories, promising them +toys. His anxious, sordid life, for what object is it +lived? That these children may possess the things that he +thinks good for them. Our very vices, side by side with our +virtues, spring from this one root, Motherhood. It is the +one seed of the Universe. The planets are but children of +the sun, the moon but an offspring of the earth, stone of her +stone, iron of her iron. What is the Great Centre of us +all, life animate and inanimate—if any life <i>be</i> +inanimate? Is the eternal universe one dim figure, +Motherhood, filling all space?</p> +<p>This scheming Mother of Mayfair, angling for a rich +son-in-law! Not a pleasing portrait to look upon, from one +point of view. Let us look at it, for a moment, from +another. How weary she must be! This is her third +“function” to-night; the paint is running off her +poor face. She has been snubbed a dozen times by her social +superiors, openly insulted by a Duchess; yet she bears it with a +patient smile. It is a pitiful ambition, hers: it is that +her child shall marry money, shall have carriages and many +servants, live in Park Lane, wear diamonds, see her name in the +Society Papers. At whatever cost to herself, her daughter +shall, if possible, enjoy these things. She could so much +more comfortably go to bed, and leave the child to marry some +well-to-do commercial traveller. Justice, Reader, even for +such. Her sordid scheming is but the deformed child of +Motherhood.</p> +<p>Motherhood! it is the gamut of God’s orchestra, +savageness and cruelty at the one end, tenderness and +self-sacrifice at the other.</p> +<p>The sparrow-hawk fights the hen: he seeking food for his +brood, she defending hers with her life. The spider sucks +the fly to feed its myriad young; the cat tortures the mouse to +give its still throbbing carcase to her kittens, and man wrongs +man for children’s sake. Perhaps when the riot of the +world reaches us whole, not broken, we shall learn it is a +harmony, each jangling discord fallen into its place around the +central theme, Motherhood.</p> +<h2><a name="page301"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 301</span>ON +THE INADVISABILITY OF FOLLOWING ADVICE</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">was</span> pacing the Euston platform +late one winter’s night, waiting for the last train to +Watford, when I noticed a man cursing an automatic machine. +Twice he shook his fist at it. I expected every moment to +see him strike it. Naturally curious, I drew near +softly. I wanted to catch what he was saying. +However, he heard my approaching footsteps, and turned on +me. “Are you the man,” said he, “who was +here just now?”</p> +<p>“Just where?” I replied. I had been pacing +up and down the platform for about five minutes.</p> +<p>“Why here, where we are standing,” he snapped +out. “Where do you think ‘here’ +is—over there?” He seemed irritable.</p> +<p>“I may have passed this spot in the course of my +peregrinations, if that is what you mean,” I replied. +I spoke with studied politeness; my idea was to rebuke his +rudeness.</p> +<p>“I mean,” he answered, “are you the man that +spoke to me, just a minute ago?”</p> +<p>“I am not that man,” I said; +“good-night.”</p> +<p>“Are you sure?” he persisted.</p> +<p>“One is not likely to forget talking to you,” I +retorted.</p> +<p>His tone had been most offensive. “I beg your +pardon,” he replied grudgingly. “I thought you +looked like the man who spoke to me a minute or so +ago.”</p> +<p>I felt mollified; he was the only other man on the platform, +and I had a quarter of an hour to wait. “No, it +certainly wasn’t me,” I returned genially, but +ungrammatically. “Why, did you want him?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I did,” he answered. “I put a +penny in the slot here,” he continued, feeling apparently +the need of unburdening himself: “wanted a box of +matches. I couldn’t get anything put, and I was +shaking the machine, and swearing at it, as one does, when there +came along a man, about your size, and—you’re +<i>sure</i> it wasn’t you?”</p> +<p>“Positive,” I again ungrammatically replied; +“I would tell you if it had been. What did he +do?”</p> +<p>“Well, he saw what had happened, or guessed it. He +said, ‘They are troublesome things, those machines; they +want understanding.’ I said, ‘They want taking +up and flinging into the sea, that’s what they +want!’ I was feeling mad because I hadn’t a +match about me, and I use a lot. He said, ‘They stick +sometimes; the thing to do is to put another penny in; the weight +of the first penny is not always sufficient. The second +penny loosens the drawer and tumbles out itself; so that you get +your purchase together with your first penny back again. I +have often succeeded that way.’ Well, it seemed a +silly explanation, but he talked as if he had been weaned by an +automatic machine, and I was sawney enough to listen to +him. I dropped in what I thought was another penny. I +have just discovered it was a two-shilling piece. The fool +was right to a certain extent; I have got something out. I +have got this.”</p> +<p>He held it towards me; I looked at it. It was a packet +of Everton toffee.</p> +<p>“Two and a penny,” he remarked, bitterly. +“I’ll sell it for a third of what it cost +me.”</p> +<p>“You have put your money into the wrong machine,” +I suggested.</p> +<p>“Well, I know that!” he answered, a little +crossly, as it seemed to me—he was not a nice man: had +there been any one else to talk to I should have left him. +“It isn’t losing the money I mind so much; it’s +getting this damn thing, that annoys me. If I could find +that idiot Id ram it down his throat.”</p> +<p>We walked to the end of the platform, side by side, in +silence.</p> +<p>“There are people like that,” he broke out, as we +turned, “people who will go about, giving advice. +I’ll be getting six months over one of them, I’m +always afraid. I remember a pony I had once.” +(I judged the man to be a small farmer; he talked in a wurzelly +tone. I don’t know if you understand what I mean, but +an atmosphere of wurzels was the thing that somehow he +suggested.) “It was a thoroughbred Welsh pony, as +sound a little beast as ever stepped. I’d had him out +to grass all the winter, and one day in the early spring I +thought I’d take him for a run. I had to go to +Amersham on business. I put him into the cart, and drove +him across; it is just ten miles from my place. He was a +bit uppish, and had lathered himself pretty freely by the time we +reached the town.</p> +<p>“A man was at the door of the hotel. He says, +‘That’s a good pony of yours.’</p> +<p>“‘Pretty middling,’ I says.</p> +<p>“‘It doesn’t do to over-drive ’em, +when they’re young,’ he says.</p> +<p>“I says, ‘He’s done ten miles, and +I’ve done most of the pulling. I reckon I’m a +jolly sight more exhausted than he is.</p> +<p>“I went inside and did my business, and when I came out +the man was still there. ‘Going back up the +hill?’ he says to me.</p> +<p>“Somehow, I didn’t cotton to him from the +beginning. ‘Well, I’ve got to get the other +side of it,’ I says, ‘and unless you know any patent +way of getting over a hill without going up it, I reckon I +am.’</p> +<p>“He says, ‘You take my advice: give him a pint of +old ale before you start.’</p> +<p>“‘Old ale,’ I says; ‘why he’s a +teetotaler.’</p> +<p>“‘Never you mind that,’ he answers; +‘you give him a pint of old ale. I know these ponies; +he’s a good ’un, but he ain’t set. A pint +of old ale, and he’ll take you up that hill like a cable +tramway, and not hurt himself.’</p> +<p>“I don’t know what it is about this class of +man. One asks oneself afterwards why one didn’t knock +his hat over his eyes and run his head into the nearest +horse-trough. But at the time one listens to them. I +got a pint of old ale in a hand-bowl, and brought it out. +About half-a-dozen chaps were standing round, and of course there +was a good deal of chaff.</p> +<p>“‘You’re starting him on the downward +course, Jim,’ says one of them. ‘He’ll +take to gambling, rob a bank, and murder his mother. +That’s always the result of a glass of ale, ’cording +to the tracts.’</p> +<p>“‘He won’t drink it like that,’ says +another; ‘it’s as flat as ditch water. Put a +head on it for him.’</p> +<p>“‘Ain’t you got a cigar for him?’ says +a third.</p> +<p>“‘A cup of coffee and a round of buttered toast +would do him a sight more good, a cold day like this,’ says +a fourth.</p> +<p>“I’d half a mind then to throw the stuff away, or +drink it myself; it seemed a piece of bally nonsense, giving good +ale to a four-year-old pony; but the moment the beggar smelt the +bowl he reached out his head, and lapped it up as though +he’d been a Christian; and I jumped into the cart and +started off, amid cheers. We got up the hill pretty +steady. Then the liquor began to work into his head. +I’ve taken home a drunken man more than once and +there’s pleasanter jobs than that. I’ve seen a +drunken woman, and they’re worse. But a drunken Welsh +pony I never want to have anything more to do with so long as I +live. Having four legs he managed to hold himself up; but +as to guiding himself, he couldn’t; and as for letting me +do it, he wouldn’t. First we were one side of the +road, and then we were the other. When we were not either +side, we were crossways in the middle. I heard a bicycle +bell behind me, but I dared not turn my head. All I could +do was to shout to the fellow to keep where he was.</p> +<p>“‘I want to pass you,’ he sang out, so soon +as he was near enough.</p> +<p>“‘Well, you can’t do it,’ I called +back.</p> +<p>“‘Why can’t I?’ he answered. +‘How much of the road do <i>you</i> want?’</p> +<p>“‘All of it and a bit over,’ I answered him, +‘for this job, and nothing in the way.’</p> +<p>“He followed me for half-a-mile, abusing me; and every +time he thought he saw a chance he tried to pass me. But +the pony was always a bit too smart for him. You might have +thought the brute was doing it on purpose.</p> +<p>“‘You’re not fit to be driving,’ he +shouted. He was quite right; I wasn’t. I was +feeling just about dead beat.</p> +<p>“‘What do you think you are?’ he continued, +‘the charge of the Light Brigade?’ (He was a +common sort of fellow.) ‘Who sent <i>you</i> home +with the washing?’</p> +<p>“Well, he was making me wild by this time. +‘What’s the good of talking to me?’ I +shouted back. ‘Come and blackguard the pony if you +want to blackguard anybody. I’ve got all I can do +without the help of that alarm clock of yours. Go away, +you’re only making him worse.’</p> +<p>“‘What’s the matter with the pony?’ he +called out.</p> +<p>“‘Can’t you see?’ I answered. +‘He’s drunk.’</p> +<p>“Well, of course it sounded foolish; the truth often +does.</p> +<p>“‘One of you’s drunk,’ he retorted; +‘for two pins I’d come and haul you out of the +cart.’</p> +<p>“I wish to goodness he had; I’d have given +something to be out of that cart. But he didn’t have +the chance. At that moment the pony gave a sudden swerve; +and I take it he must have been a bit too close. I heard a +yell and a curse, and at the same instant I was splashed from +head to foot with ditch water. Then the brute bolted. +A man was coming along, asleep on the top of a cart-load of +windsor chairs. It’s disgraceful the way those +wagoners go to sleep; I wonder there are not more +accidents. I don’t think he ever knew what had +happened to him. I couldn’t look round to see what +became of him; I only saw him start. Half-way down the hill +a policeman holla’d to me to stop. I heard him +shouting out something about furious driving. Half-a-mile +this side of Chesham we came upon a girls’ school walking +two and two—a ‘crocodile’ they call it, I +think. I bet you those girls are still talking about +it. It must have taken the old woman a good hour to collect +them together again.</p> +<p>“It was market-day in Chesham; and I guess there has not +been a busier market-day in Chesham before or since. We +went through the town at about thirty miles an hour. +I’ve never seen Chesham so lively—it’s a sleepy +hole as a rule. A mile outside the town I sighted the High +Wycombe coach. I didn’t feel I minded much; I had got +to that pass when it didn’t seem to matter to me what +happened; I only felt curious. A dozen yards off the coach +the pony stopped dead; that jerked me off the seat to the bottom +of the cart. I couldn’t get up, because the seat was +on top of me. I could see nothing but the sky, and +occasionally the head of the pony, when he stood upon his hind +legs. But I could hear what the driver of the coach said, +and I judged he was having trouble also.</p> +<p>“‘Take that damn circus out of the road,’ he +shouted. If he’d had any sense he’d have seen +how helpless I was. I could hear his cattle plunging about; +they are like that, horses—if they see one fool, then they +all want to be fools.</p> +<p>“‘Take it home, and tie it up to its organ,’ +shouted the guard.</p> +<p>“Then an old woman went into hysterics, and began +laughing like an hyena. That started the pony off again, +and, as far as I could calculate by watching the clouds, we did +about another four miles at the gallop. Then he thought +he’d try to jump a gate, and finding, I suppose, that the +cart hampered him, he started kicking it to pieces. +I’d never have thought a cart could have been separated +into so many pieces, if I hadn’t seen it done. When +he had got rid of everything but half a wheel and the splashboard +he bolted again. I remained behind with the other ruins, +and glad I was to get a little rest. He came back later in +the afternoon, and I was pleased to sell him the next week for a +five-pound-note: it cost me about another ten to repair +myself.</p> +<p>“To this day I am chaffed about that pony, and the local +temperance society made a lecture out of me. That’s +what comes of following advice.”</p> +<p>I sympathized with him. I have suffered from advice +myself. I have a friend, a City man, whom I meet +occasionally. One of his most ardent passions in life is to +make my fortune. He button-holes me in Threadneedle +Street. “The very man I wanted to see,” he +says; “I’m going to let you in for a good +thing. We are getting up a little syndicate.” +He is for ever “getting up” a little syndicate, and +for every hundred pounds you put into it you take a thousand +out. Had I gone into all his little syndicates, I could +have been worth at the present moment, I reckon, two million five +hundred thousand pounds. But I have not gone into all his +little syndicates. I went into one, years ago, when I was +younger. I am still in it; my friend is confident that my +holding, later on, will yield me thousands. Being, however, +hard-up for ready money, I am willing to part with my share to +any deserving person at a genuine reduction, upon a cash +basis. Another friend of mine knows another man who is +“in the know” as regards racing matters. I +suppose most people possess a friend of this type. He is +generally very popular just before a race, and extremely +unpopular immediately afterwards. A third benefactor of +mine is an enthusiast upon the subject of diet. One day he +brought me something in a packet, and pressed it into my hand +with the air of a man who is relieving you of all your +troubles.</p> +<p>“What is it?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Open it and see,” he answered, in the tone of a +pantomime fairy.</p> +<p>I opened it and looked, but I was no wiser.</p> +<p>“It’s tea,” he explained.</p> +<p>“Oh!” I replied; “I was wondering if it +could be snuff.”</p> +<p>“Well, it’s not exactly tea,” he continued, +“it’s a sort of tea. You take one cup of +that—one cup, and you will never care for any other kind of +tea again.”</p> +<p>He was quite right, I took one cup. After drinking it I +felt I didn’t care for any other tea. I felt I +didn’t care for anything, except to die quietly and +inoffensively. He called on me a week later.</p> +<p>“You remember that tea I gave you?” he said.</p> +<p>“Distinctly,” I answered; “I’ve got +the taste of it in my mouth now.”</p> +<p>“Did it upset you?” he asked.</p> +<p>“It annoyed me at the time,” I answered; +“but that’s all over now.”</p> +<p>He seemed thoughtful. “You were quite +correct,” he answered; “it <i>was</i> snuff, a very +special snuff, sent me all the way from India.”</p> +<p>“I can’t say I liked it,” I replied.</p> +<p>“A stupid mistake of mine,” he went +on—“I must have mixed up the packets!”</p> +<p>“Oh, accidents will happen,” I said, “and +you won’t make another mistake, I feel sure; so far as I am +concerned.”</p> +<p>We can all give advice. I had the honour once of serving +an old gentleman whose profession it was to give legal advice, +and excellent legal advice he always gave. In common with +most men who know the law, he had little respect for it. I +have heard him say to a would-be litigant—</p> +<p>“My dear sir, if a villain stopped me in the street and +demanded of me my watch and chain, I should refuse to give it to +him. If he thereupon said, ‘Then I shall take it from +you by brute force,’ I should, old as I am, I feel +convinced, reply to him, ‘Come on.’ But if, on +the other hand, he were to say to me, ‘Very well, then I +shall take proceedings against you in the Court of Queen’s +Bench to compel you to give it up to me,’ I should at once +take it from my pocket, press it into his hand, and beg of him to +say no more about the matter. And I should consider I was +getting off cheaply.”</p> +<p>Yet that same old gentleman went to law himself with his +next-door neighbour over a dead poll parrot that wasn’t +worth sixpence to anybody, and spent from first to last a hundred +pounds, if he spent a penny.</p> +<p>“I know I’m a fool,” he confessed. +“I have no positive proof that it <i>was</i> his cat; but +I’ll make him pay for calling me an Old Bailey Attorney, +hanged if I don’t!”</p> +<p>We all know how the pudding <i>ought</i> to be made. We +do not profess to be able to make it: that is not our +business. Our business is to criticize the cook. It +seems our business to criticize so many things that it is not our +business to do. We are all critics nowadays. I have +my opinion of you, Reader, and you possibly have your own opinion +of me. I do not seek to know it; personally, I prefer the +man who says what he has to say of me behind my back. I +remember, when on a lecturing tour, the ground-plan of the hall +often necessitated my mingling with the audience as they streamed +out. This never happened but I would overhear somebody in +front of me whisper to his or her companion—“Take +care, he’s just behind you.” I always felt so +grateful to that whisperer.</p> +<p>At a Bohemian Club, I was once drinking coffee with a +Novelist, who happened to be a broad-shouldered, athletic +man. A fellow-member, joining us, said to the Novelist, +“I have just finished that last book of yours; I’ll +tell you my candid opinion of it.” Promptly replied +the Novelist, “I give you fair warning—if you do, I +shall punch your head.” We never heard that candid +opinion.</p> +<p>Most of our leisure time we spend sneering at one +another. It is a wonder, going about as we do with our +noses so high in the air, we do not walk off this little round +world into space, all of us. The Masses sneer at the +Classes. The morals of the Classes are shocking. If +only the Classes would consent as a body to be taught behaviour +by a Committee of the Masses, how very much better it would be +for them. If only the Classes would neglect their own +interests and devote themselves to the welfare of the Masses, the +Masses would be more pleased with them.</p> +<p>The Classes sneer at the Masses. If only the Masses +would follow the advice given them by the Classes; if only they +would be thrifty on their ten shillings a week; if only they +would all be teetotalers, or drink old claret, which is not +intoxicating; if only all the girls would be domestic servants on +five pounds a year, and not waste their money on feathers; if +only the men would be content to work for fourteen hours a day, +and to sing in tune, “God bless the Squire and his +relations,” and would consent to be kept in their proper +stations, all things would go swimmingly—for the +Classes.</p> +<p>The New Woman pooh-poohs the Old; the Old Woman is indignant +with the New. The Chapel denounces the Stage; the Stage +ridicules Little Bethel; the Minor Poet sneers at the world; the +world laughs at the Minor Poet.</p> +<p>Man criticizes Woman. We are not altogether pleased with +woman. We discuss her shortcomings, we advise her for her +good. If only English wives would dress as French wives, +talk as American wives, cook as German wives! if only women would +be precisely what we want them to be—patient and +hard-working, brilliantly witty and exhaustively domestic, +bewitching, amenable, and less suspicious; how very much better +it would be for them—also for us. We work so hard to +teach them, but they will not listen. Instead of paying +attention to our wise counsel, the tiresome creatures are wasting +their time criticizing us. It is a popular game, this game +of school. All that is needful is a doorstep, a cane, and +six other children. The difficulty is the six other +children. Every child wants to be the schoolmaster; they +will keep jumping up, saying it is their turn.</p> +<p>Woman wants to take the stick now, and put man on the +doorstep. There are one or two things she has got to say to +him. He is not at all the man she approves of. He +must begin by getting rid of all his natural desires and +propensities; that done, she will take him in hand and make of +him—not a man, but something very much superior.</p> +<p>It would be the best of all possible worlds if everybody would +only follow our advice. I wonder, would Jerusalem have been +the cleanly city it is reported, if, instead of troubling himself +concerning his own twopenny-halfpenny doorstep, each citizen had +gone out into the road and given eloquent lectures to all the +other inhabitants on the subject of sanitation?</p> +<p>We have taken to criticizing the Creator Himself of +late. The world is wrong, we are wrong. If only He +had taken our advice, during those first six days!</p> +<p>Why do I seem to have been scooped out and filled up with +lead? Why do I hate the smell of bacon, and feel that +nobody cares for me? It is because champagne and lobsters +have been made wrong.</p> +<p>Why do Edwin and Angelina quarrel? It is because Edwin +has been given a fine, high-spirited nature that will not brook +contradiction; while Angelina, poor girl, has been cursed with +contradictory instincts.</p> +<p>Why is excellent Mr. Jones brought down next door to +beggary? Mr. Jones had an income of a thousand a year, +secured by the Funds. But there came along a wicked Company +promoter (why are wicked Company promoters permitted?) with a +prospectus, telling good Mr. Jones how to obtain a hundred per +cent. for his money by investing it in some scheme for the +swindling of Mr. Jones’s fellow-citizens.</p> +<p>The scheme does not succeed; the people swindled turn out, +contrary to the promise of the prospectus, to be Mr. Jones and +his fellow-investors. Why does Heaven allow these +wrongs?</p> +<p>Why does Mrs. Brown leave her husband and children, to run off +with the New Doctor? It is because an ill-advised Creator +has given Mrs. Brown and the New Doctor unduly strong +emotions. Neither Mrs. Brown nor the New Doctor are to be +blamed. If any human being be answerable it is, probably, +Mrs. Brown’s grandfather, or some early ancestor of the New +Doctor’s.</p> +<p>We shall criticize Heaven when we get there. I doubt if +any of us will be pleased with the arrangements; we have grown so +exceedingly critical.</p> +<p>It was once said of a very superior young man that he seemed +to be under the impression that God Almighty had made the +universe chiefly to hear what he would say about it. +Consciously or unconsciously, most of us are of this way of +thinking. It is an age of mutual improvement +societies—a delightful idea, everybody’s business +being to improve everybody else; of amateur parliaments, of +literary councils, of playgoers’ clubs.</p> +<p>First Night criticism seems to have died out of late, the +Student of the Drama having come to the conclusion, possibly, +that plays are not worth criticizing. But in my young days +we were very earnest at this work. We went to the play, +less with the selfish desire of enjoying our evening, than with +the noble aim of elevating the Stage. Maybe we did good, +maybe we were needed—let us think so. Certain it is, +many of the old absurdities have disappeared from the Theatre, +and our rough-and-ready criticism may have helped the happy +dispatch. A folly is often served by an unwise remedy.</p> +<p>The dramatist in those days had to reckon with his +audience. Gallery and Pit took an interest in his work such +as Galleries and Pits no longer take. I recollect +witnessing the production of a very blood-curdling melodrama at, +I think, the old Queen’s Theatre. The heroine had +been given by the author a quite unnecessary amount of +conversation, so we considered. The woman, whenever she +appeared on the stage, talked by the yard; she could not do a +simple little thing like cursing the Villain under about twenty +lines. When the hero asked her if she loved him she stood +up and made a speech about it that lasted three minutes by the +watch. One dreaded to see her open her mouth. In the +Third Act, somebody got hold of her and shut her up in a +dungeon. He was not a nice man, speaking generally, but we +felt he was the man for the situation, and the house cheered him +to the echo. We flattered ourselves we had got rid of her +for the rest of the evening. Then some fool of a turnkey +came along, and she appealed to him, through the grating, to let +her out for a few minutes. The turnkey, a good but +soft-hearted man, hesitated.</p> +<p>“Don’t you do it,” shouted one earnest +Student of the Drama, from the Gallery; “she’s all +right. Keep her there!”</p> +<p>The old idiot paid no attention to our advice; he argued the +matter to himself. “’Tis but a trifling +request,” he remarked; “and it will make her +happy.”</p> +<p>“Yes, but what about us?” replied the same voice +from the Gallery. “You don’t know her. +You’ve only just come on; we’ve been listening to her +all the evening. She’s quiet now, you let her +be.”</p> +<p>“Oh, let me out, if only for one moment!” shrieked +the poor woman. “I have something that I must say to +my child.”</p> +<p>“Write it on a bit of paper, and pass it out,” +suggested a voice from the Pit. “We’ll see that +he gets it.”</p> +<p>“Shall I keep a mother from her dying child?” +mused the turnkey. “No, it would be +inhuman.”</p> +<p>“No, it wouldn’t,” persisted the voice of +the Pit; “not in this instance. It’s too much +talk that has made the poor child ill.”</p> +<p>The turnkey would not be guided by us. He opened the +cell door amidst the execrations of the whole house. She +talked to her child for about five minutes, at the end of which +time it died.</p> +<p>“Ah, he is dead!” shrieked the distressed +parent.</p> +<p>“Lucky beggar!” was the unsympathetic rejoinder of +the house.</p> +<p>Sometimes the criticism of the audience would take the form of +remarks, addressed by one gentleman to another. We had been +listening one night to a play in which action seemed to be +unnecessarily subordinated to dialogue, and somewhat poor +dialogue at that. Suddenly, across the wearying talk from +the stage, came the stentorian whisper—</p> +<p>“Jim!”</p> +<p>“Hallo!”</p> +<p>“Wake me up when the play begins.”</p> +<p>This was followed by an ostentatious sound as of +snoring. Then the voice of the second speaker was +heard—</p> +<p>“Sammy!”</p> +<p>His friend appeared to awake.</p> +<p>“Eh? Yes? What’s up? Has +anything happened?”</p> +<p>“Wake you up at half-past eleven in any event, I +suppose?”</p> +<p>“Thanks, do, sonny.” And the critic slept +again.</p> +<p>Yes, we took an interest in our plays then. I wonder +shall I ever enjoy the British Drama again as I enjoyed it in +those days? Shall I ever enjoy a supper again as I enjoyed +the tripe and onions washed down with bitter beer at the bar of +the old Albion? I have tried many suppers after the theatre +since then, and some, when friends have been in generous mood, +have been expensive and elaborate. The cook may have come +from Paris, his portrait may be in the illustrated papers, his +salary may be reckoned by hundreds; but there is something wrong +with his art, for all that, I miss a flavour in his meats. +There is a sauce lacking.</p> +<p>Nature has her coinage, and demands payment in her own +currency. At Nature’s shop it is you yourself must +pay. Your unearned increment, your inherited fortune, your +luck, are not legal tenders across her counter.</p> +<p>You want a good appetite. Nature is quite willing to +supply you. “Certainly, sir,” she replies, +“I can do you a very excellent article indeed. I have +here a real genuine hunger and thirst that will make your meal a +delight to you. You shall eat heartily and with zest, and +you shall rise from the table refreshed, invigorated, and +cheerful.”</p> +<p>“Just the very thing I want,” exclaims the gourmet +delightedly. “Tell me the price.”</p> +<p>“The price,” answers Mrs. Nature, “is one +long day’s hard work.”</p> +<p>The customer’s face falls; he handles nervously his +heavy purse.</p> +<p>“Cannot I pay for it in money?” he asks. +“I don’t like work, but I am a rich man, I can afford +to keep French cooks, to purchase old wines.”</p> +<p>Nature shakes her head.</p> +<p>“I cannot take your cheques, tissue and nerve are my +charges. For these I can give you an appetite that will +make a rump-steak and a tankard of ale more delicious to you than +any dinner that the greatest <i>chef</i> in Europe could put +before you. I can even promise you that a hunk of bread and +cheese shall be a banquet to you; but you must pay my price in my +money; I do not deal in yours.”</p> +<p>And next the Dilettante enters, demanding a taste for Art and +Literature, and this also Nature is quite prepared to supply.</p> +<p>“I can give you true delight in all these things,” +she answers. “Music shall be as wings to you, lifting +you above the turmoil of the world. Through Art you shall +catch a glimpse of Truth. Along the pleasant paths of +Literature you shall walk as beside still waters.”</p> +<p>“And your charge?” cries the delighted +customer.</p> +<p>“These things are somewhat expensive,” replies +Nature. “I want from you a life lived simply, free +from all desire of worldly success, a life from which passion has +been lived out; a life to which appetite has been +subdued.”</p> +<p>“But you mistake, my dear lady,” replies the +Dilettante; “I have many friends, possessed of taste, and +they are men who do not pay this price for it. Their houses +are full of beautiful pictures, they rave about +‘nocturnes’ and ‘symphonies,’ their +shelves are packed with first editions. Yet they are men of +luxury and wealth and fashion. They trouble much concerning +the making of money, and Society is their heaven. Cannot I +be as one of these?”</p> +<p>“I do not deal in the tricks of apes,” answers +Nature coldly; “the culture of these friends of yours is a +mere pose, a fashion of the hour, their talk mere parrot +chatter. Yes, you can purchase such culture as this, and +pretty cheaply, but a passion for skittles would be of more +service to you, and bring you more genuine enjoyment. My +goods are of a different class. I fear we waste each +other’s time.”</p> +<p>And next comes the boy, asking with a blush for love, and +Nature’s motherly old heart goes out to him, for it is an +article she loves to sell, and she loves those who come to +purchase it of her. So she leans across the counter, +smiling, and tells him that she has the very thing he wants, and +he, trembling with excitement, likewise asks the figure.</p> +<p>“It costs a good deal,” explains Nature, but in no +discouraging tone; “it is the most expensive thing in all +my shop.”</p> +<p>“I am rich,” replies the lad. “My +father worked hard and saved, and he has left me all his +wealth. I have stocks and shares, and lands and factories; +and will pay any price in reason for this thing.”</p> +<p>But Nature, looking graver, lays her hand upon his arm.</p> +<p>“Put by your purse, boy,” she says, “my +price is not a price in reason, nor is gold the metal that I deal +in. There are many shops in various streets where your +bank-notes will be accepted. But if you will take an old +woman’s advice, you will not go to them. The thing +they will sell you will bring sorrow and do evil to you. It +is cheap enough, but, like all things cheap, it is not worth the +buying. No man purchases it, only the fool.”</p> +<p>“And what is the cost of the thing <i>you</i> sell +then?” asks the lad.</p> +<p>“Self-forgetfulness, tenderness, strength,” +answers the old Dame; “the love of all things that are of +good repute, the hate of all things evil—courage, sympathy, +self-respect, these things purchase love. Put by your +purse, lad, it will serve you in other ways, but it will not buy +for you the goods upon my shelves.”</p> +<p>“Then am I no better off than the poor man?” +demands the lad.</p> +<p>“I know not wealth or poverty as you understand +it,” answers Nature. “Here I exchange realities +only for realities. You ask for my treasures, I ask for +your brain and heart in exchange—yours, boy, not your +father’s, not another’s.”</p> +<p>“And this price,” he argues, “how shall I +obtain it?”</p> +<p>“Go about the world,” replies the great +Lady. “Labour, suffer, help. Come back to me +when you have earned your wages, and according to how much you +bring me so we will do business.”</p> +<p>Is real wealth so unevenly distributed as we think? Is +not Fate the true Socialist? Who is the rich man, who the +poor? Do we know? Does even the man himself +know? Are we not striving for the shadow, missing the +substance? Take life at its highest; which was the happier +man, rich Solomon or poor Socrates? Solomon seems to have +had most things that most men most desire—maybe too much of +some for his own comfort. Socrates had little beyond what +he carried about with him, but that was a good deal. +According to our scales, Solomon should have been one of the +happiest men that ever lived, Socrates one of the most +wretched. But was it so?</p> +<p>Or taking life at its lowest, with pleasure its only +goal. Is my lord Tom Noddy, in the stalls, so very much +jollier than ’Arry in the gallery? Were beer ten +shillings the bottle, and champagne fourpence a quart, which, +think you, we should clamour for? If every West End Club +had its skittle alley, and billiards could only be played in East +End pubs, which game, my lord, would you select? Is the air +of Berkeley Square so much more joy-giving than the atmosphere of +Seven Dials? I find myself a piquancy in the air of Seven +Dials, missing from Berkeley Square. Is there so vast a +difference between horse-hair and straw, when you are +tired? Is happiness multiplied by the number of rooms in +one’s house? Are Lady Ermintrude’s lips so very +much sweeter than Sally’s of the Alley? What +<i>is</i> success in life?</p> +<h2><a name="page335"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 335</span>ON +THE PLAYING OF MARCHES AT THE FUNERALS OF MARIONETTES</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">He</span> began the day badly. He +took me out and lost me. It would be so much better, would +he consent to the usual arrangement, and allow me to take him +out. I am far the abler leader: I say it without +conceit. I am older than he is, and I am less +excitable. I do not stop and talk with every person I meet, +and then forget where I am. I do less to distract myself: I +rarely fight, I never feel I want to run after cats, I take but +little pleasure in frightening children. I have nothing to +think about but the walk, and the getting home again. If, +as I say, he would give up taking me out, and let me take him +out, there would be less trouble all round. But into this I +have never been able to persuade him.</p> +<p>He had mislaid me once or twice, but in Sloane Square he lost +me entirely. When he loses me, he stands and barks for +me. If only he would remain where he first barked, I might +find my way to him; but, before I can cross the road, he is +barking half-way down the next street. I am not so young as +I was and I sometimes think he exercises me more than is good for +me. I could see him from where I was standing in the +King’s Road. Evidently he was most indignant. I +was too far off to distinguish the barks, but I could guess what +he was saying—</p> +<p>“Damn that man, he’s off again.”</p> +<p>He made inquiries of a passing dog—</p> +<p>“You haven’t smelt my man about anywhere, have +you?”</p> +<p>(A dog, of course, would never speak of <i>seeing</i> anybody +or anything, smell being his leading sense. Reaching the +top of a hill, he would say to his companion—“Lovely +smell from here, I always think; I could sit and sniff here all +the afternoon.” Or, proposing a walk, he would +say—“I like the road by the canal, don’t +you? There’s something interesting to catch your nose +at every turn.”)</p> +<p>“No, I haven’t smelt any man in particular,” +answered the other dog. “What sort of a smelling man +is yours?”</p> +<p>“Oh, an egg-and-bacony sort of a man, with a dash of +soap about him.”</p> +<p>“That’s nothing to go by,” retorted the +other; “most men would answer to that description, this +time of the morning. Where were you when you last noticed +him?”</p> +<p>At this moment he caught sight of me, and came up, pleased to +find me, but vexed with me for having got lost.</p> +<p>“Oh, here you are,” he barked; “didn’t +you see me go round the corner? Do keep closer. +Bothered if half my time isn’t taken up, finding you and +losing you again.”</p> +<p>The incident appeared to have made him bad-tempered; he was +just in the humour for a row of any sort. At the top of +Sloane Street a stout military-looking gentleman started running +after the Chelsea bus. With a “Hooroo” William +Smith was after him. Had the old gentleman taken no notice, +all would have been well. A butcher boy, driving just +behind, would—I could read it in his eye—have caught +Smith a flick as he darted into the road, which would have served +him right; the old gentleman would have captured his bus; and the +affair would have been ended. Unfortunately, he was that +type of retired military man all gout and curry and no +sense. He stopped to swear at the dog. That, of +course, was what Smith wanted. It is not often he gets a +scrimmage with a full-grown man. “They’re a +poor-spirited lot, most of them,” he thinks; “they +won’t even answer you back. I like a man who shows a +bit of pluck.” He was frenzied with delight at his +success. He flew round his victim, weaving whooping circles +and curves that paralyzed the old gentleman as though they had +been the mystic figures of a Merlin. The colonel clubbed +his umbrella, and attempted to defend himself. I called to +the dog, I gave good advice to the colonel (I judged him to be a +colonel; the louder he spoke, the less one could understand him), +but both were too excited to listen to me. A sympathetic +bus driver leaned over, and whispered hoarse counsel.</p> +<p>“Ketch ’im by the tail, sir,” he advised the +old gentleman; “don’t you be afraid of him; you ketch +’im firmly by the tail.”</p> +<p>A milkman, on the other hand, sought rather to encourage +Smith, shouting as he passed—</p> +<p>“Good dog, kill him!”</p> +<p>A child, brained within an inch by the old gentleman’s +umbrella, began to cry. The nurse told the old gentleman he +was a fool—a remark which struck me as singularly apt The +old gentleman gasped back that perambulators were illegal on the +pavement; and, between his exercises, inquired after +myself. A crowd began to collect; and a policeman strolled +up.</p> +<p>It was not the right thing: I do not defend myself; but, at +this point, the temptation came to me to desert William +Smith. He likes a street row, I don’t. These +things are matters of temperament. I have also noticed that +he has the happy instinct of knowing when to disappear from a +crisis, and the ability to do so; mysteriously turning up, +quarter of a mile off, clad in a peaceful and pre-occupied air, +and to all appearances another and a better dog.</p> +<p>Consoling myself with the reflection that I could be of no +practical assistance to him and remembering with some +satisfaction that, by a fortunate accident, he was without his +collar, which bears my name and address, I slipped round the off +side of a Vauxhall bus, making no attempt at ostentation, and +worked my way home through Lowndes Square and the Park.</p> +<p>Five minutes after I had sat down to lunch, he flung open the +dining-room door, and marched in. It is his customary +“entrance.” In a previous state of existence, his +soul was probably that of an Actor-Manager.</p> +<p>From his exuberant self-satisfaction, I was inclined to think +he must have succeeded in following the milkman’s advice; +at all events, I have not seen the colonel since. His bad +temper had disappeared, but his “uppishness” had, if +possible, increased. Previous to his return, I had given +The O’Shannon a biscuit. The O’Shannon had been +insulted; he did not want a dog biscuit; if he could not have a +grilled kidney he did not want anything. He had thrown the +biscuit on the floor. Smith saw it and made for it. +Now Smith never eats biscuits. I give him one occasionally, +and he at once proceeds to hide it. He is a thrifty dog; he +thinks of the future. “You never know what may +happen,” he says; “suppose the Guv’nor dies, or +goes mad, or bankrupt, I may be glad even of this biscuit; +I’ll put it under the door-mat—no, I won’t, +somebody will find it there. I’ll scratch a hole in +the tennis lawn, and bury it there. That’s a good +idea; perhaps it’ll grow!” Once I caught him +hiding it in my study, behind the shelf devoted to my own +books. It offended me, his doing that; the argument was so +palpable. Generally, wherever he hides it somebody finds +it. We find it under our pillows—inside our boots; no +place seems safe. This time he had said to +himself—“By Jove! a whole row of the +Guv’nor’s books. Nobody will ever want to take +these out; I’ll hide it here.” One feels a +thing like that from one’s own dog.</p> +<p>But The O’Shannon’s biscuit was another +matter. Honesty is the best policy; but dishonesty is the +better fun. He made a dash for it, and commenced to devour +it greedily; you might have thought he had not tasted food for a +week.</p> +<p>The indignation of The O’Shannon was a sight for the +gods. He has the good-nature of his race: had Smith asked +him for the biscuit he would probably have given it to him; it +was the insult—the immorality of the proceeding, that +maddened The O’Shannon.</p> +<p>For a moment he was paralyzed.</p> +<p>“Well, of all the— Did ye see that +now?” he said to me with his eyes. Then he made a +rush and snatched the biscuit out of Smith’s very +jaws. “Ye onprincipled black Saxon thief,” +growled The O’Shannon; “how dare ye take my +biscuit?”</p> +<p>“You miserable Irish cur,” growled Smith; +“how was I to know it was your biscuit? Does +everything on the floor belong to you? Perhaps you think I +belong to you, I’m on the floor. I don’t +believe it is your biscuit, you long-eared, snubbed-nosed +bog-trotter; give it me back.”</p> +<p>“I don’t require any of your argument, you +flop-eared son of a tramp with half a tail,” replied The +O’Shannon. “You come and take it, if you think +you are dog enough.”</p> +<p>He did think he was dog enough. He is half the size of +The O’Shannon, but such considerations weigh not with +him. His argument is, if a dog is too big for you to fight +the whole of him, take a bit of him and fight that. He +generally gets licked, but what is left of him invariably +swaggers about afterwards under the impression it is the +victor. When he is dead, he will say to himself, as he +settles himself in his grave—“Well, I flatter myself +I’ve laid out that old world at last. It won’t +trouble <i>me</i> any more, I’m thinking.”</p> +<p>On this occasion, <i>I</i> took a hand in the fight. It +becomes necessary at intervals to remind Master Smith that the +man, as the useful and faithful friend of dog, has his +rights. I deemed such interval had arrived. He flung +himself on to the sofa, muttering. It sounded +like—“Wish I’d never got up this morning. +Nobody understands me.”</p> +<p>Nothing, however, sobers him for long. Half-an-hour +later, he was killing the next-door cat. He will never +learn sense; he has been killing that cat for the last three +months. Why the next morning his nose is invariably twice +its natural size, while for the next week he can see objects on +one side of his head only, he never seems to grasp; I suppose he +attributes it to change in the weather.</p> +<p>He ended up the afternoon with what he no doubt regarded as a +complete and satisfying success. Dorothea had invited a +lady to take tea with her that day. I heard the sound of +laughter, and, being near the nursery, I looked in to see what +was the joke. Smith was worrying a doll. I have +rarely seen a more worried-looking doll. Its head was off, +and its sawdust strewed the floor. Both the children were +crowing with delight; Dorothea, in particular, was in an ecstasy +of amusement.</p> +<p>“Whose doll is it?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Eva’s,” answered Dorothea, between her +peals of laughter.</p> +<p>“Oh no, it isn’t,” explained Eva, in a tone +of sweet content; “here’s my doll.” She had +been sitting on it, and now drew it forth, warm but whole. +“That’s Dorry’s doll.”</p> +<p>The change from joy to grief on the part of Dorothea was +distinctly dramatic. Even Smith, accustomed to storm, was +nonplussed at the suddenness of the attack upon him.</p> +<p>Dorothea’s sorrow lasted longer than I had +expected. I promised her another doll. But it seemed +she did not want another; that was the only doll she would ever +care for so long as life lasted; no other doll could ever take +its place; no other doll would be to her what that doll had +been. These little people are so absurd: as if it could +matter whether you loved one doll or another, when all are so +much alike! They have curly hair, and pink-and-white +complexions, big eyes that open and shut, a little red mouth, two +little hands. Yet these foolish little people! they will +love one, while another they will not look upon. I find the +best plan is not to reason with them, but to sympathize. +Later on—but not too soon—introduce to them another +doll. They will not care for it at first, but in time they +will come to take an interest in it. Of course, it cannot +make them forget the first doll; no doll ever born in Lowther +Arcadia could be as that, but still— It is many weeks +before they forget entirely the first love.</p> +<p>We buried Dolly in the country under the yew tree. A +friend of mine who plays the fiddle came down on purpose to +assist. We buried her in the hot spring sunshine, while the +birds from shady nooks sang joyously of life and love. And +our chief mourner cried real tears, just for all the world as +though it were not the fate of dolls, sooner or later, to get +broken—the little fragile things, made for an hour, to be +dressed and kissed; then, paintless and stript, to be thrown +aside on the nursery floor. Poor little dolls! I +wonder do they take themselves seriously, not knowing the springs +that stir their sawdust bosoms are but clockwork, not seeing the +wires to which they dance? Poor little marionettes! do they +talk together, I wonder, when the lights of the booth are +out?</p> +<p>You, little sister doll, were the heroine. You lived in +the white-washed cottage, all honeysuckle and clematis +without—earwiggy and damp within, maybe. How pretty +you always looked in your simple, neatly-fitting print +dress. How good you were! How nobly you bore your +poverty. How patient you were under your many wrongs. +You never harboured an evil thought, a revengeful +wish—never, little doll? Were there never moments +when you longed to play the wicked woman’s part, live in a +room with many doors, be-clad in furs and jewels, with lovers +galore at your feet? In those long winter evenings? the +household work is done—the greasy dishes washed, the floor +scrubbed; the excellent child is asleep in the corner; the +one-and-elevenpenny lamp sheds its dismal light on the darned +table-cloth; you sit, busy at your coarse sewing, waiting for +Hero Dick, knowing—guessing, at least, where he +is—! Yes, dear, I remember your fine speeches, when +you told her, in stirring language the gallery cheered to the +echo, what you thought of her and of such women as she; when, +lifting your hand to heaven, you declared you were happier in +your attic, working your fingers to the bone, than she in her +gilded salon—I think “gilded salon” was the +term, was it not?—furnished by sin. But speaking of +yourself, weak little sister doll, not of your fine speeches, the +gallery listening, did you not, in your secret heart, envy +her? Did you never, before blowing out the one candle, +stand for a minute in front of the cracked glass, and think to +yourself that you, too, would look well in low-cut dresses from +Paris, the diamonds flashing on your white smooth skin? Did +you never, toiling home through the mud, bearing your bundle of +needlework, feel bitter with the wages of virtue, as she splashed +you, passing by in her carriage? Alone, over your cup of +weak tea, did you never feel tempted to pay the price for +champagne suppers, and gaiety, and admiration? Ah, yes, it +is easy for folks who have had their good time, to prepare +copybooks for weary little inkstained fingers, longing for +play. The fine maxims sound such cant when we are in that +mood, do they not? You, too, were young and handsome: did +the author of the play think you were never hungry for the good +things of life? Did he think that reading tracts to +crotchety old women was joy to a full-blooded girl in her +twenties? Why should <i>she</i> have all the love, and all +the laughter? How fortunate that the villain, the Wicked +Baronet, never opened the cottage door at that moment, eh, +dear! He always came when you were strong, when you felt +that you could denounce him, and scorn his temptations. +Would that the villain came to all of us at such time; then we +would all, perhaps, be heroes and heroines.</p> +<p>Ah well, it was only a play: it is over now. You and I, +little tired dolls, lying here side by side, waiting to know our +next part, we can look back and laugh. Where is she, this +wicked dolly, that made such a stir on our tiny stage? Ah, +here you are, Madam; I thought you could not be far; they have +thrown us all into this corner together. But how changed +you are, Dolly: your paint rubbed off, your golden hair worn to a +wisp. No wonder; it was a trying part you had to +play. How tired you must have grown of the glare and the +glitter! And even hope was denied you. The peace you +so longed for you knew you had lost the power to enjoy. +Like the girl bewitched in the fairy tale, you knew you must +dance ever faster and faster, with limbs growing palsied, with +face growing ashen, and hair growing grey, till Death should come +to release you; and your only prayer was he might come ere your +dancing grew comic.</p> +<p>Like the smell of the roses to Nancy, hawking them through the +hot streets, must the stifling atmosphere of love have been to +you. The song of passion, how monotonous in your ears, sung +now by the young and now by the old; now shouted, now whined, now +shrieked; but ever the one strident tune. Do you remember +when first you heard it? You dreamt it the morning hymn of +Heaven. You came to think it the dance music of Hell, +ground from a cracked hurdy-gurdy, lent out by the Devil on +hire.</p> +<p>An evil race we must have seemed to you, Dolly Faustine, as to +some Old Bailey lawyer. You saw but one side of us. +You lived in a world upside down, where the leaves and the +blossoms were hidden, and only the roots saw your day. You +imagined the worm-beslimed fibres the plant, and all things +beautiful you deemed cant. Chivalry, love, honour! how you +laughed at the lying words. You knew the truth—as you +thought: aye, half the truth. We were swine while your +spell was upon us, Daughter of Circe, and you, not knowing your +island secret, deemed it our natural shape.</p> +<p>No wonder, Dolly, your battered waxen face is stamped with an +angry sneer. The Hero, who eventually came into his estates +amid the plaudits of the Pit, while you were left to die in the +streets! you remembered, but the house had forgotten those +earlier scenes in always wicked Paris. The good friend of +the family, the breezy man of the world, the <i>Deus ex +Machina</i> of the play, who was so good to everybody, whom +everybody loved! aye, <i>you</i> loved him once—but that +was in the Prologue. In the Play proper, he was +respectable. (How you loathed that word, that meant to you +all you vainly longed for!) To him the Prologue was a +period past and dead; a memory, giving flavour to his life. +To you, it was the First Act of the Play, shaping all the +others. His sins the house had forgotten: at yours, they +held up their hands in horror. No wonder the sneer lies on +your waxen lips.</p> +<p>Never mind, Dolly; it was a stupid house. Next time, +perhaps, you will play a better part; and then they will cheer, +instead of hissing you. You were wasted, I am inclined to +think, on modern comedy. You should have been cast for the +heroine of some old-world tragedy. The strength of +character, the courage, the power of self-forgetfulness, the +enthusiasm were yours: it was the part that was lacking. +You might have worn the mantle of a Judith, a Boadicea, or a +Jeanne d’Arc, had such plays been popular in your +time. Perhaps they, had they played in your day, might have +had to be content with such a part as yours. They could not +have played the meek heroine, and what else would there have been +for them in modern drama? Catherine of Russia! had she been +a waiter’s daughter in the days of the Second Empire, +should we have called her Great? The Magdalene! had her +lodging in those days been in some bye-street of Rome instead of +in Jerusalem, should we mention her name in our churches?</p> +<p>You were necessary, you see, Dolly, to the piece. We +cannot all play heroes and heroines. There must be wicked +people in the play, or it would not interest. Think of it, +Dolly, a play where all the women were virtuous, all the men +honest! We might close the booth; the world would be as +dull as an oyster-bed. Without you wicked folk there would +be no good. How should we have known and honoured the +heroine’s worth, but by contrast with your +worthlessness? Where would have been her fine speeches, but +for you to listen to them? Where lay the hero’s +strength, but in resisting temptation of you? Had not you +and the Wicked Baronet between you robbed him of his estates, +falsely accused him of crime, he would have lived to the end of +the play an idle, unheroic, incomplete existence. You +brought him down to poverty; you made him earn his own +bread—a most excellent thing for him; gave him the +opportunity to play the man. But for your conduct in the +Prologue, of what value would have been that fine scene at the +end of the Third Act, that stirred the house to tears and +laughter? You and your accomplice, the Wicked Baronet, made +the play possible. How would Pit and Gallery have known +they were virtuous, but for the indignation that came to them, +watching your misdeeds? Pity, sympathy, excitement, all +that goes to the making of a play, you were necessary for. +It was ungrateful of the house to hiss you.</p> +<p>And you, Mr. Merryman, the painted grin worn from your pale +lips, you too were dissatisfied, if I remember rightly, with your +part. You wanted to make the people cry, not laugh. +Was it a higher ambition? The poor tired people! so much +happens in their life to make them weep, is it not good sport to +make them merry for awhile? Do you remember that old soul +in the front row of the Pit? How she laughed when you sat +down on the pie! I thought she would have to be carried +out. I heard her talking to her companion as they passed +the stage-door on their way home. “I have not +laughed, my dear, till to-night,” she was saying, the good, +gay tears still in her eyes, “since the day poor Sally +died.” Was not that alone worth the old stale tricks +you so hated? Aye, they were commonplace and conventional, +those antics of yours that made us laugh; are not the antics that +make us weep commonplace and conventional also? Are not all +the plays, played since the booth was opened, but of one pattern, +the plot old-fashioned now, the scenes now commonplace? +Hero, villain, cynic—are their parts so much the +fresher? The love duets, are they so very new? The +death-bed scenes, would you call them <i>un</i>commonplace? +Hate, and Evil, and Wrong—are <i>their</i> voices new to +the booth? What are you waiting for, people? a play with a +plot that is novel, with characters that have never strutted +before? It will be ready for you, perhaps, when you are +ready for it, with new tears and new laughter.</p> +<p>You, Mr. Merryman, were the true philosopher. You saved +us from forgetting the reality when the fiction grew somewhat +strenuous. How we all applauded your gag in answer to the +hero, when, bewailing his sad fate, he demanded of Heaven how +much longer he was to suffer evil fortune. “Well, +there cannot be much more of it in store for you,” you +answered him; “it’s nearly nine o’clock +already, and the show closes at ten.” And true to +your prophecy the curtain fell at the time appointed, and his +troubles were of the past. You showed us the truth behind +the mask. When pompous Lord Shallow, in ermine and wig, +went to take his seat amid the fawning crowd, you pulled the +chair from under him, and down he sat plump on the floor. +His robe flew open, his wig flew off. No longer he awed +us. His aped dignity fell from him; we saw him a +stupid-eyed, bald little man; he imposed no longer upon us. +It is your fool who is the only true wise man.</p> +<p>Yours was the best part in the play, Brother Merryman, had you +and the audience but known it. But you dreamt of a showier +part, where you loved and fought. I have heard you now and +again, when you did not know I was near, shouting with sword in +hand before your looking-glass. You had thrown your motley +aside to don a dingy red coat; you were the hero of the play, you +performed the gallant deeds, you made the noble speeches. I +wonder what the play would be like, were we all to write our own +parts. There would be no clowns, no singing +chambermaids. We would all be playing lead in the centre of +the stage, with the lime-light exclusively devoted to +ourselves. Would it not be so?</p> +<p>What grand acting parts they are, these characters we write +for ourselves alone in our dressing-rooms. We are always +brave and noble—wicked sometimes, but if so, in a great, +high-minded way; never in a mean or little way. What +wondrous deeds we do, while the house looks on and marvels. +Now we are soldiers, leading armies to victory. What if we +die: it is in the hour of triumph, and a nation is left to +mourn. Not in some forgotten skirmish do we ever fall; not +for some “affair of outposts” do we give our blood, +our very name unmentioned in the dispatches home. Now we +are passionate lovers, well losing a world for love—a very +different thing to being a laughter-provoking co-respondent in a +sordid divorce case.</p> +<p>And the house is always crowded when we play. Our fine +speeches always fall on sympathetic ears, our brave deeds are +noted and applauded. It is so different in the real +performance. So often we play our parts to empty benches, +or if a thin house be present, they misunderstand, and laugh at +the pathetic passages. And when our finest opportunity +comes, the royal box, in which <i>he</i> or <i>she</i> should be +present to watch us, is vacant.</p> +<p>Poor little dolls, how seriously we take ourselves, not +knowing the springs that stir our bosoms are but clockwork, not +seeing the wires to which we dance. Poor little +marionettes, shall we talk together, I wonder, when the lights of +the booth are out?</p> +<p>We are little wax dollies with hearts. We are little tin +soldiers with souls. Oh, King of many toys, are you merely +playing with us? <i>Is</i> it only clockwork within us, +this thing that throbs and aches? Have you wound us up but +to let us run down? Will you wind us again to-morrow, or +leave us here to rust? <i>Is</i> it only clockwork to which +we respond and quiver? Now we laugh, now we cry, now we +dance; our little arms go out to clasp one another, our little +lips kiss, then say good-bye. We strive, and we strain, and +we struggle. We reach now for gold, now for laurel. +We call it desire and ambition: are they only wires that you +play? Will you throw the clockwork aside, or use it again, +O Master?</p> +<p>The lights of the booth grow dim. The springs are broken +that kept our eyes awake. The wire that held us erect is +snapped, and helpless we fall in a heap on the stage. Oh, +brother and sister dollies we played beside, where are you? +Why is it so dark and silent? Why are we being put into +this black box? And hark! the little doll +orchestra—how far away the music sounds! what is it they +are playing:—</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p360b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"First few bars of Gounod’s Funeral March of a Marionette" +title= +"First few bars of Gounod’s Funeral March of a Marionette" + src="images/p360s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECOND THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE +FELLOW***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1915-h.htm or 1915-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/1/1915 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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Jerome + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Second Thoughts of An Idle Fellow + +Author: Jerome K. Jerome + +Release Date: November 7, 2008 [EBook #1915] +Last Updated: January 15, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND THOUGHTS *** + + + + +Produced by Les Bowler, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE SECOND THOUGHTS<br /> OF AN IDLE FELLOW + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Jerome K. Jerome + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + 1899 Hurst and Blackett edition + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + Contents + </h3> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> ON THE ART OF MAKING UP ONE'S MIND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> ON THE DISADVANTAGE OF NOT GETTING WHAT + ONE WANTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ON THE EXCEPTIONAL MERIT ATTACHING TO THE + THINGS WE MEANT TO DO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ON THE PREPARATION AND EMPLOYMENT OF LOVE + PHILTRES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> ON THE DELIGHTS AND BENEFITS OF SLAVERY + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> ON THE CARE AND MANAGEMENT OF WOMEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> ON THE MINDING OF OTHER PEOPLE'S BUSINESS + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> ON THE TIME WASTED IN LOOKING BEFORE ONE + LEAPS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> ON THE NOBILITY OF OURSELVES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> ON THE MOTHERLINESS OF MAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> ON THE INADVISABILITY OF FOLLOWING ADVICE + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> ON THE PLAYING OF MARCHES AT THE FUNERALS + OF MARIONETTES </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + ON THE ART OF MAKING UP ONE'S MIND + </h2> + <p> + "Now, which would you advise, dear? You see, with the red I shan't be able + to wear my magenta hat." + </p> + <p> + "Well then, why not have the grey?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes—yes, I think the grey will be MORE useful." + </p> + <p> + "It's a good material." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, and it's a PRETTY grey. You know what I mean, dear; not a COMMON + grey. Of course grey is always an UNINTERESTING colour." + </p> + <p> + "Its quiet." + </p> + <p> + "And then again, what I feel about the red is that it is so warm-looking. + Red makes you FEEL warm even when you're NOT warm. You know what I mean, + dear!" + </p> + <p> + "Well then, why not have the red? It suits you—red." + </p> + <p> + "No; do you really think so?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, when you've got a colour, I mean, of course!" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, that is the drawback to red. No, I think, on the whole, the grey is + SAFER." + </p> + <p> + "Then you will take the grey, madam?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I think I'd better; don't you, dear?" + </p> + <p> + "I like it myself very much." + </p> + <p> + "And it is good wearing stuff. I shall have it trimmed with—Oh! you + haven't cut it off, have you?" + </p> + <p> + "I was just about to, madam." + </p> + <p> + "Well, don't for a moment. Just let me have another look at the red. You + see, dear, it has just occurred to me—that chinchilla would look so + well on the red!" + </p> + <p> + "So it would, dear!" + </p> + <p> + "And, you see, I've got the chinchilla." + </p> + <p> + "Then have the red. Why not?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, there is the hat I'm thinking of." + </p> + <p> + "You haven't anything else you could wear with that?" + </p> + <p> + "Nothing at all, and it would go so BEAUTIFULLY with the grey.—Yes, + I think I'll have the grey. It's always a safe colour—grey." + </p> + <p> + "Fourteen yards I think you said, madam?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, fourteen yards will be enough; because I shall mix it with—One + minute. You see, dear, if I take the grey I shall have nothing to wear + with my black jacket." + </p> + <p> + "Won't it go with grey?" + </p> + <p> + "Not well—not so well as with red." + </p> + <p> + "I should have the red then. You evidently fancy it yourself." + </p> + <p> + "No, personally I prefer the grey. But then one must think of EVERYTHING, + and—Good gracious! that's surely not the right time?" + </p> + <p> + "No, madam, it's ten minutes slow. We always keep our clocks a little + slow!" + </p> + <p> + "And we were too have been at Madame Jannaway's at a quarter past twelve. + How long shopping does take I—Why, whatever time did we start?" + </p> + <p> + "About eleven, wasn't it?" + </p> + <p> + "Half-past ten. I remember now; because, you know, we said we'd start at + half-past nine. We've been two hours already!" + </p> + <p> + "And we don't seem to have done much, do we?" + </p> + <p> + "Done literally nothing, and I meant to have done so much. I must go to + Madame Jannaway's. Have you got my purse, dear? Oh, it's all right, I've + got it." + </p> + <p> + "Well, now you haven't decided whether you're going to have the grey or + the red." + </p> + <p> + "I'm sure I don't know what I do want now. I had made up my mind a minute + ago, and now it's all gone again—oh yes, I remember, the red. Yes, + I'll have the red. No, I don't mean the red, I mean the grey." + </p> + <p> + "You were talking about the red last time, if you remember, dear." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, so I was, you're quite right. That's the worst of shopping. Do you + know I get quite confused sometimes." + </p> + <p> + "Then you will decide on the red, madam?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes—yes, I shan't do any better, shall I, dear? What do you think? + You haven't got any other shades of red, have you? This is such an ugly + red." + </p> + <p> + The shopman reminds her that she has seen all the other reds, and that + this is the particular shade she selected and admired. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, very well," she replies, with the air of one from whom all earthly + cares are falling, "I must take that then, I suppose. I can't be worried + about it any longer. I've wasted half the morning already." + </p> + <p> + Outside she recollects three insuperable objections to the red, and four + unanswerable arguments why she should have selected the grey. She wonders + would they change it, if she went back and asked to see the shopwalker? + Her friend, who wants her lunch, thinks not. + </p> + <p> + "That is what I hate about shopping," she says. "One never has time to + really THINK." + </p> + <p> + She says she shan't go to that shop again. + </p> + <p> + We laugh at her, but are we so very much better? Come, my superior male + friend, have you never stood, amid your wardrobe, undecided whether, in + her eyes, you would appear more imposing, clad in the rough tweed suit + that so admirably displays your broad shoulders; or in the orthodox black + frock, that, after all, is perhaps more suitable to the figure of a man + approaching—let us say, the nine-and-twenties? Or, better still, why + not riding costume? Did we not hear her say how well Jones looked in his + top-boots and breeches, and, "hang it all," we have a better leg than + Jones. What a pity riding-breeches are made so baggy nowadays. Why is it + that male fashions tend more and more to hide the male leg? As women have + become less and less ashamed of theirs, we have become more and more + reticent of ours. Why are the silken hose, the tight-fitting pantaloons, + the neat kneebreeches of our forefathers impossible to-day? Are we grown + more modest—or has there come about a falling off, rendering + concealment advisable? + </p> + <p> + I can never understand, myself, why women love us. It must be our honest + worth, our sterling merit, that attracts them—certainly not our + appearance, in a pair of tweed "dittos," black angora coat and vest, + stand-up collar, and chimney-pot hat! No, it must be our sheer force of + character that compels their admiration. + </p> + <p> + What a good time our ancestors must have had was borne in upon me when, on + one occasion, I appeared in character at a fancy dress ball. What I + represented I am unable to say, and I don't particularly care. I only know + it was something military. I also remember that the costume was two sizes + too small for me in the chest, and thereabouts; and three sizes too large + for me in the hat. I padded the hat, and dined in the middle of the day + off a chop and half a glass of soda-water. I have gained prizes as a boy + for mathematics, also for scripture history—not often, but I have + done it. A literary critic, now dead, once praised a book of mine. I know + there have been occasions when my conduct has won the approbation of good + men; but never—never in my whole life, have I felt more proud, more + satisfied with myself than on that evening when, the last hook fastened, I + gazed at my full-length Self in the cheval glass. I was a dream. I say it + who should not; but I am not the only one who said it. I was a glittering + dream. The groundwork was red, trimmed with gold braid wherever there was + room for gold braid; and where there was no more possible room for gold + braid there hung gold cords, and tassels, and straps. Gold buttons and + buckles fastened me, gold embroidered belts and sashes caressed me, white + horse-hair plumes waved o'er me. I am not sure that everything was in its + proper place, but I managed to get everything on somehow, and I looked + well. It suited me. My success was a revelation to me of female human + nature. Girls who had hitherto been cold and distant gathered round me, + timidly solicitous of notice. Girls on whom I smiled lost their heads and + gave themselves airs. Girls who were not introduced to me sulked and were + rude to girls that had been. For one poor child, with whom I sat out two + dances (at least she sat, while I stood gracefully beside her—I had + been advised, by the costumier, NOT to sit), I was sorry. He was a worthy + young fellow, the son of a cotton broker, and he would have made her a + good husband, I feel sure. But he was foolish to come as a beer-bottle. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, after all, it is as well those old fashions have gone out. A week + in that suit might have impaired my natural modesty. + </p> + <p> + One wonders that fancy dress balls are not more popular in this grey age + of ours. The childish instinct to "dress up," to "make believe," is with + us all. We grow so tired of being always ourselves. A tea-table + discussion, at which I once assisted, fell into this:—Would any one + of us, when it came to the point, change with anybody else, the poor man + with the millionaire, the governess with the princess—change not + only outward circumstances and surroundings, but health and temperament, + heart, brain, and soul; so that not one mental or physical particle of + one's original self one would retain, save only memory? The general + opinion was that we would not, but one lady maintained the affirmative. + </p> + <p> + "Oh no, you wouldn't really, dear," argued a friend; "you THINK you + would." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I would," persisted the first lady; "I am tired of myself. I'd even + be you, for a change." + </p> + <p> + In my youth, the question chiefly important to me was—What sort of + man shall I decide to be? At nineteen one asks oneself this question; at + thirty-nine we say, "I wish Fate hadn't made me this sort of man." + </p> + <p> + In those days I was a reader of much well-meant advice to young men, and I + gathered that, whether I should become a Sir Lancelot, a Herr + Teufelsdrockh, or an Iago was a matter for my own individual choice. + Whether I should go through life gaily or gravely was a question the pros + and cons of which I carefully considered. For patterns I turned to books. + Byron was then still popular, and many of us made up our minds to be + gloomy, saturnine young men, weary with the world, and prone to soliloquy. + I determined to join them. + </p> + <p> + For a month I rarely smiled, or, when I did, it was with a weary, bitter + smile, concealing a broken heart—at least that was the intention. + Shallow-minded observers misunderstood. + </p> + <p> + "I know exactly how it feels," they would say, looking at me + sympathetically, "I often have it myself. It's the sudden change in the + weather, I think;" and they would press neat brandy upon me, and suggest + ginger. + </p> + <p> + Again, it is distressing to the young man, busy burying his secret sorrow + under a mound of silence, to be slapped on the back by commonplace people + and asked—"Well, how's 'the hump' this morning?" and to hear his + mood of dignified melancholy referred to, by those who should know better, + as "the sulks." + </p> + <p> + There are practical difficulties also in the way of him who would play the + Byronic young gentleman. He must be supernaturally wicked—or rather + must have been; only, alas! in the unliterary grammar of life, where the + future tense stands first, and the past is formed, not from the + indefinite, but from the present indicative, "to have been" is "to be"; + and to be wicked on a small income is impossible. The ruin of even the + simplest of maidens costs money. In the Courts of Love one cannot sue in + forma pauperis; nor would it be the Byronic method. + </p> + <p> + "To drown remembrance in the cup" sounds well, but then the "cup," to be + fitting, should be of some expensive brand. To drink deep of old Tokay or + Asti is poetical; but when one's purse necessitates that the draught, if + it is to be deep enough to drown anything, should be of thin beer at + five-and-nine the four and a half gallon cask, or something similar in + price, sin is robbed of its flavour. + </p> + <p> + Possibly also—let me think it—the conviction may have been + within me that Vice, even at its daintiest, is but an ugly, sordid thing, + repulsive in the sunlight; that though—as rags and dirt to art—it + may afford picturesque material to Literature, it is an evil-smelling + garment to the wearer; one that a good man, by reason of poverty of will, + may come down to, but one to be avoided with all one's effort, discarded + with returning mental prosperity. + </p> + <p> + Be this as it may, I grew weary of training for a saturnine young man; + and, in the midst of my doubt, I chanced upon a book the hero of which was + a debonnaire young buck, own cousin to Tom and Jerry. He attended fights, + both of cocks and men, flirted with actresses, wrenched off door-knockers, + extinguished street lamps, played many a merry jest upon many an + unappreciative night watch-man. For all the which he was much beloved by + the women of the book. Why should not I flirt with actresses, put out + street lamps, play pranks on policemen, and be beloved? London life was + changed since the days of my hero, but much remained, and the heart of + woman is eternal. If no longer prizefighting was to be had, at least there + were boxing competitions, so called, in dingy back parlours out + Whitechapel way. Though cockfighting was a lost sport, were there not damp + cellars near the river where for twopence a gentleman might back mongrel + terriers to kill rats against time, and feel himself indeed a sportsman? + True, the atmosphere of reckless gaiety, always surrounding my hero, I + missed myself from these scenes, finding in its place an atmosphere more + suggestive of gin, stale tobacco, and nervous apprehension of the police; + but the essentials must have been the same, and the next morning I could + exclaim in the very words of my prototype—"Odds crickets, but I feel + as though the devil himself were in my head. Peste take me for a fool." + </p> + <p> + But in this direction likewise my fatal lack of means opposed me. (It + affords much food to the philosophic mind, this influence of income upon + character.) Even fifth-rate "boxing competitions," organized by "friendly + leads," and ratting contests in Rotherhithe slums, become expensive, when + you happen to be the only gentleman present possessed of a collar, and are + expected to do the honours of your class in dog's-nose. True, climbing + lamp-posts and putting out the gas is fairly cheap, providing always you + are not caught in the act, but as a recreation it lacks variety. Nor is + the modern London lamp-post adapted to sport. Anything more difficult to + grip—anything with less "give" in it—I have rarely clasped. + The disgraceful amount of dirt allowed to accumulate upon it is another + drawback from the climber's point of view. By the time you have swarmed up + your third post a positive distaste for "gaiety" steals over you. Your + desire is towards arnica and a bath. + </p> + <p> + Nor in jokes at the expense of policemen is the fun entirely on your side. + Maybe I did not proceed with judgment. It occurs to me now, looking back, + that the neighbourhoods of Covent Garden and Great Marlborough Street were + ill-chosen for sport of this nature. To bonnet a fat policeman is + excellent fooling. While he is struggling with his helmet you can ask him + comic questions, and by the time he has got his head free you are out of + sight. But the game should be played in a district where there is not an + average of three constables to every dozen square yards. When two other + policemen, who have had their eye on you for the past ten minutes, are + watching the proceedings from just round the next corner, you have little + or no leisure for due enjoyment of the situation. By the time you have run + the whole length of Great Titchfield Street and twice round Oxford Market, + you are of opinion that a joke should never be prolonged beyond the point + at which there is danger of its becoming wearisome; and that the time has + now arrived for home and friends. The "Law," on the other hand, now raised + by reinforcements to a strength of six or seven men, is just beginning to + enjoy the chase. You picture to yourself, while doing Hanover Square, the + scene in Court the next morning. You will be accused of being drunk and + disorderly. It will be idle for you to explain to the magistrate (or to + your relations afterwards) that you were only trying to live up to a man + who did this sort of thing in a book and was admired for it. You will be + fined the usual forty shillings; and on the next occasion of your calling + at the Mayfields' the girls will be out, and Mrs. Mayfield, an excellent + lady, who has always taken a motherly interest in you, will talk seriously + to you and urge you to sign the pledge. + </p> + <p> + Thanks to your youth and constitution you shake off the pursuit at Notting + Hill; and, to avoid any chance of unpleasant contretemps on the return + journey, walk home to Bloomsbury by way of Camden Town and Islington. + </p> + <p> + I abandoned sportive tendencies as the result of a vow made by myself to + Providence, during the early hours of a certain Sunday morning, while + clinging to the waterspout of an unpretentious house situate in a side + street off Soho. I put it to Providence as man to man. "Let me only get + out of this," I think were the muttered words I used, "and no more 'sport' + for me." Providence closed on the offer, and did let me get out of it. + True, it was a complicated "get out," involving a broken skylight and + three gas globes, two hours in a coal cellar, and a sovereign to a potman + for the loan of an ulster; and when at last, secure in my chamber, I took + stock of myself—what was left of me,—I could not but reflect + that Providence might have done the job neater. Yet I experienced no + desire to escape the terms of the covenant; my inclining for the future + was towards a life of simplicity. + </p> + <p> + Accordingly, I cast about for a new character, and found one to suit me. + The German professor was becoming popular as a hero about this period. He + wore his hair long and was otherwise untidy, but he had "a heart of + steel," occasionally of gold. The majority of folks in the book, judging + him from his exterior together with his conversation—in broken + English, dealing chiefly with his dead mother and his little sister Lisa,—dubbed + him uninteresting, but then they did not know about the heart. His chief + possession was a lame dog which he had rescued from a brutal mob; and when + he was not talking broken English he was nursing this dog. + </p> + <p> + But his speciality was stopping runaway horses, thereby saving the + heroine's life. This, combined with the broken English and the dog, + rendered him irresistible. + </p> + <p> + He seemed a peaceful, amiable sort of creature, and I decided to try him. + I could not of course be a German professor, but I could, and did, wear my + hair long in spite of much public advice to the contrary, voiced chiefly + by small boys. I endeavoured to obtain possession of a lame dog, but + failed. A one-eyed dealer in Seven Dials, to whom, as a last resource, I + applied, offered to lame one for me for an extra five shillings, but this + suggestion I declined. I came across an uncanny-looking mongrel late one + night. He was not lame, but he seemed pretty sick; and, feeling I was not + robbing anybody of anything very valuable, I lured him home and nursed + him. I fancy I must have over-nursed him. He got so healthy in the end, + there was no doing anything with him. He was an ill-conditioned cur, and + he was too old to be taught. He became the curse of the neighbourhood. His + idea of sport was killing chickens and sneaking rabbits from outside + poulterers' shops. For recreation he killed cats and frightened small + children by yelping round their legs. There were times when I could have + lamed him myself, if only I could have got hold of him. I made nothing by + running that dog—nothing whatever. People, instead of admiring me + for nursing him back to life, called me a fool, and said that if I didn't + drown the brute they would. He spoilt my character utterly—I mean my + character at this period. It is difficult to pose as a young man with a + heart of gold, when discovered in the middle of the road throwing stones + at your own dog. And stones were the only things that would reach and + influence him. + </p> + <p> + I was also hampered by a scarcity in runaway horses. The horse of our + suburb was not that type of horse. Once and only once did an opportunity + offer itself for practice. It was a good opportunity, inasmuch as he was + not running away very greatly. Indeed, I doubt if he knew himself that he + was running away. It transpired afterwards that it was a habit of his, + after waiting for his driver outside the Rose and Crown for what he + considered to be a reasonable period, to trot home on his own account. He + passed me going about seven miles an hour, with the reins dragging + conveniently beside him. He was the very thing for a beginner, and I + prepared myself. At the critical moment, however, a couple of officious + policemen pushed me aside and did it themselves. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing for me to regret, as the matter turned out. I should + only have rescued a bald-headed commercial traveller, very drunk, who + swore horribly, and pelted the crowd with empty collar-boxes. + </p> + <p> + From the window of a very high flat I once watched three men, resolved to + stop a runaway horse. Each man marched deliberately into the middle of the + road and took up his stand. My window was too far away for me to see their + faces, but their attitude suggested heroism unto death. The first man, as + the horse came charging towards him, faced it with his arms spread out. He + never flinched until the horse was within about twenty yards of him. Then, + as the animal was evidently determined to continue its wild career, there + was nothing left for him to do but to retire again to the kerb, where he + stood looking after it with evident sorrow, as though saying to himself—"Oh, + well, if you are going to be headstrong I have done with you." + </p> + <p> + The second man, on the catastrophe being thus left clear for him, without + a moment's hesitation, walked up a bye street and disappeared. The third + man stood his ground, and, as the horse passed him, yelled at it. I could + not hear what he said. I have not the slightest doubt it was excellent + advice, but the animal was apparently too excited even to listen. The + first and the third man met afterwards, and discussed the matter + sympathetically. I judged they were regretting the pig-headedness of + runaway horses in general, and hoping that nobody had been hurt. + </p> + <p> + I forget the other characters I assumed about this period. One, I know, + that got me into a good deal of trouble was that of a downright, honest, + hearty, outspoken young man who always said what he meant. + </p> + <p> + I never knew but one man who made a real success of speaking his mind. I + have heard him slap the table with his open hand and exclaim— + </p> + <p> + "You want me to flatter you—to stuff you up with a pack of lies. + That's not me, that's not Jim Compton. But if you care for my honest + opinion, all I can say is, that child is the most marvellous performer on + the piano I've ever heard. I don't say she is a genius, but I have heard + Liszt and Metzler and all the crack players, and I prefer HER. That's my + opinion. I speak my mind, and I can't help it if you're offended." + </p> + <p> + "How refreshing," the parents would say, "to come across a man who is not + afraid to say what he really thinks. Why are we not all outspoken?" + </p> + <p> + The last character I attempted I thought would be easy to assume. It was + that of a much admired and beloved young man, whose great charm lay in the + fact that he was always just—himself. Other people posed and acted. + He never made any effort to be anything but his own natural, simple self. + </p> + <p> + I thought I also would be my own natural, simple self. But then the + question arose—What was my own natural, simple self? + </p> + <p> + That was the preliminary problem I had to solve; I have not solved it to + this day. What am I? I am a great gentleman, walking through the world + with dauntless heart and head erect, scornful of all meanness, impatient + of all littleness. I am a mean-thinking, little-daring man—the type + of man that I of the dauntless heart and the erect head despise greatly—crawling + to a poor end by devious ways, cringing to the strong, timid of all pain. + I—but, dear reader, I will not sadden your sensitive ears with + details I could give you, showing how contemptible a creature this + wretched I happens to be. Nor would you understand me. You would only be + astonished, discovering that such disreputable specimens of humanity + contrive to exist in this age. It is best, my dear sir, or madam, you + should remain ignorant of these evil persons. Let me not trouble you with + knowledge. + </p> + <p> + I am a philosopher, greeting alike the thunder and the sunshine with + frolic welcome. Only now and then, when all things do not fall exactly as + I wish them, when foolish, wicked people will persist in doing foolish, + wicked acts, affecting my comfort and happiness, I rage and fret a goodish + deal. + </p> + <p> + As Heine said of himself, I am knight, too, of the Holy Grail, valiant for + the Truth, reverent of all women, honouring all men, eager to yield life + to the service of my great Captain. + </p> + <p> + And next moment, I find myself in the enemy's lines, fighting under the + black banner. (It must be confusing to these opposing Generals, all their + soldiers being deserters from both armies.) What are women but men's + playthings! Shall there be no more cakes and ale for me because thou art + virtuous! What are men but hungry dogs, contending each against each for a + limited supply of bones! Do others lest thou be done. What is the Truth + but an unexploded lie! + </p> + <p> + I am a lover of all living things. You, my poor sister, struggling with + your heavy burden on your lonely way, I would kiss the tears from your + worn cheeks, lighten with my love the darkness around your feet. You, my + patient brother, breathing hard as round and round you tramp the trodden + path, like some poor half-blind gin-horse, stripes your only + encouragement, scanty store of dry chaff in your manger! I would jog + beside you, taking the strain a little from your aching shoulders; and we + would walk nodding, our heads side by side, and you, remembering, should + tell me of the fields where long ago you played, of the gallant races that + you ran and won. And you, little pinched brats, with wondering eyes, + looking from dirt-encrusted faces, I would take you in my arms and tell + you fairy stories. Into the sweet land of make-believe we would wander, + leaving the sad old world behind us for a time, and you should be Princes + and Princesses, and know Love. + </p> + <p> + But again, a selfish, greedy man comes often, and sits in my clothes. A + man who frets away his life, planning how to get more money—more + food, more clothes, more pleasures for himself; a man so busy thinking of + the many things he needs he has no time to dwell upon the needs of others. + He deems himself the centre of the universe. You would imagine, hearing + him grumbling, that the world had been created and got ready against the + time when he should come to take his pleasure in it. He would push and + trample, heedless, reaching towards these many desires of his; and when, + grabbing, he misses, he curses Heaven for its injustice, and men and women + for getting in his path. He is not a nice man, in any way. I wish, as I + say, he would not come so often and sit in my clothes. He persists that he + is I, and that I am only a sentimental fool, spoiling his chances. + Sometimes, for a while, I get rid of him, but he always comes back; and + then he gets rid of me and I become him. It is very confusing. Sometimes I + wonder if I really am myself. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE DISADVANTAGE OF NOT GETTING WHAT ONE WANTS + </h2> + <p> + Long, long ago, when you and I, dear Reader, were young, when the fairies + dwelt in the hearts of the roses, when the moonbeams bent each night + beneath the weight of angels' feet, there lived a good, wise man. Or + rather, I should say, there had lived, for at the time of which I speak + the poor old gentleman lay dying. Waiting each moment the dread summons, + he fell a-musing on the life that stretched far back behind him. How full + it seemed to him at that moment of follies and mistakes, bringing bitter + tears not to himself alone but to others also. How much brighter a road + might it have been, had he been wiser, had he known! + </p> + <p> + "Ah, me!" said the good old gentleman, "if only I could live my life again + in the light of experience." + </p> + <p> + Now as he spoke these words he felt the drawing near to him of a Presence, + and thinking it was the One whom he expected, raising himself a little + from his bed, he feebly cried, + </p> + <p> + "I am ready." + </p> + <p> + But a hand forced him gently back, a voice saying, "Not yet; I bring life, + not death. Your wish shall be granted. You shall live your life again, and + the knowledge of the past shall be with you to guide you. See you use it. + I will come again." + </p> + <p> + Then a sleep fell upon the good man, and when he awoke, he was again a + little child, lying in his mother's arms; but, locked within his brain was + the knowledge of the life that he had lived already. + </p> + <p> + So once more he lived and loved and laboured. So a second time he lay an + old, worn man with life behind him. And the angel stood again beside his + bed; and the voice said, + </p> + <p> + "Well, are you content now?" + </p> + <p> + "I am well content," said the old gentleman. "Let Death come." + </p> + <p> + "And have you understood?" asked the angel. + </p> + <p> + "I think so," was the answer; "that experience is but as of the memory of + the pathways he has trod to a traveller journeying ever onward into an + unknown land. I have been wise only to reap the reward of folly. Knowledge + has ofttimes kept me from my good. I have avoided my old mistakes only to + fall into others that I knew not of. I have reached the old errors by new + roads. Where I have escaped sorrow I have lost joy. Where I have grasped + happiness I have plucked pain also. Now let me go with Death that I may + learn.." + </p> + <p> + Which was so like the angel of that period, the giving of a gift, bringing + to a man only more trouble. Maybe I am overrating my coolness of judgment + under somewhat startling circumstances, but I am inclined to think that, + had I lived in those days, and had a fairy or an angel come to me, wanting + to give me something—my soul's desire, or the sum of my ambition, or + any trifle of that kind I should have been short with him. + </p> + <p> + "You pack up that precious bag of tricks of yours," I should have said to + him (it would have been rude, but that is how I should have felt), "and + get outside with it. I'm not taking anything in your line to-day. I don't + require any supernatural aid to get me into trouble. All the worry I want + I can get down here, so it's no good your calling. You take that little + joke of yours,—I don't know what it is, but I know enough not to + want to know,—and run it off on some other idiot. I'm not priggish. + I have no objection to an innocent game of 'catch-questions' in the + ordinary way, and when I get a turn myself. But if I've got to pay every + time, and the stakes are to be my earthly happiness plus my future + existence—why, I don't play. There was the case of Midas; a nice, + shabby trick you fellows played off upon him! making pretence you did not + understand him, twisting round the poor old fellow's words, just for all + the world as though you were a pack of Old Bailey lawyers, trying to trip + up a witness; I'm ashamed of the lot of you, and I tell you so—coming + down here, fooling poor unsuspecting mortals with your nonsense, as though + we had not enough to harry us as it was. Then there was that other case of + the poor old peasant couple to whom you promised three wishes, the whole + thing ending in a black pudding. And they never got even that. You thought + that funny, I suppose. That was your fairy humour! A pity, I say, you have + not, all of you, something better to do with your time. As I said before, + you take that celestial 'Joe Miller' of yours and work it off on somebody + else. I have read my fairy lore, and I have read my mythology, and I don't + want any of your blessings. And what's more, I'm not going to have them. + When I want blessings I will put up with the usual sort we are accustomed + to down here. You know the ones I mean, the disguised brand—the + blessings that no human being would think were blessings, if he were not + told; the blessings that don't look like blessings, that don't feel like + blessings; that, as a matter of fact, are not blessings, practically + speaking; the blessings that other people think are blessings for us and + that we don't. They've got their drawbacks, but they are better than + yours, at any rate, and they are sooner over. I don't want your blessings + at any price. If you leave one here I shall simply throw it out after + you." + </p> + <p> + I feel confident I should have answered in that strain, and I feel it + would have done good. Somebody ought to have spoken plainly, because with + fairies and angels of that sort fooling about, no one was ever safe for a + moment. Children could hardly have been allowed outside the door. One + never could have told what silly trick some would-be funny fairy might be + waiting to play off on them. The poor child would not know, and would + think it was getting something worth having. The wonder to me is that some + of those angels didn't get tarred and feathered. + </p> + <p> + I am doubtful whether even Cinderella's luck was quite as satisfying as we + are led to believe. After the carpetless kitchen and the black beetles, + how beautiful the palace must have seemed—for the first year, + perhaps for the first two. And the Prince! how loving, how gallant, how + tender—for the first year, perhaps for the first two. And after? You + see he was a Prince, brought up in a Court, the atmosphere of which is not + conducive to the development of the domestic virtues; and she—was + Cinderella. And then the marriage altogether was rather a hurried affair. + Oh yes, she is a good, loving little woman; but perhaps our Royal + Highness-ship did act too much on the impulse of the moment. It was her + dear, dainty feet that danced their way into our heart. How they flashed + and twinkled, eased in those fairy slippers. How like a lily among tulips + she moved that night amid the over-gorgeous Court dames. She was so sweet, + so fresh, so different to all the others whom we knew so well. How happy + she looked as she put her trembling little hand in ours. What + possibilities might lie behind those drooping lashes. And we were in + amorous mood that night, the music in our feet, the flash and glitter in + our eyes. And then, to pique us further, she disappeared as suddenly and + strangely as she had come. Who was she? Whence came she? What was the + mystery surrounding her? Was she only a delicious dream, a haunting + phantasy that we should never look upon again, never clasp again within + our longing arms? Was our heart to be for ever hungry, haunted by the + memory of—No, by heavens, she is real, and a woman. Here is her dear + slipper, made surely to be kissed. Of a size too that a man may well wear + within the breast of his doublet. Had any woman—nay, fairy, angel, + such dear feet! Search the whole kingdom through, but find her, find her. + The gods have heard our prayers, and given us this clue. "Suppose she be + not all she seemed. Suppose she be not of birth fit to mate with our noble + house!" Out upon thee, for an earth-bound, blind curmudgeon of a Lord High + Chancellor. How could a woman, whom such slipper fitted, be but of the + noblest and the best, as far above us, mere Princelet that we are, as the + stars in heaven are brighter than thy dull old eyes! Go, search the + kingdom, we tell thee, from east to west, from north to south, and see to + it that thou findest her, or it shall go hard with thee. By Venus, be she + a swineherd's daughter, she shall be our Queen—an she deign to + accept of us, and of our kingdom. + </p> + <p> + Ah well, of course, it was not a wise piece of business, that goes without + saying; but we were young, and Princes are only human. Poor child, she + could not help her education, or rather her lack of it. Dear little thing, + the wonder is that she has contrived to be no more ignorant than she is, + dragged up as she was, neglected and overworked. Nor does life in a + kitchen, amid the companionship of peasants and menials, tend to foster + the intellect. Who can blame her for being shy and somewhat dull of + thought? not we, generous-minded, kind-hearted Prince that we are. And she + is very affectionate. The family are trying, certainly; father-in-law not + a bad sort, though a little prosy when upon the subject of his domestic + troubles, and a little too fond of his glass; mamma-in-law, and those two + ugly, ill-mannered sisters, decidedly a nuisance about the palace. Yet + what can we do? they are our relations now, and they do not forget to let + us know it. Well, well, we had to expect that, and things might have been + worse. Anyhow she is not jealous—thank goodness. + </p> + <p> + So the day comes when poor little Cinderella sits alone of a night in the + beautiful palace. The courtiers have gone home in their carriages. The + Lord High Chancellor has bowed himself out backwards. The + Gold-Stick-in-Waiting and the Grooms of the Chamber have gone to their + beds. The Maids of Honour have said "Good-night," and drifted out of the + door, laughing and whispering among themselves. The clock strikes twelve—one—two, + and still no footstep creaks upon the stair. Once it followed swiftly upon + the "good-night" of the maids, who did not laugh or whisper then. + </p> + <p> + At last the door opens, and the Prince enters, none too pleased at finding + Cinderella still awake. "So sorry I'm late, my love—detained on + affairs of state. Foreign policy very complicated, dear. Have only just + this moment left the Council Chamber." + </p> + <p> + And little Cinderella, while the Prince sleeps, lies sobbing out her poor + sad heart into the beautiful royal pillow, embroidered with the royal arms + and edged with the royal monogram in lace. "Why did he ever marry me? I + should have been happier in the old kitchen. The black beetles did + frighten me a little, but there was always the dear old cat; and + sometimes, when mother and the girls were out, papa would call softly down + the kitchen stairs for me to come up, and we would have such a merry + evening together, and sup off sausages: dear old dad, I hardly ever see + him now. And then, when my work was done, how pleasant it was to sit in + front of the fire, and dream of the wonderful things that would come to me + some day. I was always going to be a Princess, even in my dreams, and live + in a palace, but it was so different to this. Oh, how I hate it, this + beastly palace where everybody sneers at me—I know they do, though + they bow and scrape, and pretend to be so polite. And I'm not clever and + smart as they are. I hate them. I hate these bold-faced women who are + always here. That is the worst of a palace, everybody can come in. Oh, I + hate everybody and everything. Oh, god-mamma, god-mamma, come and take me + away. Take me back to my old kitchen. Give me back my old poor frock. Let + me dance again with the fire-tongs for a partner, and be happy, dreaming." + </p> + <p> + Poor little Cinderella, perhaps it would have been better had god-mamma + been less ambitious for you, dear; had you married some good, honest + yeoman, who would never have known that you were not brilliant, who would + have loved you because you were just amiable and pretty; had your kingdom + been only a farmhouse, where your knowledge of domestic economy, gained so + hardly, would have been useful; where you would have shone instead of + being overshadowed; where Papa would have dropped in of an evening to + smoke his pipe and escape from his domestic wrangles; where you would have + been REAL Queen. + </p> + <p> + But then you know, dear, you would not have been content. Ah yes, with + your present experience—now you know that Queens as well as little + drudges have their troubles; but WITHOUT that experience? You would have + looked in the glass when you were alone; you would have looked at your + shapely hands and feet, and the shadows would have crossed your pretty + face. "Yes," you would have said to yourself—"John is a dear, kind + fellow, and I love him very much, and all that, but—" and the old + dreams, dreamt in the old low-ceilinged kitchen before the dying fire, + would have come back to you, and you would have been discontented then as + now, only in a different way. Oh yes, you would, Cinderella, though you + gravely shake your gold-crowned head. And let me tell you why. It is + because you are a woman, and the fate of all us, men and women alike, is + to be for ever wanting what we have not, and to be finding, when we have + it, that it is not what we wanted. That is the law of life, dear. Do you + think as you lie upon the floor with your head upon your arms, that you + are the only woman whose tears are soaking into the hearthrug at that + moment? My dear Princess, if you could creep unseen about your City, + peeping at will through the curtain-shielded windows, you would come to + think that all the world was little else than a big nursery full of crying + children with none to comfort them. The doll is broken: no longer it + sweetly squeaks in answer to our pressure, "I love you, kiss me." The drum + lies silent with the drumstick inside; no longer do we make a brave noise + in the nursery. The box of tea-things we have clumsily put our foot upon; + there will be no more merry parties around the three-legged stool. The tin + trumpet will not play the note we want to sound; the wooden bricks keep + falling down; the toy cannon has exploded and burnt our fingers. Never + mind, little man, little woman, we will try and mend things tomorrow. + </p> + <p> + And after all, Cinderella dear, you do live in a fine palace, and you have + jewels and grand dresses and—No, no, do not be indignant with ME. + Did not you dream of these things AS WELL AS of love? Come now, be honest. + It was always a prince, was it not, or, at the least, an exceedingly + well-to-do party, that handsome young gentleman who bowed to you so + gallantly from the red embers? He was never a virtuous young commercial + traveller, or cultured clerk, earning a salary of three pounds a week, was + he, Cinderella? Yet there are many charming commercial travellers, many + delightful clerks with limited incomes, quite sufficient, however, to a + sensible man and woman desiring but each other's love. Why was it always a + prince, Cinderella? Had the palace and the liveried servants, and the + carriages and horses, and the jewels and the dresses, NOTHING to do with + the dream? + </p> + <p> + No, Cinderella, you were human, that is all. The artist, shivering in his + conventional attic, dreaming of Fame!-do you think he is not hoping she + will come to his loving arms in the form Jove came to Danae? Do you think + he is not reckoning also upon the good dinners and the big cigars, the fur + coat and the diamond studs, that her visits will enable him to purchase? + </p> + <p> + There is a certain picture very popular just now. You may see it, + Cinderella, in many of the shop-windows of the town. It is called "The + Dream of Love," and it represents a beautiful young girl, sleeping in a + very beautiful but somewhat disarranged bed. Indeed, one hopes, for the + sleeper's sake, that the night is warm, and that the room is fairly free + from draughts. A ladder of light streams down from the sky into the room, + and upon this ladder crowd and jostle one another a small army of plump + Cupids, each one laden with some pledge of love. Two of the Imps are + emptying a sack of jewels upon the floor. Four others are bearing, well + displayed, a magnificent dress (a "confection," I believe, is the proper + term) cut somewhat low, but making up in train what is lacking elsewhere. + Others bear bonnet boxes from which peep stylish toques and bewitching + hoods. Some, representing evidently wholesale houses, stagger under silks + and satins in the piece. Cupids are there from the shoemakers with the + daintiest of bottines. Stockings, garters, and even less mentionable + articles, are not forgotten. Caskets, mirrors, twelve-buttoned gloves, + scent-bottles and handkerchiefs, hair-pins, and the gayest of parasols, + has the God of Love piled into the arms of his messengers. Really a most + practical, up-to-date God of Love, moving with the times! One feels that + the modern Temple of Love must be a sort of Swan and Edgar's; the god + himself a kind of celestial shop-walker; while his mother, Venus, no doubt + superintends the costume department. Quite an Olympian Whiteley, this + latter-day Eros; he has forgotten nothing, for, at the back of the + picture, I notice one Cupid carrying a rather fat heart at the end of a + string. + </p> + <p> + You, Cinderella, could give good counsel to that sleeping child. You would + say to her—"Awake from such dreams. The contents of a pawnbroker's + store-room will not bring you happiness. Dream of love if you will; that + is a wise dream, even if it remain ever a dream. But these coloured beads, + these Manchester goods! are you then—you, heiress of all the ages—still + at heart only as some poor savage maiden but little removed above the + monkeys that share the primeval forest with her? Will you sell your gold + to the first trader that brings you THIS barter? These things, child, will + only dazzle your eyes for a few days. Do you think the Burlington Arcade + is the gate of Heaven?" + </p> + <p> + Ah, yes, I too could talk like that—I, writer of books, to the young + lad, sick of his office stool, dreaming of a literary career leading to + fame and fortune. "And do you think, lad, that by that road you will reach + Happiness sooner than by another? Do you think interviews with yourself in + penny weeklies will bring you any satisfaction after the first halfdozen? + Do you think the gushing female who has read all your books, and who + wonders what it must feel like to be so clever, will be welcome to you the + tenth time you meet her? Do you think press cuttings will always consist + of wondering admiration of your genius, of paragraphs about your charming + personal appearance under the heading, 'Our Celebrities'? Have you thought + of the Uncomplimentary criticisms, of the spiteful paragraphs, of the + everlasting fear of slipping a few inches down the greasy pole called + 'popular taste,' to which you are condemned to cling for life, as some + lesser criminal to his weary tread-mill, struggling with no hope but not + to fall! Make a home, lad, for the woman who loves you; gather one or two + friends about you; work, think, and play, that will bring you happiness. + Shun this roaring gingerbread fair that calls itself, forsooth, the 'World + of art and letters.' Let its clowns and its contortionists fight among + themselves for the plaudits and the halfpence of the mob. Let it be with + its shouting and its surging, its blare and its cheap flare. Come away, + the summer's night is just the other side of the hedge, with its silence + and its stars." + </p> + <p> + You and I, Cinderella, are experienced people, and can therefore offer + good advice, but do you think we should be listened to? + </p> + <p> + "Ah, no, my Prince is not as yours. Mine will love me always, and I am + peculiarly fitted for the life of a palace. I have the instinct and the + ability for it. I am sure I was made for a princess. Thank you, + Cinderella, for your well-meant counsel, but there is much difference + between you and me." + </p> + <p> + That is the answer you would receive, Cinderella; and my young friend + would say to me, "Yes, I can understand YOUR finding disappointment in the + literary career; but then, you see, our cases are not quite similar. <i>I</i> + am not likely to find much trouble in keeping my position. <i>I</i> shall + not fear reading what the critics say of ME. No doubt there are + disadvantages, when you are among the ruck, but there is always plenty of + room at the top. So thank you, and goodbye." + </p> + <p> + Besides, Cinderella dear, we should not quite mean it—this excellent + advice. We have grown accustomed to these gew-gaws, and we should miss + them in spite of our knowledge of their trashiness: you, your palace and + your little gold crown; I, my mountebank's cap, and the answering laugh + that goes up from the crowd when I shake my bells. We want everything. All + the happiness that earth and heaven are capable of bestowing. Creature + comforts, and heart and soul comforts also; and, proud-spirited beings + that we are, we will not be put off with a part. Give us only everything, + and we will be content. And, after all, Cinderella, you have had your day. + Some little dogs never get theirs. You must not be greedy. You have KNOWN + happiness. The palace was Paradise for those few months, and the Prince's + arms were about you, Cinderella, the Prince's kisses on your lips; the + gods themselves cannot take THAT from you. + </p> + <p> + The cake cannot last for ever if we will eat of it so greedily. There must + come the day when we have picked hungrily the last crumb—when we sit + staring at the empty board, nothing left of the feast, Cinderella, but the + pain that comes of feasting. + </p> + <p> + It is a naive confession, poor Human Nature has made to itself, in + choosing, as it has, this story of Cinderella for its leading moral:—Be + good, little girl. Be meek under your many trials. Be gentle and kind, in + spite of your hard lot, and one day—you shall marry a prince and + ride in your own carriage. Be brave and true, little boy. Work hard and + wait with patience, and in the end, with God's blessing, you shall earn + riches enough to come back to London town and marry your master's + daughter. + </p> + <p> + You and I, gentle Reader, could teach these young folks a truer lesson, an + we would. We know, alas! that the road of all the virtues does not lead to + wealth, rather the contrary; else how explain our limited incomes? But + would it be well, think you, to tell them bluntly the truth—that + honesty is the most expensive luxury a man can indulge in; that virtue, if + persisted in, leads, generally speaking, to a six-roomed house in an + outlying suburb? Maybe the world is wise: the fiction has its uses. + </p> + <p> + I am acquainted with a fairly intelligent young lady. She can read and + write, knows her tables up to six times, and can argue. I regard her as + representative of average Humanity in its attitude towards Fate; and this + is a dialogue I lately overheard between her and an older lady who is good + enough to occasionally impart to her the wisdom of the world— + </p> + <p> + "I've been good this morning, haven't I?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes—oh yes, fairly good, for you." + </p> + <p> + "You think Papa WILL take me to the circus to-night?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, if you keep good. If you don't get naughty this afternoon." + </p> + <p> + A pause. + </p> + <p> + "I was good on Monday, you may remember, nurse." + </p> + <p> + "Tolerably good." + </p> + <p> + "VERY good, you said, nurse." + </p> + <p> + "Well, yes, you weren't bad." + </p> + <p> + "And I was to have gone to the pantomime, and I didn't." + </p> + <p> + "Well, that was because your aunt came up suddenly, and your Papa couldn't + get another seat. Poor auntie wouldn't have gone at all if she hadn't gone + then." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, wouldn't she?" + </p> + <p> + "No." + </p> + <p> + Another pause. + </p> + <p> + "Do you think she'll come up suddenly to-day?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh no, I don't think so." + </p> + <p> + "No, I hope she doesn't. I want to go to the circus to-night. Because, you + see, nurse, if I don't it will discourage me." + </p> + <p> + So, perhaps the world is wise in promising us the circus. We believe her + at first. But after a while, I fear, we grow discouraged. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE EXCEPTIONAL MERIT ATTACHING TO THE THINGS WE MEANT TO DO + </h2> + <p> + I can remember—but then I can remember a long time ago. You, gentle + Reader, just entering upon the prime of life, that age by thoughtless + youth called middle, I cannot, of course, expect to follow me—when + there was in great demand a certain periodical ycleped The Amateur. Its + aim was noble. It sought to teach the beautiful lesson of independence, to + inculcate the fine doctrine of self-help. One chapter explained to a man + how he might make flower-pots out of Australian meat cans; another how he + might turn butter-tubs into music-stools; a third how he might utilize old + bonnet boxes for Venetian blinds: that was the principle of the whole + scheme, you made everything from something not intended for it, and as + ill-suited to the purpose as possible. + </p> + <p> + Two pages, I distinctly recollect, were devoted to the encouragement of + the manufacture of umbrella stands out of old gaspiping. Anything less + adapted to the receipt of hats and umbrellas than gas-piping I cannot + myself conceive: had there been, I feel sure the author would have thought + of it, and would have recommended it. + </p> + <p> + Picture-frames you fashioned out of gingerbeer corks. You saved your + ginger-beer corks, you found a picture—and the thing was complete. + How much ginger-beer it would be necessary to drink, preparatory to the + making of each frame; and the effect of it upon the frame-maker's + physical, mental and moral well-being, did not concern The Amateur. I + calculate that for a fair-sized picture sixteen dozen bottles might + suffice. Whether, after sixteen dozen of ginger-beer, a man would take any + interest in framing a picture—whether he would retain any pride in + the picture itself, is doubtful. But this, of course, was not the point. + </p> + <p> + One young gentleman of my acquaintance—the son of the gardener of my + sister, as friend Ollendorff would have described him—did succeed in + getting through sufficient ginger-beer to frame his grandfather, but the + result was not encouraging. Indeed, the gardener's wife herself was but + ill satisfied. + </p> + <p> + "What's all them corks round father?" was her first question. + </p> + <p> + "Can't you see," was the somewhat indignant reply, "that's the frame." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! but why corks?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, the book said corks." + </p> + <p> + Still the old lady remained unimpressed. + </p> + <p> + "Somehow it don't look like father now," she sighed. + </p> + <p> + Her eldest born grew irritable: none of us appreciate criticism! + </p> + <p> + "What does it look like, then?" he growled. + </p> + <p> + "Well, I dunno. Seems to me to look like nothing but corks." + </p> + <p> + The old lady's view was correct. Certain schools of art possibly lend + themselves to this method of framing. I myself have seen a funeral card + improved by it; but, generally speaking, the consequence was a + predominance of frame at the expense of the thing framed. The more honest + and tasteful of the framemakers would admit as much themselves. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, it is ugly when you look at it," said one to me, as we stood + surveying it from the centre of the room. "But what one feels about it is + that one has done it oneself." + </p> + <p> + Which reflection, I have noticed, reconciles us to many other things + beside cork frames. + </p> + <p> + Another young gentleman friend of mine—for I am bound to admit it + was youth that profited most by the advice and counsel of The Amateur: I + suppose as one grows older one grows less daring, less industrious—made + a rocking-chair, according to the instructions of this book, out of a + couple of beer barrels. From every practical point of view it was a bad + rocking-chair. It rocked too much, and it rocked in too many directions at + one and the same time. I take it, a man sitting on a rocking-chair does + not want to be continually rocking. There comes a time when he says to + himself—"Now I have rocked sufficiently for the present; now I will + sit still for a while, lest a worse thing befall me." But this was one of + those headstrong rocking-chairs that are a danger to humanity, and a + nuisance to themselves. Its notion was that it was made to rock, and that + when it was not rocking, it was wasting its time. Once started nothing + could stop it—nothing ever did stop it, until it found itself topsy + turvy on its own occupant. That was the only thing that ever sobered it. + </p> + <p> + I had called, and had been shown into the empty drawing-room. The + rocking-chair nodded invitingly at me. I never guessed it was an amateur + rocking-chair. I was young in those days, with faith in human nature, and + I imagined that, whatever else a man might attempt without knowledge or + experience, no one would be fool enough to experiment upon a + rocking-chair. + </p> + <p> + I threw myself into it lightly and carelessly. I immediately noticed the + ceiling. I made an instinctive movement forward. The window and a + momentary glimpse of the wooded hills beyond shot upwards and disappeared. + The carpet flashed across my eyes, and I caught sight of my own boots + vanishing beneath me at the rate of about two hundred miles an hour. I + made a convulsive effort to recover them. I suppose I over-did it. I saw + the whole of the room at once, the four walls, the ceiling, and the floor + at the same moment. It was a sort of vision. I saw the cottage piano + upside down, and I again saw my own boots flash past me, this time over my + head, soles uppermost. Never before had I been in a position where my own + boots had seemed so all-pervading. The next moment I lost my boots, and + stopped the carpet with my head just as it was rushing past me. At the + same instant something hit me violently in the small of the back. Reason, + when recovered, suggested that my assailant must be the rocking-chair. + </p> + <p> + Investigation proved the surmise correct. Fortunately I was still alone, + and in consequence was able, a few minutes later, to meet my hostess with + calm and dignity. I said nothing about the rocking-chair. As a matter of + fact, I was hoping to have the pleasure, before I went, of seeing some + other guest arrive and sample it: I had purposely replaced it in the most + prominent and convenient position. But though I felt capable of schooling + myself to silence, I found myself unable to agree with my hostess when she + called for my admiration of the thing. My recent experiences had too + deeply embittered me. + </p> + <p> + "Willie made it himself," explained the fond mother. "Don't you think it + was very clever of him?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh yes, it was clever," I replied, "I am willing to admit that." + </p> + <p> + "He made it out of some old beer barrels," she continued; she seemed proud + of it. + </p> + <p> + My resentment, though I tried to keep it under control, was mounting + higher. + </p> + <p> + "Oh! did he?" I said; "I should have thought he might have found something + better to do with them." + </p> + <p> + "What?" she asked. + </p> + <p> + "Oh! well, many things," I retorted. "He might have filled them again with + beer." + </p> + <p> + My hostess looked at me astonished. I felt some reason for my tone was + expected. + </p> + <p> + "You see," I explained, "it is not a well-made chair. These rockers are + too short, and they are too curved, and one of them, if you notice, is + higher than the other and of a smaller radius; the back is at too obtuse + an angle. When it is occupied the centre of gravity becomes—" + </p> + <p> + My hostess interrupted me. + </p> + <p> + "You have been sitting on it," she said. + </p> + <p> + "Not for long," I assured her. + </p> + <p> + Her tone changed. She became apologetic. + </p> + <p> + "I am so sorry," she said. "It looks all right." + </p> + <p> + "It does," I agreed; "that is where the dear lad's cleverness displays + itself. Its appearance disarms suspicion. With judgment that chair might + be made to serve a really useful purpose. There are mutual acquaintances + of ours—I mention no names, you will know them—pompous, + self-satisfied, superior persons who would be improved by that chair. If I + were Willie I should disguise the mechanism with some artistic drapery, + bait the thing with a couple of exceptionally inviting cushions, and + employ it to inculcate modesty and diffidence. I defy any human being to + get out of that chair, feeling as important as when he got into it. What + the dear boy has done has been to construct an automatic exponent of the + transitory nature of human greatness. As a moral agency that chair should + prove a blessing in disguise." + </p> + <p> + My hostess smiled feebly; more, I fear, from politeness than genuine + enjoyment. + </p> + <p> + "I think you are too severe," she said. "When you remember that the boy + has never tried his hand at anything of the kind before, that he has no + knowledge and no experience, it really is not so bad." + </p> + <p> + Considering the matter from that point of view I was bound to concur. I + did not like to suggest to her that before entering upon a difficult task + it would be better for young men to ACQUIRE knowledge and experience: that + is so unpopular a theory. + </p> + <p> + But the thing that The Amateur put in the front and foremost of its + propaganda was the manufacture of household furniture out of egg-boxes. + Why egg-boxes I have never been able to understand, but egg-boxes, + according to the prescription of The Amateur, formed the foundation of + household existence. With a sufficient supply of egg-boxes, and what The + Amateur termed a "natural deftness," no young couple need hesitate to face + the furnishing problem. Three egg-boxes made a writing-table; on another + egg-box you sat to write; your books were ranged in egg-boxes around you—and + there was your study, complete. + </p> + <p> + For the dining-room two egg-boxes made an overmantel; four egg-boxes and a + piece of looking-glass a sideboard; while six egg-boxes, with some wadding + and a yard or so of cretonne, constituted a so-called "cosy corner." About + the "corner" there could be no possible doubt. You sat on a corner, you + leant against a corner; whichever way you moved you struck a fresh corner. + The "cosiness," however, I deny. Egg-boxes I admit can be made useful; I + am even prepared to imagine them ornamental; but "cosy," no. I have + sampled egg-boxes in many shapes. I speak of years ago, when the world and + we were younger, when our fortune was the Future; secure in which, we + hesitated not to set up house upon incomes folks with lesser expectations + might have deemed insufficient. Under such circumstances, the sole + alternative to the egg-box, or similar school of furniture, would have + been the strictly classical, consisting of a doorway joined to + architectural proportions. + </p> + <p> + I have from Saturday to Monday, as honoured guest, hung my clothes in + egg-boxes. + </p> + <p> + I have sat on an egg-box at an egg-box to take my dish of tea. I have made + love on egg-boxes.—Aye, and to feel again the blood running through + my veins as then it ran, I would be content to sit only on egg-boxes till + the time should come when I could be buried in an egg-box, with an egg-box + reared above me as tombstone.—I have spent many an evening on an + egg-box; I have gone to bed in egg-boxes. They have their points—I + am intending no pun—but to claim for them cosiness would be but to + deceive. + </p> + <p> + How quaint they were, those home-made rooms! They rise out of the shadows + and shape themselves again before my eyes. I see the knobbly sofa; the + easy-chairs that might have been designed by the Grand Inquisitor himself; + the dented settle that was a bed by night; the few blue plates, purchased + in the slums off Wardour Street; the enamelled stool to which one always + stuck; the mirror framed in silk; the two Japanese fans crossed beneath + each cheap engraving; the piano cloth embroidered in peacock's feathers by + Annie's sister; the tea-cloth worked by Cousin Jenny. We dreamt, sitting + on those egg-boxes—for we were young ladies and gentlemen with + artistic taste—of the days when we would eat in Chippendale + dining-rooms; sip our coffee in Louis Quatorze drawing-rooms; and be + happy. Well, we have got on, some of us, since then, as Mr. Bumpus used to + say; and I notice, when on visits, that some of us have contrived so that + we do sit on Chippendale chairs, at Sheraton dining-tables, and are warmed + from Adam's fireplaces; but, ah me, where are the dreams, the hopes, the + enthusiasms that clung like the scent of a March morning about those + gim-crack second floors? In the dustbin, I fear, with the cretonne-covered + egg-boxes and the penny fans. Fate is so terribly even-handed. As she + gives she ever takes away. She flung us a few shillings and hope, where + now she doles us out pounds and fears. Why did not we know how happy we + were, sitting crowned with sweet conceit upon our egg-box thrones? + </p> + <p> + Yes, Dick, you have climbed well. You edit a great newspaper. You spread + abroad the message—well, the message that Sir Joseph Goldbug, your + proprietor, instructs you to spread abroad. You teach mankind the lessons + that Sir Joseph Goldbug wishes them to learn. They say he is to have a + peerage next year. I am sure he has earned it; and perhaps there may be a + knighthood for you, Dick. + </p> + <p> + Tom, you are getting on now. You have abandoned those unsaleable + allegories. What rich art patron cares to be told continually by his own + walls that Midas had ass's ears; that Lazarus sits ever at the gate? You + paint portraits now, and everybody tells me you are the coming man. That + "Impression" of old Lady Jezebel was really wonderful. The woman looks + quite handsome, and yet it is her ladyship. Your touch is truly + marvellous. + </p> + <p> + But into your success, Tom—Dick, old friend, do not there creep + moments when you would that we could fish up those old egg-boxes from the + past, refurnish with them the dingy rooms in Camden Town, and find there + our youth, our loves, and our beliefs? + </p> + <p> + An incident brought back to my mind, the other day, the thought of all + these things. I called for the first time upon a man, an actor, who had + asked me to come and see him in the little home where he lives with his + old father. To my astonishment—for the craze, I believe, has long + since died out—I found the house half furnished out of packing + cases, butter tubs, and egg-boxes. My friend earns his twenty pounds a + week, but it was the old father's hobby, so he explained to me, the making + of these monstrosities; and of them he was as proud as though they were + specimen furniture out of the South Kensington Museum. + </p> + <p> + He took me into the dining-room to show me the latest outrage—a new + book-case. A greater disfigurement to the room, which was otherwise + prettily furnished, could hardly be imagined. There was no need for him to + assure me, as he did, that it had been made out of nothing but egg-boxes. + One could see at a glance that it was made out of egg-boxes, and badly + constructed egg-boxes at that—egg-boxes that were a disgrace to the + firm that had turned them out; egg-boxes not worthy the storage of "shop + 'uns" at eighteen the shilling. + </p> + <p> + We went upstairs to my friend's bedroom. He opened the door as a man might + open the door of a museum of gems. + </p> + <p> + "The old boy," he said, as he stood with his hand upon the door-knob, + "made everything you see here, everything," and we entered. He drew my + attention to the wardrobe. "Now I will hold it up," he said, "while you + pull the door open; I think the floor must be a bit uneven, it wobbles if + you are not careful." It wobbled notwithstanding, but by coaxing and + humouring we succeeded without mishap. I was surprised to notice a very + small supply of clothes within, although my friend is a dressy man. + </p> + <p> + "You see," he explained, "I dare not use it more than I can help. I am a + clumsy chap, and as likely as not, if I happened to be in a hurry, I'd + have the whole thing over:" which seemed probable. + </p> + <p> + I asked him how he contrived. "I dress in the bath-room as a rule," he + replied; "I keep most of my things there. Of course the old boy doesn't + know." + </p> + <p> + He showed me a chest of drawers. One drawer stood half open. + </p> + <p> + "I'm bound to leave that drawer open," he said; "I keep the things I use + in that. They don't shut quite easily, these drawers; or rather, they shut + all right, but then they won't open. It is the weather, I think. They will + open and shut all right in the summer, I dare say." He is of a hopeful + disposition. + </p> + <p> + But the pride of the room was the washstand. + </p> + <p> + "What do you think of this?" cried he enthusiastically, "real marble top—" + </p> + <p> + He did not expatiate further. In his excitement he had laid his hand upon + the thing, with the natural result that it collapsed. More by accident + than design I caught the jug in my arms. I also caught the water it + contained. The basin rolled on its edge and little damage was done, except + to me and the soap-box. + </p> + <p> + I could not pump up much admiration for this washstand; I was feeling too + wet. + </p> + <p> + "What do you do when you want to wash?" I asked, as together we reset the + trap. + </p> + <p> + There fell upon him the manner of a conspirator revealing secrets. He + glanced guiltily round the room; then, creeping on tip-toe, he opened a + cupboard behind the bed. Within was a tin basin and a small can. + </p> + <p> + "Don't tell the old boy," he said. "I keep these things here, and wash on + the floor." + </p> + <p> + That was the best thing I myself ever got out of egg-boxes—that + picture of a deceitful son stealthily washing himself upon the floor + behind the bed, trembling at every footstep lest it might be the "old boy" + coming to the door. + </p> + <p> + One wonders whether the Ten Commandments are so all-sufficient as we good + folk deem them—whether the eleventh is not worth the whole pack of + them: "that ye love one another" with just a common-place, human, + practical love. Could not the other ten be comfortably stowed away into a + corner of that! One is inclined, in one's anarchic moments, to agree with + Louis Stevenson, that to be amiable and cheerful is a good religion for a + work-a-day world. We are so busy NOT killing, NOT stealing, NOT coveting + our neighbour's wife, we have not time to be even just to one another for + the little while we are together here. Need we be so cocksure that our + present list of virtues and vices is the only possibly correct and + complete one? Is the kind, unselfish man necessarily a villain because he + does not always succeed in suppressing his natural instincts? Is the + narrow-hearted, sour-souled man, incapable of a generous thought or act, + necessarily a saint because he has none? Have we not—we unco guid—arrived + at a wrong method of estimating our frailer brothers and sisters? We judge + them, as critics judge books, not by the good that is in them, but by + their faults. Poor King David! What would the local Vigilance Society have + had to say to him? + </p> + <p> + Noah, according to our plan, would be denounced from every teetotal + platform in the country, and Ham would head the Local Vestry poll as a + reward for having exposed him. And St. Peter! weak, frail St. Peter, how + lucky for him that his fellow-disciples and their Master were not as + strict in their notions of virtue as are we to-day. + </p> + <p> + Have we not forgotten the meaning of the word "virtue"? Once it stood for + the good that was in a man, irrespective of the evil that might lie there + also, as tares among the wheat. We have abolished virtue, and for it + substituted virtues. Not the hero—he was too full of faults—but + the blameless valet; not the man who does any good, but the man who has + not been found out in any evil, is our modern ideal. The most virtuous + thing in nature, according to this new theory, should be the oyster. He is + always at home, and always sober. He is not noisy. He gives no trouble to + the police. I cannot think of a single one of the Ten Commandments that he + ever breaks. He never enjoys himself, and he never, so long as he lives, + gives a moment's pleasure to any other living thing. + </p> + <p> + I can imagine the oyster lecturing a lion on the subject of morality. + </p> + <p> + "You never hear me," the oyster might say, "howling round camps and + villages, making night hideous, frightening quiet folk out of their lives. + Why don't you go to bed early, as I do? I never prowl round the + oyster-bed, fighting other gentlemen oysters, making love to lady oysters + already married. I never kill antelopes or missionaries. Why can't you + live as I do on salt water and germs, or whatever it is that I do live on? + Why don't you try to be more like me?" + </p> + <p> + An oyster has no evil passions, therefore we say he is a virtuous fish. We + never ask ourselves—"Has he any good passions?" A lion's behaviour + is often such as no just man could condone. Has he not his good points + also? + </p> + <p> + Will the fat, sleek, "virtuous" man be as Welcome at the gate of heaven as + he supposes? + </p> + <p> + "Well," St. Peter may say to him, opening the door a little way and + looking him up and down, "what is it now?" + </p> + <p> + "It's me," the virtuous man will reply, with an oily, self-satisfied + smile; "I should say, I—I've come." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I see you have come; but what is your claim to admittance? What have + you done with your three score years and ten?" + </p> + <p> + "Done!" the virtuous man will answer, "I have done nothing, I assure you." + </p> + <p> + "Nothing!" + </p> + <p> + "Nothing; that is my strong point; that is why I am here. I have never + done any wrong." + </p> + <p> + "And what good have you done?" + </p> + <p> + "What good!" + </p> + <p> + "Aye, what good? Do not you even know the meaning of the word? What human + creature is the better for your having eaten and drunk and slept these + years? You have done no harm—no harm to yourself. Perhaps, if you + had you might have done some good with it; the two are generally to be + found together down below, I remember. What good have you done that you + should enter here? This is no mummy chamber; this is the place of men and + women who have lived, who have wrought good—and evil also, alas!—for + the sinners who fight for the right, not the righteous who run with their + souls from the fight." + </p> + <p> + It was not, however, to speak of these things that I remembered The + Amateur and its lessons. My intention was but to lead up to the story of a + certain small boy, who in the doing of tasks not required of him was + exceedingly clever. I wish to tell you his story, because, as do most true + tales, it possesses a moral, and stories without a moral I deem to be but + foolish literature, resembling roads that lead to nowhere, such as sick + folk tramp for exercise. + </p> + <p> + I have known this little boy to take an expensive eight-day clock to + pieces, and make of it a toy steamboat. True, it was not, when made, very + much of a steamboat; but taking into consideration all the difficulties—the + inadaptability of eight-day clock machinery to steamboat requirements, the + necessity of getting the work accomplished quickly, before + conservatively-minded people with no enthusiasm for science could + interfere—a good enough steamboat. With merely an ironing-board and + a few dozen meat-skewers, he would—provided the ironing-board was + not missed in time—turn out quite a practicable rabbit-hutch. He + could make a gun out of an umbrella and a gas-bracket, which, if not so + accurate as a Martini-Henry, was, at all events, more deadly. With half + the garden-hose, a copper scalding-pan out of the dairy, and a few Dresden + china ornaments off the drawing-room mantelpiece, he would build a + fountain for the garden. He could make bookshelves out of kitchen tables, + and crossbows out of crinolines. He could dam you a stream so that all the + water would flow over the croquet lawn. He knew how to make red paint and + oxygen gas, together with many other suchlike commodities handy to have + about a house. Among other things he learned how to make fireworks, and + after a few explosions of an unimportant character, came to make them very + well indeed. The boy who can play a good game of cricket is liked. The boy + who can fight well is respected. The boy who can cheek a master is loved. + But the boy who can make fireworks is revered above all others as a boy + belonging to a superior order of beings. The fifth of November was at + hand, and with the consent of an indulgent mother, he determined to give + to the world a proof of his powers. A large party of friends, relatives, + and school-mates was invited, and for a fortnight beforehand the scullery + was converted into a manufactory for fireworks. The female servants went + about in hourly terror of their lives, and the villa, did we judge + exclusively by smell, one might have imagined had been taken over by + Satan, his main premises being inconveniently crowded, as an annex. By the + evening of the fourth all was in readiness, and samples were tested to + make sure that no contretemps should occur the following night. All was + found to be perfect. + </p> + <p> + The rockets rushed heavenward and descended in stars, the Roman candles + tossed their fiery balls into the darkness, the Catherine wheels sparkled + and whirled, the crackers cracked, and the squibs banged. That night he + went to bed a proud and happy boy, and dreamed of fame. He stood + surrounded by blazing fireworks, and the vast crowd cheered him. His + relations, most of whom, he knew, regarded him as the coming idiot of the + family, were there to witness his triumph; so too was Dickey Bowles, who + laughed at him because he could not throw straight. The girl at the + bun-shop, she also was there, and saw that he was clever. + </p> + <p> + The night of the festival arrived, and with it the guests. They sat, + wrapped up in shawls and cloaks, outside the hall door—uncles, + cousins, aunts, little boys and big boys, little girls and big girls, + with, as the theatre posters say, villagers and retainers, some forty of + them in all, and waited. + </p> + <p> + But the fireworks did not go off. Why they did not go off I cannot + explain; nobody ever COULD explain. The laws of nature seemed to be + suspended for that night only. The rockets fell down and died where they + stood. No human agency seemed able to ignite the squibs. The crackers gave + one bang and collapsed. The Roman candles might have been English + rushlights. The Catherine wheels became mere revolving glow-worms. The + fiery serpents could not collect among them the spirit of a tortoise. The + set piece, a ship at sea, showed one mast and the captain, and then went + out. One or two items did their duty, but this only served to render the + foolishness of the whole more striking. The little girls giggled, the + little boys chaffed, the aunts and cousins said it was beautiful, the + uncles inquired if it was all over, and talked about supper and trains, + the "villagers and retainers" dispersed laughing, the indulgent mother + said "never mind," and explained how well everything had gone off + yesterday; the clever little boy crept upstairs to his room, and blubbered + his heart out in the dark. + </p> + <p> + Hours later, when the crowd had forgotten him, he stole out again into the + garden. He sat down amid the ruins of his hope, and wondered what could + have caused the fiasco. Still puzzled, he drew from his pocket a box of + matches, and, lighting one, he held it to the seared end of a rocket he + had tried in vain to light four hours ago. It smouldered for an instant, + then shot with a swish into the air and broke into a hundred points of + fire. He tried another and another with the same result. He made a fresh + attempt to fire the set piece. Point by point the whole picture—minus + the captain and one mast—came out of the night, and stood revealed + in all the majesty of flame. Its sparks fell upon the piled-up heap of + candles, wheels, and rockets that a little while before had obstinately + refused to burn, and that, one after another, had been thrown aside as + useless. Now with the night frost upon them, they leaped to light in one + grand volcanic eruption. And in front of the gorgeous spectacle he stood + with only one consolation—his mother's hand in his. + </p> + <p> + The whole thing was a mystery to him at the time, but, as he learned to + know life better, he came to understand that it was only one example of a + solid but inexplicable fact, ruling all human affairs—YOUR FIREWORKS + WON'T GO OFF WHILE THE CROWD IS AROUND. + </p> + <p> + Our brilliant repartees do not occur to us till the door is closed upon us + and we are alone in the street, or, as the French would say, are coming + down the stairs. Our after-dinner oratory, that sounded so telling as we + delivered it before the looking-glass, falls strangely flat amidst the + clinking of the glasses. The passionate torrent of words we meant to pour + into her ear becomes a halting rigmarole, at which—small blame to + her—she only laughs. + </p> + <p> + I would, gentle Reader, you could hear the stories that I meant to tell + you. You judge me, of course, by the stories of mine that you have read—by + this sort of thing, perhaps; but that is not just to me. The stories I + have not told you, that I am going to tell you one day, I would that you + judge me by those. + </p> + <p> + They are so beautiful; you will say so; over them, you will laugh and cry + with me. + </p> + <p> + They come into my brain unbidden, they clamour to be written, yet when I + take my pen in hand they are gone. It is as though they were shy of + publicity, as though they would say to me—"You alone, you shall read + us, but you must not write us; we are too real, too true. We are like the + thoughts you cannot speak. Perhaps a little later, when you know more of + life, then you shall tell us." + </p> + <p> + Next to these in merit I would place, were I writing a critical essay on + myself, the stories I have begun to write and that remain unfinished, why + I cannot explain to myself. They are good stories, most of them; better + far than the stories I have accomplished. Another time, perhaps, if you + care to listen, I will tell you the beginning of one or two and you shall + judge. Strangely enough, for I have always regarded myself as a practical, + commonsensed man, so many of these still-born children of my mind I find, + on looking through the cupboard where their thin bodies lie, are ghost + stories. I suppose the hope of ghosts is with us all. The world grows + somewhat interesting to us heirs of all the ages. Year by year, Science + with broom and duster tears down the moth-worn tapestry, forces the doors + of the locked chambers, lets light into the secret stairways, cleans out + the dungeons, explores the hidden passages—finding everywhere only + dust. This echoing old castle, the world, so full of mystery in the days + when we were children, is losing somewhat its charm for us as we grow + older. The king sleeps no longer in the hollow of the hills. We have + tunnelled through his mountain chamber. We have shivered his beard with + our pick. We have driven the gods from Olympus. No wanderer through the + moonlit groves now fears or hopes the sweet, death-giving gleam of + Aphrodite's face. Thor's hammer echoes not among the peaks—'tis but + the thunder of the excursion train. We have swept the woods of the + fairies. We have filtered the sea of its nymphs. Even the ghosts are + leaving us, chased by the Psychical Research Society. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps of all, they are the least, however, to be regretted. They were + dull old fellows, clanking their rusty chains and groaning and sighing. + Let them go. + </p> + <p> + And yet how interesting they might be, if only they would. The old + gentleman in the coat of mail, who lived in King John's reign, who was + murdered, so they say, on the outskirts of the very wood I can see from my + window as I write—stabbed in the back, poor gentleman, as he was + riding home, his body flung into the moat that to this day is called Tor's + tomb. Dry enough it is now, and the primroses love its steep banks; but a + gloomy enough place in those days, no doubt, with its twenty feet of + stagnant water. Why does he haunt the forest paths at night, as they tell + me he does, frightening the children out of their wits, blanching the + faces and stilling the laughter of the peasant lads and lasses, slouching + home from the village dance? Instead, why does he not come up here and + talk to me? He should have my easy-chair and welcome, would he only be + cheerful and companionable. + </p> + <p> + What brave tales could he not tell me. He fought in the first Crusade, + heard the clarion voice of Peter, met the great Godfrey face to face, + stood, hand on sword-hilt, at Runny-mede, perhaps. Better than a whole + library of historical novels would an evening's chat be with such a ghost. + What has he done with his eight hundred years of death? where has he been? + what has he seen? Maybe he has visited Mars; has spoken to the strange + spirits who can live in the liquid fires of Jupiter. What has he learned + of the great secret? Has he found the truth? or is he, even as I, a + wanderer still seeking the unknown? + </p> + <p> + You, poor, pale, grey nun—they tell me that of midnights one may see + your white face peering from the ruined belfry window, hear the clash of + sword and shield among the cedar-trees beneath. + </p> + <p> + It was very sad, I quite understand, my dear lady. Your lovers both were + killed, and you retired to a convent. Believe me, I am sincerely sorry for + you, but why waste every night renewing the whole painful experience? + Would it not be better forgotten? Good Heavens, madam, suppose we living + folk were to spend our lives wailing and wringing our hands because of the + wrongs done to us when we were children? It is all over now. Had he lived, + and had you married him, you might not have been happy. I do not wish to + say anything unkind, but marriages founded upon the sincerest mutual love + have sometimes turned out unfortunately, as you must surely know. + </p> + <p> + Do take my advice. Talk the matter over with the young men themselves. + Persuade them to shake hands and be friends. Come in, all of you, out of + the cold, and let us have some reasonable talk. + </p> + <p> + Why seek you to trouble us, you poor pale ghosts? Are we not your + children? Be our wise friends. Tell me, how loved the young men in your + young days? how answered the maidens? Has the world changed much, do you + think? Had you not new women even then? girls who hated the everlasting + tapestry frame and spinning-wheel? Your father's servants, were they so + much worse off than the freemen who live in our East-end slums and sew + slippers for fourteen hours a day at a wage of nine shillings a week? Do + you think Society much improved during the last thousand years? Is it + worse? is it better? or is it, on the whole, about the same, save that we + call things by other names? Tell me, what have YOU learned? + </p> + <p> + Yet might not familiarity breed contempt, even for ghosts. + </p> + <p> + One has had a tiring day's shooting. One is looking forward to one's bed. + As one opens the door, however, a ghostly laugh comes from behind the + bed-curtains, and one groans inwardly, knowing what is in store for one: a + two or three hours' talk with rowdy old Sir Lanval—he of the lance. + We know all his tales by heart, and he will shout them. Suppose our aunt, + from whom we have expectations, and who sleeps in the next room, should + wake and overhear! They were fit and proper enough stories, no doubt, for + the Round Table, but we feel sure our aunt would not appreciate them:—that + story about Sir Agravain and the cooper's wife! and he always will tell + that story. + </p> + <p> + Or imagine the maid entering after dinner to say— + </p> + <p> + "Oh, if you please, sir, here is the veiled lady." + </p> + <p> + "What, again!" says your wife, looking up from her work. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, ma'am; shall I show her up into the bedroom?" + </p> + <p> + "You had better ask your master," is the reply. The tone is suggestive of + an unpleasant five minutes so soon as the girl shall have withdrawn, but + what are you to do? + </p> + <p> + "Yes, yes, show her up," you say, and the girl goes out, closing the door. + </p> + <p> + Your wife gathers her work together, and rises. + </p> + <p> + "Where are you going?" you ask. + </p> + <p> + "To sleep with the children," is the frigid answer. + </p> + <p> + "It will look so rude," you urge. "We must be civil to the poor thing; and + you see it really is her room, as one might say. She has always haunted + it." + </p> + <p> + "It is very curious," returns the wife of your bosom, still more icily, + "that she never haunts it except when you are down here. Where she goes + when you are in town I'm sure I don't know." + </p> + <p> + This is unjust. You cannot restrain your indignation. + </p> + <p> + "What nonsense you talk, Elizabeth," you reply; "I am only barely polite + to her." + </p> + <p> + "Some men have such curious notions of politeness," returns Elizabeth. + "But pray do not let us quarrel. I am only anxious not to disturb you. Two + are company, you know. I don't choose to be the third, that's all." With + which she goes out. + </p> + <p> + And the veiled lady is still waiting for you up-stairs. You wonder how + long she will stop, also what will happen after she is gone. + </p> + <p> + I fear there is no room for you, ghosts, in this our world. You remember + how they came to Hiawatha—the ghosts of the departed loved ones. He + had prayed to them that they would come back to him to comfort him, so one + day they crept into his wigwam, sat in silence round his fireside, chilled + the air for Hiawatha, froze the smiles of Laughing Water. + </p> + <p> + There is no room for you, oh you poor pale ghosts, in this our world. Do + not trouble us. Let us forget. You, stout elderly matron, your thin locks + turning grey, your eyes grown weak, your chin more ample, your voice harsh + with much scolding and complaining, needful, alas! to household + management, I pray you leave me. I loved you while you lived. How sweet, + how beautiful you were. I see you now in your white frock among the + apple-blossom. But you are dead, and your ghost disturbs my dreams. I + would it haunted me not. + </p> + <p> + You, dull old fellow, looking out at me from the glass at which I shave, + why do you haunt me? You are the ghost of a bright lad I once knew well. + He might have done much, had he lived. I always had faith in him. Why do + you haunt me? I would rather think of him as I remember him. I never + imagined he would make such a poor ghost. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE PREPARATION AND EMPLOYMENT OF LOVE PHILTRES + </h2> + <p> + Occasionally a friend will ask me some such question as this, Do you + prefer dark women or fair? Another will say, Do you like tall women or + short? A third, Do you think light-hearted women, or serious, the more + agreeable company? I find myself in the position that, once upon a time, + overtook a certain charming young lady of taste who was asked by an + anxious parent, the years mounting, and the family expenditure not + decreasing, which of the numerous and eligible young men, then paying + court to her, she liked the best. She replied, that was her difficulty. + She could not make up her mind which she liked the best. They were all so + nice. She could not possibly select one to the exclusion of all the + others. What she would have liked would have been to marry the lot, but + that, she presumed, was impracticable. + </p> + <p> + I feel I resemble that young lady, not so much, perhaps, in charm and + beauty as indecision of mind, when questions such as the above are put to + me. It is as if one were asked one's favourite food. There are times when + one fancies an egg with one's tea. On other occasions one dreams of a + kipper. Today one clamours for lobsters. To-morrow one feels one never + wishes to see a lobster again; one determines to settle down, for a time, + to a diet of bread and milk and rice-pudding. Asked suddenly to say + whether I preferred ices to soup, or beefsteaks to caviare, I should be + nonplussed. + </p> + <p> + I like tall women and short, dark women and fair, merry women and grave. + </p> + <p> + Do not blame me, Ladies, the fault lies with you. Every right-thinking man + is an universal lover; how could it be otherwise? You are so diverse, yet + each so charming of your kind; and a man's heart is large. You have no + idea, fair Reader, how large a man's heart is: that is his trouble—sometimes + yours. + </p> + <p> + May I not admire the daring tulip, because I love also the modest lily? + May I not press a kiss upon the sweet violet, because the scent of the + queenly rose is precious to me? + </p> + <p> + "Certainly not," I hear the Rose reply. "If you can see anything in her, + you shall have nothing to do with me." + </p> + <p> + "If you care for that bold creature," says the Lily, trembling, "you are + not the man I took you for. Good-bye." + </p> + <p> + "Go to your baby-faced Violet," cries the Tulip, with a toss of her + haughty head. "You are just fitted for each other." + </p> + <p> + And when I return to the Lily, she tells me that she cannot trust me. She + has watched me with those others. She knows me for a gad-about. Her gentle + face is full of pain. + </p> + <p> + So I must live unloved merely because I love too much. + </p> + <p> + My wonder is that young men ever marry. The difficulty of selection must + be appalling. I walked the other evening in Hyde Park. The band of the + Life Guards played heart-lifting music, and the vast crowd were basking in + a sweet enjoyment such as rarely woos the English toiler. I strolled among + them, and my attention was chiefly drawn towards the women. The great + majority of them were, I suppose, shop-girls, milliners, and others + belonging to the lower middle-class. They had put on their best frocks, + their bonniest hats, their newest gloves. They sat or walked in twos and + threes, chattering and preening, as happy as young sparrows on a clothes + line. And what a handsome crowd they made! I have seen German crowds, I + have seen French crowds, I have seen Italian crowds; but nowhere do you + find such a proportion of pretty women as among the English middle-class. + Three women out of every four were worth looking at, every other woman was + pretty, while every fourth, one might say without exaggeration, was + beautiful. As I passed to and fro the idea occurred to me: suppose I were + an unprejudiced young bachelor, free from predilection, looking for a + wife; and let me suppose—it is only a fancy—that all these + girls were ready and willing to accept me. I have only to choose! I grew + bewildered. There were fair girls, to look at whom was fatal; dark girls + that set one's heart aflame; girls with red gold hair and grave grey eyes, + whom one would follow to the confines of the universe; baby-faced girls + that one longed to love and cherish; girls with noble faces, whom a man + might worship; laughing girls, with whom one could dance through life + gaily; serious girls, with whom life would be sweet and good, + domestic-looking girls—one felt such would make delightful wives; + they would cook, and sew, and make of home a pleasant, peaceful place. + Then wicked-looking girls came by, at the stab of whose bold eyes all + orthodox thoughts were put to a flight, whose laughter turned the world + into a mad carnival; girls one could mould; girls from whom one could + learn; sad girls one wanted to comfort; merry girls who would cheer one; + little girls, big girls, queenly girls, fairy-like girls. + </p> + <p> + Suppose a young man had to select his wife in this fashion from some + twenty or thirty thousand; or that a girl were suddenly confronted with + eighteen thousand eligible young bachelors, and told to take the one she + wanted and be quick about it? Neither boy nor girl would ever marry. Fate + is kinder to us. She understands, and assists us. In the hall of a Paris + hotel I once overheard one lady asking another to recommend her a + milliner's shop. + </p> + <p> + "Go to the Maison Nouvelle," advised the questioned lady, with enthusiasm. + "They have the largest selection there of any place in Paris." + </p> + <p> + "I know they have," replied the first lady, "that is just why I don't mean + to go there. It confuses me. If I see six bonnets I can tell the one I + want in five minutes. If I see six hundred I come away without any bonnet + at all. Don't you know a little shop?" + </p> + <p> + Fate takes the young man or the young woman aside. + </p> + <p> + "Come into this village, my dear," says Fate; "into this by-street of this + salubrious suburb, into this social circle, into this church, into this + chapel. Now, my dear boy, out of these seventeen young ladies, which will + you have?—out of these thirteen young men, which would you like for + your very own, my dear?" + </p> + <p> + "No, miss, I am sorry, but I am not able to show you our up-stairs + department to-day, the lift is not working. But I am sure we shall be able + to find something in this room to suit you. Just look round, my dear, + perhaps you will see something." + </p> + <p> + "No, sir, I cannot show you the stock in the next room, we never take that + out except for our very special customers. We keep our most expensive + goods in that room. (Draw that curtain, Miss Circumstance, please. I have + told you of that before.) Now, sir, wouldn't you like this one? This + colour is quite the rage this season; we are getting rid of quite a lot of + these." + </p> + <p> + "NO, sir! Well, of course, it would not do for every one's taste to be the + same. Perhaps something dark would suit you better. Bring out those two + brunettes, Miss Circumstance. Charming girls both of them, don't you think + so, sir? I should say the taller one for you, sir. Just one moment, sir, + allow me. Now, what do you think of that, sir? might have been made to fit + you, I'm sure. You prefer the shorter one. Certainly, sir, no difference + to us at all. Both are the same price. There's nothing like having one's + own fancy, I always say. NO, sir, I cannot put her aside for you, we never + do that. Indeed, there's rather a run on brunettes just at present. I had + a gentleman in only this morning, looking at this particular one, and he + is going to call again to-night. Indeed, I am not at all sure—Oh, of + course, sir, if you like to settle on this one now, that ends the matter. + (Put those others away, Miss Circumstance, please, and mark this one + sold.) I feel sure you'll like her, sir, when you get her home. Thank YOU, + sir. Good-morning!" + </p> + <p> + "Now, miss, have YOU seen anything you fancy? YES, miss, this is all we + have at anything near your price. (Shut those other cupboards, Miss + Circumstance; never show more stock than you are obliged to, it only + confuses customers. How often am I to tell you that?) YES, miss, you are + quite right, there IS a slight blemish. They all have some slight flaw. + The makers say they can't help it—it's in the material. It's not + once in a season we get a perfect specimen; and when we do ladies don't + seem to care for it. Most of our customers prefer a little faultiness. + They say it gives character. Now, look at this, miss. This sort of thing + wears very well, warm and quiet. You'd like one with more colour in it? + Certainly. Miss Circumstance, reach me down the art patterns. NO, miss, we + don't guarantee any of them over the year, so much depends on how you use + them. OH YES, miss, they'll stand a fair amount of wear. People do tell + you the quieter patterns last longer; but my experience is that one is + much the same as another. There's really no telling any of them until you + come to try them. We never recommend one more than another. There's a lot + of chance about these goods, it's in the nature of them. What I always say + to ladies is—'Please yourself, it's you who have got to wear it; and + it's no good having an article you start by not liking.' YES, miss, it IS + pretty and it looks well against you: it does indeed. Thank you, miss. Put + that one aside, Miss Circumstance, please. See that it doesn't get mixed + up with the unsold stock." + </p> + <p> + It is a useful philtre, the juice of that small western flower, that + Oberon drops upon our eyelids as we sleep. It solves all difficulties in a + trice. Why of course Helena is the fairer. Compare her with Hermia! + Compare the raven with the dove! How could we ever have doubted for a + moment? Bottom is an angel, Bottom is as wise as he is handsome. Oh, + Oberon, we thank you for that drug. Matilda Jane is a goddess; Matilda + Jane is a queen; no woman ever born of Eve was like Matilda Jane. The + little pimple on her nose—her little, sweet, tip-tilted nose—how + beautiful it is. Her bright eyes flash with temper now and then; how + piquant is a temper in a woman. William is a dear old stupid, how lovable + stupid men can be—especially when wise enough to love us. William + does not shine in conversation; how we hate a magpie of a man. William's + chin is what is called receding, just the sort of chin a beard looks well + on. Bless you, Oberon darling, for that drug; rub it on our eyelids once + again. Better let us have a bottle, Oberon, to keep by us. + </p> + <p> + Oberon, Oberon, what are you thinking of? You have given the bottle to + Puck. Take it away from him, quick. Lord help us all if that Imp has the + bottle. Lord save us from Puck while we sleep. + </p> + <p> + Or may we, fairy Oberon, regard your lotion as an eye-opener, rather than + as an eye-closer? You remember the story the storks told the children, of + the little girl who was a toad by day, only her sweet dark eyes being left + to her. But at night, when the Prince clasped her close to his breast, lo! + again she became the king's daughter, fairest and fondest of women. There + be many royal ladies in Marshland, with bad complexion and thin straight + hair, and the silly princes sneer and ride away to woo some kitchen wench + decked out in queen's apparel. Lucky the prince upon whose eyelids Oberon + has dropped the magic philtre. + </p> + <p> + In the gallery of a minor Continental town I have forgotten, hangs a + picture that lives with me. The painting I cannot recall, whether good or + bad; artists must forgive me for remembering only the subject. It shows a + man, crucified by the roadside. No martyr he. If ever a man deserved + hanging it was this one. So much the artist has made clear. The face, even + under its mask of agony, is an evil, treacherous face. A peasant girl + clings to the cross; she stands tip-toe upon a patient donkey, straining + her face upward for the half-dead man to stoop and kiss her lips. + </p> + <p> + Thief, coward, blackguard, they are stamped upon his face, but UNDER the + face, under the evil outside? Is there no remnant of manhood—nothing + tender, nothing, true? A woman has crept to the cross to kiss him: no + evidence in his favour, my Lord? Love is blind-aye, to our faults. Heaven + help us all; Love's eyes would be sore indeed if it were not so. But for + the good that is in us her eyes are keen. You, crucified blackguard, stand + forth. A hundred witnesses have given their evidence against you. Are + there none to give evidence for him? A woman, great Judge, who loved him. + Let her speak. + </p> + <p> + But I am wandering far from Hyde Park and its show of girls. + </p> + <p> + They passed and re-passed me, laughing, smiling, talking. Their eyes were + bright with merry thoughts; their voices soft and musical. They were + pleased, and they wanted to please. Some were married, some had evidently + reasonable expectations of being married; the rest hoped to be. And we, + myself, and some ten thousand other young men. I repeat it—myself + and some ten thousand other young men; for who among us ever thinks of + himself but as a young man? It is the world that ages, not we. The + children cease their playing and grow grave, the lasses' eyes are dimmer. + The hills are a little steeper, the milestones, surely, further apart. The + songs the young men sing are less merry than the songs we used to sing. + The days have grown a little colder, the wind a little keener. The wine + has lost its flavour somewhat; the new humour is not like the old. The + other boys are becoming dull and prosy; but we are not changed. It is the + world that is growing old. Therefore, I brave your thoughtless laughter, + youthful Reader, and repeat that we, myself and some ten thousand other + young men, walked among these sweet girls; and, using our boyish eyes, + were fascinated, charmed, and captivated. How delightful to spend our + lives with them, to do little services for them that would call up these + bright smiles. How pleasant to jest with them, and hear their flute-like + laughter, to console them and read their grateful eyes. Really life is a + pleasant thing, and the idea of marriage undoubtedly originated in the + brain of a kindly Providence. + </p> + <p> + We smiled back at them, and we made way for them; we rose from our chairs + with a polite, "Allow me, miss," "Don't mention it, I prefer standing." + "It is a delightful evening, is it not?" And perhaps—for what harm + was there?—we dropped into conversation with these chance + fellow-passengers upon the stream of life. There were those among us—bold + daring spirits—who even went to the length of mild flirtation. Some + of us knew some of them, and in such happy case there followed interchange + of pretty pleasantries. Your English middle-class young man and woman are + not adepts at the game of flirtation. I will confess that our methods + were, perhaps, elephantine, that we may have grown a trifle noisy as the + evening wore on. But we meant no evil; we did but our best to enjoy + ourselves, to give enjoyment, to make the too brief time, pass gaily. + </p> + <p> + And then my thoughts travelled to small homes in distant suburbs, and + these bright lads and lasses round me came to look older and more + careworn. But what of that? Are not old faces sweet when looked at by old + eyes a little dimmed by love, and are not care and toil but the parents of + peace and joy? + </p> + <p> + But as I drew nearer, I saw that many of the faces were seared with sour + and angry looks, and the voices that rose round me sounded surly and + captious. The pretty compliment and praise had changed to sneers and + scoldings. The dimpled smile had wrinkled to a frown. There seemed so + little desire to please, so great a determination not to be pleased. + </p> + <p> + And the flirtations! Ah me, they had forgotten how to flirt! Oh, the pity + of it! All the jests were bitter, all the little services were given + grudgingly. The air seemed to have grown chilly. A darkness had come over + all things. + </p> + <p> + And then I awoke to reality, and found I had been sitting in my chair + longer than I had intended. The band-stand was empty, the sun had set; I + rose and made my way home through the scattered crowd. + </p> + <p> + Nature is so callous. The Dame irritates one at times by her devotion to + her one idea, the propagation of the species. + </p> + <p> + "Multiply and be fruitful; let my world be ever more and more peopled." + </p> + <p> + For this she trains and fashions her young girls, models them with cunning + hand, paints them with her wonderful red and white, crowns them with her + glorious hair, teaches them to smile and laugh, trains their voices into + music, sends them out into the world to captivate, to enslave us. + </p> + <p> + "See how beautiful she is, my lad," says the cunning old woman. "Take her; + build your little nest with her in your pretty suburb; work for her and + live for her; enable her to keep the little ones that I will send." + </p> + <p> + And to her, old hundred-breasted Artemis whispers, "Is he not a bonny lad? + See how he loves you, how devoted he is to you! He will work for you and + make you happy; he will build your home for you. You will be the mother of + his children." + </p> + <p> + So we take each other by the hand, full of hope and love, and from that + hour Mother Nature has done with us. Let the wrinkles come; let our voices + grow harsh; let the fire she lighted in our hearts die out; let the + foolish selfishness we both thought we had put behind us for ever creep + back to us, bringing unkindness and indifference, angry thoughts and cruel + words into our lives. What cares she? She has caught us, and chained us to + her work. She is our universal mother-in-law. She has done the + match-making; for the rest, she leaves it to ourselves. We can love or we + can fight; it is all one to her, confound her. + </p> + <p> + I wonder sometimes if good temper might not be taught. In business we use + no harsh language, say no unkind things to one another. The shopkeeper, + leaning across the counter, is all smiles and affability, he might put up + his shutters were he otherwise. The commercial gent, no doubt, thinks the + ponderous shopwalker an ass, but refrains from telling him so. Hasty + tempers are banished from the City. Can we not see that it is just as much + to our interest to banish them from Tooting and Hampstead? + </p> + <p> + The young man who sat in the chair next to me, how carefully he wrapped + the cloak round the shoulders of the little milliner beside him. And when + she said she was tired of sitting still, how readily he sprang from his + chair to walk with her, though it was evident he was very comfortable + where he was. And she! She had laughed at his jokes; they were not very + clever jokes, they were not very new. She had probably read them herself + months before in her own particular weekly journal. Yet the harmless + humbug made him happy. I wonder if ten years hence she will laugh at such + old humour, if ten years hence he will take such clumsy pains to put her + cape about her. Experience shakes her head, and is amused at my question. + </p> + <p> + I would have evening classes for the teaching of temper to married + couples, only I fear the institution would languish for lack of pupils. + The husbands would recommend their wives to attend, generously offering to + pay the fee as a birthday present. The wife would be indignant at the + suggestion of good money being thus wasted. "No, John, dear," she would + unselfishly reply, "you need the lessons more than I do. It would be a + shame for me to take them away from you," and they would wrangle upon the + subject for the rest of the day. + </p> + <p> + Oh! the folly of it. We pack our hamper for life's picnic with such pains. + We spend so much, we work so hard. We make choice pies, we cook prime + joints, we prepare so carefully the mayonnaise, we mix with loving hands + the salad, we cram the basket to the lid with every delicacy we can think + of. Everything to make the picnic a success is there except the salt. Ah! + woe is me, we forget the salt. We slave at our desks, in our workshops, to + make a home for those we love; we give up our pleasures, we give up our + rest. We toil in our kitchen from morning till night, and we render the + whole feast tasteless for want of a ha'porth of salt—for want of a + soupcon of amiability, for want of a handful of kindly words, a touch of + caress, a pinch of courtesy. + </p> + <p> + Who does not know that estimable housewife, working from eight till twelve + to keep the house in what she calls order? She is so good a woman, so + untiring, so unselfish, so conscientious, so irritating. Her rooms are so + clean, her servants so well managed, her children so well dressed, her + dinners so well cooked; the whole house so uninviting. Everything about + her is in apple-pie order, and everybody wretched. + </p> + <p> + My good Madam, you polish your tables, you scour your kettles, but the + most valuable piece of furniture in the whole house you are letting to + rack and ruin for want of a little pains. You will find it in your own + room, my dear Lady, in front of your own mirror. It is getting shabby and + dingy, old-looking before its time; the polish is rubbed off it, Madam, it + is losing its brightness and charm. Do you remember when he first brought + it home, how proud he was of it? Do you think you have used it well, + knowing how he valued it? A little less care of your pots and your pans, + Madam, a little more of yourself were wiser. Polish yourself up, Madam; + you had a pretty wit once, a pleasant laugh, a conversation that was not + confined exclusively to the short-comings of servants, the wrong-doings of + tradesmen. My dear Madam, we do not live on spotless linen, and crumbless + carpets. Hunt out that bundle of old letters you keep tied up in faded + ribbon at the back of your bureau drawer—a pity you don't read them + oftener. He did not enthuse about your cuffs and collars, gush over the + neatness of your darning. It was your tangled hair he raved about, your + sunny smile (we have not seen it for some years, Madam—the fault of + the Cook and the Butcher, I presume), your little hands, your rosebud + mouth—it has lost its shape, Madam, of late. Try a little less + scolding of Mary Ann, and practise a laugh once a day: you might get back + the dainty curves. It would be worth trying. It was a pretty mouth once. + </p> + <p> + Who invented that mischievous falsehood that the way to a man's heart was + through his stomach? How many a silly woman, taking it for truth, has let + love slip out of the parlour, while she was busy in the kitchen. Of + course, if you were foolish enough to marry a pig, I suppose you must be + content to devote your life to the preparation of hog's-wash. But are you + sure that he IS a pig? If by any chance he be not?—then, Madam, you + are making a grievous mistake. My dear Lady, you are too modest. If I may + say so without making you unduly conceited, even at the dinner-table + itself, you are of much more importance than the mutton. Courage, Madam, + be not afraid to tilt a lance even with your own cook. You can be more + piquant than the sauce a la Tartare, more soothing surely than the melted + butter. There was a time when he would not have known whether he was + eating beef or pork with you the other side of the table. Whose fault is + it? Don't think so poorly of us. We are not ascetics, neither are we all + gourmets: most of us plain men, fond of our dinner, as a healthy man + should be, but fonder still of our sweethearts and wives, let us hope. Try + us. A moderately-cooked dinner—let us even say a not-too-well-cooked + dinner, with you looking your best, laughing and talking gaily and + cleverly—as you can, you know—makes a pleasanter meal for us, + after the day's work is done, than that same dinner, cooked to perfection, + with you silent, jaded, and anxious, your pretty hair untidy, your pretty + face wrinkled with care concerning the sole, with anxiety regarding the + omelette. + </p> + <p> + My poor Martha, be not troubled about so many things. YOU are the one + thing needful—if the bricks and mortar are to be a home. See to it + that YOU are well served up, that YOU are done to perfection, that YOU are + tender and satisfying, that YOU are worth sitting down to. We wanted a + wife, a comrade, a friend; not a cook and a nurse on the cheap. + </p> + <p> + But of what use is it to talk? the world will ever follow its own folly. + When I think of all the good advice that I have given it, and of the small + result achieved, I confess I grow discouraged. I was giving good advice to + a lady only the other day. I was instructing her as to the proper + treatment of aunts. She was sucking a lead-pencil, a thing I am always + telling her not to do. She took it out of her mouth to speak. + </p> + <p> + "I suppose you know how everybody ought to do everything," she said. + </p> + <p> + There are times when it is necessary to sacrifice one's modesty to one's + duty. + </p> + <p> + "Of course I do," I replied. + </p> + <p> + "And does Mama know how everybody ought to do everything?" was the second + question. + </p> + <p> + My conviction on this point was by no means so strong, but for domestic + reasons I again sacrificed myself to expediency. + </p> + <p> + "Certainly," I answered; "and take that pencil out of your mouth. I've + told you of that before. You'll swallow it one day, and then you'll get + perichondritis and die." + </p> + <p> + She appeared to be solving a problem. + </p> + <p> + "All grown-up people seem to know everything," she summarized. + </p> + <p> + There are times when I doubt if children are as simple as they look. If it + be sheer stupidity that prompts them to make remarks of this character, + one should pity them, and seek to improve them. But if it be not + stupidity? well then, one should still seek to improve them, but by a + different method. + </p> + <p> + The other morning I overheard the nurse talking to this particular + specimen. The woman is a most worthy creature, and she was imparting to + the child some really sound advice. She was in the middle of an + unexceptional exhortation concerning the virtue of silence, when Dorothea + interrupted her with— + </p> + <p> + "Oh, do be quiet, Nurse. I never get a moment's peace from your chatter." + </p> + <p> + Such an interruption discourages a woman who is trying to do her duty. + </p> + <p> + Last Tuesday evening she was unhappy. Myself, I think that rhubarb should + never be eaten before April, and then never with lemonade. Her mother read + her a homily upon the subject of pain. It was impressed upon her that we + must be patient, that we must put up with the trouble that God sends us. + Dorothea would descend to details, as children will. + </p> + <p> + "Must we put up with the cod-liver oil that God sends us?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, decidedly." + </p> + <p> + "And with the nurses that God sends us?" + </p> + <p> + "Certainly; and be thankful that you've got them, some little girls + haven't any nurse. And don't talk so much." + </p> + <p> + On Friday I found the mother in tears. + </p> + <p> + "What's the matter?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, nothing," was the answer; "only Baby. She's such a strange child. I + can't make her out at all." + </p> + <p> + "What has she been up to now?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, she will argue, you know." + </p> + <p> + She has that failing. I don't know where she gets it from, but she's got + it. + </p> + <p> + "Well?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, she made me cross; and, to punish her, I told her she shouldn't + take her doll's perambulator out with her." + </p> + <p> + "Yes?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, she didn't say anything then, but so soon as I was outside the + door, I heard her talking to herself—you know her way?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes?" + </p> + <p> + "She said—" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, she said?" + </p> + <p> + "She said, 'I must be patient. I must put up with the mother God has sent + me.'" + </p> + <p> + She lunches down-stairs on Sundays. We have her with us once a week to + give her the opportunity of studying manners and behaviour. Milson had + dropped in, and we were discussing politics. I was interested, and, + pushing my plate aside, leant forward with my elbows on the table. + Dorothea has a habit of talking to herself in a high-pitched whisper + capable of being heard above an Adelphi love scene. I heard her say— + </p> + <p> + "I must sit up straight. I mustn't sprawl with my elbows on the table. It + is only common, vulgar people behave that way." + </p> + <p> + I looked across at her; she was sitting most correctly, and appeared to be + contemplating something a thousand miles away. We had all of us been + lounging! We sat up stiffly, and conversation flagged. + </p> + <p> + Of course we made a joke of it after the child was gone. But somehow it + didn't seem to be OUR joke. + </p> + <p> + I wish I could recollect my childhood. I should so like to know if + children are as simple as they can look. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE DELIGHTS AND BENEFITS OF SLAVERY + </h2> + <p> + My study window looks down upon Hyde Park, and often, to quote the + familiar promise of each new magazine, it amuses and instructs me to watch + from my tower the epitome of human life that passes to and fro beneath. At + the opening of the gates, creeps in the woman of the streets. Her pitiful + work for the time being is over. Shivering in the chill dawn, she passes + to her brief rest. Poor Slave! Lured to the galley's lowest deck, then + chained there. Civilization, tricked fool, they say has need of such. You + serve as the dogs of Eastern towns. But at least, it seems to me, we need + not spit on you. Home to your kennel! Perchance, if the Gods be kind, they + may send you dreams of a cleanly hearth, where you lie with a silver + collar round your neck. + </p> + <p> + Next comes the labourer—the hewer of wood, the drawer of water—slouching + wearily to his toil; sleep clinging still about his leaden eyes, his + pittance of food carried tied up in a dish-clout. The first stroke of the + hour clangs from Big Ben. Haste thee, fellow-slave, lest the overseer's + whip, "Out, we will have no lie-a-beds here," descend upon thy patient + back. + </p> + <p> + Later, the artisan, with his bag of tools across his shoulder. He, too, + listens fearfully to the chiming of the bells. For him also there hangs + ready the whip. + </p> + <p> + After him, the shop boy and the shop girl, making love as they walk, not + to waste time. And after these the slaves of the desk and of the + warehouse, employers and employed, clerks and tradesmen, office boys and + merchants. To your places, slaves of all ranks. Get you unto your burdens. + </p> + <p> + Now, laughing and shouting as they run, the children, the sons and + daughters of the slaves. Be industrious, little children, and learn your + lessons, that when the time comes you may be ready to take from our hands + the creaking oar, to slip into our seat at the roaring loom. For we shall + not be slaves for ever, little children. It is the good law of the land. + So many years in the galleys, so many years in the fields; then we can + claim our freedom. Then we shall go, little children, back to the land of + our birth. And you we must leave behind us to take up the tale of our + work. So, off to your schools, little children, and learn to be good + little slaves. + </p> + <p> + Next, pompous and sleek, come the educated slaves—journalists, + doctors, judges, and poets; the attorney, the artist, the player, the + priest. They likewise scurry across the Park, looking anxiously from time + to time at their watches, lest they be late for their appointments; + thinking of the rates and taxes to be earned, of the bonnets to be paid + for, the bills to be met. The best scourged, perhaps, of all, these + slaves. The cat reserved for them has fifty tails in place of merely two + or three. Work, you higher middle-class slave, or you shall come down to + the smoking of twopenny cigars; harder yet, or you shall drink shilling + claret; harder, or you shall lose your carriage and ride in a penny bus; + your wife's frocks shall be of last year's fashion; your trousers shall + bag at the knees; from Kensington you shall be banished to Kilburn, if the + tale of your bricks run short. Oh, a many-thonged whip is yours, my + genteel brother. + </p> + <p> + The slaves of fashion are the next to pass beneath me in review. They are + dressed and curled with infinite pains. The liveried, pampered footman + these, kept more for show than use; but their senseless tasks none the + less labour to them. Here must they come every day, merry or sad. By this + gravel path and no other must they walk; these phrases shall they use when + they speak to one another. For an hour they must go slowly up and down + upon a bicycle from Hyde Park Corner to the Magazine and back. And these + clothes must they wear; their gloves of this colour, their neck-ties of + this pattern. In the afternoon they must return again, this time in a + carriage, dressed in another livery, and for an hour they must pass slowly + to and fro in foolish procession. For dinner they must don yet another + livery, and after dinner they must stand about at dreary social functions + till with weariness and boredom their heads feel dropping from their + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + With the evening come the slaves back from their work: barristers, + thinking out their eloquent appeals; school-boys, conning their dog-eared + grammars; City men, planning their schemes; the wearers of motley, + cudgelling their poor brains for fresh wit with which to please their + master; shop boys and shop girls, silent now as, together, they plod + homeward; the artisan; the labourer. Two or three hours you shall have to + yourselves, slaves, to think and love and play, if you be not too tired to + think, or love, or play. Then to your litter, that you may be ready for + the morrow's task. + </p> + <p> + The twilight deepens into dark; there comes back the woman of the streets. + As the shadows, she rounds the City's day. Work strikes its tent. Evil + creeps from its peering place. + </p> + <p> + So we labour, driven by the whip of necessity, an army of slaves. If we do + not our work, the whip descends upon us; only the pain we feel in our + stomach instead of on our back. And because of that, we call ourselves + free men. + </p> + <p> + Some few among us bravely struggle to be really free: they are our tramps + and outcasts. We well-behaved slaves shrink from them, for the wages of + freedom in this world are vermin and starvation. We can live lives worth + living only by placing the collar round our neck. + </p> + <p> + There are times when one asks oneself: Why this endless labour? Why this + building of houses, this cooking of food, this making of clothes? Is the + ant so much more to be envied than the grasshopper, because she spends her + life in grubbing and storing, and can spare no time for singing? Why this + complex instinct, driving us to a thousand labours to satisfy a thousand + desires? We have turned the world into a workshop to provide ourselves + with toys. To purchase luxury we have sold our ease. + </p> + <p> + Oh, Children of Israel! why were ye not content in your wilderness? It + seems to have been a pattern wilderness. For you, a simple wholesome food, + ready cooked, was provided. You took no thought for rent and taxes; you + had no poor among you—no poor-rate collectors. You suffered not from + indigestion, nor the hundred ills that follow over-feeding; an omer for + every man was your portion, neither more nor less. You knew not you had a + liver. Doctors wearied you not with their theories, their physics, and + their bills. You were neither landowners nor leaseholders, neither + shareholders nor debenture holders. The weather and the market reports + troubled you not. The lawyer was unknown to you; you wanted no advice; you + had nought to quarrel about with your neighbour. No riches were yours for + the moth and rust to damage. Your yearly income and expenditure you knew + would balance to a fraction. Your wife and children were provided for. + Your old age caused you no anxiety; you knew you would always have enough + to live upon in comfort. Your funeral, a simple and tasteful affair, would + be furnished by the tribe. And yet, poor, foolish child, fresh from the + Egyptian brickfield, you could not rest satisfied. You hungered for the + fleshpots, knowing well what flesh-pots entail: the cleaning of the + flesh-pots, the forging of the flesh-pots, the hewing of wood to make the + fires for the boiling of the flesh-pots, the breeding of beasts to fill + the pots, the growing of fodder to feed the beasts to fill the pots. + </p> + <p> + All the labour of our life is centred round our flesh-pots. On the altar + of the flesh-pot we sacrifice our leisure, our peace of mind. For a mess + of pottage we sell our birthright. + </p> + <p> + Oh! Children of Israel, saw you not the long punishment you were preparing + for yourselves, when in your wilderness you set up the image of the Calf, + and fell before it, crying—"This shall be our God." + </p> + <p> + You would have veal. Thought you never of the price man pays for Veal? The + servants of the Golden Calf! I see them, stretched before my eyes, a + weary, endless throng. I see them toiling in the mines, the black sweat on + their faces. I see them in sunless cities, silent, and grimy, and bent. I + see them, ague-twisted, in the rain-soaked fields. I see them, panting by + the furnace doors. I see them, in loin-cloth and necklace, the load upon + their head. I see them in blue coats and red coats, marching to pour their + blood as an offering on the altar of the Calf. I see them in homespun and + broadcloth, I see them in smock and gaiters, I see them in cap and apron, + the servants of the Calf. They swarm on the land and they dot the sea. + They are chained to the anvil and counter; they are chained to the bench + and the desk. They make ready the soil, they till the fields where the + Golden Calf is born. They build the ship, and they sail the ship that + carries the Golden Calf. They fashion the pots, they mould the pans, they + carve the tables, they turn the chairs, they dream of the sauces, they dig + for the salt, they weave the damask, they mould the dish to serve the + Golden Calf. + </p> + <p> + The work of the world is to this end, that we eat of the Calf. War and + Commerce, Science and Law! what are they but the four pillars supporting + the Golden Calf? He is our God. It is on his back that we have journeyed + from the primeval forest, where our ancestors ate nuts and fruit. He is + our God. His temple is in every street. His blue-robed priest stands ever + at the door, calling to the people to worship. Hark! his voice rises on + the gas-tainted air—"Now's your time! Now's your time! Buy! Buy! ye + people. Bring hither the sweat of your brow, the sweat of your brain, the + ache of your heart, buy Veal with it. Bring me the best years of your + life. Bring me your thoughts, your hopes, your loves; ye shall have Veal + for them. Now's your time! Now's your time! Buy! Buy!" + </p> + <p> + Oh! Children of Israel, was Veal, even with all its trimmings, quite worth + the price? + </p> + <p> + And we! what wisdom have we learned, during the centuries? I talked with a + rich man only the other evening. He calls himself a Financier, whatever + that may mean. He leaves his beautiful house, some twenty miles out of + London, at a quarter to eight, summer and winter, after a hurried + breakfast by himself, while his guests still sleep, and he gets back just + in time to dress for an elaborate dinner he himself is too weary or too + preoccupied to more than touch. If ever he is persuaded to give himself a + holiday it is for a fortnight in Ostend, when it is most crowded and + uncomfortable. He takes his secretary with him, receives and despatches a + hundred telegrams a day, and has a private telephone, through which he can + speak direct to London, brought up into his bedroom. + </p> + <p> + I suppose the telephone is really a useful invention. Business men tell me + they wonder how they contrived to conduct their affairs without it. My own + wonder always is, how any human being with the ordinary passions of his + race can conduct his business, or even himself, creditably, within a + hundred yards of the invention. I can imagine Job, or Griselda, or + Socrates liking to have a telephone about them as exercise. Socrates, in + particular, would have made quite a reputation for himself out of a three + months' subscription to a telephone. Myself, I am, perhaps, too sensitive. + I once lived for a month in an office with a telephone, if one could call + it life. I was told that if I had stuck to the thing for two or three + months longer, I should have got used to it. I know friends of mine, men + once fearless and high-spirited, who now stand in front of their own + telephone for a quarter of an hour at a time, and never so much as answer + it back. They tell me that at first they used to swear and shout at it as + I did; but now their spirit seems crushed. That is what happens: you + either break the telephone, or the telephone breaks you. You want to see a + man two streets off. You might put on your hat, and be round at his office + in five minutes. You are on the point of starting when the telephone + catches your eye. You think you will ring him up to make sure he is in. + You commence by ringing up some half-dozen times before anybody takes any + notice of you whatever. You are burning with indignation at this neglect, + and have left the instrument to sit down and pen a stinging letter of + complaint to the Company when the ring-back re-calls you. You seize the + ear trumpets, and shout— + </p> + <p> + "How is it that I can never get an answer when I ring? Here have I been + ringing for the last half-hour. I have rung twenty times." (This is a + falsehood. You have rung only six times, and the "half-hour" is an absurd + exaggeration; but you feel the mere truth would not be adequate to the + occasion.) "I think it disgraceful," you continue, "and I shall complain + to the Company. What is the use of my having a telephone if I can't get + any answer when I ring? Here I pay a large sum for having this thing, and + I can't get any notice taken. I've been ringing all the morning. Why is + it?" + </p> + <p> + Then you wait for the answer. + </p> + <p> + "What—what do you say? I can't hear what you say." + </p> + <p> + "I say I've been ringing here for over an hour, and I can't get any + reply," you call back. "I shall complain to the Company." + </p> + <p> + "You want what? Don't stand so near the tube. I can't hear what you say. + What number?" + </p> + <p> + "Bother the number; I say why is it I don't get an answer when I ring?" + </p> + <p> + "Eight hundred and what?" + </p> + <p> + You can't argue any more, after that. The machine would give way under the + language you want to make use of. Half of what you feel would probably + cause an explosion at some point where the wire was weak. Indeed, mere + language of any kind would fall short of the requirements of the case. A + hatchet and a gun are the only intermediaries through which you could + convey your meaning by this time. So you give up all attempt to answer + back, and meekly mention that you want to be put in communication with + four-five-seven-six. + </p> + <p> + "Four-nine-seven-six?" says the girl. + </p> + <p> + "No; four-five-seven-six." + </p> + <p> + "Did you say seven-six or six-seven?" + </p> + <p> + "Six-seven—no! I mean seven-six: no—wait a minute. I don't + know what I do mean now." + </p> + <p> + "Well, I wish you'd find out," says the young lady severely. "You are + keeping me here all the morning." + </p> + <p> + So you look up the number in the book again, and at last she tells you + that you are in connection; and then, ramming the trumpet tight against + your ear, you stand waiting. + </p> + <p> + And if there is one thing more than another likely to make a man feel + ridiculous it is standing on tip-toe in a corner, holding a machine to his + head, and listening intently to nothing. Your back aches and your head + aches, your very hair aches. You hear the door open behind you and + somebody enter the room. You can't turn your head. You swear at them, and + hear the door close with a bang. It immediately occurs to you that in all + probability it was Henrietta. She promised to call for you at half-past + twelve: you were to take her to lunch. It was twelve o'clock when you were + fool enough to mix yourself up with this infernal machine, and it probably + is half-past twelve by now. Your past life rises before you, accompanied + by dim memories of your grandmother. You are wondering how much longer you + can bear the strain of this attitude, and whether after all you do really + want to see the man in the next street but two, when the girl in the + exchange-room calls up to know if you're done. + </p> + <p> + "Done!" you retort bitterly; "why, I haven't begun yet." + </p> + <p> + "Well, be quick," she says, "because you're wasting time." + </p> + <p> + Thus admonished, you attack the thing again. "ARE you there?" you cry in + tones that ought to move the heart of a Charity Commissioner; and then, oh + joy! oh rapture! you hear a faint human voice replying—"Yes, what is + it?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh! Are you four-five-seven-six?" + </p> + <p> + "What?" + </p> + <p> + "Are you four-five-seven-six, Williamson?" + </p> + <p> + "What! who are you?" + </p> + <p> + "Eight-one-nine, Jones." + </p> + <p> + "Bones?" + </p> + <p> + "No, JONES. Are you four-five-seven-six?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes; what is it?" + </p> + <p> + "Is Mr. Williamson in?" + </p> + <p> + "Will I what—who are you?" + </p> + <p> + "Jones! Is Mr. Williamson in?" + </p> + <p> + "Who?" + </p> + <p> + "Williamson. Will-i-am-son!" + </p> + <p> + "You're the son of what? I can't hear what you say." + </p> + <p> + Then you gather yourself for one final effort, and succeed, by superhuman + patience, in getting the fool to understand that you wish to know if Mr. + Williamson is in, and he says, so it sounds to you, "Be in all the + morning." + </p> + <p> + So you snatch up your hat and run round. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I've come to see Mr. Williamson," you say. + </p> + <p> + "Very sorry, sir," is the polite reply, "but he's out." + </p> + <p> + "Out? Why, you just now told me through the telephone that he'd be in all + the morning." + </p> + <p> + "No, I said, he 'WON'T be in all the morning.'" + </p> + <p> + You go back to the office, and sit down in front of that telephone and + look at it. There it hangs, calm and imperturbable. Were it an ordinary + instrument, that would be its last hour. You would go straight + down-stairs, get the coal-hammer and the kitchen-poker, and divide it into + sufficient pieces to give a bit to every man in London. But you feel + nervous of these electrical affairs, and there is a something about that + telephone, with its black hole and curly wires, that cows you. You have a + notion that if you don't handle it properly something may come and shock + you, and then there will be an inquest, and bother of that sort, so you + only curse it. + </p> + <p> + That is what happens when you want to use the telephone from your end. But + that is not the worst that the telephone can do. A sensible man, after a + little experience, can learn to leave the thing alone. Your worst troubles + are not of your own making. You are working against time; you have given + instructions not to be disturbed. Perhaps it is after lunch, and you are + thinking with your eyes closed, so that your thoughts shall not be + distracted by the objects about the room. In either case you are anxious + not to leave your chair, when off goes that telephone bell and you spring + from your chair, uncertain, for the moment, whether you have been shot, or + blown up with dynamite. It occurs to you in your weakness that if you + persist in taking no notice, they will get tired, and leave you alone. But + that is not their method. The bell rings violently at ten-second + intervals. You have nothing to wrap your head up in. You think it will be + better to get this business over and done with. You go to your fate and + call back savagely— + </p> + <p> + "What is it? What do you want?" + </p> + <p> + No answer, only a confused murmur, prominent out of which come the voices + of two men swearing at one another. The language they are making use of is + disgraceful. The telephone seems peculiarly adapted for the conveyance of + blasphemy. Ordinary language sounds indistinct through it; but every word + those two men are saying can be heard by all the telephone subscribers in + London. + </p> + <p> + It is useless attempting to listen till they have done. When they are + exhausted, you apply to the tube again. No answer is obtainable. You get + mad, and become sarcastic; only being sarcastic when you are not sure that + anybody is at the other end to hear you is unsatisfying. + </p> + <p> + At last, after a quarter of an hour or so of saying, "Are you there?" + "Yes, I'm here," "Well?" the young lady at the Exchange asks what you + want. + </p> + <p> + "I don't want anything," you reply. + </p> + <p> + "Then why do you keep talking?" she retorts; "you mustn't play with the + thing." + </p> + <p> + This renders you speechless with indignation for a while, upon recovering + from which you explain that somebody rang you up. + </p> + <p> + "WHO rang you up?" she asks. + </p> + <p> + "I don't know." + </p> + <p> + "I wish you did," she observes. + </p> + <p> + Generally disgusted, you slam the trumpet up and return to your chair. The + instant you are seated the bell clangs again; and you fly up and demand to + know what the thunder they want, and who the thunder they are. + </p> + <p> + "Don't speak so loud, we can't hear you. What do you want?" is the answer. + </p> + <p> + "I don't want anything. What do you want? Why do you ring me up, and then + not answer me? Do leave me alone, if you can!" + </p> + <p> + "We can't get Hong Kongs at seventy-four." + </p> + <p> + "Well, I don't care if you can't." + </p> + <p> + "Would you like Zulus?" + </p> + <p> + "What are you talking about?" you reply; "I don't know what you mean." + </p> + <p> + "Would you like Zulus—Zulus at seventy-three and a half?" + </p> + <p> + "I wouldn't have 'em at six a penny. What are you talking about?" + </p> + <p> + "Hong Kongs—we can't get them at seventy-four. Oh, half-a-minute" + (the half-a-minute passes). "Are you there?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, but you are talking to the wrong man." + </p> + <p> + "We can get you Hong Kongs at seventy-four and seven-eights." + </p> + <p> + "Bother Hong Kongs, and you too. I tell you, you are talking to the wrong + man. I've told you once." + </p> + <p> + "Once what?" + </p> + <p> + "Why, that I am the wrong man—I mean that you are talking to the + wrong man." + </p> + <p> + "Who are you?" + </p> + <p> + "Eight-one-nine, Jones." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, aren't you one-nine-eight?" + </p> + <p> + "No." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, good-bye." + </p> + <p> + "Good-bye." + </p> + <p> + How can a man after that sit down and write pleasantly of the European + crisis? And, if it were needed, herein lies another indictment against the + telephone. I was engaged in an argument, which, if not in itself serious, + was at least concerned with a serious enough subject, the unsatisfactory + nature of human riches; and from that highly moral discussion have I been + lured, by the accidental sight of the word "telephone," into the writing + of matter which can have the effect only of exciting to frenzy all critics + of the New Humour into whose hands, for their sins, this book may come. + Let me forget my transgression and return to my sermon, or rather to the + sermon of my millionaire acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + It was one day after dinner, we sat together in his magnificently + furnished dining-room. We had lighted our cigars at the silver lamp. The + butler had withdrawn. + </p> + <p> + "These cigars we are smoking," my friend suddenly remarked, a propos + apparently of nothing, "they cost me five shillings apiece, taking them by + the thousand." + </p> + <p> + "I can quite believe it," I answered; "they are worth it." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, to you," he replied, almost savagely. "What do you usually pay for + your cigars?" + </p> + <p> + We had known each other years ago. When I first met him his offices + consisted of a back room up three flights of stairs in a dingy by-street + off the Strand, which has since disappeared. We occasionally dined + together, in those days, at a restaurant in Great Portland Street, for one + and nine. Our acquaintanceship was of sufficient standing to allow of such + a question. + </p> + <p> + "Threepence," I answered. "They work out at about twopence three-farthings + by the box." + </p> + <p> + "Just so," he growled; "and your twopenny-three-farthing weed gives you + precisely the same amount of satisfaction that this five shilling cigar + affords me. That means four and ninepence farthing wasted every time I + smoke. I pay my cook two hundred a year. I don't enjoy my dinner as much + as when it cost me four shillings, including a quarter flask of Chianti. + What is the difference, personally, to me whether I drive to my office in + a carriage and pair, or in an omnibus? I often do ride in a bus: it saves + trouble. It is absurd wasting time looking for one's coachman, when the + conductor of an omnibus that passes one's door is hailing one a few yards + off. Before I could afford even buses—when I used to walk every + morning to the office from Hammersmith—I was healthier. It irritates + me to think how hard I work for no earthly benefit to myself. My money + pleases a lot of people I don't care two straws about, and who are only my + friends in the hope of making something out of me. If I could eat a + hundred-guinea dinner myself every night, and enjoy it four hundred times + as much as I used to enjoy a five-shilling dinner, there would be some + sense in it. Why do I do it?" + </p> + <p> + I had never heard him talk like this before. In his excitement he rose + from the table, and commenced pacing the room. + </p> + <p> + "Why don't I invest my money in the two and a half per cents?" he + continued. "At the very worst I should be safe for five thousand a year. + What, in the name of common sense, does a man want with more? I am always + saying to myself, I'll do it; why don't I? + </p> + <p> + "Well, why not?" I echoed. + </p> + <p> + "That's what I want you to tell me," he returned. "You set up for + understanding human nature, it's a mystery to me. In my place, you would + do as I do; you know that. If somebody left you a hundred thousand pounds + to-morrow, you would start a newspaper, or build a theatre—some + damn-fool trick for getting rid of the money and giving yourself seventeen + hours' anxiety a day; you know you would." + </p> + <p> + I hung my head in shame. I felt the justice of the accusation. It has + always been my dream to run a newspaper and own a theatre. + </p> + <p> + "If we worked only for what we could spend," he went on, "the City might + put up its shutters to-morrow morning. What I want to get at the bottom of + is this instinct that drives us to work apparently for work's own sake. + What is this strange thing that gets upon our back and spurs us?" + </p> + <p> + A servant entered at that moment with a cablegram from the manager of one + of his Austrian mines, and he had to leave me for his study. But, walking + home, I fell to pondering on his words. WHY this endless work? Why each + morning do we get up and wash and dress ourselves, to undress ourselves at + night and go to bed again? Why do we work merely to earn money to buy + food; and eat food so as to gain strength that we may work? Why do we + live, merely in the end to say good-bye to one another? Why do we labour + to bring children into the world that they may die and be buried? + </p> + <p> + Of what use our mad striving, our passionate desire? Will it matter to the + ages whether, once upon a time, the Union Jack or the Tricolour floated + over the battlements of Badajoz? Yet we poured our blood into its ditches + to decide the question. Will it matter, in the days when the glacial + period shall have come again, to clothe the earth with silence, whose foot + first trod the Pole? Yet, generation after generation, we mile its roadway + with our whitening bones. So very soon the worms come to us; does it + matter whether we love, or hate? Yet the hot blood rushes through our + veins, we wear out heart and brain for shadowy hopes that ever fade as we + press forward. + </p> + <p> + The flower struggles up from seed-pod, draws the sweet sap from the + ground, folds its petals each night, and sleeps. Then love comes to it in + a strange form, and it longs to mingle its pollen with the pollen of some + other flower. So it puts forth its gay blossoms, and the wandering insect + bears the message from seed-pod to seed-pod. And the seasons pass, + bringing with them the sunshine and the rain, till the flower withers, + never having known the real purpose for which it lived, thinking the + garden was made for it, not it for the garden. The coral insect dreams in + its small soul, which is possibly its small stomach, of home and food. So + it works and strives deep down in the dark waters, never knowing of the + continents it is fashioning. + </p> + <p> + But the question still remains: for what purpose is it all? Science + explains it to us. By ages of strife and effort we improve the race; from + ether, through the monkey, man is born. So, through the labour of the + coming ages, he will free himself still further from the brute. Through + sorrow and through struggle, by the sweat of brain and brow, he will lift + himself towards the angels. He will come into his kingdom. + </p> + <p> + But why the building? Why the passing of the countless ages? Why should he + not have been born the god he is to be, imbued at birth with all the + capabilities his ancestors have died acquiring? Why the Pict and Hun that + <i>I</i> may be? Why <i>I</i>, that a descendant of my own, to whom I + shall seem a savage, shall come after me? Why, if the universe be ordered + by a Creator to whom all things are possible, the protoplasmic cell? Why + not the man that is to be? Shall all the generations be so much human + waste that he may live? Am I but another layer of the soil preparing for + him? + </p> + <p> + Or, if our future be in other spheres, then why the need of this planet? + Are we labouring at some Work too vast for us to perceive? Are our + passions and desires mere whips and traces by the help of which we are + driven? Any theory seems more hopeful than the thought that all our eager, + fretful lives are but the turning of a useless prison crank. Looking back + the little distance that our dim eyes can penetrate the past, what do we + find? Civilizations, built up with infinite care, swept aside and lost. + Beliefs for which men lived and died, proved to be mockeries. Greek Art + crushed to the dust by Gothic bludgeons. Dreams of fraternity, drowned in + blood by a Napoleon. What is left to us, but the hope that the work + itself, not the result, is the real monument? Maybe, we are as children, + asking, "Of what use are these lessons? What good will they ever be to + us?" But there comes a day when the lad understands why he learnt grammar + and geography, when even dates have a meaning for him. But this is not + until he has left school, and gone out into the wider world. So, perhaps, + when we are a little more grown up, we too may begin to understand the + reason for our living. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE CARE AND MANAGEMENT OF WOMEN + </h2> + <p> + I talked to a woman once on the subject of honeymoons. I said, "Would you + recommend a long honeymoon, or a Saturday to Monday somewhere?" A silence + fell upon her. I gathered she was looking back rather than forward to her + answer. + </p> + <p> + "I would advise a long honeymoon," she replied at length, "the + old-fashioned month." + </p> + <p> + "Why," I persisted, "I thought the tendency of the age was to cut these + things shorter and shorter." + </p> + <p> + "It is the tendency of the age," she answered, "to seek escape from many + things it would be wiser to face. I think myself that, for good or evil, + the sooner it is over—the sooner both the man and the woman know—the + better." + </p> + <p> + "The sooner what is over?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + If she had a fault, this woman, about which I am not sure, it was an + inclination towards enigma. + </p> + <p> + She crossed to the window and stood there, looking out. + </p> + <p> + "Was there not a custom," she said, still gazing down into the wet, + glistening street, "among one of the ancient peoples, I forget which, + ordaining that when a man and woman, loving one another, or thinking that + they loved, had been joined together, they should go down upon their + wedding night to the temple? And into the dark recesses of the temple, + through many winding passages, the priest led them until they came to the + great chamber where dwelt the voice of their god. There the priest left + them, clanging-to the massive door behind him, and there, alone in + silence, they made their sacrifice; and in the night the Voice spoke to + them, showing them their future life—whether they had chosen well; + whether their love would live or die. And in the morning the priest + returned and led them back into the day; and they dwelt among their + fellows. But no one was permitted to question them, nor they to answer + should any do so. Well, do you know, our nineteenth-century honeymoon at + Brighton, Switzerland, or Ramsgate, as the choice or necessity may be, + always seems to me merely another form of that night spent alone in the + temple before the altar of that forgotten god. Our young men and women + marry, and we kiss them and congratulate them; and, standing on the + doorstep, throw rice and old slippers, and shout good wishes after them; + and he waves his gloved hand to us, and she flutters her little + handkerchief from the carriage window; and we watch their smiling faces + and hear their laughter until the corner hides them from our view. Then we + go about our own business, and a short time passes by; and one day we meet + them again, and their faces have grown older and graver; and I always + wonder what the Voice has told them during that little while that they + have been absent from our sight. But of course it would not do to ask + them. Nor would they answer truly if we did." + </p> + <p> + My friend laughed, and, leaving the window, took her place beside the + tea-things, and other callers dropping in, we fell to talk of pictures, + plays, and people. + </p> + <p> + But I felt it would be unwise to act on her sole advice, much as I have + always valued her opinion. + </p> + <p> + A woman takes life too seriously. It is a serious affair to most of us, + the Lord knows. That is why it is well not to take it more seriously than + need be. + </p> + <p> + Little Jack and little Jill fall down the hill, hurting their little + knees, and their little noses, spilling the hard-earned water. We are very + philosophical. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, don't cry!" we tell them, "that is babyish. Little boys and little + girls must learn to bear pain. Up you get, fill the pail again, and try + once more." + </p> + <p> + Little Jack and little Jill rub their dirty knuckles into their little + eyes, looking ruefully at their bloody little knees, and trot back with + the pail. We laugh at them, but not ill-naturedly. + </p> + <p> + "Poor little souls," we say; "how they did hullabaloo. One might have + thought they were half-killed. And it was only a broken crown, after all. + What a fuss children make!" We bear with much stoicism the fall of little + Jack and little Jill. + </p> + <p> + But when WE—grown-up Jack with moustache turning grey; grown-up Jill + with the first faint "crow's feet" showing—when WE tumble down the + hill, and OUR pail is spilt. Ye Heavens! what a tragedy has happened. Put + out the stars, turn off the sun, suspend the laws of nature. Mr. Jack and + Mrs. Jill, coming down the hill—what they were doing on the hill we + will not inquire—have slipped over a stone, placed there surely by + the evil powers of the universe. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill have bumped their + silly heads. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill have hurt their little hearts, and + stand marvelling that the world can go about its business in the face of + such disaster. + </p> + <p> + Don't take the matter quite so seriously, Jack and Jill. You have spilled + your happiness, you must toil up the hill again and refill the pail. Carry + it more carefully next time. What were you doing? Playing some fool's + trick, I'll be bound. + </p> + <p> + A laugh and a sigh, a kiss and good-bye, is our life. Is it worth so much + fretting? It is a merry life on the whole. Courage, comrade. A campaign + cannot be all drum and fife and stirrup-cup. The marching and the fighting + must come into it somewhere. There are pleasant bivouacs among the + vineyards, merry nights around the camp fires. White hands wave a welcome + to us; bright eyes dim at our going. Would you run from the battle-music? + What have you to complain of? Forward: the medal to some, the surgeon's + knife to others; to all of us, sooner or later, six feet of mother earth. + What are you afraid of? Courage, comrade. + </p> + <p> + There is a mean between basking through life with the smiling contentment + of the alligator, and shivering through it with the aggressive sensibility + of the Lama determined to die at every cross word. To bear it as a man we + must also feel it as a man. My philosophic friend, seek not to comfort a + brother standing by the coffin of his child with the cheery suggestion + that it will be all the same a hundred years hence, because, for one + thing, the observation is not true: the man is changed for all eternity—possibly + for the better, but don't add that. A soldier with a bullet in his neck is + never quite the man he was. But he can laugh and he can talk, drink his + wine and ride his horse. Now and again, towards evening, when the weather + is trying, the sickness will come upon him. You will find him on a couch + in a dark corner. + </p> + <p> + "Hallo! old fellow, anything up?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, just a twinge, the old wound, you know. I will be better in a little + while." + </p> + <p> + Shut the door of the dark room quietly. I should not stay even to + sympathize with him if I were you. The men will be coming to screw the + coffin down soon. I think he would like to be alone with it till then. Let + us leave him. He will come back to the club later on in the season. For a + while we may have to give him another ten points or so, but he will soon + get back his old form. Now and again, when he meets the other fellows' + boys shouting on the towing-path; when Brown rushes up the drive, paper in + hand, to tell him how that young scapegrace Jim has won his Cross; when he + is congratulating Jones's eldest on having passed with honours, the old + wound may give him a nasty twinge. But the pain will pass away. He will + laugh at our stories and tell us his own; eat his dinner, play his rubber. + It is only a wound. + </p> + <p> + Tommy can never be ours, Jenny does not love us. We cannot afford claret, + so we will have to drink beer. Well, what would you have us do? Yes, let + us curse Fate by all means—some one to curse is always useful. Let + us cry and wring our hands—for how long? The dinner-bell will ring + soon, and the Smiths are coming. We shall have to talk about the opera and + the picture-galleries. Quick, where is the eau-de-Cologne? where are the + curling-tongs? Or would you we committed suicide? Is it worth while? Only + a few more years—perhaps to-morrow, by aid of a piece of orange peel + or a broken chimney-pot—and Fate will save us all that trouble. + </p> + <p> + Or shall we, as sulky children, mope day after day? We are a + broken-hearted little Jack—little Jill. We will never smile again; + we will pine away and die, and be buried in the spring. The world is sad, + and life so cruel, and heaven so cold. Oh dear! oh dear! we have hurt + ourselves. + </p> + <p> + We whimper and whine at every pain. In old strong days men faced real + dangers, real troubles every hour; they had no time to cry. Death and + disaster stood ever at the door. Men were contemptuous of them. Now in + each snug protected villa we set to work to make wounds out of scratches. + Every head-ache becomes an agony, every heart-ache a tragedy. It took a + murdered father, a drowned sweetheart, a dishonoured mother, a ghost, and + a slaughtered Prime Minister to produce the emotions in Hamlet that a + modern minor poet obtains from a chorus girl's frown, or a temporary slump + on the Stock Exchange. Like Mrs. Gummidge, we feel it more. The lighter + and easier life gets the more seriously we go out to meet it. The boatmen + of Ulysses faced the thunder and the sunshine alike with frolic welcome. + We modern sailors have grown more sensitive. The sunshine scorches us, the + rain chills us. We meet both with loud self-pity. + </p> + <p> + Thinking these thoughts, I sought a second friend—a man whose breezy + common-sense has often helped me, and him likewise I questioned on this + subject of honeymoons. + </p> + <p> + "My dear boy," he replied; "take my advice, if ever you get married, + arrange it so that the honeymoon shall only last a week, and let it be a + bustling week into the bargain. Take a Cook's circular tour. Get married + on the Saturday morning, cut the breakfast and all that foolishness, and + catch the eleven-ten from Charing Cross to Paris. Take her up the Eiffel + Tower on Sunday. Lunch at Fontainebleau. Dine at the Maison Doree, and + show her the Moulin Rouge in the evening. Take the night train for + Lucerne. Devote Monday and Tuesday to doing Switzerland, and get into Rome + by Thursday morning, taking the Italian lakes en route. On Friday cross to + Marseilles, and from there push along to Monte Carlo. Let her have a + flutter at the tables. Start early Saturday morning for Spain, cross the + Pyrenees on mules, and rest at Bordeaux on Sunday. Get back to Paris on + Monday (Monday is always a good day for the opera), and on Tuesday evening + you will be at home, and glad to get there. Don't give her time to + criticize you until she has got used to you. No man will bear unprotected + exposure to a young girl's eyes. The honeymoon is the matrimonial + microscope. Wobble it. Confuse it with many objects. Cloud it with other + interests. Don't sit still to be examined. Besides, remember that a man + always appears at his best when active, and a woman at her worst. Bustle + her, my dear boy, bustle her: I don't care who she may be. Give her plenty + of luggage to look after; make her catch trains. Let her see the average + husband sprawling comfortably over the railway cushions, while his wife + has to sit bolt upright in the corner left to her. Let her hear how other + men swear. Let her smell other men's tobacco. Hurry up, and get her + accustomed quickly to the sight of mankind. Then she will be less + surprised and shocked as she grows to know you. One of the best fellows I + ever knew spoilt his married life beyond repair by a long quiet honeymoon. + They went off for a month to a lonely cottage in some heaven-forsaken + spot, where never a soul came near them, and never a thing happened but + morning, afternoon, and night. There for thirty days she overhauled him. + When he yawned—and he yawned pretty often, I guess, during that + month—she thought of the size of his mouth, and when he put his + heels upon the fender she sat and brooded upon the shape of his feet. At + meal-time, not feeling hungry herself, having nothing to do to make her + hungry, she would occupy herself with watching him eat; and at night, not + feeling sleepy for the same reason, she would lie awake and listen to his + snoring. After the first day or two he grew tired of talking nonsense, and + she of listening to it (it sounded nonsense now they could speak it aloud; + they had fancied it poetry when they had had to whisper it); and having no + other subject, as yet, of common interest, they would sit and stare in + front of them in silence. One day some trifle irritated him and he swore. + On a busy railway platform, or in a crowded hotel, she would have said, + 'Oh!' and they would both have laughed. From that echoing desert the silly + words rose up in widening circles towards the sky, and that night she + cried herself to sleep. Bustle them, my dear boy, bustle them. We all like + each other better the less we think about one another, and the honeymoon + is an exceptionally critical time. Bustle her, my dear boy, bustle her." + </p> + <p> + My very worst honeymoon experience took place in the South of England in + eighteen hundred and—well, never mind the exact date, let us say a + few years ago. I was a shy young man at that time. Many complain of my + reserve to this day, but then some girls expect too much from a man. We + all have our shortcomings. Even then, however, I was not so shy as she. We + had to travel from Lyndhurst in the New Forest to Ventnor, an awkward bit + of cross-country work in those days. + </p> + <p> + "It's so fortunate you are going too," said her aunt to me on the Tuesday; + "Minnie is always nervous travelling alone. You will be able to look after + her, and I shan't be anxious." + </p> + <p> + I said it would be a pleasure, and at the time I honestly thought it. On + the Wednesday I went down to the coach office, and booked two places for + Lymington, from where we took the steamer. I had not a suspicion of + trouble. + </p> + <p> + The booking-clerk was an elderly man. He said— + </p> + <p> + "I've got the box seat, and the end place on the back bench." + </p> + <p> + I said— + </p> + <p> + "Oh, can't I have two together?" + </p> + <p> + He was a kindly-looking old fellow. He winked at me. I wondered all the + way home why he had winked at me. He said— + </p> + <p> + "I'll manage it somehow." + </p> + <p> + I said— + </p> + <p> + "It's very kind of you, I'm sure." + </p> + <p> + He laid his hand on my shoulder. He struck me as familiar, but + well-intentioned. He said— + </p> + <p> + "We have all of us been there." + </p> + <p> + I thought he was alluding to the Isle of Wight. I said— + </p> + <p> + "And this is the best time of the year for it, so I'm told." It was early + summer time. + </p> + <p> + He said—"It's all right in summer, and it's good enough in winter—WHILE + IT LASTS. You make the most of it, young 'un;" and he slapped me on the + back and laughed. + </p> + <p> + He would have irritated me in another minute. I paid for the seats and + left him. + </p> + <p> + At half-past eight the next morning Minnie and I started for the + coach-office. I call her Minnie, not with any wish to be impertinent, but + because I have forgotten her surname. It must be ten years since I last + saw her. She was a pretty girl, too, with those brown eyes that always + cloud before they laugh. Her aunt did not drive down with us as she had + intended, in consequence of a headache. She was good enough to say she + felt every confidence in me. + </p> + <p> + The old booking-clerk caught sight of us when we were about a quarter of a + mile away, and drew to us the attention of the coachman, who communicated + the fact of our approach to the gathered passengers. Everybody left off + talking, and waited for us. The boots seized his horn, and blew—one + could hardly call it a blast; it would be difficult to say what he blew. + He put his heart into it, but not sufficient wind. I think his intention + was to welcome us, but it suggested rather a feeble curse. We learnt + subsequently that he was a beginner on the instrument. + </p> + <p> + In some mysterious way the whole affair appeared to be our party. The + booking-clerk bustled up and helped Minnie from the cart. I feared, for a + moment, he was going to kiss her. The coachman grinned when I said + good-morning to him. The passengers grinned, the boots grinned. Two + chamber-maids and a waiter came out from the hotel, and they grinned. I + drew Minnie aside, and whispered to her. I said— + </p> + <p> + "There's something funny about us. All these people are grinning." + </p> + <p> + She walked round me, and I walked round her, but we could neither of us + discover anything amusing about the other. The booking-clerk said— + </p> + <p> + "It's all right. I've got you young people two places just behind the + box-seat. We'll have to put five of you on that seat. You won't mind + sitting a bit close, will you?" + </p> + <p> + The booking-clerk winked at the coachman, the coachman winked at the + passengers, the passengers winked at one another—those of them who + could wink—and everybody laughed. The two chamber-maids became + hysterical, and had to cling to each other for support. With the exception + of Minnie and myself, it seemed to be the merriest coach party ever + assembled at Lyndhurst. + </p> + <p> + We had taken our places, and I was still busy trying to fathom the joke, + when a stout lady appeared on the scene, and demanded to know her place. + </p> + <p> + The clerk explained to her that it was in the middle behind the driver. + </p> + <p> + "We've had to put five of you on that seat," added the clerk. + </p> + <p> + The stout lady looked at the seat. + </p> + <p> + "Five of us can't squeeze into that," she said. + </p> + <p> + Five of her certainly could not. Four ordinary sized people with her would + find it tight. + </p> + <p> + "Very well then," said the clerk, "you can have the end place on the back + seat." + </p> + <p> + "Nothing of the sort," said the stout lady. "I booked my seat on Monday, + and you told me any of the front places were vacant. + </p> + <p> + "I'LL take the back place," I said, "I don't mind it. + </p> + <p> + "You stop where you are, young 'un," said the clerk, firmly, "and don't be + a fool. I'll fix HER." + </p> + <p> + I objected to his language, but his tone was kindness itself. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, let ME have the back seat," said Minnie, rising, "I'd so like it." + </p> + <p> + For answer the coachman put both his hands on her shoulders. He was a + heavy man, and she sat down again. + </p> + <p> + "Now then, mum," said the clerk, addressing the stout lady, "are you going + up there in the middle, or are you coming up here at the back?" + </p> + <p> + "But why not let one of them take the back seat?" demanded the stout lady, + pointing her reticule at Minnie and myself; "they say they'd like it. Let + them have it." + </p> + <p> + The coachman rose, and addressed his remarks generally. + </p> + <p> + "Put her up at the back, or leave her behind," he directed. "Man and wife + have never been separated on this coach since I started running it fifteen + year ago, and they ain't going to be now." + </p> + <p> + A general cheer greeted this sentiment. The stout lady, now regarded as a + would-be blighter of love's young dream, was hustled into the back seat, + the whip cracked, and away we rolled. + </p> + <p> + So here was the explanation. We were in a honeymoon district, in June—the + most popular month in the whole year for marriage. Every two out of three + couples found wandering about the New Forest in June are honeymoon + couples; the third are going to be. When they travel anywhere it is to the + Isle of Wight. We both had on new clothes. Our bags happened to be new. By + some evil chance our very umbrellas were new. Our united ages were + thirty-seven. The wonder would have been had we NOT been mistaken for a + young married couple. + </p> + <p> + A day of greater misery I have rarely passed. To Minnie, so her aunt + informed me afterwards, the journey was the most terrible experience of + her life, but then her experience, up to that time, had been limited. She + was engaged, and devotedly attached, to a young clergyman; I was madly in + love with a somewhat plump girl named Cecilia who lived with her mother at + Hampstead. I am positive as to her living at Hampstead. I remember so + distinctly my weekly walk down the hill from Church Row to the Swiss + Cottage station. When walking down a steep hill all the weight of the body + is forced into the toe of the boot, and when the boot is two sizes too + small for you, and you have been living in it since the early afternoon, + you remember a thing like that. But all my recollections of Cecilia are + painful, and it is needless to pursue them. + </p> + <p> + Our coach-load was a homely party, and some of the jokes were broad—harmless + enough in themselves, had Minnie and I really been the married couple we + were supposed to be, but even in that case unnecessary. I can only hope + that Minnie did not understand them. Anyhow, she looked as if she didn't. + </p> + <p> + I forget where we stopped for lunch, but I remember that lamb and mint + sauce was on the table, and that the circumstance afforded the greatest + delight to all the party, with the exception of the stout lady, who was + still indignant, Minnie and myself. About my behaviour as a bridegroom + opinion appeared to be divided. "He's a bit standoffish with her," I + overheard one lady remark to her husband; "I like to see 'em a bit + kittenish myself." A young waitress, on the other hand, I am happy to say, + showed more sense of natural reserve. "Well, I respect him for it," she + was saying to the barmaid, as we passed through the hall; "I'd just hate + to be fuzzled over with everybody looking on." Nobody took the trouble to + drop their voices for our benefit. We might have been a pair of prize love + birds on exhibition, the way we were openly discussed. By the majority we + were clearly regarded as a sulky young couple who would not go through + their tricks. + </p> + <p> + I have often wondered since how a real married couple would have faced the + situation. Possibly, had we consented to give a short display of marital + affection, "by desire," we might have been left in peace for the remainder + of the journey. + </p> + <p> + Our reputation preceded us on to the steamboat. Minnie begged and prayed + me to let it be known we were not married. How I was to let it be known, + except by requesting the captain to summon the whole ship's company on + deck, and then making them a short speech, I could not think. Minnie said + she could not bear it any longer, and retired to the ladies' cabin. She + went off crying. Her trouble was attributed by crew and passengers to my + coldness. One fool planted himself opposite me with his legs apart, and + shook his head at me. + </p> + <p> + "Go down and comfort her," he began. "Take an old man's advice. Put your + arms around her." (He was one of those sentimental idiots.) "Tell her that + you love her." + </p> + <p> + I told him to go and hang himself, with so much vigour that he all but + fell overboard. He was saved by a poultry crate: I had no luck that day. + </p> + <p> + At Ryde the guard, by superhuman effort, contrived to keep us a carriage + to ourselves. I gave him a shilling, because I did not know what else to + do. I would have made it half-a-sovereign if he had put eight other + passengers in with us. At every station people came to the window to look + in at us. + </p> + <p> + I handed Minnie over to her father on Ventnor platform; and I took the + first train the next morning, to London. I felt I did not want to see her + again for a little while; and I felt convinced she could do without a + visit from me. Our next meeting took place the week before her marriage. + </p> + <p> + "Where are you going to spend your honeymoon?" I asked her; "in the New + Forest?" + </p> + <p> + "No," she replied; "nor in the Isle of Wight." + </p> + <p> + To enjoy the humour of an incident one must be at some distance from it + either in time or relationship. I remember watching an amusing scene in + Whitefield Street, just off Tottenham Court Road, one winter's Saturday + night. A woman—a rather respectable looking woman, had her hat only + been on straight—had just been shot out of a public-house. She was + very dignified, and very drunk. A policeman requested her to move on. She + called him "Fellow," and demanded to know of him if he considered that was + the proper tone in which to address a lady. She threatened to report him + to her cousin, the Lord Chancellor. + </p> + <p> + "Yes; this way to the Lord Chancellor," retorted the policeman. "You come + along with me;" and he caught hold of her by the arm. + </p> + <p> + She gave a lurch, and nearly fell. To save her the man put his arm round + her waist. She clasped him round the neck, and together they spun round + two or three times; while at the very moment a piano-organ at the opposite + corner struck up a waltz. + </p> + <p> + "Choose your partners, gentlemen, for the next dance," shouted a wag, and + the crowd roared. + </p> + <p> + I was laughing myself, for the situation was undeniably comical, the + constable's expression of disgust being quite Hogarthian, when the sight + of a child's face beneath the gas-lamp stayed me. Her look was so full of + terror that I tried to comfort her. + </p> + <p> + "It's only a drunken woman," I said; "he's not going to hurt her." + </p> + <p> + "Please, sir," was the answer, "it's my mother." + </p> + <p> + Our joke is generally another's pain. The man who sits down on the + tin-tack rarely joins in the laugh. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE MINDING OF OTHER PEOPLE'S BUSINESS + </h2> + <p> + I walked one bright September morning in the Strand. I love London best in + the autumn. Then only can one see the gleam of its white pavements, the + bold, unbroken outline of its streets. I love the cool vistas one comes + across of mornings in the parks, the soft twilights that linger in the + empty bye-streets. In June the restaurant manager is off-hand with me; I + feel I am but in his way. In August he spreads for me the table by the + window, pours out for me my wine with his own fat hands. I cannot doubt + his regard for me: my foolish jealousies are stilled. Do I care for a + drive after dinner through the caressing night air, I can climb the + omnibus stair without a preliminary fight upon the curb, can sit with easy + conscience and unsquashed body, not feeling I have deprived some hot, + tired woman of a seat. Do I desire the play, no harsh, forbidding "House + full" board repels me from the door. During her season, London, a harassed + hostess, has no time for us, her intimates. Her rooms are overcrowded, her + servants overworked, her dinners hurriedly cooked, her tone insincere. In + the spring, to be truthful, the great lady condescends to be somewhat + vulgar—noisy and ostentatious. Not till the guests are departed is + she herself again, the London that we, her children, love. + </p> + <p> + Have you, gentle Reader, ever seen London—not the London of the + waking day, coated with crawling life, as a blossom with blight, but the + London of the morning, freed from her rags, the patient city, clad in + mists? Get you up with the dawn one Sunday in summer time. Wake none else, + but creep down stealthily into the kitchen, and make your own tea and + toast. + </p> + <p> + Be careful you stumble not over the cat. She will worm herself insidiously + between your legs. It is her way; she means it in friendship. Neither bark + your shins against the coal-box. Why the kitchen coal-box has its fixed + place in the direct line between the kitchen door and the gas-bracket I + cannot say. I merely know it as an universal law; and I would that you + escaped that coal-box, lest the frame of mind I desire for you on this + Sabbath morning be dissipated. + </p> + <p> + A spoon to stir your tea, I fear you must dispense with. Knives and forks + you will discover in plenty; blacking brushes you will put your hand upon + in every drawer; of emery paper, did one require it, there are reams; but + it is a point with every housekeeper that the spoons be hidden in a + different place each night. If anybody excepting herself can find them in + the morning, it is a slur upon her. No matter, a stick of firewood, + sharpened at one end, makes an excellent substitute. + </p> + <p> + Your breakfast done, turn out the gas, remount the stairs quietly, open + gently the front door and slip out. You will find yourself in an unknown + land. A strange city grown round you in the night. + </p> + <p> + The sweet long streets lie silent in sunlight. Not a living thing is to be + seen save some lean Tom that slinks from his gutter feast as you approach. + From some tree there will sound perhaps a fretful chirp: but the London + sparrow is no early riser; he is but talking in his sleep. The slow tramp + of unseen policeman draws near or dies away. The clatter of your own + footsteps goes with you, troubling you. You find yourself trying to walk + softly, as one does in echoing cathedrals. A voice is everywhere about you + whispering to you "Hush." Is this million-breasted City then some tender + Artemis, seeking to keep her babes asleep? "Hush, you careless wayfarer; + do not waken them. Walk lighter; they are so tired, these myriad children + of mine, sleeping in my thousand arms. They are over-worked and + over-worried; so many of them are sick, so many fretful, many of them, + alas, so full of naughtiness. But all of them so tired. Hush! they worry + me with their noise and riot when they are awake. They are so good now + they are asleep. Walk lightly, let them rest." + </p> + <p> + Where the ebbing tide flows softly through worn arches to the sea, you may + hear the stone-faced City talking to the restless waters: "Why will you + never stay with me? Why come but to go?" + </p> + <p> + "I cannot say, I do not understand. From the deep sea I come, but only as + a bird loosed from a child's hand with a cord. When she calls I must + return." + </p> + <p> + "It is so with these children of mine. They come to me, I know not whence. + I nurse them for a little while, till a hand I do not see plucks them + back. And others take their place." + </p> + <p> + Through the still air there passes a ripple of sound. The sleeping City + stirs with a faint sigh. A distant milk-cart rattling by raises a thousand + echoes; it is the vanguard of a yoked army. Soon from every street there + rises the soothing cry, "Mee'hilk—mee'hilk." + </p> + <p> + London like some Gargantuan babe, is awake, crying for its milk. These be + the white-smocked nurses hastening with its morning nourishment. The early + church bells ring. "You have had your milk, little London. Now come and + say your prayers. Another week has just begun, baby London. God knows what + will happen, say your prayers." + </p> + <p> + One by one the little creatures creep from behind the blinds into the + streets. The brooding tenderness is vanished from the City's face. The + fretful noises of the day have come again. Silence, her lover of the + night, kisses her stone lips, and steals away. And you, gentle Reader, + return home, garlanded with the self-sufficiency of the early riser. + </p> + <p> + But it was of a certain week-day morning, in the Strand that I was + thinking. I was standing outside Gatti's Restaurant, where I had just + breakfasted, listening leisurely to an argument between an indignant lady + passenger, presumably of Irish extraction, and an omnibus conductor. + </p> + <p> + "For what d'ye want thin to paint Putney on ye'r bus, if ye don't GO to + Putney?" said the lady. + </p> + <p> + "We DO go to Putney," said the conductor. + </p> + <p> + "Thin why did ye put me out here?" + </p> + <p> + "I didn't put you out, yer got out." + </p> + <p> + "Shure, didn't the gintleman in the corner tell me I was comin' further + away from Putney ivery minit?" + </p> + <p> + "Wal, and so yer was." + </p> + <p> + "Thin whoy didn't you tell me?" + </p> + <p> + "How was I to know yer wanted to go to Putney? Yer sings out Putney, and I + stops and in yer jumps." + </p> + <p> + "And for what d'ye think I called out Putney thin?" + </p> + <p> + "'Cause it's my name, or rayther the bus's name. This 'ere IS a Putney." + </p> + <p> + "How can it be a Putney whin it isn't goin' to Putney, ye gomerhawk?" + </p> + <p> + "Ain't you an Hirishwoman?" retorted the conductor. "Course yer are. But + yer aren't always goin' to Ireland. We're goin' to Putney in time, only + we're a-going to Liverpool Street fust. 'Igher up, Jim." + </p> + <p> + The bus moved on, and I was about cross the road, when a man, muttering + savagely to himself, walked into me. He would have swept past me had I + not, recognizing him, arrested him. It was my friend B——-, a + busy editor of magazines and journals. It was some seconds before he + appeared able to struggle out of his abstraction, and remember himself. + "Halloo," he then said, "who would have thought of seeing YOU here?" + </p> + <p> + "To judge by the way you were walking," I replied, "one would imagine the + Strand the last place in which you expected to see any human being. Do you + ever walk into a short-tempered, muscular man?" + </p> + <p> + "Did I walk into you?" he asked surprised. + </p> + <p> + "Well, not right in," I answered, "I if we are to be literal. You walked + on to me; if I had not stopped you, I suppose you would have walked over + me." + </p> + <p> + "It is this confounded Christmas business," he explained. "It drives me + off my head." + </p> + <p> + "I have heard Christmas advanced as an excuse for many things," I replied, + "but not early in September." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, you know what I mean," he answered, "we are in the middle of our + Christmas number. I am working day and night upon it. By the bye," he + added, "that puts me in mind. I am arranging a symposium, and I want you + to join. 'Should Christmas,'"—I interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + "My dear fellow," I said, "I commenced my journalistic career when I was + eighteen, and I have continued it at intervals ever since. I have written + about Christmas from the sentimental point of view; I have analyzed it + from the philosophical point of view; and I have scarified it from the + sarcastic standpoint. I have treated Christmas humorously for the Comics, + and sympathetically for the Provincial Weeklies. I have said all that is + worth saying on the subject of Christmas—maybe a trifle more. I have + told the new-fashioned Christmas story—you know the sort of thing: + your heroine tries to understand herself, and, failing, runs off with the + man who began as the hero; your good woman turns out to be really bad when + one comes to know her; while the villain, the only decent person in the + story, dies with an enigmatic sentence on his lips that looks as if it + meant something, but which you yourself would be sorry to have to explain. + I have also written the old-fashioned Christmas story—you know that + also: you begin with a good old-fashioned snowstorm; you have a good + old-fashioned squire, and he lives in a good old-fashioned Hall; you work + in a good old-fashioned murder; and end up with a good old-fashioned + Christmas dinner. I have gathered Christmas guests together round the + crackling logs to tell ghost stories to each other on Christmas Eve, while + without the wind howled, as it always does on these occasions, at its + proper cue. I have sent children to Heaven on Christmas Eve—it must + be quite a busy time for St. Peter, Christmas morning, so many good + children die on Christmas Eve. It has always been a popular night with + them.—I have revivified dead lovers and brought them back well and + jolly, just in time to sit down to the Christmas dinner. I am not ashamed + of having done these things. At the time I thought them good. I once loved + currant wine and girls with towzley hair. One's views change as one grows + older. I have discussed Christmas as a religious festival. I have + arraigned it as a social incubus. If there be any joke connected with + Christmas that I have not already made I should be glad to hear it. I have + trotted out the indigestion jokes till the sight of one of them gives me + indigestion myself. I have ridiculed the family gathering. I have scoffed + at the Christmas present. I have made witty use of paterfamilias and his + bills. I have—" + </p> + <p> + "Did I ever show you," I broke off to ask as we were crossing the + Haymarket, "that little parody of mine on Poe's poem of 'The Bells'? It + begins—" He interrupted me in his turn— + </p> + <p> + "Bills, bills, bills," he repeated. + </p> + <p> + "You are quite right," I admitted. "I forgot I ever showed it to you." + </p> + <p> + "You never did," he replied. + </p> + <p> + "Then how do you know how it begins?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "I don't know for certain," he admitted, "but I get, on an average, + sixty-five a year submitted to me, and they all begin that way. I thought, + perhaps, yours did also." + </p> + <p> + "I don't see how else it could begin," I retorted. He had rather annoyed + me. "Besides, it doesn't matter how a poem begins, it is how it goes on + that is the important thing and anyhow, I'm not going to write you + anything about Christmas. Ask me to make you a new joke about a plumber; + suggest my inventing something original and not too shocking for a child + to say about heaven; propose my running you off a dog story that can be + believed by a man of average determination and we may come to terms. But + on the subject of Christmas I am taking a rest." + </p> + <p> + By this time we had reached Piccadilly Circus. + </p> + <p> + "I don't blame you," he said, "if you are as sick of the subject as I am. + So soon as these Christmas numbers are off my mind, and Christmas is over + till next June at the office, I shall begin it at home. The housekeeping + is gone up a pound a week already. I know what that means. The dear little + woman is saving up to give me an expensive present that I don't want. I + think the presents are the worst part of Christmas. Emma will give me a + water-colour that she has painted herself. She always does. There would be + no harm in that if she did not expect me to hang it in the drawing room. + Have you ever seen my cousin Emma's water-colours?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "I think I have," I replied. + </p> + <p> + "There's no thinking about it," he retorted angrily. "They're not the sort + of water-colours you forget." + </p> + <p> + He apostrophized the Circus generally. + </p> + <p> + "Why do people do these things?" he demanded. "Even an amateur artist must + have SOME sense. Can't they see what is happening? There's that thing of + hers hanging in the passage. I put it in the passage because there's not + much light in the passage. She's labelled it Reverie. If she had called it + Influenza I could have understood it. I asked her where she got the idea + from, and she said she saw the sky like that one evening in Norfolk. Great + Heavens! then why didn't she shut her eyes or go home and hide behind the + bed-curtains? If I had seen a sky like that in Norfolk I should have taken + the first train back to London. I suppose the poor girl can't help seeing + these things, but why paint them?" + </p> + <p> + I said, "I suppose painting is a necessity to some natures." + </p> + <p> + "But why give the things to me?" he pleaded. + </p> + <p> + I could offer him no adequate reason. + </p> + <p> + "The idiotic presents that people give you!" he continued. "I said I'd + like Tennyson's poems one year. They had worried me to know what I did + want. I didn't want anything really; that was the only thing I could think + of that I wasn't dead sure I didn't want. Well, they clubbed together, + four of them, and gave me Tennyson in twelve volumes, illustrated with + coloured photographs. They meant kindly, of course. If you suggest a + tobacco-pouch they give you a blue velvet bag capable of holding about a + pound, embroidered with flowers, life-size. The only way one could use it + would be to put a strap to it and wear it as a satchel. Would you believe + it, I have got a velvet smoking-jacket, ornamented with forget-me-nots and + butterflies in coloured silk; I'm not joking. And they ask me why I never + wear it. I'll bring it down to the Club one of these nights and wake the + place up a bit: it needs it." + </p> + <p> + We had arrived by this at the steps of the 'Devonshire.' + </p> + <p> + "And I'm just as bad," he went on, "when I give presents. I never give + them what they want. I never hit upon anything that is of any use to + anybody. If I give Jane a chinchilla tippet, you may be certain chinchilla + is the most out-of-date fur that any woman could wear. 'Oh! that is nice + of you,' she says; 'now that is just the very thing I wanted. I will keep + it by me till chinchilla comes in again.' I give the girls watch-chains + when nobody is wearing watch-chains. When watch-chains are all the rage I + give them ear-rings, and they thank me, and suggest my taking them to a + fancy-dress ball, that being their only chance to wear the confounded + things. I waste money on white gloves with black backs, to find that white + gloves with black backs stamp a woman as suburban. I believe all the + shop-keepers in London save their old stock to palm it off on me at + Christmas time. And why does it always take half-a-dozen people to serve + you with a pair of gloves, I'd like to know? Only last week Jane asked me + to get her some gloves for that last Mansion House affair. I was feeling + amiable, and I thought I would do the thing handsomely. I hate going into + a draper's shop; everybody stares at a man as if he were forcing his way + into the ladies' department of a Turkish bath. One of those marionette + sort of men came up to me and said it was a fine morning. What the devil + did I want to talk about the morning to him for? I said I wanted some + gloves. I described them to the best of my recollection. I said, 'I want + them four buttons, but they are not to be button-gloves; the buttons are + in the middle and they reach up to the elbow, if you know what I mean.' He + bowed, and said he understood exactly what I meant, which was a damned + sight more than I did. I told him I wanted three pair cream and three pair + fawn-coloured, and the fawn-coloured were to be swedes. He corrected me. + He said I meant 'Suede.' I dare say he was right, but the interruption put + me off, and I had to begin over again. He listened attentively until I had + finished. I guess I was about five minutes standing with him there close + to the door. He said, 'Is that all you require, sir, this morning?' I said + it was. + </p> + <p> + "' Thank you, sir,' he replied. 'This way, please, sir.' + </p> + <p> + "He took me into another room, and there we met a man named Jansen, to + whom he briefly introduced me as a gentleman who 'desired gloves.' 'Yes, + sir,' said Mr. Jansen; and what sort of gloves do you desire?' + </p> + <p> + "I told him I wanted six pairs altogether—three suede, + fawn-coloured, and three cream-coloured—kids. + </p> + <p> + "He said, 'Do you mean kid gloves, sir, or gloves for children?' + </p> + <p> + "He made me angry by that. I told him I was not in the habit of using + slang. Nor am I when buying gloves. He said he was sorry. I explained to + him about the buttons, so far as I could understand it myself, and about + the length. I asked him to see to it that the buttons were sewn on firmly, + and that the stitching everywhere was perfect, adding that the last gloves + my wife had had of his firm had been most unsatisfactory. Jane had + impressed upon me to add that. She said it would make them more careful. + </p> + <p> + "He listened to me in rapt ecstacy. I might have been music. + </p> + <p> + "'And what size, sir?' he asked. + </p> + <p> + "I had forgotten that. 'Oh, sixes,' I answered, 'unless they are very + stretchy indeed, in which case they had better be five and three-quarter.' + </p> + <p> + "'Oh, and the stitching on the cream is to be black,' I added. That was + another thing I had forgotten. + </p> + <p> + "'Thank you very much,' said Mr. Jansen; 'is there anything else that you + require this morning?' + </p> + <p> + "'No, thank you,' I replied, 'not this morning.' I was beginning to like + the man. + </p> + <p> + "He took me for quite a walk, and wherever we went everybody left off what + they were doing to stare at me. I was getting tired when we reached the + glove department. He marched me up to a young man who was sticking pins + into himself. He said 'Gloves,' and disappeared through a curtain. The + young man left off sticking pins into himself, and leant across the + counter. + </p> + <p> + "'Ladies' gloves or gentlemen's gloves?' he said. + </p> + <p> + "Well, I was pretty mad by this time, as you can guess. It is funny when + you come to think of it afterwards, but the wonder then was that I didn't + punch his head. + </p> + <p> + "I said, 'Are you ever busy in this shop? Does there ever come a time when + you feel you would like to get your work done, instead of lingering over + it and spinning it out for pure love of the thing?' + </p> + <p> + "He did not appear to understand me. I said, 'I met a man at your door a + quarter of an hour ago, and we talked about these gloves that I want, and + I told him all my ideas on the subject. He took me to your Mr. Jansen, and + Mr. Jansen and I went over the whole business again. Now Mr. Jansen leaves + it with you—you who do not even know whether I want ladies' or + gentlemen's gloves. Before I go over this story for the third time, I want + to know whether you are the man who is going to serve me, or whether you + are merely a listener, because personally I am tired of the subject?' + </p> + <p> + "Well, this was the right man at last, and I got my gloves from him. But + what is the explanation—what is the idea? I was in that shop from + first to last five-and-thirty minutes. And then a fool took me out the + wrong way to show me a special line in sleeping-socks. I told him I was + not requiring any. He said he didn't want me to buy, he only wanted me to + see them. No wonder the drapers have had to start luncheon and tea-rooms. + They'll fix up small furnished flats soon, where a woman can live for a + week." + </p> + <p> + I said it was very trying, shopping. I also said, as he invited me, and as + he appeared determined to go on talking, that I would have a + brandy-and-soda. We were in the smoke-room by this time. + </p> + <p> + "There ought to be an association," he continued, "a kind of + clearing-house for the collection and distribution of Christmas presents. + One would give them a list of the people from whom to collect presents, + and of the people to whom to send. Suppose they collected on my account + twenty Christmas presents, value, say, ten pounds, while on the other hand + they sent out for me thirty presents at a cost of fifteen pounds. They + would debit me with the balance of five pounds, together with a small + commission. I should pay it cheerfully, and there would be no further + trouble. Perhaps one might even make a profit. The idea might include + birthdays and weddings. A firm would do the business thoroughly. They + would see that all your friends paid up—I mean sent presents; and + they would not forget to send to your most important relative. There is + only one member of our family capable of leaving a shilling; and of course + if I forget to send to any one it is to him. When I remember him I + generally make a muddle of the business. Two years ago I gave him a bath—I + don't mean I washed him—an india-rubber thing, that he could pack in + his portmanteau. I thought he would find it useful for travelling. Would + you believe it, he took it as a personal affront, and wouldn't speak to me + for a month, the snuffy old idiot." + </p> + <p> + "I suppose the children enjoy it," I said. + </p> + <p> + "Enjoy what?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "Why, Christmas," I explained. + </p> + <p> + "I don't believe they do," he snapped; "nobody enjoys it. We excite them + for three weeks beforehand, telling them what a good time they are going + to have, over-feed them for two or three days, take them to something they + do not want to see, but which we do, and then bully them for a fortnight + to get them back into their normal condition. I was always taken to the + Crystal Palace and Madame Tussaud's when I was a child, I remember. How I + did hate that Crystal Palace! Aunt used to superintend. It was always a + bitterly cold day, and we always got into the wrong train, and travelled + half the day before we got there. We never had any dinner. It never occurs + to a woman that anybody can want their meals while away from home. She + seems to think that nature is in suspense from the time you leave the + house till the time you get back to it. A bun and a glass of milk was her + idea of lunch for a school-boy. Half her time was taken up in losing us, + and the other half in slapping us when she had found us. The only thing we + really enjoyed was the row with the cabman coming home." + </p> + <p> + I rose to go. + </p> + <p> + "Then you won't join that symposium?" said B——-. "It would be + an easy enough thing to knock off—'Why Christmas should be + abolished.'" + </p> + <p> + "It sounds simple," I answered. "But how do you propose to abolish it?" + The lady editor of an "advanced" American magazine once set the discussion—"Should + sex be abolished?" and eleven ladies and gentlemen seriously argued the + question. + </p> + <p> + "Leave it to die of inanition," said B——-; "the first step is + to arouse public opinion. Convince the public that it should be + abolished." + </p> + <p> + "But why should it be abolished?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "Great Scott! man," he exclaimed; "don't you want it abolished?" + </p> + <p> + "I'm not sure that I do," I replied. + </p> + <p> + "Not sure," he retorted; "you call yourself a journalist, and admit there + is a subject under Heaven of which you are not sure!" + </p> + <p> + "It has come over me of late years," I replied. "It used not to be my + failing, as you know." + </p> + <p> + He glanced round to make sure we were out of earshot, then sunk his voice + to a whisper. + </p> + <p> + "Between ourselves," he said, "I'm not so sure of everything myself as I + used to be. Why is it?" + </p> + <p> + "Perhaps we are getting older," I suggested. + </p> + <p> + He said—"I started golf last year, and the first time I took the + club in my hand I sent the ball a furlong. 'It seems an easy game,' I said + to the man who was teaching me. 'Yes, most people find it easy at the + beginning,' he replied dryly. He was an old golfer himself; I thought he + was jealous. I stuck well to the game, and for about three weeks I was + immensely pleased with myself. Then, gradually, I began to find out the + difficulties. I feel I shall never make a good player. Have you ever gone + through that experience?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes," I replied; "I suppose that is the explanation. The game seems so + easy at the beginning." + </p> + <p> + I left him to his lunch, and strolled westward, musing on the time when I + should have answered that question of his about Christmas, or any other + question, off-hand. That good youth time when I knew everything, when life + presented no problems, dangled no doubts before me! + </p> + <p> + In those days, wishful to give the world the benefit of my wisdom, and + seeking for a candle-stick wherefrom my brilliancy might be visible and + helpful unto men, I arrived before a dingy portal in Chequers Street, St. + Luke's, behind which a conclave of young men, together with a few old + enough to have known better, met every Friday evening for the purpose of + discussing and arranging the affairs of the universe. "Speaking members" + were charged ten-and-sixpence per annum, which must have worked out at an + extremely moderate rate per word; and "gentlemen whose subscriptions were + more than three months in arrear," became, by Rule seven, powerless for + good or evil. We called ourselves "The Stormy Petrels," and, under the + sympathetic shadow of those wings, I laboured two seasons towards the + reformation of the human race; until, indeed, our treasurer, an earnest + young man, and a tireless foe of all that was conventional, departed for + the East, leaving behind him a balance sheet, showing that the club owed + forty-two pounds fifteen and fourpence, and that the subscriptions for the + current year, amounting to a little over thirty-eight pounds, had been + "carried forward," but as to where, the report afforded no indication. + Whereupon our landlord, a man utterly without ideals, seized our + furniture, offering to sell it back to us for fifteen pounds. We pointed + out to him that this was an extravagant price, and tendered him five. + </p> + <p> + The negotiations terminated with ungentlemanly language on his part, and + "The Stormy Petrels" scattered, never to be foregathered together again + above the troubled waters of humanity. Now-a-days, listening to the feeble + plans of modern reformers, I cannot help but smile, remembering what was + done in Chequers Street, St. Luke's, in an age when Mrs. Grundy still gave + the law to literature, while yet the British matron was the guide to + British art. I am informed that there is abroad the question of abolishing + the House of Lords! Why, "The Stormy Petrels" abolished the aristocracy + and the Crown in one evening, and then only adjourned for the purpose of + appointing a committee to draw up and have ready a Republican Constitution + by the following Friday evening. They talk of Empire lounges! We closed + the doors of every music-hall in London eighteen years ago by twenty-nine + votes to seventeen. They had a patient hearing, and were ably defended; + but we found that the tendency of such amusements was anti-progressive, + and against the best interests of an intellectually advancing democracy. I + met the mover of the condemnatory resolution at the old "Pav" the + following evening, and we continued the discussion over a bottle of Bass. + He strengthened his argument by persuading me to sit out the whole of the + three songs sung by the "Lion Comique"; but I subsequently retorted + successfully, by bringing under his notice the dancing of a lady in blue + tights and flaxen hair. I forget her name but never shall I cease to + remember her exquisite charm and beauty. Ah, me! how charming and how + beautiful "artistes" were in those golden days! Whence have they vanished? + Ladies in blue tights and flaxen hair dance before my eyes to-day, but + move me not, unless it be towards boredom. Where be the tripping witches + of twenty years ago, whom to see once was to dream of for a week, to touch + whose white hand would have been joy, to kiss whose red lips would have + been to foretaste Heaven. I heard only the other day that the son of an + old friend of mine had secretly married a lady from the front row of the + ballet, and involuntarily I exclaimed, "Poor devil!" There was a time when + my first thought would have been, "Lucky beggar! is he worthy of her?" For + then the ladies of the ballet were angels. How could one gaze at them—from + the shilling pit—and doubt it? They danced to keep a widowed mother + in comfort, or to send a younger brother to school. Then they were + glorious creatures a young man did well to worship; but now-a-days— + </p> + <p> + It is an old jest. The eyes of youth see through rose-tinted glasses. The + eyes of age are dim behind smoke-clouded spectacles. My flaxen friend, you + are not the angel I dreamed you, nor the exceptional sinner some would + paint you; but under your feathers, just a woman—a bundle of follies + and failings, tied up with some sweetness and strength. You keep a + brougham I am sure you cannot afford on your thirty shillings a week. + There are ladies I know, in Mayfair, who have paid an extravagant price + for theirs. You paint and you dye, I am told: it is even hinted you pad. + Don't we all of us deck ourselves out in virtues that are not our own? + When the paint and the powder, my sister, is stripped both from you and + from me, we shall know which of us is entitled to look down on the other + in scorn. + </p> + <p> + Forgive me, gentle Reader, for digressing. The lady led me astray. I was + speaking of "The Stormy Petrels," and of the reforms they accomplished, + which were many. We abolished, I remember, capital punishment and war; we + were excellent young men at heart. Christmas we reformed altogether, along + with Bank Holidays, by a majority of twelve. I never recollect any + proposal to abolish anything ever being lost when put to the vote. There + were few things that we "Stormy Petrels" did not abolish. We attacked + Christmas on grounds of expediency, and killed it by ridicule. We exposed + the hollow mockery of Christmas sentiment; we abused the indigestible + Christmas dinner, the tiresome Christmas party, the silly Christmas + pantomime. Our funny member was side-splitting on the subject of Christmas + Waits; our social reformer bitter upon Christmas drunkenness; our + economist indignant upon Christmas charities. Only one argument of any + weight with us was advanced in favour of the festival, and that was our + leading cynic's suggestion that it was worth enduring the miseries of + Christmas, to enjoy the soul-satisfying comfort of the after reflection + that it was all over, and could not occur again for another year. + </p> + <p> + But since those days when I was prepared to put this old world of ours to + rights upon all matters, I have seen many sights and heard many sounds, + and I am not quite so sure as I once was that my particular views are the + only possibly correct ones. Christmas seems to me somewhat meaningless; + but I have looked through windows in poverty-stricken streets, and have + seen dingy parlours gay with many chains of coloured paper. They stretched + from corner to corner of the smoke-grimed ceiling, they fell in clumsy + festoons from the cheap gasalier, they framed the fly-blown mirror and the + tawdry pictures; and I know tired hands and eyes worked many hours to + fashion and fix those foolish chains, saying, "It will please him—she + will like to see the room look pretty;" and as I have looked at them they + have grown, in some mysterious manner, beautiful to me. The gaudy-coloured + child and dog irritates me, I confess; but I have watched a grimy, + inartistic personage, smoothing it affectionately with toil-stained hand, + while eager faces crowded round to admire and wonder at its blatant + crudity. It hangs to this day in its cheap frame above the chimney-piece, + the one bright spot relieving those damp-stained walls; dull eyes stare + and stare again at it, catching a vista, through its flashy tints, of the + far-off land of art. Christmas Waits annoy me, and I yearn to throw open + the window and fling coal at them—as once from the window of a high + flat in Chelsea I did. I doubted their being genuine Waits. I was inclined + to the opinion they were young men seeking excuse for making a noise. One + of them appeared to know a hymn with a chorus, another played the + concertina, while a third accompanied with a step dance. Instinctively I + felt no respect for them; they disturbed me in my work, and the desire + grew upon me to injure them. It occurred to me it would be good sport if I + turned out the light, softly opened the window, and threw coal at them. It + would be impossible for them to tell from which window in the block the + coal came, and thus subsequent unpleasantness would be avoided. They were + a compact little group, and with average luck I was bound to hit one of + them. + </p> + <p> + I adopted the plan. I could not see them very clearly. I aimed rather at + the noise; and I had thrown about twenty choice lumps without effect, and + was feeling somewhat discouraged, when a yell, followed by language + singularly unappropriate to the season, told me that Providence had aided + my arm. The music ceased suddenly, and the party dispersed, apparently in + high glee—which struck me as curious. + </p> + <p> + One man I noticed remained behind. He stood under the lamp-post, and shook + his fist at the block generally. + </p> + <p> + "Who threw that lump of coal?" he demanded in stentorian tones. + </p> + <p> + To my horror, it was the voice of the man at Eighty-eight, an Irish + gentleman, a journalist like myself. I saw it all, as the unfortunate hero + always exclaims, too late, in the play. He—number Eighty-eight—also + disturbed by the noise, had evidently gone out to expostulate with the + rioters. Of course my lump of coal had hit him—him the innocent, the + peaceful (up till then), the virtuous. That is the justice Fate deals out + to us mortals here below. There were ten to fourteen young men in that + crowd, each one of whom fully deserved that lump of coal; he, the one + guiltless, got it—seemingly, so far as the dim light from the gas + lamp enabled me to judge, full in the eye. + </p> + <p> + As the block remained silent in answer to his demand, he crossed the road + and mounted the stairs. On each landing he stopped and shouted— + </p> + <p> + "Who threw that lump of coal? I want the man who threw that lump of coal. + Out you come." + </p> + <p> + Now a good man in my place would have waited till number Eighty-eight + arrived on his landing, and then, throwing open the door would have said + with manly candour— + </p> + <p> + "<i>I</i> threw that lump of coal. I was-," He would not have got further, + because at that point, I feel confident, number Eighty—eight would + have punched his head. There would have been an unseemly fracas on the + staircase, to the annoyance of all the other tenants and later, there + would have issued a summons and a cross-summons. Angry passions would have + been roused, bitter feeling engendered which might have lasted for years. + </p> + <p> + I do not pretend to be a good man. I doubt if the pretence would be of any + use were I to try: I am not a sufficiently good actor. I said to myself, + as I took off my boots in the study, preparatory to retiring to my bedroom—"Number + Eighty-eight is evidently not in a frame of mind to listen to my story. It + will be better to let him shout himself cool; after which he will return + to his own flat, bathe his eye, and obtain some refreshing sleep. In the + morning, when we shall probably meet as usual on our way to Fleet Street, + I will refer to the incident casually, and sympathize with him. I will + suggest to him the truth—that in all probability some fellow-tenant, + irritated also by the noise, had aimed coal at the Waits, hitting him + instead by a regrettable but pure accident. With tact I may even be able + to make him see the humour of the incident. Later on, in March or April, + choosing my moment with judgment, I will, perhaps, confess that I was that + fellow-tenant, and over a friendly brandy-and-soda we will laugh the whole + trouble away." + </p> + <p> + As a matter of fact, that is what happened. Said number Eighty-eight—he + was a big man, as good a fellow at heart as ever lived, but impulsive—"Damned + lucky for you, old man, you did not tell me at the time." + </p> + <p> + "I felt," I replied, "instinctively that it was a case for delay." + </p> + <p> + There are times when one should control one's passion for candour; and as + I was saying, Christmas waits excite no emotion in my breast save that of + irritation. But I have known "Hark, the herald angels sing," wheezily + chanted by fog-filled throats, and accompanied, hopelessly out of tune, by + a cornet and a flute, bring a great look of gladness to a work-worn face. + To her it was a message of hope and love, making the hard life taste + sweet. The mere thought of family gatherings, so customary at Christmas + time, bores us superior people; but I think of an incident told me by a + certain man, a friend of mine. One Christmas, my friend, visiting in the + country, came face to face with a woman whom in town he had often met amid + very different surroundings. The door of the little farmhouse was open; + she and an older woman were ironing at a table, and as her soft white + hands passed to and fro, folding and smoothing the rumpled heap, she + laughed and talked, concerning simple homely things. My friend's shadow + fell across her work, and she looking up, their eyes met; but her face + said plainly, "I do not know you here, and here you do not know me. Here I + am a woman loved and respected." My friend passed in and spoke to the + older woman, the wife of one of his host's tenants, and she turned + towards, and introduced the younger—"My daughter, sir. We do not see + her very often. She is in a place in London, and cannot get away. But she + always spends a few days with us at Christmas." + </p> + <p> + "It is the season for family re-unions," answered my friend with just the + suggestion of a sneer, for which he hated himself. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, sir," said the woman, not noticing; "she has never missed her + Christmas with us, have you, Bess?" + </p> + <p> + "No, mother," replied the girl simply, and bent her head again over her + work. + </p> + <p> + So for these few days every year this woman left her furs and jewels, her + fine clothes and dainty foods, behind her, and lived for a little space + with what was clean and wholesome. It was the one anchor holding her to + womanhood; and one likes to think that it was, perhaps, in the end strong + enough to save her from the drifting waters. All which arguments in favour + of Christmas and of Christmas customs are, I admit, purely sentimental + ones, but I have lived long enough to doubt whether sentiment has not its + legitimate place in the economy of life. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE TIME WASTED IN LOOKING BEFORE ONE LEAPS + </h2> + <h3> + Have you ever noticed the going out of a woman? + </h3> + <p> + When a man goes out, he says—"I'm going out, shan't be long." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, George," cries his wife from the other end of the house, "don't go + for a moment. I want you to—" She hears a falling of hats, followed + by the slamming of the front door. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, George, you're not gone!" she wails. It is but the voice of despair. + As a matter of fact, she knows he is gone. She reaches the hall, + breathless. + </p> + <p> + "He might have waited a minute," she mutters to herself, as she picks up + the hats, "there were so many things I wanted him to do." + </p> + <p> + She does not open the door and attempt to stop him, she knows he is + already half-way down the street. It is a mean, paltry way of going out, + she thinks; so like a man. + </p> + <p> + When a woman, on the other hand, goes out, people know about it. She does + not sneak out. She says she is going out. She says it, generally, on the + afternoon of the day before; and she repeats it, at intervals, until + tea-time. At tea, she suddenly decides that she won't, that she will leave + it till the day after to-morrow instead. An hour later she thinks she will + go to-morrow, after all, and makes arrangements to wash her hair + overnight. For the next hour or so she alternates between fits of + exaltation, during which she looks forward to going out, and moments of + despondency, when a sense of foreboding falls upon her. At dinner she + persuades some other woman to go with her; the other woman, once + persuaded, is enthusiastic about going, until she recollects that she + cannot. The first woman, however, convinces her that she can. + </p> + <p> + "Yes," replies the second woman, "but then, how about you, dear? You are + forgetting the Joneses." + </p> + <p> + "So I was," answers the first woman, completely non-plussed. "How very + awkward, and I can't go on Wednesday. I shall have to leave it till + Thursday, now." + </p> + <p> + "But <i>I</i> can't go Thursday," says the second woman. + </p> + <p> + "Well, you go without me, dear," says the first woman, in the tone of one + who is sacrificing a life's ambition. + </p> + <p> + "Oh no, dear, I should not think of it," nobly exclaims the second woman. + "We will wait and go together, Friday!" + </p> + <p> + "I'll tell you what we'll do," says the first woman. "We will start early" + (this is an inspiration), "and be back before the Joneses arrive." + </p> + <p> + They agree to sleep together; there is a lurking suspicion in both their + minds that this may be their last sleep on earth. They retire early with a + can of hot water. At intervals, during the night, one overhears them + splashing water, and talking. + </p> + <p> + They come down very late for breakfast, and both very cross. Each seems to + have argued herself into the belief that she has been lured into this + piece of nonsense, against her better judgment, by the persistent folly of + the other one. During the meal each one asks the other, every five + minutes, if she is quite ready. Each one, it appears, has only her hat to + put on. They talk about the weather, and wonder what it is going to do. + They wish it would make up its mind, one way or the other. They are very + bitter on weather that cannot make up its mind. After breakfast it still + looks cloudy, and they decide to abandon the scheme altogether. The first + woman then remembers that it is absolutely necessary for her, at all + events, to go. + </p> + <p> + "But there is no need for you to come, dear," she says. + </p> + <p> + Up to that point the second woman was evidently not sure whether she + wished to go or whether she didn't. Now she knows. + </p> + <p> + "Oh yes, I'll come," she says, "then it will be over!" + </p> + <p> + "I am sure you don't want to go," urges the first woman, "and I shall be + quicker by myself. I am ready to start now." + </p> + <p> + The second woman bridles. + </p> + <p> + "<i>I</i> shan't be a couple of minutes," she retorts. "You know, dear, + it's generally I who have to wait for you." + </p> + <p> + "But you've not got your boots on," the first woman reminds her. + </p> + <p> + "Well, they won't take ANY time," is the answer. "But of course, dear, if + you'd really rather I did not come, say so." By this time she is on the + verge of tears. + </p> + <p> + "Of course, I would like you to come, dear," explains the first in a + resigned tone. "I thought perhaps you were only coming to please me." + </p> + <p> + "Oh no, I'd LIKE to come," says the second woman. + </p> + <p> + "Well, we must hurry up," says the first; "I shan't be more than a minute + myself, I've merely got to change my skirt." + </p> + <p> + Half-an-hour later you hear them calling to each other, from different + parts of the house, to know if the other one is ready. It appears they + have both been ready for quite a long while, waiting only for the other + one. + </p> + <p> + "I'm afraid," calls out the one whose turn it is to be down-stairs, "it's + going to rain." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, don't say that," calls back the other one. + </p> + <p> + "Well, it looks very like it." + </p> + <p> + "What a nuisance," answers the up-stairs woman; "shall we put it off?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, what do YOU think, dear?" replies the down-stairs. + </p> + <p> + They decide they will go, only now they will have to change their boots, + and put on different hats. + </p> + <p> + For the next ten minutes they are still shouting and running about. Then + it seems as if they really were ready, nothing remaining but for them to + say "Good-bye," and go. + </p> + <p> + They begin by kissing the children. A woman never leaves her house without + secret misgivings that she will never return to it alive. One child cannot + be found. When it is found it wishes it hadn't been. It has to be washed, + preparatory to being kissed. After that, the dog has to be found and + kissed, and final instructions given to the cook. + </p> + <p> + Then they open the front door. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, George," calls out the first woman, turning round again. "Are you + there?" + </p> + <p> + "Hullo," answers a voice from the distance. "Do you want me?" + </p> + <p> + "No, dear, only to say good-bye. I'm going." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, good-bye." + </p> + <p> + "Good-bye, dear. Do you think it's going to rain?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh no, I should not say so." + </p> + <p> + "George." + </p> + <p> + "Yes." + </p> + <p> + "Have you got any money?" + </p> + <p> + Five minutes later they come running back; the one has forgotten her + parasol, the other her purse. + </p> + <p> + And speaking of purses, reminds one of another essential difference + between the male and female human animal. A man carries his money in his + pocket. When he wants to use it, he takes it out and lays it down. This is + a crude way of doing things, a woman displays more subtlety. Say she is + standing in the street, and wants fourpence to pay for a bunch of violets + she has purchased from a flower-girl. She has two parcels in one hand, and + a parasol in the other. With the remaining two fingers of the left hand + she secures the violets. The question then arises, how to pay the girl? + She flutters for a few minutes, evidently not quite understanding why it + is she cannot do it. The reason then occurs to her: she has only two hands + and both these are occupied. First she thinks she will put the parcels and + the flowers into her right hand, then she thinks she will put the parasol + into her left. Then she looks round for a table or even a chair, but there + is not such a thing in the whole street. Her difficulty is solved by her + dropping the parcels and the flowers. The girl picks them up for her and + holds them. This enables her to feel for her pocket with her right hand, + while waving her open parasol about with her left. She knocks an old + gentleman's hat off into the gutter, and nearly blinds the flower-girl + before it occurs to her to close it. This done, she leans it up against + the flower-girl's basket, and sets to work in earnest with both hands. She + seizes herself firmly by the back, and turns the upper part of her body + round till her hair is in front and her eyes behind. Still holding herself + firmly with her left hand—did she let herself go, goodness knows + where she would spin to;—with her right she prospects herself. The + purse is there, she can feel it, the problem is how to get at it. The + quickest way would, of course, be to take off the skirt, sit down on the + kerb, turn it inside out, and work from the bottom of the pocket upwards. + But this simple idea never seems to occur to her. There are some thirty + folds at the back of the dress, between two of these folds commences the + secret passage. At last, purely by chance, she suddenly discovers it, + nearly upsetting herself in the process, and the purse is brought up to + the surface. The difficulty of opening it still remains. She knows it + opens with a spring, but the secret of that spring she has never mastered, + and she never will. Her plan is to worry it generally until it does open. + Five minutes will always do it, provided she is not flustered. + </p> + <p> + At last it does open. It would be incorrect to say that she opens it. It + opens because it is sick of being mauled about; and, as likely as not, it + opens at the moment when she is holding it upside down. If you happen to + be near enough to look over her shoulder, you will notice that the gold + and silver lies loose within it. In an inner sanctuary, carefully secured + with a second secret spring, she keeps her coppers, together with a + postage-stamp and a draper's receipt, nine months old, for elevenpence + three-farthings. + </p> + <p> + I remember the indignation of an old Bus-conductor, once. Inside we were + nine women and two men. I sat next the door, and his remarks therefore he + addressed to me. It was certainly taking him some time to collect the + fares, but I think he would have got on better had he been less bustling; + he worried them, and made them nervous. + </p> + <p> + "Look at that," he said, drawing my attention to a poor lady opposite, who + was diving in the customary manner for her purse, "they sit on their + money, women do. Blest if you wouldn't think they was trying to 'atch it." + </p> + <p> + At length the lady drew from underneath herself an exceedingly fat purse. + </p> + <p> + "Fancy riding in a bumpby bus, perched up on that thing," he continued. + "Think what a stamina they must have." He grew confidential. "I've seen + one woman," he said, "pull out from underneath 'er a street doorkey, a tin + box of lozengers, a pencil-case, a whopping big purse, a packet of + hair-pins, and a smelling-bottle. Why, you or me would be wretched, + sitting on a plain door-knob, and them women goes about like that all day. + I suppose they gets used to it. Drop 'em on an eider-down pillow, and + they'd scream. The time it takes me to get tuppence out of them, why, it's + 'eart-breaking. First they tries one side, then they tries the other. Then + they gets up and shakes theirselves till the bus jerks them back again, + and there they are, a more 'opeless 'eap than ever. If I 'ad my way I'd + make every bus carry a female searcher as could over'aul 'em one at a + time, and take the money from 'em. Talk about the poor pickpocket. What I + say is, that a man as finds his way into a woman's pocket—well, he + deserves what he gets." + </p> + <p> + But it was the thought of more serious matters that lured me into + reflections concerning the over-carefulness of women. It is a theory of + mine—wrong possibly; indeed I have so been informed—that we + pick our way through life with too much care. We are for ever looking down + upon the ground. Maybe, we do avoid a stumble or two over a stone or a + brier, but also we miss the blue of the sky, the glory of the hills. These + books that good men write, telling us that what they call "success" in + life depends on our flinging aside our youth and wasting our manhood in + order that we may have the means when we are eighty of spending a + rollicking old age, annoy me. We save all our lives to invest in a South + Sea Bubble; and in skimping and scheming, we have grown mean, and narrow, + and hard. We will put off the gathering of the roses till tomorrow, to-day + it shall be all work, all bargain-driving, all plotting. Lo, when + to-morrow comes, the roses are blown; nor do we care for roses, idle + things of small marketable value; cabbages are more to our fancy by the + time to-morrow comes. + </p> + <p> + Life is a thing to be lived, not spent, to be faced, not ordered. Life is + not a game of chess, the victory to the most knowing; it is a game of + cards, one's hand by skill to be made the best of. Is it the wisest who is + always the most successful? I think not. The luckiest whist-player I ever + came across was a man who was never QUITE certain what were trumps, and + whose most frequent observation during the game was "I really beg your + pardon," addressed to his partner; a remark which generally elicited the + reply, "Oh, don't apologize. All's well that ends well." The man I knew + who made the most rapid fortune was a builder in the outskirts of + Birmingham, who could not write his name, and who, for thirty years of his + life, never went to bed sober. I do not say that forgetfulness of trumps + should be cultivated by whist-players. I think my builder friend might + have been even more successful had he learned to write his name, and had + he occasionally—not overdoing it—enjoyed a sober evening. All + I wish to impress is, that virtue is not the road to success—of the + kind we are dealing with. We must find other reasons for being virtuous; + maybe, there are some. The truth is, life is a gamble pure and simple, and + the rules we lay down for success are akin to the infallible systems with + which a certain class of idiot goes armed each season to Monte Carlo. We + can play the game with coolness and judgment, decide when to plunge and + when to stake small; but to think that wisdom will decide it, is to + imagine that we have discovered the law of chance. Let us play the game of + life as sportsmen, pocketing our winnings with a smile, leaving our + losings with a shrug. Perhaps that is why we have been summoned to the + board and the cards dealt round: that we may learn some of the virtues of + the good gambler; his self-control, his courage under misfortune, his + modesty under the strain of success, his firmness, his alertness, his + general indifference to fate. Good lessons these, all of them. If by the + game we learn some of them our time on the green earth has not been + wasted. If we rise from the table having learned only fretfulness and + self-pity I fear it has been. + </p> + <p> + The grim Hall Porter taps at the door: "Number Five hundred billion and + twenty-eight, your boatman is waiting, sir." + </p> + <p> + So! is it time already? We pick up our counters. Of what use are they? In + the country the other side of the river they are no tender. The blood-red + for gold, and the pale-green for love, to whom shall we fling them? Here + is some poor beggar longing to play, let us give them to him as we pass + out. Poor devil! the game will amuse him—for a while. + </p> + <p> + Keep your powder dry, and trust in Providence, is the motto of the wise. + Wet powder could never be of any possible use to you. Dry, it may be, WITH + the help of Providence. We will call it Providence, it is a prettier name + than Chance—perhaps also a truer. + </p> + <p> + Another mistake we make when we reason out our lives is this: we reason as + though we were planning for reasonable creatures. It is a big mistake. + Well-meaning ladies and gentlemen make it when they picture their ideal + worlds. When marriage is reformed, and the social problem solved, when + poverty and war have been abolished by acclamation, and sin and sorrow + rescinded by an overwhelming parliamentary majority! Ah, then the world + will be worthy of our living in it. You need not wait, ladies and + gentlemen, so long as you think for that time. No social revolution is + needed, no slow education of the people is necessary. It would all come + about to-morrow, IF ONLY WE WERE REASONABLE CREATURES. + </p> + <p> + Imagine a world of reasonable beings! The Ten Commandments would be + unnecessary: no reasoning being sins, no reasoning creature makes + mistakes. There would be no rich men, for what reasonable man cares for + luxury and ostentation? There would be no poor: that I should eat enough + for two while my brother in the next street, as good a man as I, starves, + is not reasonable. There would be no difference of opinion on any two + points: there is only one reason. You, dear Reader, would find, that on + all subjects you were of the same opinion as I. No novels would be + written, no plays performed; the lives of reasonable creatures do not + afford drama. No mad loves, no mad laughter, no scalding tears, no fierce + unreasoning, brief-lived joys, no sorrows, no wild dreams—only + reason, reason everywhere. + </p> + <p> + But for the present we remain unreasonable. If I eat this mayonnaise, + drink this champagne, I shall suffer in my liver. Then, why do I eat it? + Julia is a charming girl, amiable, wise, and witty; also she has a share + in a brewery. Then, why does John marry Ann? who is short-tempered, to say + the least of it, who, he feels, will not make him so good a house-wife, + who has extravagant notions, who has no little fortune. There is something + about Ann's chin that fascinates him—he could not explain to you + what. On the whole, Julia is the better-looking of the two. But the more + he thinks of Julia, the more he is drawn towards Ann. So Tom marries Julia + and the brewery fails, and Julia, on a holiday, contracts rheumatic fever, + and is a helpless invalid for life; while Ann comes in for ten thousand + pounds left to her by an Australian uncle no one had ever heard of. + </p> + <p> + I have been told of a young man, who chose his wife with excellent care. + Said he to himself, very wisely, "In the selection of a wife a man cannot + be too circumspect." He convinced himself that the girl was everything a + helpmate should be. She had every virtue that could be expected in a + woman, no faults, but such as are inseparable from a woman. Speaking + practically, she was perfection. He married her, and found she was all he + had thought her. Only one thing could he urge against her—that he + did not like her. And that, of course, was not her fault. + </p> + <p> + How easy life would be did we know ourselves. Could we always be sure that + tomorrow we should think as we do today. We fall in love during a summer + holiday; she is fresh, delightful, altogether charming; the blood rushes + to our head every time we think of her. Our ideal career is one of + perpetual service at her feet. It seems impossible that Fate could bestow + upon us any greater happiness than the privilege of cleaning her boots, + and kissing the hem of her garment—if the hem be a little muddy that + will please us the more. We tell her our ambition, and at that moment + every word we utter is sincere. But the summer holiday passes, and with it + the holiday mood, and winter finds us wondering how we are going to get + out of the difficulty into which we have landed ourselves. Or worse still, + perhaps, the mood lasts longer than is usual. We become formally engaged. + We marry—I wonder how many marriages are the result of a passion + that is burnt out before the altar-rails are reached?—and three + months afterwards the little lass is broken-hearted to find that we + consider the lacing of her boots a bore. Her feet seem to have grown + bigger. There is no excuse for us, save that we are silly children, never + sure of what we are crying for, hurting one another in our play, crying + very loudly when hurt ourselves. + </p> + <p> + I knew an American lady once who used to bore me with long accounts of the + brutalities exercised upon her by her husband. She had instituted divorce + proceedings against him. The trial came on, and she was highly successful. + We all congratulated her, and then for some months she dropped out of my + life. But there came a day when we again found ourselves together. One of + the problems of social life is to know what to say to one another when we + meet; every man and woman's desire is to appear sympathetic and clever, + and this makes conversation difficult, because, taking us all round, we + are neither sympathetic nor clever—but this by the way. + </p> + <p> + Of course, I began to talk to her about her former husband. I asked her + how he was getting on. She replied that she thought he was very + comfortable. + </p> + <p> + "Married again?" I suggested. + </p> + <p> + "Yes," she answered. + </p> + <p> + "Serve him right," I exclaimed, "and his wife too." She was a pretty, + bright-eyed little woman, my American friend, and I wished to ingratiate + myself. "A woman who would marry such a man, knowing what she must have + known of him, is sure to make him wretched, and we may trust him to be a + curse to her." + </p> + <p> + My friend seemed inclined to defend him. + </p> + <p> + "I think he is greatly improved," she argued. + </p> + <p> + "Nonsense!" I returned, "a man never improves. Once a villain, always a + villain." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, hush!" she pleaded, "you mustn't call him that." + </p> + <p> + "Why not?" I answered. "I have heard you call him a villain yourself." + </p> + <p> + "It was wrong of me," she said, flushing. "I'm afraid he was not the only + one to be blamed; we were both foolish in those days, but I think we have + both learned a lesson." + </p> + <p> + I remained silent, waiting for the necessary explanation. + </p> + <p> + "You had better come and see him for yourself," she added, with a little + laugh; "to tell the truth, I am the woman who has married him. Tuesday is + my day, Number 2, K—— Mansions," and she ran off, leaving me + staring after her. + </p> + <p> + I believe an enterprising clergyman who would set up a little church in + the Strand, just outside the Law Courts, might do quite a trade, + re-marrying couples who had just been divorced. A friend of mine, a + respondent, told me he had never loved his wife more than on two occasions—the + first when she refused him, the second when she came into the witness-box + to give evidence against him. + </p> + <p> + "You are curious creatures, you men," remarked a lady once to another man + in my presence. "You never seem to know your own mind." + </p> + <p> + She was feeling annoyed with men generally. I do not blame her, I feel + annoyed with them myself sometimes. There is one man in particular I am + always feeling intensely irritated against. He says one thing, and acts + another. He will talk like a saint and behave like a fool, knows what is + right and does what is wrong. But we will not speak further of him. He + will be all he should be one day, and then we will pack him into a nice, + comfortably-lined box, and screw the lid down tight upon him, and put him + away in a quiet little spot near a church I know of, lest he should get up + and misbehave himself again. + </p> + <p> + The other man, who is a wise man as men go, looked at his fair critic with + a smile. + </p> + <p> + "My dear madam," he replied, "you are blaming the wrong person. I confess + I do not know my mind, and what little I do know of it I do not like. I + did not make it, I did not select it. I am more dissatisfied with it than + you can possibly be. It is a greater mystery to me than it is to you, and + I have to live with it. You should pity not blame me." + </p> + <p> + There are moods in which I fall to envying those old hermits who frankly, + and with courageous cowardice, shirked the problem of life. There are days + when I dream of an existence unfettered by the thousand petty strings with + which our souls lie bound to Lilliputia land. I picture myself living in + some Norwegian sater, high above the black waters of a rockbound fiord. No + other human creature disputes with me my kingdom. I am alone with the + whispering fir forests and the stars. How I live I am not quite sure. Once + a month I could journey down into the villages and return laden. I should + not need much. For the rest, my gun and fishing-rod would supply me. I + would have with me a couple of big dogs, who would talk to me with their + eyes, so full of dumb thought, and together we would wander over the + uplands, seeking our dinner, after the old primitive fashion of the men + who dreamt not of ten-course dinners and Savoy suppers. I would cook the + food myself, and sit down to the meal with a bottle of good wine, such as + starts a man's thoughts (for I am inconsistent, as I acknowledge, and that + gift of civilization I would bear with me into my hermitage). Then in the + evening, with pipe in mouth, beside my log-wood fire, I would sit and + think, until new knowledge came to me. Strengthened by those silent voices + that are drowned in the roar of Streetland, I might, perhaps, grow into + something nearer to what it was intended that a man should be—might + catch a glimpse, perhaps, of the meaning of life. + </p> + <p> + No, no, my dear lady, into this life of renunciation I would not take a + companion, certainly not of the sex you are thinking of, even would she + care to come, which I doubt. There are times when a man is better without + the woman, when a woman is better without the man. Love drags us from the + depths, makes men and women of us, but if we would climb a little nearer + to the stars we must say good-bye to it. We men and women do not show + ourselves to each other at our best; too often, I fear, at our worst. The + woman's highest ideal of man is the lover; to a man the woman is always + the possible beloved. We see each other's hearts, but not each other's + souls. In each other's presence we never shake ourselves free from the + earth. Match-making mother Nature is always at hand to prompt us. A woman + lifts us up into manhood, but there she would have us stay. "Climb up to + me," she cries to the lad, walking with soiled feet in muddy ways; "be a + true man that you may be worthy to walk by my side; be brave to protect + me, kind and tender, and true; but climb no higher, stay here by my side." + The martyr, the prophet, the leader of the world's forlorn hopes, she + would wake from his dream. Her arms she would fling about his neck holding + him down. + </p> + <p> + To the woman the man says, "You are my wife. Here is your America, within + these walls, here is your work, your duty." True, in nine hundred and + ninety-nine cases out of every thousand, but men and women are not made in + moulds, and the world's work is various. Sometimes to her sorrow, a + woman's work lies beyond the home. The duty of Mary was not to Joseph. + </p> + <p> + The hero in the popular novel is the young man who says, "I love you + better than my soul." Our favourite heroine in fiction is the woman who + cries to her lover, "I would go down into Hell to be with you." There are + men and women who cannot answer thus—the men who dream dreams, the + women who see visions—impracticable people from the Bayswater point + of view. But Bayswater would not be the abode of peace it is had it not + been for such. + </p> + <p> + Have we not placed sexual love on a pedestal higher than it deserves? It + is a noble passion, but it is not the noblest. There is a wider love by + the side of which it is but as the lamp illumining the cottage, to the + moonlight bathing the hills and valleys. There were two women once. This + is a play I saw acted in the daylight. They had been friends from + girlhood, till there came between them the usual trouble—a man. A + weak, pretty creature not worth a thought from either of them; but women + love the unworthy; there would be no over-population problem did they not; + and this poor specimen, ill-luck had ordained they should contend for. + </p> + <p> + Their rivalry brought out all that was worst in both of them. It is a + mistake to suppose love only elevates; it can debase. It was a mean + struggle for what to an onlooker must have appeared a remarkably + unsatisfying prize. The loser might well have left the conqueror to her + poor triumph, even granting it had been gained unfairly. But the old, + ugly, primeval passions had been stirred in these women, and the + wedding-bells closed only the first act. + </p> + <p> + The second is not difficult to guess. It would have ended in the Divorce + Court had not the deserted wife felt that a finer revenge would be secured + to her by silence. + </p> + <p> + In the third, after an interval of only eighteen months, the man died—the + first piece of good fortune that seems to have occurred to him personally + throughout the play. His position must have been an exceedingly anxious + one from the beginning. Notwithstanding his flabbiness, one cannot but + regard him with a certain amount of pity—not unmixed with amusement. + Most of life's dramas can be viewed as either farce or tragedy according + to the whim of the spectator. The actors invariably play them as tragedy; + but then that is the essence of good farce acting. + </p> + <p> + Thus was secured the triumph of legal virtue and the punishment of + irregularity, and the play might be dismissed as uninterestingly orthodox + were it not for the fourth act, showing how the wronged wife came to the + woman she had once wronged to ask and grant forgiveness. Strangely as it + may sound, they found their love for one another unchanged. They had been + long parted: it was sweet to hold each other's hands again. Two lonely + women, they agreed to live together. Those who knew them well in this + later time say that their life was very beautiful, filled with + graciousness and nobility. + </p> + <p> + I do not say that such a story could ever be common, but it is more + probable than the world might credit. Sometimes the man is better without + the woman, the woman without the man. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE NOBILITY OF OURSELVES + </h2> + <p> + AN old Anglicized Frenchman, I used to meet often in my earlier + journalistic days, held a theory, concerning man's future state, that has + since come to afford me more food for reflection than, at the time, I + should have deemed possible. He was a bright-eyed, eager little man. One + felt no Lotus land could be Paradise to him. We build our heaven of the + stones of our desires: to the old, red-bearded Norseman, a foe to fight + and a cup to drain; to the artistic Greek, a grove of animated statuary; + to the Red Indian, his happy hunting ground; to the Turk, his harem; to + the Jew, his New Jerusalem, paved with gold; to others, according to their + taste, limited by the range of their imagination. + </p> + <p> + Few things had more terrors for me, when a child, than Heaven—as + pictured for me by certain of the good folks round about me. I was told + that if I were a good lad, kept my hair tidy, and did not tease the cat, I + would probably, when I died, go to a place where all day long I would sit + still and sing hymns. (Think of it! as reward to a healthy boy for being + good.) There would be no breakfast and no dinner, no tea and no supper. + One old lady cheered me a little with a hint that the monotony might be + broken by a little manna; but the idea of everlasting manna palled upon + me, and my suggestions, concerning the possibilities of sherbet or + jumbles, were scouted as irreverent. There would be no school, but also + there would be no cricket and no rounders. I should feel no desire, so I + was assured, to do another angel's "dags" by sliding down the heavenly + banisters. My only joy would be to sing. + </p> + <p> + "Shall we start singing the moment we get up in the morning?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "There won't be any morning," was the answer. "There will be no day and no + night. It will all be one long day without end." + </p> + <p> + "And shall we always be singing?" I persisted. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, you will be so happy, you will always want to sing." + </p> + <p> + "Shan't I ever get tired?" + </p> + <p> + "No, you will never get tired, and you will never get sleepy or hungry or + thirsty." + </p> + <p> + "And does it go on like that for ever?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, for ever and ever." + </p> + <p> + "Will it go on for a million years?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, a million years, and then another million years, and then another + million years after that. There will never be any end to it." + </p> + <p> + I can remember to this day the agony of those nights, when I would lie + awake, thinking of this endless heaven, from which there seemed to be no + possible escape. For the other place was equally eternal, or I might have + been tempted to seek refuge there. + </p> + <p> + We grown-up folk, our brains dulled by the slowly acquired habit of not + thinking, do wrong to torture children with these awful themes. Eternity, + Heaven, Hell are meaningless words to us. We repeat them, as we gabble our + prayers, telling our smug, self-satisfied selves that we are miserable + sinners. But to the child, the "intelligent stranger" in the land, seeking + to know, they are fearful realities. If you doubt me, Reader, stand by + yourself, beneath the stars, one night, and SOLVE this thought, Eternity. + Your next address shall be the County Lunatic Asylum. + </p> + <p> + My actively inclined French friend held cheerier views than are common of + man's life beyond the grave. His belief was that we were destined to + constant change, to everlasting work. We were to pass through the older + planets, to labour in the greater suns. + </p> + <p> + But for such advanced career a more capable being was needed. No one of us + was sufficient, he argued, to be granted a future existence all to + himself. His idea was that two or three or four of us, according to our + intrinsic value, would be combined to make a new and more important + individuality, fitted for a higher existence. Man, he pointed out, was + already a collection of the beasts. "You and I," he would say, tapping + first my chest and then his own, "we have them all here—the ape, the + tiger, the pig, the motherly hen, the gamecock, the good ant; we are all, + rolled into one. So the man of the future, he will be made up of many men—the + courage of one, the wisdom of another, the kindliness of a third." + </p> + <p> + "Take a City man," he would continue, "say the Lord Mayor; add to him a + poet, say Swinburne; mix them with a religious enthusiast, say General + Booth. There you will have the man fit for the higher life." + </p> + <p> + Garibaldi and Bismarck, he held, should make a very fine mixture, + correcting one another; if needful, extract of Ibsen might be added, as + seasoning. He thought that Irish politicians would mix admirably with + Scotch divines; that Oxford Dons would go well with lady novelists. He was + convinced that Count Tolstoi, a few Gaiety Johnnies (we called them + "mashers" in those days), together with a humourist—he was kind + enough to suggest myself—would produce something very choice. Queen + Elizabeth, he fancied, was probably being reserved to go—let us hope + in the long distant future—with Ouida. It sounds a whimsical theory, + set down here in my words, not his; but the old fellow was so much in + earnest that few of us ever thought to laugh as he talked. Indeed, there + were moments on starry nights, as walking home from the office, we would + pause on Waterloo Bridge to enjoy the witchery of the long line of the + Embankment lights, when I could almost believe, as I listened to him, in + the not impossibility of his dreams. + </p> + <p> + Even as regards this world, it would often be a gain, one thinks, and no + loss, if some half-dozen of us were rolled together, or boiled down, or + whatever the process necessary might be, and something made out of us in + that way. + </p> + <p> + Have not you, my fair Reader, sometimes thought to yourself what a + delightful husband Tom this, plus Harry that, plus Dick the other, would + make? Tom is always so cheerful and good-tempered, yet you feel that in + the serious moments of life he would be lacking. A delightful hubby when + you felt merry, yes; but you would not go to him for comfort and strength + in your troubles, now would you? No, in your hour of sorrow, how good it + would be to have near you grave, earnest Harry. He is a "good sort," + Harry. Perhaps, after all, he is the best of the three—solid, + staunch, and true. What a pity he is just a trifle commonplace and + unambitious. Your friends, not knowing his sterling hidden qualities, + would hardly envy you; and a husband that no other girl envies you—well, + that would hardly be satisfactory, would it? Dick, on the other hand, is + clever and brilliant. He will make his way; there will come a day, you are + convinced, when a woman will be proud to bear his name. If only he were + not so self-centred, if only he were more sympathetic. + </p> + <p> + But a combination of the three, or rather of the best qualities of the + three—Tom's good temper, Harry's tender strength, Dick's brilliant + masterfulness: that is the man who would be worthy of you. + </p> + <p> + The woman David Copperfield wanted was Agnes and Dora rolled into one. He + had to take them one after the other, which was not so nice. And did he + really love Agnes, Mr. Dickens; or merely feel he ought to? Forgive me, + but I am doubtful concerning that second marriage of Copperfield's. Come, + strictly between ourselves, Mr. Dickens, was not David, good human soul! + now and again a wee bit bored by the immaculate Agnes? She made him an + excellent wife, I am sure. SHE never ordered oysters by the barrel, + unopened. It would, on any day, have been safe to ask Traddles home to + dinner; in fact, Sophie and the whole rose-garden might have accompanied + him, Agnes would have been equal to the occasion. The dinner would have + been perfectly cooked and served, and Agnes' sweet smile would have + pervaded the meal. But AFTER the dinner, when David and Traddles sat + smoking alone, while from the drawing-room drifted down the notes of + high-class, elevating music, played by the saintly Agnes, did they never, + glancing covertly towards the empty chair between them, see the laughing, + curl-framed face of a very foolish little woman—one of those foolish + little women that a wise man thanks God for making—and wish, in + spite of all, that it were flesh and blood, not shadow? + </p> + <p> + Oh, you foolish wise folk, who would remodel human nature! Cannot you see + how great is the work given unto childish hands? Think you that in + well-ordered housekeeping and high-class conversation lies the whole + making of a man? Foolish Dora, fashioned by clever old magician Nature, + who knows that weakness and helplessness are as a talisman calling forth + strength and tenderness in man, trouble yourself not unduly about those + oysters nor the underdone mutton, little woman. Good plain cooks at twenty + pounds a year will see to these things for us; and, now and then, when a + windfall comes our way, we will dine together at a moderate-priced + restaurant where these things are managed even better. Your work, Dear, is + to teach us gentleness and kindliness. Lay your curls here, child. It is + from such as you that we learn wisdom. Foolish wise folk sneer at you; + foolish wise folk would pull up the useless lilies, the needless roses, + from the garden, would plant in their places only serviceable wholesome + cabbage. But the Gardener knowing better, plants the silly short-lived + flowers; foolish wise folk, asking for what purpose. + </p> + <p> + As for Agnes, Mr. Dickens, do you know what she always makes me think of? + You will not mind my saying?—the woman one reads about. Frankly, I + don't believe in her. I do not refer to Agnes in particular, but the woman + of whom she is a type, the faultless woman we read of. Women have many + faults, but, thank God, they have one redeeming virtue—they are none + of them faultless. + </p> + <p> + But the heroine of fiction! oh, a terrible dragon of virtue is she. May + heaven preserve us poor men, undeserving though we be, from a life with + the heroine of fiction. She is all soul, and heart, and intellect, with + never a bit of human nature to catch hold of her by. Her beauty, it appals + one, it is so painfully indescribable. Whence comes she, whither goes she, + why do we never meet her like? Of women I know a goodish few, and I look + among them for her prototype; but I find it not. They are charming, they + are beautiful, all these women that I know. It would not be right for me + to tell you, Ladies, the esteem and veneration with which I regard you + all. You yourselves, blushing, would be the first to cheek my ardour. But + yet, dear Ladies, seen even through my eyes, you come not near the ladies + that I read about. You are not—if I may be permitted an expressive + vulgarism—in the same street with them. Your beauty I can look upon, + and retain my reason—for whatever value that may be to me. Your + conversation, I admit, is clever and brilliant in the extreme; your + knowledge vast and various; your culture quite Bostonian; yet you do not—I + hardly know how to express it—you do not shine with the sixteen + full-moon-power of the heroine of fiction. You do not—and I thank + you for it—impress me with the idea that you are the only women on + earth. You, even you, possess tempers of your own. I am inclined to think + you take an interest in your clothes. I would not be sure, even, that you + do not mingle a little of "your own hair" (you know what I mean) with the + hair of your head. There is in your temperament a vein of vanity, a + suggestion of selfishness, a spice of laziness. I have known you a trifle + unreasonable, a little inconsiderate, slightly exacting. Unlike the + heroine of fiction, you have a certain number of human appetites and + instincts; a few human follies, perhaps, a human fault, or shall we say + two? In short, dear Ladies, you also, even as we men, are the children of + Adam and Eve. Tell me, if you know, where I may meet with this + supernatural sister of yours, this woman that one reads about. She never + keeps any one waiting while she does her back hair, she is never indignant + with everybody else in the house because she cannot find her own boots, + she never scolds the servants, she is never cross with the children, she + never slams the door, she is never jealous of her younger sister, she + never lingers at the gate with any cousin but the right one. + </p> + <p> + Dear me, where DO they keep them, these women that one reads about? I + suppose where they keep the pretty girl of Art. You have seen her, have + you not, Reader, the pretty girl in the picture? She leaps the six-barred + gate with a yard and a half to spare, turning round in her saddle the + while to make some smiling remark to the comic man behind, who, of course, + is standing on his head in the ditch. She floats gracefully off Dieppe on + stormy mornings. Her baigneuse—generally of chiffon and old point + lace—has not lost a curve. The older ladies, bathing round her, look + wet. Their dress clings damply to their limbs. But the pretty girl of Art + dives, and never a curl of her hair is disarranged. The pretty girl of Art + stands lightly on tip-toe and volleys a tennis-ball six feet above her + head. The pretty girl of Art keeps the head of the punt straight against a + stiff current and a strong wind. SHE never gets the water up her sleeve, + and down her back, and all over the cushions. HER pole never sticks in the + mud, with the steam launch ten yards off and the man looking the other + way. The pretty girl of Art skates in high-heeled French shoes at an angle + of forty-five to the surface of the ice, both hands in her muff. SHE never + sits down plump, with her feet a yard apart, and says "Ough." The pretty + girl of Art drives tandem down Piccadilly, during the height of the + season, at eighteen miles an hour. It never occurs to HER leader that the + time has now arrived for him to turn round and get into the cart. The + pretty girl of Art rides her bicycle through the town on market day, + carrying a basket of eggs, and smiling right and left. SHE never throws + away both her handles and runs into a cow. The pretty girl of Art goes + trout fishing in open-work stockings, under a blazing sun, with a bunch of + dew-bespangled primroses in her hair; and every time she gracefully flicks + her rod she hauls out a salmon. SHE never ties herself up to a tree, or + hooks the dog. SHE never comes home, soaked and disagreeable, to tell you + that she caught six, but put them all back again, because they were merely + two or three-pounders, and not worth the trouble of carrying. The pretty + girl of Art plays croquet with one hand, and looks as if she enjoyed the + game. SHE never tries to accidentally kick her ball into position when + nobody is noticing, or stands it out that she is through a hoop that she + knows she isn't. + </p> + <p> + She is a good, all-round sportswoman, is the pretty girl in the picture. + The only thing I have to say against her is that she makes one + dissatisfied with the girl out of the picture—the girl who mistakes + a punt for a teetotum, so that you land feeling as if you had had a day in + the Bay of Biscay; and who, every now and again, stuns you with the thick + end of the pole: the girl who does not skate with her hands in her muff; + but who, throwing them up to heaven, says, "I'm going," and who goes, + taking care that you go with her: the girl who, as you brush her down, and + try to comfort her, explains to you indignantly that the horse took the + corner too sharply and never noticed the mile-stone; the girl whose hair + sea water does NOT improve. + </p> + <p> + There can be no doubt about it: that is where they keep the good woman of + Fiction, where they keep the pretty girl of Art. + </p> + <p> + Does it not occur to you, Messieurs les Auteurs, that you are sadly + disturbing us? These women that are a combination of Venus, St. Cecilia, + and Elizabeth Fry! you paint them for us in your glowing pages: it is not + kind of you, knowing, as you must, the women we have to put up with. + </p> + <p> + Would we not be happier, we men and women, were we to idealize one another + less? My dear young lady, you have nothing whatever to complain to Fate + about, I assure you. Unclasp those pretty hands of yours, and come away + from the darkening window. Jack is as good a fellow as you deserve; don't + yearn so much. Sir Galahad, my dear—Sir Galahad rides and fights in + the land that lies beyond the sunset, far enough away from this noisy + little earth where you and I spend much of our time tittle-tattling, + flirting, wearing fine clothes, and going to shows. And besides, you must + remember, Sir Galahad was a bachelor: as an idealist he was wise. Your + Jack is by no means a bad sort of knight, as knights go nowadays in this + un-idyllic world. There is much solid honesty about him, and he does not + pose. He is not exceptional, I grant you; but, my dear, have you ever + tried the exceptional man? Yes, he is very nice in a drawing-room, and it + is interesting to read about him in the Society papers: you will find most + of his good qualities there: take my advice, don't look into him too + closely. You be content with Jack, and thank heaven he is no worse. We are + not saints, we men—none of us, and our beautiful thoughts, I fear, + we write in poetry not action. The White Knight, my dear young lady, with + his pure soul, his heroic heart, his life's devotion to a noble endeavour, + does not live down here to any great extent. They have tried it, one or + two of them, and the world—you and I: the world is made up of you + and I—has generally starved, and hooted them. There are not many of + them left now: do you think you would care to be the wife of one, + supposing one were to be found for you? Would you care to live with him in + two furnished rooms in Clerkenwell, die with him on a chair bedstead? A + century hence they will put up a statue to him, and you may be honoured as + the wife who shared with him his sufferings. Do you think you are woman + enough for that? If not, thank your stars you have secured, for your own + exclusive use, one of us UNexceptional men, who knows no better than to + admire you. YOU are not exceptional. + </p> + <p> + And in us ordinary men there is some good. It wants finding, that is all. + We are not so commonplace as you think us. Even your Jack, fond of his + dinner, his conversation four-cornered by the Sporting Press—yes, I + agree he is not interesting, as he sits snoring in the easy-chair; but, + believe it or not, there are the makings of a great hero in Jack, if Fate + would but be kinder to him, and shake him out of his ease. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Jekyll contained beneath his ample waist-coat not two egos, but three—not + only Hyde but another, a greater than Jekyll—a man as near to the + angels as Hyde was to the demons. These well-fed City men, these Gaiety + Johnnies, these plough-boys, apothecaries, thieves! within each one lies + hidden the hero, did Fate, the sculptor, choose to use his chisel. That + little drab we have noticed now and then, our way taking us often past the + end of the court, there was nothing by which to distinguish her. She was + not over-clean, could use coarse language on occasion—just the spawn + of the streets: take care lest the cloak of our child should brush her. + </p> + <p> + One morning the district Coroner, not, generally speaking, a poet himself, + but an adept at discovering poetry buried under unlikely rubbish-heaps, + tells us more about her. She earned six shillings a week, and upon it + supported a bed-ridden mother and three younger children. She was + housewife, nurse, mother, breadwinner, rolled into one. Yes, there are + heroines OUT of fiction. + </p> + <p> + So loutish Tom has won the Victoria Cross—dashed out under a storm + of bullets and rescued the riddled flag. Who would have thought it of + loutish Tom? The village alehouse one always deemed the goal of his + endeavours. Chance comes to Tom and we find him out. To Harry the Fates + were less kind. A ne'er-do-well was Harry—drank, knocked his wife + about, they say. Bury him, we are well rid of him, he was good for + nothing. Are we sure? + </p> + <p> + Let us acknowledge we are sinners. We know, those of us who dare to + examine ourselves, that we are capable of every meanness, of every wrong + under the sun. It is by the accident of circumstance, aided by the helpful + watchfulness of the policeman, that our possibilities of crime are known + only to ourselves. But having acknowledged our evil, let us also + acknowledge that we are capable of greatness. The martyrs who faced death + and torture unflinchingly for conscience' sake, were men and women like + ourselves. They had their wrong side. Before the small trials of daily + life they no doubt fell as we fall. By no means were they the pick of + humanity. Thieves many of them had been, and murderers, evil-livers, and + evil-doers. But the nobility was there also, lying dormant, and their day + came. Among them must have been men who had cheated their neighbours over + the counter; men who had been cruel to their wives and children; selfish, + scandal-mongering women. In easier times their virtue might never have + been known to any but their Maker. + </p> + <p> + In every age and in every period, when and where Fate has called upon men + and women to play the man, human nature has not been found wanting. They + were a poor lot, those French aristocrats that the Terror seized: + cowardly, selfish, greedy had been their lives. Yet there must have been + good, even in them. When the little things that in their little lives they + had thought so great were swept away from them, when they found themselves + face to face with the realities; then even they played the man. Poor + shuffling Charles the First, crusted over with weakness and folly, deep + down in him at last we find the great gentleman. + </p> + <p> + I like to hear stories of the littleness of great men. I like to think + that Shakespeare was fond of his glass. I even cling to the tale of that + disgraceful final orgie with friend Ben Jonson. Possibly the story may not + be true, but I hope it was. I like to think of him as poacher, as village + ne'er-do-well, denounced by the local grammar-school master, preached at + by the local J. P. of the period. I like to reflect that Cromwell had a + wart on his nose; the thought makes me more contented with my own + features. I like to think that he put sweets upon the chairs, to see + finely-dressed ladies spoil their frocks; to tell myself that he roared + with laughter at the silly jest, like any East End 'Arry with his Bank + Holiday squirt of dirty water. I like to read that Carlyle threw bacon at + his wife and occasionally made himself highly ridiculous over small + annoyances, that would have been smiled at by a man of well-balanced mind. + I think of the fifty foolish things a week <i>I</i> do, and say to myself, + "I, too, am a literary man." + </p> + <p> + I like to think that even Judas had his moments of nobility, his good + hours when he would willingly have laid down his life for his Master. + Perhaps even to him there came, before the journey's end, the memory of a + voice saying—"Thy sins be forgiven thee." There must have been good, + even in Judas. + </p> + <p> + Virtue lies like the gold in quartz, there is not very much of it, and + much pains has to be spent on the extracting of it. But Nature seems to + think it worth her while to fashion these huge useless stones, if in them + she may hide away her precious metals. Perhaps, also, in human nature, she + cares little for the mass of dross, provided that by crushing and + cleansing she can extract from it a little gold, sufficient to repay her + for the labour of the world. We wonder why she troubles to make the stone. + Why cannot the gold lie in nuggets on the surface? But her methods are + secrets to us. Perchance there is a reason for the quartz. Perchance there + is a reason for the evil and folly, through which run, unseen to the + careless eye, the tiny veins of virtue. + </p> + <p> + Aye, the stone predominates, but the gold is there. We claim to have it + valued. The evil that there is in man no tongue can tell. We are vile + among the vile, a little evil people. But we are great. Pile up the bricks + of our sins till the tower knocks at Heaven's gate, calling for vengeance, + yet we are great—with a greatness and a virtue that the untempted + angels may not reach to. The written history of the human race, it is one + long record of cruelty, of falsehood, of oppression. Think you the world + would be spinning round the sun unto this day, if that written record were + all? Sodom, God would have spared had there been found ten righteous men + within its walls. The world is saved by its just men. History sees them + not; she is but the newspaper, a report of accidents. Judge you life by + that? Then you shall believe that the true Temple of Hymen is the Divorce + Court; that men are of two classes only, the thief and the policeman; that + all noble thought is but a politician's catchword. History sees only the + destroying conflagrations, she takes no thought of the sweet fire-sides. + History notes the wrong; but the patient suffering, the heroic endeavour, + that, slowly and silently, as the soft processes of Nature re-clothing + with verdure the passion-wasted land, obliterate that wrong, she has no + eyes for. In the days of cruelty and oppression—not altogether yet + of the past, one fears—must have lived gentle-hearted men and women, + healing with their help and sympathy the wounds that else the world had + died of. After the thief, riding with jingle of sword and spur, comes, + mounted on his ass, the good Samaritan. The pyramid of the world's evil—God + help us! it rises high, shutting out almost the sun. But the record of + man's good deeds, it lies written in the laughter of the children, in the + light of lovers' eyes, in the dreams of the young men; it shall not be + forgotten. The fires of persecution served as torches to show Heaven the + heroism that was in man. From the soil of tyranny sprang self-sacrifice, + and daring for the Right. Cruelty! what is it but the vile manure, making + the ground ready for the flowers of tenderness and pity? Hate and Anger + shriek to one another across the ages, but the voices of Love and Comfort + are none the less existent that they speak in whispers, lips to ear. + </p> + <p> + We have done wrong, oh, ye witnessing Heavens, but we have done good. We + claim justice. We have laid down our lives for our friends: greater love + hath no man than this. We have fought for the Right. We have died for the + Truth—as the Truth seemed to us. We have done noble deeds; we have + lived noble lives; we have comforted the sorrowful; we have succoured the + weak. Failing, falling, making in our blindness many a false step, yet we + have striven. For the sake of the army of just men and true, for the sake + of the myriads of patient, loving women, for the sake of the pitiful and + helpful, for the sake of the good that lies hidden within us,—spare + us, O Lord. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE MOTHERLINESS OF MAN + </h2> + <p> + It was only a piece of broken glass. From its shape and colour, I should + say it had, in its happier days, formed portion of a cheap scent-bottle. + Lying isolated on the grass, shone upon by the early morning sun, it + certainly appeared at its best. It attracted him. + </p> + <p> + He cocked his head, and looked at it with his right eye. Then he hopped + round to the other side, and looked at it with his left eye. With either + optic it seemed equally desirable. + </p> + <p> + That he was an inexperienced young rook goes without saying. An older bird + would not have given a second glance to the thing. Indeed, one would have + thought his own instinct might have told him that broken glass would be a + mistake in a bird's nest. But its glitter drew him too strongly for + resistance. I am inclined to suspect that at some time, during the growth + of his family tree, there must have occurred a mesalliance, perhaps worse. + Possibly a strain of magpie blood?—one knows the character of + magpies, or rather their lack of character—and such things have + happened. But I will not pursue further so painful a train: I throw out + the suggestion as a possible explanation, that is all. + </p> + <p> + He hopped nearer. Was it a sweet illusion, this flashing fragment of + rainbow; a beautiful vision to fade upon approach, typical of so much that + is un-understandable in rook life? He made a dart forward and tapped it + with his beak. No, it was real—as fine a lump of jagged green glass + as any newly-married rook could desire, and to be had for the taking. SHE + would be pleased with it. He was a well-meaning bird; the mere upward + inclination of his tail suggested earnest though possibly ill-directed + endeavour. + </p> + <p> + He turned it over. It was an awkward thing to carry; it had so very many + corners. But he succeeded at last in getting it firmly between his beak, + and in haste, lest some other bird should seek to dispute with him its + possession, at once flew off with it. + </p> + <p> + A second rook who had been watching the proceedings from the lime tree, + called to a third who was passing. Even with my limited knowledge of the + language I found it easy to follow the conversation: it was so obvious. + </p> + <p> + "Issachar!" + </p> + <p> + "Hallo!" + </p> + <p> + "What do you think? Zebulan's found a piece of broken bottle. He's going + to line his nest with it." + </p> + <p> + "No!" + </p> + <p> + "God's truth. Look at him. There he goes, he's got it in his beak." + </p> + <p> + "Well, I'm ——!" + </p> + <p> + And they both burst into a laugh. + </p> + <p> + But Zebulan heeded them not. If he overheard, he probably put down the + whole dialogue to jealousy. He made straight for his tree. By standing + with my left cheek pressed close against the window-pane, I was able to + follow him. He is building in what we call the Paddock elms—a suburb + commenced only last season, but rapidly growing. I wanted to see what his + wife would say. + </p> + <p> + At first she said nothing. He laid it carefully down on the branch near + the half-finished nest, and she stretched up her head and looked at it. + </p> + <p> + Then she looked at him. For about a minute neither spoke. I could see that + the situation was becoming strained. When she did open her beak, it was + with a subdued tone, that had a vein of weariness running through it. + </p> + <p> + "What is it?" she asked. + </p> + <p> + He was evidently chilled by her manner. As I have explained, he is an + inexperienced young rook. This is clearly his first wife, and he stands + somewhat in awe of her. + </p> + <p> + "Well, I don't exactly know what it's CALLED," he answered. + </p> + <p> + "Oh." + </p> + <p> + "No. But it's pretty, isn't it?" he added. He moved it, trying to get it + where the sun might reach it. It was evident he was admitting to himself + that, seen in the shade, it lost much of its charm. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, yes; very pretty," was the rejoinder; "perhaps you'll tell me what + you're going to do with it." + </p> + <p> + The question further discomforted him. It was growing upon him that this + thing was not going to be the success he had anticipated. It would be + necessary to proceed warily. + </p> + <p> + "Of course, it's not a twig," he began. + </p> + <p> + "I see it isn't." + </p> + <p> + "No. You see, the nest is nearly all twigs as it is, and I thought—" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, you did think." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, my dear. I thought—unless you are of opinion that it's too + showy—I thought we might work it in somewhere." + </p> + <p> + Then she flared out. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, did you? You thought that a good idea. An A1 prize idiot I seem to + have married, I do. You've been gone twenty minutes, and you bring me back + an eight-cornered piece of broken glass, which you think we might 'work + into' the nest. You'd like to see me sitting on it for a month, you would. + You think it would make a nice bed for the children to lie on. You don't + think you could manage to find a packet of mixed pins if you went down + again, I suppose. They'd look pretty 'worked in' somewhere, don't you + think?—Here, get out of my way. I'll finish this nest by myself." + She always had been short with him. + </p> + <p> + She caught up the offending object—it was a fairly heavy lump of + glass—and flung it out of the tree with all her force. I heard it + crash through the cucumber frame. That makes the seventh pane of glass + broken in that cucumber frame this week. The couple in the branch above + are the worst. Their plan of building is the most extravagant, the most + absurd I ever heard of. They hoist up ten times as much material as they + can possibly use; you might think they were going to build a block, and + let it out in flats to the other rooks. Then what they don't want they + fling down again. Suppose we built on such a principle? Suppose a human + husband and wife were to start erecting their house in Piccadilly Circus, + let us say; and suppose the man spent all the day steadily carrying bricks + up the ladder while his wife laid them, never asking her how many she + wanted, whether she didn't think he had brought up sufficient, but just + accumulating bricks in a senseless fashion, bringing up every brick he + could find. And then suppose, when evening came, and looking round, they + found they had some twenty cart-loads of bricks lying unused upon the + scaffold, they were to commence flinging them down into Waterloo Place. + They would get themselves into trouble; somebody would be sure to speak to + them about it. Yet that is precisely what those birds do, and nobody says + a word to them. They are supposed to have a President. He lives by himself + in the yew tree outside the morning-room window. What I want to know is + what he is supposed to be good for. This is the sort of thing I want him + to look into. I would like him to be worming underneath one evening when + those two birds are tidying up: perhaps he would do something then. I have + done all I can. I have thrown stones at them, that, in the course of + nature, have returned to earth again, breaking more glass. I have blazed + at them with a revolver; but they have come to regard this proceeding as a + mere expression of light-heartedness on my part, possibly confusing me + with the Arab of the Desert, who, I am given to understand, expresses + himself thus in moments of deep emotion. They merely retire to a safe + distance to watch me; no doubt regarding me as a poor performer, inasmuch + as I do not also dance and shout between each shot. I have no objection to + their building there, if they only would build sensibly. I want somebody + to speak to them to whom they will pay attention. + </p> + <p> + You can hear them in the evening, discussing the matter of this surplus + stock. + </p> + <p> + "Don't you work any more," he says, as he comes up with the last load, + "you'll tire yourself." + </p> + <p> + "Well, I am feeling a bit done up," she answers, as she hops out of the + nest and straightens her back. + </p> + <p> + "You're a bit peckish, too, I expect," he adds sympathetically. "I know I + am. We will have a scratch down, and be off." + </p> + <p> + "What about all this stuff?" she asks, while titivating herself; "we'd + better not leave it about, it looks so untidy." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, we'll soon get rid of that," he answers. "I'll have that down in a + jiffy." + </p> + <p> + To help him, she seizes a stick and is about to drop it. He darts forward + and snatches it from her. + </p> + <p> + "Don't you waste that one," he cries, "that's a rare one, that is. You see + me hit the old man with it." + </p> + <p> + And he does. What the gardener says, I will leave you to imagine. + </p> + <p> + Judged from its structure, the rook family is supposed to come next in + intelligence to man himself. Judging from the intelligence displayed by + members of certain human families with whom I have come in contact, I can + quite believe it. That rooks talk I am positive. No one can spend + half-an-hour watching a rookery without being convinced of this. Whether + the talk be always wise and witty, I am not prepared to maintain; but that + there is a good deal of it is certain. A young French gentleman of my + acquaintance, who visited England to study the language, told me that the + impression made upon him by his first social evening in London was that of + a parrot-house. Later on, when he came to comprehend, he, of course, + recognized the brilliancy and depth of the average London drawing-room + talk; but that is how, not comprehending, it impressed him at first. + Listening to the riot of a rookery is much the same experience. The + conversation to us sounds meaningless; the rooks themselves would probably + describe it as sparkling. + </p> + <p> + There is a Misanthrope I know who hardly ever goes into Society. I argued + the question with him one day. "Why should I?" he replied; "I know, say, a + dozen men and women with whom intercourse is a pleasure; they have ideas + of their own which they are not afraid to voice. To rub brains with such + is a rare and goodly thing, and I thank Heaven for their friendship; but + they are sufficient for my leisure. What more do I require? What is this + 'Society' of which you all make so much ado? I have sampled it, and I find + it unsatisfying. Analyze it into its elements, what is it? Some person I + know very slightly, who knows me very slightly, asks me to what you call + an 'At Home.' The evening comes, I have done my day's work and I have + dined. I have been to a theatre or concert, or I have spent a pleasant + hour or so with a friend. I am more inclined for bed than anything else, + but I pull myself together, dress, and drive to the house. While I am + taking off my hat and coat in the hall, a man enters I met a few hours ago + at the Club. He is a man I have very little opinion of, and he, probably, + takes a similar view of me. Our minds have no thought in common, but as it + is necessary to talk, I tell him it is a warm evening. Perhaps it is a + warm evening, perhaps it isn't; in either case he agrees with me. I ask + him if he is going to Ascot. I do not care a straw whether he is going to + Ascot or not. He says he is not quite sure, but asks me what chance + Passion Flower has for the Thousand Guineas. I know he doesn't value my + opinion on the subject at a brass farthing—he would be a fool if he + did, but I cudgel my brains to reply to him, as though he were going to + stake his shirt on my advice. We reach the first floor, and are mutually + glad to get rid of one another. I catch my hostess' eye. She looks tired + and worried; she would be happier in bed, only she doesn't know it. She + smiles sweetly, but it is clear she has not the slightest idea who I am, + and is waiting to catch my name from the butler. I whisper it to him. + Perhaps he will get it right, perhaps he won't; it is quite immaterial. + They have asked two hundred and forty guests, some seventy-five of whom + they know by sight, for the rest, any chance passer-by, able, as the + theatrical advertisements say, 'to dress and behave as a gentleman,' would + do every bit as well. Indeed, I sometimes wonder why people go to the + trouble and expense of invitation cards at all. A sandwich-man outside the + door would answer the purpose. 'Lady Tompkins, At Home, this afternoon + from three to seven; Tea and Music. Ladies and Gentlemen admitted on + presentation of visiting card. Afternoon dress indispensable.' The crowd + is the thing wanted; as for the items, well, tell me, what is the + difference, from the Society point of view, between one man in a black + frock-coat and another? + </p> + <p> + "I remember being once invited to a party at a house in Lancaster Gate. I + had met the woman at a picnic. In the same green frock and parasol I might + have recognized her the next time I saw her. In any other clothes I did + not expect to. My cabman took me to the house opposite, where they were + also giving a party. It made no difference to any of us. The hostess—I + never learnt her name—said it was very good of me to come, and then + shunted me off on to a Colonial Premier (I did not catch his name, and he + did not catch mine, which was not extraordinary, seeing that my hostess + did not know it) who, she whispered to me, had come over, from wherever it + was (she did not seem to be very sure) principally to make my + acquaintance. Half through the evening, and by accident, I discovered my + mistake, but judged it too late to say anything then. I met a couple of + people I knew, had a little supper with them, and came away. The next + afternoon I met my right hostess—the lady who should have been my + hostess. She thanked me effusively for having sacrificed the previous + evening to her and her friends; she said she knew how seldom I went out: + that made her feel my kindness all the more. She told me that the + Brazilian Minister's wife had told her that I was the cleverest man she + had ever met. I often think I should like to meet that man, whoever he may + be, and thank him. + </p> + <p> + "But perhaps the butler does pronounce my name rightly, and perhaps my + hostess actually does recognize me. She smiles, and says she was so afraid + I was not coming. She implies that all the other guests are but as a + feather in her scales of joy compared with myself. I smile in return, + wondering to myself how I look when I do smile. I have never had the + courage to face my own smile in the looking-glass. I notice the Society + smile of other men, and it is not reassuring. I murmur something about my + not having been likely to forget this evening; in my turn, seeking to + imply that I have been looking forward to it for weeks. A few men shine at + this sort of thing, but they are a small percentage, and without conceit I + regard myself as no bigger a fool than the average male. Not knowing what + else to say, I tell her also that it is a warm evening. She smiles archly + as though there were some hidden witticism in the remark, and I drift + away, feeling ashamed of myself. To talk as an idiot when you ARE an idiot + brings no discomfort; to behave as an idiot when you have sufficient sense + to know it, is painful. I hide myself in the crowd, and perhaps I'll meet + a woman I was introduced to three weeks ago at a picture gallery. We don't + know each other's names, but, both of us feeling lonesome, we converse, as + it is called. If she be the ordinary type of woman, she asks me if I am + going on to the Johnsons'. I tell her no. We stand silent for a moment, + both thinking what next to say. She asks me if I was at the Thompsons' the + day before yesterday. I again tell her no. I begin to feel dissatisfied + with myself that I was not at the Thompsons'. Trying to get even with her, + I ask her if she is going to the Browns' next Monday. (There are no + Browns, she will have to say, No.) She is not, and her tone suggests that + a social stigma rests upon the Browns. I ask her if she has been to + Barnum's Circus; she hasn't, but is going. I give her my impressions of + Barnum's Circus, which are precisely the impressions of everybody else who + has seen the show. + </p> + <p> + "Or if luck be against me, she is possibly a smart woman, that is to say, + her conversation is a running fire of spiteful remarks at the expense of + every one she knows, and of sneers at the expense of every one she + doesn't. I always feel I could make a better woman myself, out of a bottle + of vinegar and a penn'orth of mixed pins. Yet it usually takes one about + ten minutes to get away from her. + </p> + <p> + "Even when, by chance, one meets a flesh-and-blood man or woman at such + gatherings, it is not the time or place for real conversation; and as for + the shadows, what person in their senses would exhaust a single brain cell + upon such? I remember a discussion once concerning Tennyson, considered as + a social item. The dullest and most densely-stupid bore I ever came across + was telling how he had sat next to Tennyson at dinner. 'I found him a most + uninteresting man,' so he confided to us; 'he had nothing to say for + himself—absolutely nothing.' I should like to resuscitate Dr. Samuel + Johnson for an evening, and throw him into one of these 'At Homes' of + yours." + </p> + <p> + My friend is an admitted misanthrope, as I have explained; but one cannot + dismiss him as altogether unjust. That there is a certain mystery about + Society's craving for Society must be admitted. I stood one evening trying + to force my way into the supper room of a house in Berkeley Square. A + lady, hot and weary, a few yards in front of me was struggling to the same + goal. + </p> + <p> + "Why," remarked she to her companion, "why do we come to these places, and + fight like a Bank Holiday crowd for eighteenpenny-worth of food?" + </p> + <p> + "We come here," replied the man, whom I judged to be a philosopher, "to + say we've been here." + </p> + <p> + I met A——- the other evening, and asked him to dine with me on + Monday. I don't know why I ask A——- to dine with me, but about + once a month I do. He is an uninteresting man. + </p> + <p> + "I can't," he said, "I've got to go to the B——-s'; confounded + nuisance, it will be infernally dull." + </p> + <p> + "Why go?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "I really don't know," he replied. + </p> + <p> + A little later B——- met me, and asked me to dine with him on + Monday. + </p> + <p> + "I can't," I answered, "some friends are coming to us that evening. It's a + duty dinner, you know the sort of thing." + </p> + <p> + "I wish you could have managed it," he said, "I shall have no one to talk + to. The A——-s are coming, and they bore me to death." + </p> + <p> + "Why do you ask him?" I suggested. + </p> + <p> + "Upon my word, I really don't know," he replied. + </p> + <p> + But to return to our rooks. We were speaking of their social instincts. + Some dozen of them—the "scallywags" and bachelors of the community, + I judge them to be—have started a Club. For a month past I have been + trying to understand what the affair was. Now I know: it is a Club. + </p> + <p> + And for their Club House they have chosen, of course, the tree nearest my + bedroom window. I can guess how that came about; it was my own fault, I + never thought of it. About two months ago, a single rook—suffering + from indigestion or an unhappy marriage, I know not—chose this tree + one night for purposes of reflection. He woke me up: I felt angry. I + opened the window, and threw an empty soda-water bottle at him. Of course + it did not hit him, and finding nothing else to throw, I shouted at him, + thinking to frighten him away. He took no notice, but went on talking to + himself. I shouted louder, and woke up my own dog. The dog barked + furiously, and woke up most things within a quarter of a mile. I had to go + down with a boot-jack—the only thing I could find handy—to + soothe the dog. Two hours later I fell asleep from exhaustion. I left the + rook still cawing. + </p> + <p> + The next night he came again. I should say he was a bird with a sense of + humour. Thinking this might happen, I had, however, taken the precaution + to have a few stones ready. I opened the window wide, and fired them one + after another into the tree. After I had closed the window, he hopped down + nearer, and cawed louder than ever. I think he wanted me to throw more + stones at him: he appeared to regard the whole proceeding as a game. On + the third night, as I heard nothing of him, I flattered myself that, in + spite of his bravado, I had discouraged him. I might have known rooks + better. + </p> + <p> + What happened when the Club was being formed, I take it, was this: + </p> + <p> + "Where shall we fix upon for our Club House?" said the secretary, all + other points having been disposed of. One suggested this tree, another + suggested that. Then up spoke this particular rook: + </p> + <p> + "I'll tell you where," said he, "in the yew tree opposite the porch. And + I'll tell you for why. Just about an hour before dawn a man comes to the + window over the porch, dressed in the most comical costume you ever set + eyes upon. I'll tell you what he reminds me of—those little statues + that men use for decorating fields. He opens the window, and throws a lot + of things out upon the lawn, and then he dances and sings. It's awfully + interesting, and you can see it all from the yew tree." + </p> + <p> + That, I am convinced, is how the Club came to fix upon the tree next my + window. I have had the satisfaction of denying them the exhibition they + anticipated, and I cheer myself with the hope that they have visited their + disappointment upon their misleader. + </p> + <p> + There is a difference between Rook Clubs and ours. In our clubs the + respectable members arrive early, and leave at a reasonable hour; in Rook + Clubs, it would appear, this principle is reversed. The Mad Hatter would + have liked this Club—it would have been a club after his own heart. + It opens at half-past two in the morning, and the first to arrive are the + most disreputable members. In Rook-land the rowdy-dowdy, randy-dandy, + rollicky-ranky boys get up very early in the morning and go to bed in the + afternoon. Towards dawn, the older, more orderly members drop in for + reasonable talk, and the Club becomes more respectable. The tree closes + about six. For the first two hours, however, the goings-on are + disgraceful. The proceedings, as often as not, open with a fight. If no + two gentlemen can be found to oblige with a fight, the next noisiest thing + to fall back upon is held to be a song. It is no satisfaction to me to be + told that rooks cannot sing. <i>I</i> know that, without the trouble of + referring to the natural history book. It is the rook who does not know + it; HE thinks he can; and as a matter of fact, he does. You can criticize + his singing, you can call it what you like, but you can't stop it—at + least, that is my experience. The song selected is sure to be one with a + chorus. Towards the end it becomes mainly chorus, unless the soloist be an + extra powerful bird, determined to insist upon his rights. + </p> + <p> + The President knows nothing of this Club. He gets up himself about seven—three + hours after all the others have finished breakfast—and then fusses + round under the impression that he is waking up the colony, the fat-headed + old fool. He is the poorest thing in Presidents I have ever heard of. A + South American Republic would supply a better article. The rooks + themselves, the married majority, fathers of families, respectable + nestholders, are as indignant as I am. I hear complaints from all + quarters. + </p> + <p> + Reflection comes to one as, towards the close of these chill afternoons in + early spring, one leans upon the paddock gate watching the noisy bustling + in the bare elms. + </p> + <p> + So the earth is growing green again, and love is come again unto the + hearts of us old sober-coated fellows. Oh, Madam, your feathers gleam + wondrous black, and your bonnie bright eye stabs deep. Come, sit by our + side, and we'll tell you a tale such as rook never told before. It's the + tale of a nest in a topmost bough, that sways in the good west wind. It's + strong without, but it's soft within, where the little green eggs lie + safe. And there sits in that nest a lady sweet, and she caws with joy, + for, afar, she sees the rook she loves the best. Oh, he has been east, and + he has been west, and his crop it is full of worms and slugs, and they are + all for her. + </p> + <p> + We are old, old rooks, so many of us. The white is mingling with the + purple black upon our breasts. We have seen these tall elms grow from + saplings; we have seen the old trees fall and die. Yet each season come to + us again the young thoughts. So we mate and build and gather that again + our old, old hearts may quiver to the thin cry of our newborn. + </p> + <p> + Mother Nature has but one care, the children. We talk of Love as the Lord + of Life: it is but the Minister. Our novels end where Nature's tale + begins. The drama that our curtain falls upon, is but the prologue to her + play. How the ancient Dame must laugh as she listens to the prattle of her + children. "Is Marriage a Failure?" "Is Life worth Living?" "The New Woman + versus the Old." So, perhaps, the waves of the Atlantic discuss vehemently + whether they shall flow east or west. + </p> + <p> + Motherhood is the law of the Universe. The whole duty of man is to be a + mother. We labour: to what end? the children—the woman in the home, + the man in the community. The nation takes thought for its future: why? In + a few years its statesmen, its soldiers, its merchants, its toilers, will + be gathered unto their fathers. Why trouble we ourselves about the future? + The country pours its blood and treasure into the earth that the children + may reap. Foolish Jacques Bonhomie, his addled brain full of dreams, + rushes with bloody hands to give his blood for Liberty, Equality, + Fraternity. He will not live to see, except in vision, the new world he + gives his bones to build—even his spinning word-whipped head knows + that. But the children! they shall live sweeter lives. The peasant leaves + his fireside to die upon the battle-field. What is it to him, a grain in + the human sand, that Russia should conquer the East, that Germany should + be united, that the English flag should wave above new lands? the heritage + his fathers left him shall be greater for his sons. Patriotism! what is it + but the mother instinct of a people? + </p> + <p> + Take it that the decree has gone forth from Heaven: There shall be no more + generations, with this life the world shall die. Think you we should move + another hand? The ships would rot in the harbours, the grain would rot in + the ground. Should we paint pictures, write books, make music? hemmed in + by that onward creeping sea of silence. Think you with what eyes husband + and wife would look on one another. Think you of the wooing—the + spring of Love dried up; love only a pool of stagnant water. + </p> + <p> + How little we seem to realize this foundation of our life. Herein, if + nowhere else, lies our eternity. This Ego shall never die—unless the + human race from beginning to end be but a passing jest of the Gods, to be + swept aside when wearied of, leaving room for new experiments. These + features of mine—we will not discuss their aesthetic value—shall + never disappear; modified, varied, but in essential the same, they shall + continue in ever increasing circles to the end of Time. This temperament + of mine—this good and evil that is in me, it shall grow with every + age, spreading ever wider, combining, amalgamating. I go into my children + and my children's children, I am eternal. I am they, they are I. The tree + withers and you clear the ground, thankful if out of its dead limbs you + can make good firewood; but its spirit, its life, is in fifty saplings. + The tree dies not, it changes. + </p> + <p> + These men and women that pass me in the street, this one hurrying to his + office, this one to his club, another to his love, they are the mothers of + the world to come. + </p> + <p> + This greedy trickster in stocks and shares, he cheats, he lies, he wrongs + all men—for what? Follow him to his luxurious home in the suburbs: + what do you find? A man with children on his knee, telling them stories, + promising them toys. His anxious, sordid life, for what object is it + lived? That these children may possess the things that he thinks good for + them. Our very vices, side by side with our virtues, spring from this one + root, Motherhood. It is the one seed of the Universe. The planets are but + children of the sun, the moon but an offspring of the earth, stone of her + stone, iron of her iron. What is the Great Centre of us all, life animate + and inanimate—if any life be inanimate? Is the eternal universe one + dim figure, Motherhood, filling all space? + </p> + <p> + This scheming Mother of Mayfair, angling for a rich son-in-law! Not a + pleasing portrait to look upon, from one point of view. Let us look at it, + for a moment, from another. How weary she must be! This is her third + "function" to-night; the paint is running off her poor face. She has been + snubbed a dozen times by her social superiors, openly insulted by a + Duchess; yet she bears it with a patient smile. It is a pitiful ambition, + hers: it is that her child shall marry money, shall have carriages and + many servants, live in Park Lane, wear diamonds, see her name in the + Society Papers. At whatever cost to herself, her daughter shall, if + possible, enjoy these things. She could so much more comfortably go to + bed, and leave the child to marry some well-to-do commercial traveller. + Justice, Reader, even for such. Her sordid scheming is but the deformed + child of Motherhood. + </p> + <p> + Motherhood! it is the gamut of God's orchestra, savageness and cruelty at + the one end, tenderness and self-sacrifice at the other. + </p> + <p> + The sparrow-hawk fights the hen: he seeking food for his brood, she + defending hers with her life. The spider sucks the fly to feed its myriad + young; the cat tortures the mouse to give its still throbbing carcase to + her kittens, and man wrongs man for children's sake. Perhaps when the riot + of the world reaches us whole, not broken, we shall learn it is a harmony, + each jangling discord fallen into its place around the central theme, + Motherhood. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE INADVISABILITY OF FOLLOWING ADVICE + </h2> + <p> + I was pacing the Euston platform late one winter's night, waiting for the + last train to Watford, when I noticed a man cursing an automatic machine. + Twice he shook his fist at it. I expected every moment to see him strike + it. Naturally curious, I drew near softly. I wanted to catch what he was + saying. However, he heard my approaching footsteps, and turned on me. "Are + you the man," said he, "who was here just now?" + </p> + <p> + "Just where?" I replied. I had been pacing up and down the platform for + about five minutes. + </p> + <p> + "Why here, where we are standing," he snapped out. "Where do you think + 'here' is—over there?" He seemed irritable. + </p> + <p> + "I may have passed this spot in the course of my peregrinations, if that + is what you mean," I replied. I spoke with studied politeness; my idea was + to rebuke his rudeness. + </p> + <p> + "I mean," he answered, "are you the man that spoke to me, just a minute + ago?" + </p> + <p> + "I am not that man," I said; "good-night." + </p> + <p> + "Are you sure?" he persisted. + </p> + <p> + "One is not likely to forget talking to you," I retorted. + </p> + <p> + His tone had been most offensive. "I beg your pardon," he replied + grudgingly. "I thought you looked like the man who spoke to me a minute or + so ago." + </p> + <p> + I felt mollified; he was the only other man on the platform, and I had a + quarter of an hour to wait. "No, it certainly wasn't me," I returned + genially, but ungrammatically. "Why, did you want him?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I did," he answered. "I put a penny in the slot here," he continued, + feeling apparently the need of unburdening himself: "wanted a box of + matches. I couldn't get anything put, and I was shaking the machine, and + swearing at it, as one does, when there came along a man, about your size, + and—you're SURE it wasn't you?" + </p> + <p> + "Positive," I again ungrammatically replied; "I would tell you if it had + been. What did he do?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, he saw what had happened, or guessed it. He said, 'They are + troublesome things, those machines; they want understanding.' I said, + 'They want taking up and flinging into the sea, that's what they want!' I + was feeling mad because I hadn't a match about me, and I use a lot. He + said, 'They stick sometimes; the thing to do is to put another penny in; + the weight of the first penny is not always sufficient. The second penny + loosens the drawer and tumbles out itself; so that you get your purchase + together with your first penny back again. I have often succeeded that + way.' Well, it seemed a silly explanation, but he talked as if he had been + weaned by an automatic machine, and I was sawney enough to listen to him. + I dropped in what I thought was another penny. I have just discovered it + was a two-shilling piece. The fool was right to a certain extent; I have + got something out. I have got this." + </p> + <p> + He held it towards me; I looked at it. It was a packet of Everton toffee. + </p> + <p> + "Two and a penny," he remarked, bitterly. "I'll sell it for a third of + what it cost me." + </p> + <p> + "You have put your money into the wrong machine," I suggested. + </p> + <p> + "Well, I know that!" he answered, a little crossly, as it seemed to me—he + was not a nice man: had there been any one else to talk to I should have + left him. "It isn't losing the money I mind so much; it's getting this + damn thing, that annoys me. If I could find that idiot Id ram it down his + throat." + </p> + <p> + We walked to the end of the platform, side by side, in silence. + </p> + <p> + "There are people like that," he broke out, as we turned, "people who will + go about, giving advice. I'll be getting six months over one of them, I'm + always afraid. I remember a pony I had once." (I judged the man to be a + small farmer; he talked in a wurzelly tone. I don't know if you understand + what I mean, but an atmosphere of wurzels was the thing that somehow he + suggested.) "It was a thoroughbred Welsh pony, as sound a little beast as + ever stepped. I'd had him out to grass all the winter, and one day in the + early spring I thought I'd take him for a run. I had to go to Amersham on + business. I put him into the cart, and drove him across; it is just ten + miles from my place. He was a bit uppish, and had lathered himself pretty + freely by the time we reached the town. + </p> + <p> + "A man was at the door of the hotel. He says, 'That's a good pony of + yours.' + </p> + <p> + "'Pretty middling,' I says. + </p> + <p> + "'It doesn't do to over-drive 'em, when they're young,' he says. + </p> + <p> + "I says, 'He's done ten miles, and I've done most of the pulling. I reckon + I'm a jolly sight more exhausted than he is. + </p> + <p> + "I went inside and did my business, and when I came out the man was still + there. 'Going back up the hill?' he says to me. + </p> + <p> + "Somehow, I didn't cotton to him from the beginning. 'Well, I've got to + get the other side of it,' I says, 'and unless you know any patent way of + getting over a hill without going up it, I reckon I am.' + </p> + <p> + "He says, 'You take my advice: give him a pint of old ale before you + start.' + </p> + <p> + "'Old ale,' I says; 'why he's a teetotaler.' + </p> + <p> + "'Never you mind that,' he answers; 'you give him a pint of old ale. I + know these ponies; he's a good 'un, but he ain't set. A pint of old ale, + and he'll take you up that hill like a cable tramway, and not hurt + himself.' + </p> + <p> + "I don't know what it is about this class of man. One asks oneself + afterwards why one didn't knock his hat over his eyes and run his head + into the nearest horse-trough. But at the time one listens to them. I got + a pint of old ale in a hand-bowl, and brought it out. About half-a-dozen + chaps were standing round, and of course there was a good deal of chaff. + </p> + <p> + "'You're starting him on the downward course, Jim,' says one of them. + 'He'll take to gambling, rob a bank, and murder his mother. That's always + the result of a glass of ale, 'cording to the tracts.' + </p> + <p> + "'He won't drink it like that,' says another; 'it's as flat as ditch + water. Put a head on it for him.' + </p> + <p> + "'Ain't you got a cigar for him?' says a third. + </p> + <p> + "'A cup of coffee and a round of buttered toast would do him a sight more + good, a cold day like this,' says a fourth. + </p> + <p> + "I'd half a mind then to throw the stuff away, or drink it myself; it + seemed a piece of bally nonsense, giving good ale to a four-year-old pony; + but the moment the beggar smelt the bowl he reached out his head, and + lapped it up as though he'd been a Christian; and I jumped into the cart + and started off, amid cheers. We got up the hill pretty steady. Then the + liquor began to work into his head. I've taken home a drunken man more + than once and there's pleasanter jobs than that. I've seen a drunken + woman, and they're worse. But a drunken Welsh pony I never want to have + anything more to do with so long as I live. Having four legs he managed to + hold himself up; but as to guiding himself, he couldn't; and as for + letting me do it, he wouldn't. First we were one side of the road, and + then we were the other. When we were not either side, we were crossways in + the middle. I heard a bicycle bell behind me, but I dared not turn my + head. All I could do was to shout to the fellow to keep where he was. + </p> + <p> + "'I want to pass you,' he sang out, so soon as he was near enough. + </p> + <p> + "'Well, you can't do it,' I called back. + </p> + <p> + "'Why can't I?' he answered. 'How much of the road do YOU want?' + </p> + <p> + "'All of it and a bit over,' I answered him, 'for this job, and nothing in + the way.' + </p> + <p> + "He followed me for half-a-mile, abusing me; and every time he thought he + saw a chance he tried to pass me. But the pony was always a bit too smart + for him. You might have thought the brute was doing it on purpose. + </p> + <p> + "'You're not fit to be driving,' he shouted. He was quite right; I wasn't. + I was feeling just about dead beat. + </p> + <p> + "'What do you think you are?' he continued, 'the charge of the Light + Brigade?' (He was a common sort of fellow.) 'Who sent YOU home with the + washing?' + </p> + <p> + "Well, he was making me wild by this time. 'What's the good of talking to + me?' I shouted back. 'Come and blackguard the pony if you want to + blackguard anybody. I've got all I can do without the help of that alarm + clock of yours. Go away, you're only making him worse.' + </p> + <p> + "'What's the matter with the pony?' he called out. + </p> + <p> + "'Can't you see?' I answered. 'He's drunk.' + </p> + <p> + "Well, of course it sounded foolish; the truth often does. + </p> + <p> + "'One of you's drunk,' he retorted; 'for two pins I'd come and haul you + out of the cart.' + </p> + <p> + "I wish to goodness he had; I'd have given something to be out of that + cart. But he didn't have the chance. At that moment the pony gave a sudden + swerve; and I take it he must have been a bit too close. I heard a yell + and a curse, and at the same instant I was splashed from head to foot with + ditch water. Then the brute bolted. A man was coming along, asleep on the + top of a cart-load of windsor chairs. It's disgraceful the way those + wagoners go to sleep; I wonder there are not more accidents. I don't think + he ever knew what had happened to him. I couldn't look round to see what + became of him; I only saw him start. Half-way down the hill a policeman + holla'd to me to stop. I heard him shouting out something about furious + driving. Half-a-mile this side of Chesham we came upon a girls' school + walking two and two—a 'crocodile' they call it, I think. I bet you + those girls are still talking about it. It must have taken the old woman a + good hour to collect them together again. + </p> + <p> + "It was market-day in Chesham; and I guess there has not been a busier + market-day in Chesham before or since. We went through the town at about + thirty miles an hour. I've never seen Chesham so lively—it's a + sleepy hole as a rule. A mile outside the town I sighted the High Wycombe + coach. I didn't feel I minded much; I had got to that pass when it didn't + seem to matter to me what happened; I only felt curious. A dozen yards off + the coach the pony stopped dead; that jerked me off the seat to the bottom + of the cart. I couldn't get up, because the seat was on top of me. I could + see nothing but the sky, and occasionally the head of the pony, when he + stood upon his hind legs. But I could hear what the driver of the coach + said, and I judged he was having trouble also. + </p> + <p> + "'Take that damn circus out of the road,' he shouted. If he'd had any + sense he'd have seen how helpless I was. I could hear his cattle plunging + about; they are like that, horses—if they see one fool, then they + all want to be fools. + </p> + <p> + "'Take it home, and tie it up to its organ,' shouted the guard. + </p> + <p> + "Then an old woman went into hysterics, and began laughing like an hyena. + That started the pony off again, and, as far as I could calculate by + watching the clouds, we did about another four miles at the gallop. Then + he thought he'd try to jump a gate, and finding, I suppose, that the cart + hampered him, he started kicking it to pieces. I'd never have thought a + cart could have been separated into so many pieces, if I hadn't seen it + done. When he had got rid of everything but half a wheel and the + splashboard he bolted again. I remained behind with the other ruins, and + glad I was to get a little rest. He came back later in the afternoon, and + I was pleased to sell him the next week for a five-pound-note: it cost me + about another ten to repair myself. + </p> + <p> + "To this day I am chaffed about that pony, and the local temperance + society made a lecture out of me. That's what comes of following advice." + </p> + <p> + I sympathized with him. I have suffered from advice myself. I have a + friend, a City man, whom I meet occasionally. One of his most ardent + passions in life is to make my fortune. He button-holes me in Threadneedle + Street. "The very man I wanted to see," he says; "I'm going to let you in + for a good thing. We are getting up a little syndicate." He is for ever + "getting up" a little syndicate, and for every hundred pounds you put into + it you take a thousand out. Had I gone into all his little syndicates, I + could have been worth at the present moment, I reckon, two million five + hundred thousand pounds. But I have not gone into all his little + syndicates. I went into one, years ago, when I was younger. I am still in + it; my friend is confident that my holding, later on, will yield me + thousands. Being, however, hard-up for ready money, I am willing to part + with my share to any deserving person at a genuine reduction, upon a cash + basis. Another friend of mine knows another man who is "in the know" as + regards racing matters. I suppose most people possess a friend of this + type. He is generally very popular just before a race, and extremely + unpopular immediately afterwards. A third benefactor of mine is an + enthusiast upon the subject of diet. One day he brought me something in a + packet, and pressed it into my hand with the air of a man who is relieving + you of all your troubles. + </p> + <p> + "What is it?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "Open it and see," he answered, in the tone of a pantomime fairy. + </p> + <p> + I opened it and looked, but I was no wiser. + </p> + <p> + "It's tea," he explained. + </p> + <p> + "Oh!" I replied; "I was wondering if it could be snuff." + </p> + <p> + "Well, it's not exactly tea," he continued, "it's a sort of tea. You take + one cup of that—one cup, and you will never care for any other kind + of tea again." + </p> + <p> + He was quite right, I took one cup. After drinking it I felt I didn't care + for any other tea. I felt I didn't care for anything, except to die + quietly and inoffensively. He called on me a week later. + </p> + <p> + "You remember that tea I gave you?" he said. + </p> + <p> + "Distinctly," I answered; "I've got the taste of it in my mouth now." + </p> + <p> + "Did it upset you?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "It annoyed me at the time," I answered; "but that's all over now." + </p> + <p> + He seemed thoughtful. "You were quite correct," he answered; "it WAS + snuff, a very special snuff, sent me all the way from India." + </p> + <p> + "I can't say I liked it," I replied. + </p> + <p> + "A stupid mistake of mine," he went on—"I must have mixed up the + packets!" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, accidents will happen," I said, "and you won't make another mistake, + I feel sure; so far as I am concerned." + </p> + <p> + We can all give advice. I had the honour once of serving an old gentleman + whose profession it was to give legal advice, and excellent legal advice + he always gave. In common with most men who know the law, he had little + respect for it. I have heard him say to a would-be litigant— + </p> + <p> + "My dear sir, if a villain stopped me in the street and demanded of me my + watch and chain, I should refuse to give it to him. If he thereupon said, + 'Then I shall take it from you by brute force,' I should, old as I am, I + feel convinced, reply to him, 'Come on.' But if, on the other hand, he + were to say to me, 'Very well, then I shall take proceedings against you + in the Court of Queen's Bench to compel you to give it up to me,' I should + at once take it from my pocket, press it into his hand, and beg of him to + say no more about the matter. And I should consider I was getting off + cheaply." + </p> + <p> + Yet that same old gentleman went to law himself with his next-door + neighbour over a dead poll parrot that wasn't worth sixpence to anybody, + and spent from first to last a hundred pounds, if he spent a penny. + </p> + <p> + "I know I'm a fool," he confessed. "I have no positive proof that it WAS + his cat; but I'll make him pay for calling me an Old Bailey Attorney, + hanged if I don't!" + </p> + <p> + We all know how the pudding OUGHT to be made. We do not profess to be able + to make it: that is not our business. Our business is to criticize the + cook. It seems our business to criticize so many things that it is not our + business to do. We are all critics nowadays. I have my opinion of you, + Reader, and you possibly have your own opinion of me. I do not seek to + know it; personally, I prefer the man who says what he has to say of me + behind my back. I remember, when on a lecturing tour, the ground-plan of + the hall often necessitated my mingling with the audience as they streamed + out. This never happened but I would overhear somebody in front of me + whisper to his or her companion—"Take care, he's just behind you." I + always felt so grateful to that whisperer. + </p> + <p> + At a Bohemian Club, I was once drinking coffee with a Novelist, who + happened to be a broad-shouldered, athletic man. A fellow-member, joining + us, said to the Novelist, "I have just finished that last book of yours; + I'll tell you my candid opinion of it." Promptly replied the Novelist, "I + give you fair warning—if you do, I shall punch your head." We never + heard that candid opinion. + </p> + <p> + Most of our leisure time we spend sneering at one another. It is a wonder, + going about as we do with our noses so high in the air, we do not walk off + this little round world into space, all of us. The Masses sneer at the + Classes. The morals of the Classes are shocking. If only the Classes would + consent as a body to be taught behaviour by a Committee of the Masses, how + very much better it would be for them. If only the Classes would neglect + their own interests and devote themselves to the welfare of the Masses, + the Masses would be more pleased with them. + </p> + <p> + The Classes sneer at the Masses. If only the Masses would follow the + advice given them by the Classes; if only they would be thrifty on their + ten shillings a week; if only they would all be teetotalers, or drink old + claret, which is not intoxicating; if only all the girls would be domestic + servants on five pounds a year, and not waste their money on feathers; if + only the men would be content to work for fourteen hours a day, and to + sing in tune, "God bless the Squire and his relations," and would consent + to be kept in their proper stations, all things would go swimmingly—for + the Classes. + </p> + <p> + The New Woman pooh-poohs the Old; the Old Woman is indignant with the New. + The Chapel denounces the Stage; the Stage ridicules Little Bethel; the + Minor Poet sneers at the world; the world laughs at the Minor Poet. + </p> + <p> + Man criticizes Woman. We are not altogether pleased with woman. We discuss + her shortcomings, we advise her for her good. If only English wives would + dress as French wives, talk as American wives, cook as German wives! if + only women would be precisely what we want them to be—patient and + hard-working, brilliantly witty and exhaustively domestic, bewitching, + amenable, and less suspicious; how very much better it would be for them—also + for us. We work so hard to teach them, but they will not listen. Instead + of paying attention to our wise counsel, the tiresome creatures are + wasting their time criticizing us. It is a popular game, this game of + school. All that is needful is a doorstep, a cane, and six other children. + The difficulty is the six other children. Every child wants to be the + schoolmaster; they will keep jumping up, saying it is their turn. + </p> + <p> + Woman wants to take the stick now, and put man on the doorstep. There are + one or two things she has got to say to him. He is not at all the man she + approves of. He must begin by getting rid of all his natural desires and + propensities; that done, she will take him in hand and make of him—not + a man, but something very much superior. + </p> + <p> + It would be the best of all possible worlds if everybody would only follow + our advice. I wonder, would Jerusalem have been the cleanly city it is + reported, if, instead of troubling himself concerning his own + twopenny-halfpenny doorstep, each citizen had gone out into the road and + given eloquent lectures to all the other inhabitants on the subject of + sanitation? + </p> + <p> + We have taken to criticizing the Creator Himself of late. The world is + wrong, we are wrong. If only He had taken our advice, during those first + six days! + </p> + <p> + Why do I seem to have been scooped out and filled up with lead? Why do I + hate the smell of bacon, and feel that nobody cares for me? It is because + champagne and lobsters have been made wrong. + </p> + <p> + Why do Edwin and Angelina quarrel? It is because Edwin has been given a + fine, high-spirited nature that will not brook contradiction; while + Angelina, poor girl, has been cursed with contradictory instincts. + </p> + <p> + Why is excellent Mr. Jones brought down next door to beggary? Mr. Jones + had an income of a thousand a year, secured by the Funds. But there came + along a wicked Company promoter (why are wicked Company promoters + permitted?) with a prospectus, telling good Mr. Jones how to obtain a + hundred per cent. for his money by investing it in some scheme for the + swindling of Mr. Jones's fellow-citizens. + </p> + <p> + The scheme does not succeed; the people swindled turn out, contrary to the + promise of the prospectus, to be Mr. Jones and his fellow-investors. Why + does Heaven allow these wrongs? + </p> + <p> + Why does Mrs. Brown leave her husband and children, to run off with the + New Doctor? It is because an ill-advised Creator has given Mrs. Brown and + the New Doctor unduly strong emotions. Neither Mrs. Brown nor the New + Doctor are to be blamed. If any human being be answerable it is, probably, + Mrs. Brown's grandfather, or some early ancestor of the New Doctor's. + </p> + <p> + We shall criticize Heaven when we get there. I doubt if any of us will be + pleased with the arrangements; we have grown so exceedingly critical. + </p> + <p> + It was once said of a very superior young man that he seemed to be under + the impression that God Almighty had made the universe chiefly to hear + what he would say about it. Consciously or unconsciously, most of us are + of this way of thinking. It is an age of mutual improvement societies—a + delightful idea, everybody's business being to improve everybody else; of + amateur parliaments, of literary councils, of playgoers' clubs. + </p> + <p> + First Night criticism seems to have died out of late, the Student of the + Drama having come to the conclusion, possibly, that plays are not worth + criticizing. But in my young days we were very earnest at this work. We + went to the play, less with the selfish desire of enjoying our evening, + than with the noble aim of elevating the Stage. Maybe we did good, maybe + we were needed—let us think so. Certain it is, many of the old + absurdities have disappeared from the Theatre, and our rough-and-ready + criticism may have helped the happy dispatch. A folly is often served by + an unwise remedy. + </p> + <p> + The dramatist in those days had to reckon with his audience. Gallery and + Pit took an interest in his work such as Galleries and Pits no longer + take. I recollect witnessing the production of a very blood-curdling + melodrama at, I think, the old Queen's Theatre. The heroine had been given + by the author a quite unnecessary amount of conversation, so we + considered. The woman, whenever she appeared on the stage, talked by the + yard; she could not do a simple little thing like cursing the Villain + under about twenty lines. When the hero asked her if she loved him she + stood up and made a speech about it that lasted three minutes by the + watch. One dreaded to see her open her mouth. In the Third Act, somebody + got hold of her and shut her up in a dungeon. He was not a nice man, + speaking generally, but we felt he was the man for the situation, and the + house cheered him to the echo. We flattered ourselves we had got rid of + her for the rest of the evening. Then some fool of a turnkey came along, + and she appealed to him, through the grating, to let her out for a few + minutes. The turnkey, a good but soft-hearted man, hesitated. + </p> + <p> + "Don't you do it," shouted one earnest Student of the Drama, from the + Gallery; "she's all right. Keep her there!" + </p> + <p> + The old idiot paid no attention to our advice; he argued the matter to + himself. "'Tis but a trifling request," he remarked; "and it will make her + happy." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, but what about us?" replied the same voice from the Gallery. "You + don't know her. You've only just come on; we've been listening to her all + the evening. She's quiet now, you let her be." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, let me out, if only for one moment!" shrieked the poor woman. "I have + something that I must say to my child." + </p> + <p> + "Write it on a bit of paper, and pass it out," suggested a voice from the + Pit. "We'll see that he gets it." + </p> + <p> + "Shall I keep a mother from her dying child?" mused the turnkey. "No, it + would be inhuman." + </p> + <p> + "No, it wouldn't," persisted the voice of the Pit; "not in this instance. + It's too much talk that has made the poor child ill." + </p> + <p> + The turnkey would not be guided by us. He opened the cell door amidst the + execrations of the whole house. She talked to her child for about five + minutes, at the end of which time it died. + </p> + <p> + "Ah, he is dead!" shrieked the distressed parent. + </p> + <p> + "Lucky beggar!" was the unsympathetic rejoinder of the house. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes the criticism of the audience would take the form of remarks, + addressed by one gentleman to another. We had been listening one night to + a play in which action seemed to be unnecessarily subordinated to + dialogue, and somewhat poor dialogue at that. Suddenly, across the + wearying talk from the stage, came the stentorian whisper— + </p> + <p> + "Jim!" + </p> + <p> + "Hallo!" + </p> + <p> + "Wake me up when the play begins." + </p> + <p> + This was followed by an ostentatious sound as of snoring. Then the voice + of the second speaker was heard— + </p> + <p> + "Sammy!" + </p> + <p> + His friend appeared to awake. + </p> + <p> + "Eh? Yes? What's up? Has anything happened?" + </p> + <p> + "Wake you up at half-past eleven in any event, I suppose?" + </p> + <p> + "Thanks, do, sonny." And the critic slept again. + </p> + <p> + Yes, we took an interest in our plays then. I wonder shall I ever enjoy + the British Drama again as I enjoyed it in those days? Shall I ever enjoy + a supper again as I enjoyed the tripe and onions washed down with bitter + beer at the bar of the old Albion? I have tried many suppers after the + theatre since then, and some, when friends have been in generous mood, + have been expensive and elaborate. The cook may have come from Paris, his + portrait may be in the illustrated papers, his salary may be reckoned by + hundreds; but there is something wrong with his art, for all that, I miss + a flavour in his meats. There is a sauce lacking. + </p> + <p> + Nature has her coinage, and demands payment in her own currency. At + Nature's shop it is you yourself must pay. Your unearned increment, your + inherited fortune, your luck, are not legal tenders across her counter. + </p> + <p> + You want a good appetite. Nature is quite willing to supply you. + "Certainly, sir," she replies, "I can do you a very excellent article + indeed. I have here a real genuine hunger and thirst that will make your + meal a delight to you. You shall eat heartily and with zest, and you shall + rise from the table refreshed, invigorated, and cheerful." + </p> + <p> + "Just the very thing I want," exclaims the gourmet delightedly. "Tell me + the price." + </p> + <p> + "The price," answers Mrs. Nature, "is one long day's hard work." + </p> + <p> + The customer's face falls; he handles nervously his heavy purse. + </p> + <p> + "Cannot I pay for it in money?" he asks. "I don't like work, but I am a + rich man, I can afford to keep French cooks, to purchase old wines." + </p> + <p> + Nature shakes her head. + </p> + <p> + "I cannot take your cheques, tissue and nerve are my charges. For these I + can give you an appetite that will make a rump-steak and a tankard of ale + more delicious to you than any dinner that the greatest chef in Europe + could put before you. I can even promise you that a hunk of bread and + cheese shall be a banquet to you; but you must pay my price in my money; I + do not deal in yours." + </p> + <p> + And next the Dilettante enters, demanding a taste for Art and Literature, + and this also Nature is quite prepared to supply. + </p> + <p> + "I can give you true delight in all these things," she answers. "Music + shall be as wings to you, lifting you above the turmoil of the world. + Through Art you shall catch a glimpse of Truth. Along the pleasant paths + of Literature you shall walk as beside still waters." + </p> + <p> + "And your charge?" cries the delighted customer. + </p> + <p> + "These things are somewhat expensive," replies Nature. "I want from you a + life lived simply, free from all desire of worldly success, a life from + which passion has been lived out; a life to which appetite has been + subdued." + </p> + <p> + "But you mistake, my dear lady," replies the Dilettante; "I have many + friends, possessed of taste, and they are men who do not pay this price + for it. Their houses are full of beautiful pictures, they rave about + 'nocturnes' and 'symphonies,' their shelves are packed with first + editions. Yet they are men of luxury and wealth and fashion. They trouble + much concerning the making of money, and Society is their heaven. Cannot I + be as one of these?" + </p> + <p> + "I do not deal in the tricks of apes," answers Nature coldly; "the culture + of these friends of yours is a mere pose, a fashion of the hour, their + talk mere parrot chatter. Yes, you can purchase such culture as this, and + pretty cheaply, but a passion for skittles would be of more service to + you, and bring you more genuine enjoyment. My goods are of a different + class. I fear we waste each other's time." + </p> + <p> + And next comes the boy, asking with a blush for love, and Nature's + motherly old heart goes out to him, for it is an article she loves to + sell, and she loves those who come to purchase it of her. So she leans + across the counter, smiling, and tells him that she has the very thing he + wants, and he, trembling with excitement, likewise asks the figure. + </p> + <p> + "It costs a good deal," explains Nature, but in no discouraging tone; "it + is the most expensive thing in all my shop." + </p> + <p> + "I am rich," replies the lad. "My father worked hard and saved, and he has + left me all his wealth. I have stocks and shares, and lands and factories; + and will pay any price in reason for this thing." + </p> + <p> + But Nature, looking graver, lays her hand upon his arm. + </p> + <p> + "Put by your purse, boy," she says, "my price is not a price in reason, + nor is gold the metal that I deal in. There are many shops in various + streets where your bank-notes will be accepted. But if you will take an + old woman's advice, you will not go to them. The thing they will sell you + will bring sorrow and do evil to you. It is cheap enough, but, like all + things cheap, it is not worth the buying. No man purchases it, only the + fool." + </p> + <p> + "And what is the cost of the thing YOU sell then?" asks the lad. + </p> + <p> + "Self-forgetfulness, tenderness, strength," answers the old Dame; "the + love of all things that are of good repute, the hate of all things evil—courage, + sympathy, self-respect, these things purchase love. Put by your purse, + lad, it will serve you in other ways, but it will not buy for you the + goods upon my shelves." + </p> + <p> + "Then am I no better off than the poor man?" demands the lad. + </p> + <p> + "I know not wealth or poverty as you understand it," answers Nature. "Here + I exchange realities only for realities. You ask for my treasures, I ask + for your brain and heart in exchange—yours, boy, not your father's, + not another's." + </p> + <p> + "And this price," he argues, "how shall I obtain it?" + </p> + <p> + "Go about the world," replies the great Lady. "Labour, suffer, help. Come + back to me when you have earned your wages, and according to how much you + bring me so we will do business." + </p> + <p> + Is real wealth so unevenly distributed as we think? Is not Fate the true + Socialist? Who is the rich man, who the poor? Do we know? Does even the + man himself know? Are we not striving for the shadow, missing the + substance? Take life at its highest; which was the happier man, rich + Solomon or poor Socrates? Solomon seems to have had most things that most + men most desire—maybe too much of some for his own comfort. Socrates + had little beyond what he carried about with him, but that was a good + deal. According to our scales, Solomon should have been one of the + happiest men that ever lived, Socrates one of the most wretched. But was + it so? + </p> + <p> + Or taking life at its lowest, with pleasure its only goal. Is my lord Tom + Noddy, in the stalls, so very much jollier than 'Arry in the gallery? Were + beer ten shillings the bottle, and champagne fourpence a quart, which, + think you, we should clamour for? If every West End Club had its skittle + alley, and billiards could only be played in East End pubs, which game, my + lord, would you select? Is the air of Berkeley Square so much more + joy-giving than the atmosphere of Seven Dials? I find myself a piquancy in + the air of Seven Dials, missing from Berkeley Square. Is there so vast a + difference between horse-hair and straw, when you are tired? Is happiness + multiplied by the number of rooms in one's house? Are Lady Ermintrude's + lips so very much sweeter than Sally's of the Alley? What IS success in + life? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE PLAYING OF MARCHES AT THE FUNERALS OF MARIONETTES + </h2> + <p> + He began the day badly. He took me out and lost me. It would be so much + better, would he consent to the usual arrangement, and allow me to take + him out. I am far the abler leader: I say it without conceit. I am older + than he is, and I am less excitable. I do not stop and talk with every + person I meet, and then forget where I am. I do less to distract myself: I + rarely fight, I never feel I want to run after cats, I take but little + pleasure in frightening children. I have nothing to think about but the + walk, and the getting home again. If, as I say, he would give up taking me + out, and let me take him out, there would be less trouble all round. But + into this I have never been able to persuade him. + </p> + <p> + He had mislaid me once or twice, but in Sloane Square he lost me entirely. + When he loses me, he stands and barks for me. If only he would remain + where he first barked, I might find my way to him; but, before I can cross + the road, he is barking half-way down the next street. I am not so young + as I was and I sometimes think he exercises me more than is good for me. I + could see him from where I was standing in the King's Road. Evidently he + was most indignant. I was too far off to distinguish the barks, but I + could guess what he was saying— + </p> + <p> + "Damn that man, he's off again." + </p> + <p> + He made inquiries of a passing dog— + </p> + <p> + "You haven't smelt my man about anywhere, have you?" + </p> + <p> + (A dog, of course, would never speak of SEEING anybody or anything, smell + being his leading sense. Reaching the top of a hill, he would say to his + companion—"Lovely smell from here, I always think; I could sit and + sniff here all the afternoon." Or, proposing a walk, he would say—"I + like the road by the canal, don't you? There's something interesting to + catch your nose at every turn.") + </p> + <p> + "No, I haven't smelt any man in particular," answered the other dog. "What + sort of a smelling man is yours?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, an egg-and-bacony sort of a man, with a dash of soap about him." + </p> + <p> + "That's nothing to go by," retorted the other; "most men would answer to + that description, this time of the morning. Where were you when you last + noticed him?" + </p> + <p> + At this moment he caught sight of me, and came up, pleased to find me, but + vexed with me for having got lost. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, here you are," he barked; "didn't you see me go round the corner? Do + keep closer. Bothered if half my time isn't taken up, finding you and + losing you again." + </p> + <p> + The incident appeared to have made him bad-tempered; he was just in the + humour for a row of any sort. At the top of Sloane Street a stout + military-looking gentleman started running after the Chelsea bus. With a + "Hooroo" William Smith was after him. Had the old gentleman taken no + notice, all would have been well. A butcher boy, driving just behind, + would—I could read it in his eye—have caught Smith a flick as + he darted into the road, which would have served him right; the old + gentleman would have captured his bus; and the affair would have been + ended. Unfortunately, he was that type of retired military man all gout + and curry and no sense. He stopped to swear at the dog. That, of course, + was what Smith wanted. It is not often he gets a scrimmage with a + full-grown man. "They're a poor-spirited lot, most of them," he thinks; + "they won't even answer you back. I like a man who shows a bit of pluck." + He was frenzied with delight at his success. He flew round his victim, + weaving whooping circles and curves that paralyzed the old gentleman as + though they had been the mystic figures of a Merlin. The colonel clubbed + his umbrella, and attempted to defend himself. I called to the dog, I gave + good advice to the colonel (I judged him to be a colonel; the louder he + spoke, the less one could understand him), but both were too excited to + listen to me. A sympathetic bus driver leaned over, and whispered hoarse + counsel. + </p> + <p> + "Ketch 'im by the tail, sir," he advised the old gentleman; "don't you be + afraid of him; you ketch 'im firmly by the tail." + </p> + <p> + A milkman, on the other hand, sought rather to encourage Smith, shouting + as he passed— + </p> + <p> + "Good dog, kill him!" + </p> + <p> + A child, brained within an inch by the old gentleman's umbrella, began to + cry. The nurse told the old gentleman he was a fool—a remark which + struck me as singularly apt The old gentleman gasped back that + perambulators were illegal on the pavement; and, between his exercises, + inquired after myself. A crowd began to collect; and a policeman strolled + up. + </p> + <p> + It was not the right thing: I do not defend myself; but, at this point, + the temptation came to me to desert William Smith. He likes a street row, + I don't. These things are matters of temperament. I have also noticed that + he has the happy instinct of knowing when to disappear from a crisis, and + the ability to do so; mysteriously turning up, quarter of a mile off, clad + in a peaceful and pre-occupied air, and to all appearances another and a + better dog. + </p> + <p> + Consoling myself with the reflection that I could be of no practical + assistance to him and remembering with some satisfaction that, by a + fortunate accident, he was without his collar, which bears my name and + address, I slipped round the off side of a Vauxhall bus, making no attempt + at ostentation, and worked my way home through Lowndes Square and the + Park. + </p> + <p> + Five minutes after I had sat down to lunch, he flung open the dining-room + door, and marched in. It is his customary "entrance." In a previous state + of existence, his soul was probably that of an Actor-Manager. + </p> + <p> + From his exuberant self-satisfaction, I was inclined to think he must have + succeeded in following the milkman's advice; at all events, I have not + seen the colonel since. His bad temper had disappeared, but his + "uppishness" had, if possible, increased. Previous to his return, I had + given The O'Shannon a biscuit. The O'Shannon had been insulted; he did not + want a dog biscuit; if he could not have a grilled kidney he did not want + anything. He had thrown the biscuit on the floor. Smith saw it and made + for it. Now Smith never eats biscuits. I give him one occasionally, and he + at once proceeds to hide it. He is a thrifty dog; he thinks of the future. + "You never know what may happen," he says; "suppose the Guv'nor dies, or + goes mad, or bankrupt, I may be glad even of this biscuit; I'll put it + under the door-mat—no, I won't, somebody will find it there. I'll + scratch a hole in the tennis lawn, and bury it there. That's a good idea; + perhaps it'll grow!" Once I caught him hiding it in my study, behind the + shelf devoted to my own books. It offended me, his doing that; the + argument was so palpable. Generally, wherever he hides it somebody finds + it. We find it under our pillows—inside our boots; no place seems + safe. This time he had said to himself—"By Jove! a whole row of the + Guv'nor's books. Nobody will ever want to take these out; I'll hide it + here." One feels a thing like that from one's own dog. + </p> + <p> + But The O'Shannon's biscuit was another matter. Honesty is the best + policy; but dishonesty is the better fun. He made a dash for it, and + commenced to devour it greedily; you might have thought he had not tasted + food for a week. + </p> + <p> + The indignation of The O'Shannon was a sight for the gods. He has the + good-nature of his race: had Smith asked him for the biscuit he would + probably have given it to him; it was the insult—the immorality of + the proceeding, that maddened The O'Shannon. + </p> + <p> + For a moment he was paralyzed. + </p> + <p> + "Well, of all the—Did ye see that now?" he said to me with his eyes. + Then he made a rush and snatched the biscuit out of Smith's very jaws. "Ye + onprincipled black Saxon thief," growled The O'Shannon; "how dare ye take + my biscuit?" + </p> + <p> + "You miserable Irish cur," growled Smith; "how was I to know it was your + biscuit? Does everything on the floor belong to you? Perhaps you think I + belong to you, I'm on the floor. I don't believe it is your biscuit, you + long-eared, snubbed-nosed bog-trotter; give it me back." + </p> + <p> + "I don't require any of your argument, you flop-eared son of a tramp with + half a tail," replied The O'Shannon. "You come and take it, if you think + you are dog enough." + </p> + <p> + He did think he was dog enough. He is half the size of The O'Shannon, but + such considerations weigh not with him. His argument is, if a dog is too + big for you to fight the whole of him, take a bit of him and fight that. + He generally gets licked, but what is left of him invariably swaggers + about afterwards under the impression it is the victor. When he is dead, + he will say to himself, as he settles himself in his grave—"Well, I + flatter myself I've laid out that old world at last. It won't trouble ME + any more, I'm thinking." + </p> + <p> + On this occasion, <i>I</i> took a hand in the fight. It becomes necessary + at intervals to remind Master Smith that the man, as the useful and + faithful friend of dog, has his rights. I deemed such interval had + arrived. He flung himself on to the sofa, muttering. It sounded like—"Wish + I'd never got up this morning. Nobody understands me." + </p> + <p> + Nothing, however, sobers him for long. Half-an-hour later, he was killing + the next-door cat. He will never learn sense; he has been killing that cat + for the last three months. Why the next morning his nose is invariably + twice its natural size, while for the next week he can see objects on one + side of his head only, he never seems to grasp; I suppose he attributes it + to change in the weather. + </p> + <p> + He ended up the afternoon with what he no doubt regarded as a complete and + satisfying success. Dorothea had invited a lady to take tea with her that + day. I heard the sound of laughter, and, being near the nursery, I looked + in to see what was the joke. Smith was worrying a doll. I have rarely seen + a more worried-looking doll. Its head was off, and its sawdust strewed the + floor. Both the children were crowing with delight; Dorothea, in + particular, was in an ecstasy of amusement. + </p> + <p> + "Whose doll is it?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "Eva's," answered Dorothea, between her peals of laughter. + </p> + <p> + "Oh no, it isn't," explained Eva, in a tone of sweet content; "here's my + doll." She had been sitting on it, and now drew it forth, warm but whole. + "That's Dorry's doll." + </p> + <p> + The change from joy to grief on the part of Dorothea was distinctly + dramatic. Even Smith, accustomed to storm, was nonplussed at the + suddenness of the attack upon him. + </p> + <p> + Dorothea's sorrow lasted longer than I had expected. I promised her + another doll. But it seemed she did not want another; that was the only + doll she would ever care for so long as life lasted; no other doll could + ever take its place; no other doll would be to her what that doll had + been. These little people are so absurd: as if it could matter whether you + loved one doll or another, when all are so much alike! They have curly + hair, and pink-and-white complexions, big eyes that open and shut, a + little red mouth, two little hands. Yet these foolish little people! they + will love one, while another they will not look upon. I find the best plan + is not to reason with them, but to sympathize. Later on—but not too + soon—introduce to them another doll. They will not care for it at + first, but in time they will come to take an interest in it. Of course, it + cannot make them forget the first doll; no doll ever born in Lowther + Arcadia could be as that, but still—— It is many weeks before + they forget entirely the first love. + </p> + <p> + We buried Dolly in the country under the yew tree. A friend of mine who + plays the fiddle came down on purpose to assist. We buried her in the hot + spring sunshine, while the birds from shady nooks sang joyously of life + and love. And our chief mourner cried real tears, just for all the world + as though it were not the fate of dolls, sooner or later, to get broken—the + little fragile things, made for an hour, to be dressed and kissed; then, + paintless and stript, to be thrown aside on the nursery floor. Poor little + dolls! I wonder do they take themselves seriously, not knowing the springs + that stir their sawdust bosoms are but clockwork, not seeing the wires to + which they dance? Poor little marionettes! do they talk together, I + wonder, when the lights of the booth are out? + </p> + <p> + You, little sister doll, were the heroine. You lived in the white-washed + cottage, all honeysuckle and clematis without—earwiggy and damp + within, maybe. How pretty you always looked in your simple, neatly-fitting + print dress. How good you were! How nobly you bore your poverty. How + patient you were under your many wrongs. You never harboured an evil + thought, a revengeful wish—never, little doll? Were there never + moments when you longed to play the wicked woman's part, live in a room + with many doors, be-clad in furs and jewels, with lovers galore at your + feet? In those long winter evenings? the household work is done—the + greasy dishes washed, the floor scrubbed; the excellent child is asleep in + the corner; the one-and-elevenpenny lamp sheds its dismal light on the + darned table-cloth; you sit, busy at your coarse sewing, waiting for Hero + Dick, knowing—guessing, at least, where he is—! Yes, dear, I + remember your fine speeches, when you told her, in stirring language the + gallery cheered to the echo, what you thought of her and of such women as + she; when, lifting your hand to heaven, you declared you were happier in + your attic, working your fingers to the bone, than she in her gilded salon—I + think "gilded salon" was the term, was it not?—furnished by sin. But + speaking of yourself, weak little sister doll, not of your fine speeches, + the gallery listening, did you not, in your secret heart, envy her? Did + you never, before blowing out the one candle, stand for a minute in front + of the cracked glass, and think to yourself that you, too, would look well + in low-cut dresses from Paris, the diamonds flashing on your white smooth + skin? Did you never, toiling home through the mud, bearing your bundle of + needlework, feel bitter with the wages of virtue, as she splashed you, + passing by in her carriage? Alone, over your cup of weak tea, did you + never feel tempted to pay the price for champagne suppers, and gaiety, and + admiration? Ah, yes, it is easy for folks who have had their good time, to + prepare copybooks for weary little inkstained fingers, longing for play. + The fine maxims sound such cant when we are in that mood, do they not? + You, too, were young and handsome: did the author of the play think you + were never hungry for the good things of life? Did he think that reading + tracts to crotchety old women was joy to a full-blooded girl in her + twenties? Why should SHE have all the love, and all the laughter? How + fortunate that the villain, the Wicked Baronet, never opened the cottage + door at that moment, eh, dear! He always came when you were strong, when + you felt that you could denounce him, and scorn his temptations. Would + that the villain came to all of us at such time; then we would all, + perhaps, be heroes and heroines. + </p> + <p> + Ah well, it was only a play: it is over now. You and I, little tired + dolls, lying here side by side, waiting to know our next part, we can look + back and laugh. Where is she, this wicked dolly, that made such a stir on + our tiny stage? Ah, here you are, Madam; I thought you could not be far; + they have thrown us all into this corner together. But how changed you + are, Dolly: your paint rubbed off, your golden hair worn to a wisp. No + wonder; it was a trying part you had to play. How tired you must have + grown of the glare and the glitter! And even hope was denied you. The + peace you so longed for you knew you had lost the power to enjoy. Like the + girl bewitched in the fairy tale, you knew you must dance ever faster and + faster, with limbs growing palsied, with face growing ashen, and hair + growing grey, till Death should come to release you; and your only prayer + was he might come ere your dancing grew comic. + </p> + <p> + Like the smell of the roses to Nancy, hawking them through the hot + streets, must the stifling atmosphere of love have been to you. The song + of passion, how monotonous in your ears, sung now by the young and now by + the old; now shouted, now whined, now shrieked; but ever the one strident + tune. Do you remember when first you heard it? You dreamt it the morning + hymn of Heaven. You came to think it the dance music of Hell, ground from + a cracked hurdy-gurdy, lent out by the Devil on hire. + </p> + <p> + An evil race we must have seemed to you, Dolly Faustine, as to some Old + Bailey lawyer. You saw but one side of us. You lived in a world upside + down, where the leaves and the blossoms were hidden, and only the roots + saw your day. You imagined the worm-beslimed fibres the plant, and all + things beautiful you deemed cant. Chivalry, love, honour! how you laughed + at the lying words. You knew the truth—as you thought: aye, half the + truth. We were swine while your spell was upon us, Daughter of Circe, and + you, not knowing your island secret, deemed it our natural shape. + </p> + <p> + No wonder, Dolly, your battered waxen face is stamped with an angry sneer. + The Hero, who eventually came into his estates amid the plaudits of the + Pit, while you were left to die in the streets! you remembered, but the + house had forgotten those earlier scenes in always wicked Paris. The good + friend of the family, the breezy man of the world, the Deus ex Machina of + the play, who was so good to everybody, whom everybody loved! aye, YOU + loved him once—but that was in the Prologue. In the Play proper, he + was respectable. (How you loathed that word, that meant to you all you + vainly longed for!) To him the Prologue was a period past and dead; a + memory, giving flavour to his life. To you, it was the First Act of the + Play, shaping all the others. His sins the house had forgotten: at yours, + they held up their hands in horror. No wonder the sneer lies on your waxen + lips. + </p> + <p> + Never mind, Dolly; it was a stupid house. Next time, perhaps, you will + play a better part; and then they will cheer, instead of hissing you. You + were wasted, I am inclined to think, on modern comedy. You should have + been cast for the heroine of some old-world tragedy. The strength of + character, the courage, the power of self-forgetfulness, the enthusiasm + were yours: it was the part that was lacking. You might have worn the + mantle of a Judith, a Boadicea, or a Jeanne d'Arc, had such plays been + popular in your time. Perhaps they, had they played in your day, might + have had to be content with such a part as yours. They could not have + played the meek heroine, and what else would there have been for them in + modern drama? Catherine of Russia! had she been a waiter's daughter in the + days of the Second Empire, should we have called her Great? The Magdalene! + had her lodging in those days been in some bye-street of Rome instead of + in Jerusalem, should we mention her name in our churches? + </p> + <p> + You were necessary, you see, Dolly, to the piece. We cannot all play + heroes and heroines. There must be wicked people in the play, or it would + not interest. Think of it, Dolly, a play where all the women were + virtuous, all the men honest! We might close the booth; the world would be + as dull as an oyster-bed. Without you wicked folk there would be no good. + How should we have known and honoured the heroine's worth, but by contrast + with your worthlessness? Where would have been her fine speeches, but for + you to listen to them? Where lay the hero's strength, but in resisting + temptation of you? Had not you and the Wicked Baronet between you robbed + him of his estates, falsely accused him of crime, he would have lived to + the end of the play an idle, unheroic, incomplete existence. You brought + him down to poverty; you made him earn his own bread—a most + excellent thing for him; gave him the opportunity to play the man. But for + your conduct in the Prologue, of what value would have been that fine + scene at the end of the Third Act, that stirred the house to tears and + laughter? You and your accomplice, the Wicked Baronet, made the play + possible. How would Pit and Gallery have known they were virtuous, but for + the indignation that came to them, watching your misdeeds? Pity, sympathy, + excitement, all that goes to the making of a play, you were necessary for. + It was ungrateful of the house to hiss you. + </p> + <p> + And you, Mr. Merryman, the painted grin worn from your pale lips, you too + were dissatisfied, if I remember rightly, with your part. You wanted to + make the people cry, not laugh. Was it a higher ambition? The poor tired + people! so much happens in their life to make them weep, is it not good + sport to make them merry for awhile? Do you remember that old soul in the + front row of the Pit? How she laughed when you sat down on the pie! I + thought she would have to be carried out. I heard her talking to her + companion as they passed the stage-door on their way home. "I have not + laughed, my dear, till to-night," she was saying, the good, gay tears + still in her eyes, "since the day poor Sally died." Was not that alone + worth the old stale tricks you so hated? Aye, they were commonplace and + conventional, those antics of yours that made us laugh; are not the antics + that make us weep commonplace and conventional also? Are not all the + plays, played since the booth was opened, but of one pattern, the plot + old-fashioned now, the scenes now commonplace? Hero, villain, cynic—are + their parts so much the fresher? The love duets, are they so very new? The + death-bed scenes, would you call them UNcommonplace? Hate, and Evil, and + Wrong—are THEIR voices new to the booth? What are you waiting for, + people? a play with a plot that is novel, with characters that have never + strutted before? It will be ready for you, perhaps, when you are ready for + it, with new tears and new laughter. + </p> + <p> + You, Mr. Merryman, were the true philosopher. You saved us from forgetting + the reality when the fiction grew somewhat strenuous. How we all applauded + your gag in answer to the hero, when, bewailing his sad fate, he demanded + of Heaven how much longer he was to suffer evil fortune. "Well, there + cannot be much more of it in store for you," you answered him; "it's + nearly nine o'clock already, and the show closes at ten." And true to your + prophecy the curtain fell at the time appointed, and his troubles were of + the past. You showed us the truth behind the mask. When pompous Lord + Shallow, in ermine and wig, went to take his seat amid the fawning crowd, + you pulled the chair from under him, and down he sat plump on the floor. + His robe flew open, his wig flew off. No longer he awed us. His aped + dignity fell from him; we saw him a stupid-eyed, bald little man; he + imposed no longer upon us. It is your fool who is the only true wise man. + </p> + <p> + Yours was the best part in the play, Brother Merryman, had you and the + audience but known it. But you dreamt of a showier part, where you loved + and fought. I have heard you now and again, when you did not know I was + near, shouting with sword in hand before your looking-glass. You had + thrown your motley aside to don a dingy red coat; you were the hero of the + play, you performed the gallant deeds, you made the noble speeches. I + wonder what the play would be like, were we all to write our own parts. + There would be no clowns, no singing chambermaids. We would all be playing + lead in the centre of the stage, with the lime-light exclusively devoted + to ourselves. Would it not be so? + </p> + <p> + What grand acting parts they are, these characters we write for ourselves + alone in our dressing-rooms. We are always brave and noble—wicked + sometimes, but if so, in a great, high-minded way; never in a mean or + little way. What wondrous deeds we do, while the house looks on and + marvels. Now we are soldiers, leading armies to victory. What if we die: + it is in the hour of triumph, and a nation is left to mourn. Not in some + forgotten skirmish do we ever fall; not for some "affair of outposts" do + we give our blood, our very name unmentioned in the dispatches home. Now + we are passionate lovers, well losing a world for love—a very + different thing to being a laughter-provoking co-respondent in a sordid + divorce case. + </p> + <p> + And the house is always crowded when we play. Our fine speeches always + fall on sympathetic ears, our brave deeds are noted and applauded. It is + so different in the real performance. So often we play our parts to empty + benches, or if a thin house be present, they misunderstand, and laugh at + the pathetic passages. And when our finest opportunity comes, the royal + box, in which HE or SHE should be present to watch us, is vacant. + </p> + <p> + Poor little dolls, how seriously we take ourselves, not knowing the + springs that stir our bosoms are but clockwork, not seeing the wires to + which we dance. Poor little marionettes, shall we talk together, I wonder, + when the lights of the booth are out? + </p> + <p> + We are little wax dollies with hearts. We are little tin soldiers with + souls. Oh, King of many toys, are you merely playing with us? IS it only + clockwork within us, this thing that throbs and aches? Have you wound us + up but to let us run down? Will you wind us again to-morrow, or leave us + here to rust? IS it only clockwork to which we respond and quiver? Now we + laugh, now we cry, now we dance; our little arms go out to clasp one + another, our little lips kiss, then say good-bye. We strive, and we + strain, and we struggle. We reach now for gold, now for laurel. We call it + desire and ambition: are they only wires that you play? Will you throw the + clockwork aside, or use it again, O Master? + </p> + <p> + The lights of the booth grow dim. The springs are broken that kept our + eyes awake. The wire that held us erect is snapped, and helpless we fall + in a heap on the stage. Oh, brother and sister dollies we played beside, + where are you? Why is it so dark and silent? Why are we being put into + this black box? And hark! the little doll orchestra—how far away the + music sounds! what is it they are playing:— + </p> + <p> + [Start of Gounod's Funeral March of a Marionette] + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Second Thoughts of An Idle Fellow, by +Jerome K. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Second Thoughts of An Idle Fellow + +Author: Jerome K. Jerome + +Posting Date: November 7, 2008 [EBook #1915] +Release Date: October, 1999 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND THOUGHTS *** + + + + +Produced by Les Bowler + + + + + +THE SECOND THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW + +By Jerome K. Jerome + + +1899 Hurst and Blackett edition + + + +Contents + + On the art of making up one's mind. + On the disadvantage of not getting what one wants. + On the exceptional merit attaching to the things we meant to do. + On the preparation and employment of love philtres. + On the delights and benefits of slavery. + On the care and management of women. + On the minding of other people's business. + On the time wasted in looking before one leaps. + On the nobility of ourselves. + On the motherliness of man. + On the inadvisability of following advice. + On the playing of marches at the funerals of marionettes. + + + + +ON THE ART OF MAKING UP ONE'S MIND + +"Now, which would you advise, dear? You see, with the red I shan't be +able to wear my magenta hat." + +"Well then, why not have the grey?" + +"Yes--yes, I think the grey will be MORE useful." + +"It's a good material." + +"Yes, and it's a PRETTY grey. You know what I mean, dear; not a COMMON +grey. Of course grey is always an UNINTERESTING colour." + +"Its quiet." + +"And then again, what I feel about the red is that it is so +warm-looking. Red makes you FEEL warm even when you're NOT warm. You +know what I mean, dear!" + +"Well then, why not have the red? It suits you--red." + +"No; do you really think so?" + +"Well, when you've got a colour, I mean, of course!" + +"Yes, that is the drawback to red. No, I think, on the whole, the grey +is SAFER." + +"Then you will take the grey, madam?" + +"Yes, I think I'd better; don't you, dear?" + +"I like it myself very much." + +"And it is good wearing stuff. I shall have it trimmed with--Oh! you +haven't cut it off, have you?" + +"I was just about to, madam." + +"Well, don't for a moment. Just let me have another look at the red. +You see, dear, it has just occurred to me--that chinchilla would look so +well on the red!" + +"So it would, dear!" + +"And, you see, I've got the chinchilla." + +"Then have the red. Why not?" + +"Well, there is the hat I'm thinking of." + +"You haven't anything else you could wear with that?" + +"Nothing at all, and it would go so BEAUTIFULLY with the grey.--Yes, I +think I'll have the grey. It's always a safe colour--grey." + +"Fourteen yards I think you said, madam?" + +"Yes, fourteen yards will be enough; because I shall mix it with--One +minute. You see, dear, if I take the grey I shall have nothing to wear +with my black jacket." + +"Won't it go with grey?" + +"Not well--not so well as with red." + +"I should have the red then. You evidently fancy it yourself." + +"No, personally I prefer the grey. But then one must think of +EVERYTHING, and--Good gracious! that's surely not the right time?" + +"No, madam, it's ten minutes slow. We always keep our clocks a little +slow!" + +"And we were too have been at Madame Jannaway's at a quarter past +twelve. How long shopping does take I--Why, whatever time did we start?" + +"About eleven, wasn't it?" + +"Half-past ten. I remember now; because, you know, we said we'd start at +half-past nine. We've been two hours already!" + +"And we don't seem to have done much, do we?" + +"Done literally nothing, and I meant to have done so much. I must go to +Madame Jannaway's. Have you got my purse, dear? Oh, it's all right, I've +got it." + +"Well, now you haven't decided whether you're going to have the grey or +the red." + +"I'm sure I don't know what I do want now. I had made up my mind a +minute ago, and now it's all gone again--oh yes, I remember, the red. +Yes, I'll have the red. No, I don't mean the red, I mean the grey." + +"You were talking about the red last time, if you remember, dear." + +"Oh, so I was, you're quite right. That's the worst of shopping. Do you +know I get quite confused sometimes." + +"Then you will decide on the red, madam?" + +"Yes--yes, I shan't do any better, shall I, dear? What do you think? +You haven't got any other shades of red, have you? This is such an ugly +red." + +The shopman reminds her that she has seen all the other reds, and that +this is the particular shade she selected and admired. + +"Oh, very well," she replies, with the air of one from whom all earthly +cares are falling, "I must take that then, I suppose. I can't be worried +about it any longer. I've wasted half the morning already." + +Outside she recollects three insuperable objections to the red, and +four unanswerable arguments why she should have selected the grey. She +wonders would they change it, if she went back and asked to see the +shopwalker? Her friend, who wants her lunch, thinks not. + +"That is what I hate about shopping," she says. "One never has time to +really THINK." + +She says she shan't go to that shop again. + +We laugh at her, but are we so very much better? Come, my superior male +friend, have you never stood, amid your wardrobe, undecided whether, in +her eyes, you would appear more imposing, clad in the rough tweed suit +that so admirably displays your broad shoulders; or in the orthodox +black frock, that, after all, is perhaps more suitable to the figure of +a man approaching--let us say, the nine-and-twenties? Or, better still, +why not riding costume? Did we not hear her say how well Jones looked +in his top-boots and breeches, and, "hang it all," we have a better leg +than Jones. What a pity riding-breeches are made so baggy nowadays. Why +is it that male fashions tend more and more to hide the male leg? As +women have become less and less ashamed of theirs, we have become more +and more reticent of ours. Why are the silken hose, the tight-fitting +pantaloons, the neat kneebreeches of our forefathers impossible to-day? +Are we grown more modest--or has there come about a falling off, +rendering concealment advisable? + +I can never understand, myself, why women love us. It must be our +honest worth, our sterling merit, that attracts them--certainly not our +appearance, in a pair of tweed "dittos," black angora coat and vest, +stand-up collar, and chimney-pot hat! No, it must be our sheer force of +character that compels their admiration. + +What a good time our ancestors must have had was borne in upon me when, +on one occasion, I appeared in character at a fancy dress ball. What I +represented I am unable to say, and I don't particularly care. I only +know it was something military. I also remember that the costume was two +sizes too small for me in the chest, and thereabouts; and three sizes +too large for me in the hat. I padded the hat, and dined in the middle +of the day off a chop and half a glass of soda-water. I have gained +prizes as a boy for mathematics, also for scripture history--not often, +but I have done it. A literary critic, now dead, once praised a book +of mine. I know there have been occasions when my conduct has won the +approbation of good men; but never--never in my whole life, have I felt +more proud, more satisfied with myself than on that evening when, the +last hook fastened, I gazed at my full-length Self in the cheval glass. +I was a dream. I say it who should not; but I am not the only one who +said it. I was a glittering dream. The groundwork was red, trimmed with +gold braid wherever there was room for gold braid; and where there was +no more possible room for gold braid there hung gold cords, and tassels, +and straps. Gold buttons and buckles fastened me, gold embroidered belts +and sashes caressed me, white horse-hair plumes waved o'er me. I am +not sure that everything was in its proper place, but I managed to get +everything on somehow, and I looked well. It suited me. My success was +a revelation to me of female human nature. Girls who had hitherto been +cold and distant gathered round me, timidly solicitous of notice. Girls +on whom I smiled lost their heads and gave themselves airs. Girls who +were not introduced to me sulked and were rude to girls that had been. +For one poor child, with whom I sat out two dances (at least she +sat, while I stood gracefully beside her--I had been advised, by the +costumier, NOT to sit), I was sorry. He was a worthy young fellow, the +son of a cotton broker, and he would have made her a good husband, I +feel sure. But he was foolish to come as a beer-bottle. + +Perhaps, after all, it is as well those old fashions have gone out. A +week in that suit might have impaired my natural modesty. + +One wonders that fancy dress balls are not more popular in this grey age +of ours. The childish instinct to "dress up," to "make believe," is +with us all. We grow so tired of being always ourselves. A tea-table +discussion, at which I once assisted, fell into this:--Would any one of +us, when it came to the point, change with anybody else, the poor man +with the millionaire, the governess with the princess--change not only +outward circumstances and surroundings, but health and temperament, +heart, brain, and soul; so that not one mental or physical particle +of one's original self one would retain, save only memory? The general +opinion was that we would not, but one lady maintained the affirmative. + +"Oh no, you wouldn't really, dear," argued a friend; "you THINK you +would." + +"Yes, I would," persisted the first lady; "I am tired of myself. I'd +even be you, for a change." + +In my youth, the question chiefly important to me was--What sort of man +shall I decide to be? At nineteen one asks oneself this question; at +thirty-nine we say, "I wish Fate hadn't made me this sort of man." + +In those days I was a reader of much well-meant advice to young men, +and I gathered that, whether I should become a Sir Lancelot, a Herr +Teufelsdrockh, or an Iago was a matter for my own individual choice. +Whether I should go through life gaily or gravely was a question the +pros and cons of which I carefully considered. For patterns I turned to +books. Byron was then still popular, and many of us made up our minds +to be gloomy, saturnine young men, weary with the world, and prone to +soliloquy. I determined to join them. + +For a month I rarely smiled, or, when I did, it was with a weary, bitter +smile, concealing a broken heart--at least that was the intention. +Shallow-minded observers misunderstood. + +"I know exactly how it feels," they would say, looking at me +sympathetically, "I often have it myself. It's the sudden change in the +weather, I think;" and they would press neat brandy upon me, and suggest +ginger. + +Again, it is distressing to the young man, busy burying his secret +sorrow under a mound of silence, to be slapped on the back by +commonplace people and asked--"Well, how's 'the hump' this morning?" +and to hear his mood of dignified melancholy referred to, by those who +should know better, as "the sulks." + +There are practical difficulties also in the way of him who would play +the Byronic young gentleman. He must be supernaturally wicked--or rather +must have been; only, alas! in the unliterary grammar of life, where +the future tense stands first, and the past is formed, not from the +indefinite, but from the present indicative, "to have been" is "to be"; +and to be wicked on a small income is impossible. The ruin of even the +simplest of maidens costs money. In the Courts of Love one cannot sue in +forma pauperis; nor would it be the Byronic method. + +"To drown remembrance in the cup" sounds well, but then the "cup," to be +fitting, should be of some expensive brand. To drink deep of old Tokay +or Asti is poetical; but when one's purse necessitates that the draught, +if it is to be deep enough to drown anything, should be of thin beer at +five-and-nine the four and a half gallon cask, or something similar in +price, sin is robbed of its flavour. + +Possibly also--let me think it--the conviction may have been within +me that Vice, even at its daintiest, is but an ugly, sordid thing, +repulsive in the sunlight; that though--as rags and dirt to art--it +may afford picturesque material to Literature, it is an evil-smelling +garment to the wearer; one that a good man, by reason of poverty of +will, may come down to, but one to be avoided with all one's effort, +discarded with returning mental prosperity. + +Be this as it may, I grew weary of training for a saturnine young man; +and, in the midst of my doubt, I chanced upon a book the hero of which +was a debonnaire young buck, own cousin to Tom and Jerry. He attended +fights, both of cocks and men, flirted with actresses, wrenched off +door-knockers, extinguished street lamps, played many a merry jest upon +many an unappreciative night watch-man. For all the which he was much +beloved by the women of the book. Why should not I flirt with actresses, +put out street lamps, play pranks on policemen, and be beloved? London +life was changed since the days of my hero, but much remained, and the +heart of woman is eternal. If no longer prizefighting was to be had, at +least there were boxing competitions, so called, in dingy back parlours +out Whitechapel way. Though cockfighting was a lost sport, were there +not damp cellars near the river where for twopence a gentleman might +back mongrel terriers to kill rats against time, and feel himself indeed +a sportsman? True, the atmosphere of reckless gaiety, always surrounding +my hero, I missed myself from these scenes, finding in its place +an atmosphere more suggestive of gin, stale tobacco, and nervous +apprehension of the police; but the essentials must have been the +same, and the next morning I could exclaim in the very words of my +prototype--"Odds crickets, but I feel as though the devil himself were +in my head. Peste take me for a fool." + +But in this direction likewise my fatal lack of means opposed me. (It +affords much food to the philosophic mind, this influence of income +upon character.) Even fifth-rate "boxing competitions," organized by +"friendly leads," and ratting contests in Rotherhithe slums, become +expensive, when you happen to be the only gentleman present possessed +of a collar, and are expected to do the honours of your class in +dog's-nose. True, climbing lamp-posts and putting out the gas is +fairly cheap, providing always you are not caught in the act, but as a +recreation it lacks variety. Nor is the modern London lamp-post adapted +to sport. Anything more difficult to grip--anything with less "give" +in it--I have rarely clasped. The disgraceful amount of dirt allowed to +accumulate upon it is another drawback from the climber's point of view. +By the time you have swarmed up your third post a positive distaste for +"gaiety" steals over you. Your desire is towards arnica and a bath. + +Nor in jokes at the expense of policemen is the fun entirely on your +side. Maybe I did not proceed with judgment. It occurs to me now, +looking back, that the neighbourhoods of Covent Garden and Great +Marlborough Street were ill-chosen for sport of this nature. To bonnet +a fat policeman is excellent fooling. While he is struggling with his +helmet you can ask him comic questions, and by the time he has got +his head free you are out of sight. But the game should be played in +a district where there is not an average of three constables to every +dozen square yards. When two other policemen, who have had their eye +on you for the past ten minutes, are watching the proceedings from just +round the next corner, you have little or no leisure for due enjoyment +of the situation. By the time you have run the whole length of Great +Titchfield Street and twice round Oxford Market, you are of opinion +that a joke should never be prolonged beyond the point at which there is +danger of its becoming wearisome; and that the time has now arrived +for home and friends. The "Law," on the other hand, now raised by +reinforcements to a strength of six or seven men, is just beginning to +enjoy the chase. You picture to yourself, while doing Hanover Square, +the scene in Court the next morning. You will be accused of being drunk +and disorderly. It will be idle for you to explain to the magistrate (or +to your relations afterwards) that you were only trying to live up to +a man who did this sort of thing in a book and was admired for it. You +will be fined the usual forty shillings; and on the next occasion of +your calling at the Mayfields' the girls will be out, and Mrs. Mayfield, +an excellent lady, who has always taken a motherly interest in you, will +talk seriously to you and urge you to sign the pledge. + +Thanks to your youth and constitution you shake off the pursuit at +Notting Hill; and, to avoid any chance of unpleasant contretemps on +the return journey, walk home to Bloomsbury by way of Camden Town and +Islington. + +I abandoned sportive tendencies as the result of a vow made by myself +to Providence, during the early hours of a certain Sunday morning, while +clinging to the waterspout of an unpretentious house situate in a side +street off Soho. I put it to Providence as man to man. "Let me only +get out of this," I think were the muttered words I used, "and no more +'sport' for me." Providence closed on the offer, and did let me get out +of it. True, it was a complicated "get out," involving a broken skylight +and three gas globes, two hours in a coal cellar, and a sovereign to +a potman for the loan of an ulster; and when at last, secure in my +chamber, I took stock of myself--what was left of me,--I could not +but reflect that Providence might have done the job neater. Yet I +experienced no desire to escape the terms of the covenant; my inclining +for the future was towards a life of simplicity. + +Accordingly, I cast about for a new character, and found one to suit me. +The German professor was becoming popular as a hero about this period. +He wore his hair long and was otherwise untidy, but he had "a heart of +steel," occasionally of gold. The majority of folks in the book, judging +him from his exterior together with his conversation--in broken English, +dealing chiefly with his dead mother and his little sister Lisa,--dubbed +him uninteresting, but then they did not know about the heart. His chief +possession was a lame dog which he had rescued from a brutal mob; and +when he was not talking broken English he was nursing this dog. + +But his speciality was stopping runaway horses, thereby saving the +heroine's life. This, combined with the broken English and the dog, +rendered him irresistible. + +He seemed a peaceful, amiable sort of creature, and I decided to try +him. I could not of course be a German professor, but I could, and did, +wear my hair long in spite of much public advice to the contrary, voiced +chiefly by small boys. I endeavoured to obtain possession of a lame +dog, but failed. A one-eyed dealer in Seven Dials, to whom, as a last +resource, I applied, offered to lame one for me for an extra +five shillings, but this suggestion I declined. I came across an +uncanny-looking mongrel late one night. He was not lame, but he seemed +pretty sick; and, feeling I was not robbing anybody of anything +very valuable, I lured him home and nursed him. I fancy I must have +over-nursed him. He got so healthy in the end, there was no doing +anything with him. He was an ill-conditioned cur, and he was too old to +be taught. He became the curse of the neighbourhood. His idea of sport +was killing chickens and sneaking rabbits from outside poulterers' +shops. For recreation he killed cats and frightened small children by +yelping round their legs. There were times when I could have lamed him +myself, if only I could have got hold of him. I made nothing by running +that dog--nothing whatever. People, instead of admiring me for nursing +him back to life, called me a fool, and said that if I didn't drown the +brute they would. He spoilt my character utterly--I mean my character +at this period. It is difficult to pose as a young man with a heart of +gold, when discovered in the middle of the road throwing stones at your +own dog. And stones were the only things that would reach and influence +him. + +I was also hampered by a scarcity in runaway horses. The horse of our +suburb was not that type of horse. Once and only once did an opportunity +offer itself for practice. It was a good opportunity, inasmuch as he was +not running away very greatly. Indeed, I doubt if he knew himself that +he was running away. It transpired afterwards that it was a habit of +his, after waiting for his driver outside the Rose and Crown for what he +considered to be a reasonable period, to trot home on his own account. +He passed me going about seven miles an hour, with the reins dragging +conveniently beside him. He was the very thing for a beginner, and I +prepared myself. At the critical moment, however, a couple of officious +policemen pushed me aside and did it themselves. + +There was nothing for me to regret, as the matter turned out. I should +only have rescued a bald-headed commercial traveller, very drunk, who +swore horribly, and pelted the crowd with empty collar-boxes. + +From the window of a very high flat I once watched three men, resolved +to stop a runaway horse. Each man marched deliberately into the middle +of the road and took up his stand. My window was too far away for me to +see their faces, but their attitude suggested heroism unto death. The +first man, as the horse came charging towards him, faced it with his +arms spread out. He never flinched until the horse was within about +twenty yards of him. Then, as the animal was evidently determined to +continue its wild career, there was nothing left for him to do but to +retire again to the kerb, where he stood looking after it with evident +sorrow, as though saying to himself--"Oh, well, if you are going to be +headstrong I have done with you." + +The second man, on the catastrophe being thus left clear for him, +without a moment's hesitation, walked up a bye street and disappeared. +The third man stood his ground, and, as the horse passed him, yelled at +it. I could not hear what he said. I have not the slightest doubt it +was excellent advice, but the animal was apparently too excited even to +listen. The first and the third man met afterwards, and discussed the +matter sympathetically. I judged they were regretting the pig-headedness +of runaway horses in general, and hoping that nobody had been hurt. + +I forget the other characters I assumed about this period. One, I know, +that got me into a good deal of trouble was that of a downright, honest, +hearty, outspoken young man who always said what he meant. + +I never knew but one man who made a real success of speaking his mind. I +have heard him slap the table with his open hand and exclaim-- + +"You want me to flatter you--to stuff you up with a pack of lies. That's +not me, that's not Jim Compton. But if you care for my honest opinion, +all I can say is, that child is the most marvellous performer on the +piano I've ever heard. I don't say she is a genius, but I have heard +Liszt and Metzler and all the crack players, and I prefer HER. That's my +opinion. I speak my mind, and I can't help it if you're offended." + +"How refreshing," the parents would say, "to come across a man who is +not afraid to say what he really thinks. Why are we not all outspoken?" + +The last character I attempted I thought would be easy to assume. It was +that of a much admired and beloved young man, whose great charm lay in +the fact that he was always just--himself. Other people posed and acted. +He never made any effort to be anything but his own natural, simple +self. + +I thought I also would be my own natural, simple self. But then the +question arose--What was my own natural, simple self? + +That was the preliminary problem I had to solve; I have not solved it to +this day. What am I? I am a great gentleman, walking through the world +with dauntless heart and head erect, scornful of all meanness, impatient +of all littleness. I am a mean-thinking, little-daring man--the type +of man that I of the dauntless heart and the erect head despise +greatly--crawling to a poor end by devious ways, cringing to the strong, +timid of all pain. I--but, dear reader, I will not sadden your sensitive +ears with details I could give you, showing how contemptible a creature +this wretched I happens to be. Nor would you understand me. You would +only be astonished, discovering that such disreputable specimens of +humanity contrive to exist in this age. It is best, my dear sir, or +madam, you should remain ignorant of these evil persons. Let me not +trouble you with knowledge. + +I am a philosopher, greeting alike the thunder and the sunshine with +frolic welcome. Only now and then, when all things do not fall exactly +as I wish them, when foolish, wicked people will persist in doing +foolish, wicked acts, affecting my comfort and happiness, I rage and +fret a goodish deal. + +As Heine said of himself, I am knight, too, of the Holy Grail, valiant +for the Truth, reverent of all women, honouring all men, eager to yield +life to the service of my great Captain. + +And next moment, I find myself in the enemy's lines, fighting under +the black banner. (It must be confusing to these opposing Generals, all +their soldiers being deserters from both armies.) What are women but +men's playthings! Shall there be no more cakes and ale for me because +thou art virtuous! What are men but hungry dogs, contending each against +each for a limited supply of bones! Do others lest thou be done. What is +the Truth but an unexploded lie! + +I am a lover of all living things. You, my poor sister, struggling with +your heavy burden on your lonely way, I would kiss the tears from your +worn cheeks, lighten with my love the darkness around your feet. You, my +patient brother, breathing hard as round and round you tramp the +trodden path, like some poor half-blind gin-horse, stripes your only +encouragement, scanty store of dry chaff in your manger! I would jog +beside you, taking the strain a little from your aching shoulders; and +we would walk nodding, our heads side by side, and you, remembering, +should tell me of the fields where long ago you played, of the gallant +races that you ran and won. And you, little pinched brats, with +wondering eyes, looking from dirt-encrusted faces, I would take you in +my arms and tell you fairy stories. Into the sweet land of make-believe +we would wander, leaving the sad old world behind us for a time, and you +should be Princes and Princesses, and know Love. + +But again, a selfish, greedy man comes often, and sits in my clothes. A +man who frets away his life, planning how to get more money--more food, +more clothes, more pleasures for himself; a man so busy thinking of the +many things he needs he has no time to dwell upon the needs of others. +He deems himself the centre of the universe. You would imagine, hearing +him grumbling, that the world had been created and got ready against the +time when he should come to take his pleasure in it. He would push and +trample, heedless, reaching towards these many desires of his; and when, +grabbing, he misses, he curses Heaven for its injustice, and men and +women for getting in his path. He is not a nice man, in any way. I wish, +as I say, he would not come so often and sit in my clothes. He persists +that he is I, and that I am only a sentimental fool, spoiling his +chances. Sometimes, for a while, I get rid of him, but he always comes +back; and then he gets rid of me and I become him. It is very confusing. +Sometimes I wonder if I really am myself. + + + + +ON THE DISADVANTAGE OF NOT GETTING WHAT ONE WANTS + +Long, long ago, when you and I, dear Reader, were young, when the +fairies dwelt in the hearts of the roses, when the moonbeams bent each +night beneath the weight of angels' feet, there lived a good, wise man. +Or rather, I should say, there had lived, for at the time of which I +speak the poor old gentleman lay dying. Waiting each moment the dread +summons, he fell a-musing on the life that stretched far back behind +him. How full it seemed to him at that moment of follies and mistakes, +bringing bitter tears not to himself alone but to others also. How much +brighter a road might it have been, had he been wiser, had he known! + +"Ah, me!" said the good old gentleman, "if only I could live my life +again in the light of experience." + +Now as he spoke these words he felt the drawing near to him of a +Presence, and thinking it was the One whom he expected, raising himself +a little from his bed, he feebly cried, + +"I am ready." + +But a hand forced him gently back, a voice saying, "Not yet; I bring +life, not death. Your wish shall be granted. You shall live your life +again, and the knowledge of the past shall be with you to guide you. See +you use it. I will come again." + +Then a sleep fell upon the good man, and when he awoke, he was again a +little child, lying in his mother's arms; but, locked within his brain +was the knowledge of the life that he had lived already. + +So once more he lived and loved and laboured. So a second time he lay an +old, worn man with life behind him. And the angel stood again beside his +bed; and the voice said, + +"Well, are you content now?" + +"I am well content," said the old gentleman. "Let Death come." + +"And have you understood?" asked the angel. + +"I think so," was the answer; "that experience is but as of the memory +of the pathways he has trod to a traveller journeying ever onward into +an unknown land. I have been wise only to reap the reward of folly. +Knowledge has ofttimes kept me from my good. I have avoided my old +mistakes only to fall into others that I knew not of. I have reached the +old errors by new roads. Where I have escaped sorrow I have lost joy. +Where I have grasped happiness I have plucked pain also. Now let me go +with Death that I may learn.." + +Which was so like the angel of that period, the giving of a gift, +bringing to a man only more trouble. Maybe I am overrating my coolness +of judgment under somewhat startling circumstances, but I am inclined to +think that, had I lived in those days, and had a fairy or an angel come +to me, wanting to give me something--my soul's desire, or the sum of my +ambition, or any trifle of that kind I should have been short with him. + +"You pack up that precious bag of tricks of yours," I should have said +to him (it would have been rude, but that is how I should have felt), +"and get outside with it. I'm not taking anything in your line to-day. I +don't require any supernatural aid to get me into trouble. All the worry +I want I can get down here, so it's no good your calling. You take that +little joke of yours,--I don't know what it is, but I know enough not to +want to know,--and run it off on some other idiot. I'm not priggish. +I have no objection to an innocent game of 'catch-questions' in the +ordinary way, and when I get a turn myself. But if I've got to pay +every time, and the stakes are to be my earthly happiness plus my future +existence--why, I don't play. There was the case of Midas; a nice, +shabby trick you fellows played off upon him! making pretence you did +not understand him, twisting round the poor old fellow's words, just for +all the world as though you were a pack of Old Bailey lawyers, trying +to trip up a witness; I'm ashamed of the lot of you, and I tell you +so--coming down here, fooling poor unsuspecting mortals with your +nonsense, as though we had not enough to harry us as it was. Then there +was that other case of the poor old peasant couple to whom you promised +three wishes, the whole thing ending in a black pudding. And they never +got even that. You thought that funny, I suppose. That was your fairy +humour! A pity, I say, you have not, all of you, something better to do +with your time. As I said before, you take that celestial 'Joe Miller' +of yours and work it off on somebody else. I have read my fairy lore, +and I have read my mythology, and I don't want any of your blessings. +And what's more, I'm not going to have them. When I want blessings I +will put up with the usual sort we are accustomed to down here. You know +the ones I mean, the disguised brand--the blessings that no human being +would think were blessings, if he were not told; the blessings that +don't look like blessings, that don't feel like blessings; that, as a +matter of fact, are not blessings, practically speaking; the blessings +that other people think are blessings for us and that we don't. They've +got their drawbacks, but they are better than yours, at any rate, and +they are sooner over. I don't want your blessings at any price. If you +leave one here I shall simply throw it out after you." + +I feel confident I should have answered in that strain, and I feel it +would have done good. Somebody ought to have spoken plainly, because +with fairies and angels of that sort fooling about, no one was ever safe +for a moment. Children could hardly have been allowed outside the door. +One never could have told what silly trick some would-be funny fairy +might be waiting to play off on them. The poor child would not know, and +would think it was getting something worth having. The wonder to me is +that some of those angels didn't get tarred and feathered. + +I am doubtful whether even Cinderella's luck was quite as satisfying +as we are led to believe. After the carpetless kitchen and the black +beetles, how beautiful the palace must have seemed--for the first year, +perhaps for the first two. And the Prince! how loving, how gallant, how +tender--for the first year, perhaps for the first two. And after? You +see he was a Prince, brought up in a Court, the atmosphere of which is +not conducive to the development of the domestic virtues; and she--was +Cinderella. And then the marriage altogether was rather a hurried +affair. Oh yes, she is a good, loving little woman; but perhaps our +Royal Highness-ship did act too much on the impulse of the moment. It +was her dear, dainty feet that danced their way into our heart. How they +flashed and twinkled, eased in those fairy slippers. How like a lily +among tulips she moved that night amid the over-gorgeous Court dames. +She was so sweet, so fresh, so different to all the others whom we knew +so well. How happy she looked as she put her trembling little hand in +ours. What possibilities might lie behind those drooping lashes. And we +were in amorous mood that night, the music in our feet, the flash and +glitter in our eyes. And then, to pique us further, she disappeared as +suddenly and strangely as she had come. Who was she? Whence came she? +What was the mystery surrounding her? Was she only a delicious dream, +a haunting phantasy that we should never look upon again, never clasp +again within our longing arms? Was our heart to be for ever hungry, +haunted by the memory of--No, by heavens, she is real, and a woman. Here +is her dear slipper, made surely to be kissed. Of a size too that a +man may well wear within the breast of his doublet. Had any woman--nay, +fairy, angel, such dear feet! Search the whole kingdom through, but find +her, find her. The gods have heard our prayers, and given us this clue. +"Suppose she be not all she seemed. Suppose she be not of birth fit to +mate with our noble house!" Out upon thee, for an earth-bound, blind +curmudgeon of a Lord High Chancellor. How could a woman, whom such +slipper fitted, be but of the noblest and the best, as far above us, +mere Princelet that we are, as the stars in heaven are brighter than thy +dull old eyes! Go, search the kingdom, we tell thee, from east to west, +from north to south, and see to it that thou findest her, or it shall +go hard with thee. By Venus, be she a swineherd's daughter, she shall be +our Queen--an she deign to accept of us, and of our kingdom. + +Ah well, of course, it was not a wise piece of business, that goes +without saying; but we were young, and Princes are only human. Poor +child, she could not help her education, or rather her lack of it. +Dear little thing, the wonder is that she has contrived to be no more +ignorant than she is, dragged up as she was, neglected and overworked. +Nor does life in a kitchen, amid the companionship of peasants and +menials, tend to foster the intellect. Who can blame her for being shy +and somewhat dull of thought? not we, generous-minded, kind-hearted +Prince that we are. And she is very affectionate. The family are trying, +certainly; father-in-law not a bad sort, though a little prosy when +upon the subject of his domestic troubles, and a little too fond of his +glass; mamma-in-law, and those two ugly, ill-mannered sisters, decidedly +a nuisance about the palace. Yet what can we do? they are our relations +now, and they do not forget to let us know it. Well, well, we had +to expect that, and things might have been worse. Anyhow she is not +jealous--thank goodness. + +So the day comes when poor little Cinderella sits alone of a night in +the beautiful palace. The courtiers have gone home in their carriages. +The Lord High Chancellor has bowed himself out backwards. The +Gold-Stick-in-Waiting and the Grooms of the Chamber have gone to their +beds. The Maids of Honour have said "Good-night," and drifted out of +the door, laughing and whispering among themselves. The clock strikes +twelve--one--two, and still no footstep creaks upon the stair. Once it +followed swiftly upon the "good-night" of the maids, who did not laugh +or whisper then. + +At last the door opens, and the Prince enters, none too pleased at +finding Cinderella still awake. "So sorry I'm late, my love--detained on +affairs of state. Foreign policy very complicated, dear. Have only just +this moment left the Council Chamber." + +And little Cinderella, while the Prince sleeps, lies sobbing out her +poor sad heart into the beautiful royal pillow, embroidered with the +royal arms and edged with the royal monogram in lace. "Why did he ever +marry me? I should have been happier in the old kitchen. The black +beetles did frighten me a little, but there was always the dear old +cat; and sometimes, when mother and the girls were out, papa would call +softly down the kitchen stairs for me to come up, and we would have such +a merry evening together, and sup off sausages: dear old dad, I hardly +ever see him now. And then, when my work was done, how pleasant it was +to sit in front of the fire, and dream of the wonderful things that +would come to me some day. I was always going to be a Princess, even in +my dreams, and live in a palace, but it was so different to this. Oh, +how I hate it, this beastly palace where everybody sneers at me--I know +they do, though they bow and scrape, and pretend to be so polite. +And I'm not clever and smart as they are. I hate them. I hate these +bold-faced women who are always here. That is the worst of a palace, +everybody can come in. Oh, I hate everybody and everything. Oh, +god-mamma, god-mamma, come and take me away. Take me back to my old +kitchen. Give me back my old poor frock. Let me dance again with the +fire-tongs for a partner, and be happy, dreaming." + +Poor little Cinderella, perhaps it would have been better had god-mamma +been less ambitious for you, dear; had you married some good, honest +yeoman, who would never have known that you were not brilliant, who +would have loved you because you were just amiable and pretty; had your +kingdom been only a farmhouse, where your knowledge of domestic economy, +gained so hardly, would have been useful; where you would have shone +instead of being overshadowed; where Papa would have dropped in of an +evening to smoke his pipe and escape from his domestic wrangles; where +you would have been REAL Queen. + +But then you know, dear, you would not have been content. Ah yes, with +your present experience--now you know that Queens as well as little +drudges have their troubles; but WITHOUT that experience? You would have +looked in the glass when you were alone; you would have looked at your +shapely hands and feet, and the shadows would have crossed your pretty +face. "Yes," you would have said to yourself--"John is a dear, kind +fellow, and I love him very much, and all that, but--" and the old +dreams, dreamt in the old low-ceilinged kitchen before the dying fire, +would have come back to you, and you would have been discontented then +as now, only in a different way. Oh yes, you would, Cinderella, though +you gravely shake your gold-crowned head. And let me tell you why. It is +because you are a woman, and the fate of all us, men and women alike, is +to be for ever wanting what we have not, and to be finding, when we have +it, that it is not what we wanted. That is the law of life, dear. Do you +think as you lie upon the floor with your head upon your arms, that you +are the only woman whose tears are soaking into the hearthrug at that +moment? My dear Princess, if you could creep unseen about your City, +peeping at will through the curtain-shielded windows, you would come +to think that all the world was little else than a big nursery full of +crying children with none to comfort them. The doll is broken: no longer +it sweetly squeaks in answer to our pressure, "I love you, kiss me." The +drum lies silent with the drumstick inside; no longer do we make a brave +noise in the nursery. The box of tea-things we have clumsily put our +foot upon; there will be no more merry parties around the three-legged +stool. The tin trumpet will not play the note we want to sound; the +wooden bricks keep falling down; the toy cannon has exploded and burnt +our fingers. Never mind, little man, little woman, we will try and mend +things tomorrow. + +And after all, Cinderella dear, you do live in a fine palace, and you +have jewels and grand dresses and--No, no, do not be indignant with +ME. Did not you dream of these things AS WELL AS of love? Come now, +be honest. It was always a prince, was it not, or, at the least, an +exceedingly well-to-do party, that handsome young gentleman who bowed +to you so gallantly from the red embers? He was never a virtuous young +commercial traveller, or cultured clerk, earning a salary of three +pounds a week, was he, Cinderella? Yet there are many charming +commercial travellers, many delightful clerks with limited incomes, +quite sufficient, however, to a sensible man and woman desiring but each +other's love. Why was it always a prince, Cinderella? Had the palace and +the liveried servants, and the carriages and horses, and the jewels and +the dresses, NOTHING to do with the dream? + +No, Cinderella, you were human, that is all. The artist, shivering in +his conventional attic, dreaming of Fame!-do you think he is not hoping +she will come to his loving arms in the form Jove came to Danae? Do you +think he is not reckoning also upon the good dinners and the big cigars, +the fur coat and the diamond studs, that her visits will enable him to +purchase? + +There is a certain picture very popular just now. You may see it, +Cinderella, in many of the shop-windows of the town. It is called "The +Dream of Love," and it represents a beautiful young girl, sleeping in a +very beautiful but somewhat disarranged bed. Indeed, one hopes, for the +sleeper's sake, that the night is warm, and that the room is fairly +free from draughts. A ladder of light streams down from the sky into the +room, and upon this ladder crowd and jostle one another a small army of +plump Cupids, each one laden with some pledge of love. Two of the Imps +are emptying a sack of jewels upon the floor. Four others are bearing, +well displayed, a magnificent dress (a "confection," I believe, is the +proper term) cut somewhat low, but making up in train what is lacking +elsewhere. Others bear bonnet boxes from which peep stylish toques and +bewitching hoods. Some, representing evidently wholesale houses, +stagger under silks and satins in the piece. Cupids are there from the +shoemakers with the daintiest of bottines. Stockings, garters, and +even less mentionable articles, are not forgotten. Caskets, mirrors, +twelve-buttoned gloves, scent-bottles and handkerchiefs, hair-pins, and +the gayest of parasols, has the God of Love piled into the arms of his +messengers. Really a most practical, up-to-date God of Love, moving with +the times! One feels that the modern Temple of Love must be a sort of +Swan and Edgar's; the god himself a kind of celestial shop-walker; while +his mother, Venus, no doubt superintends the costume department. Quite +an Olympian Whiteley, this latter-day Eros; he has forgotten nothing, +for, at the back of the picture, I notice one Cupid carrying a rather +fat heart at the end of a string. + +You, Cinderella, could give good counsel to that sleeping child. +You would say to her--"Awake from such dreams. The contents of a +pawnbroker's store-room will not bring you happiness. Dream of love +if you will; that is a wise dream, even if it remain ever a dream. But +these coloured beads, these Manchester goods! are you then--you, heiress +of all the ages--still at heart only as some poor savage maiden but +little removed above the monkeys that share the primeval forest with +her? Will you sell your gold to the first trader that brings you THIS +barter? These things, child, will only dazzle your eyes for a few days. +Do you think the Burlington Arcade is the gate of Heaven?" + +Ah, yes, I too could talk like that--I, writer of books, to the young +lad, sick of his office stool, dreaming of a literary career leading +to fame and fortune. "And do you think, lad, that by that road you will +reach Happiness sooner than by another? Do you think interviews with +yourself in penny weeklies will bring you any satisfaction after the +first halfdozen? Do you think the gushing female who has read all your +books, and who wonders what it must feel like to be so clever, will be +welcome to you the tenth time you meet her? Do you think press +cuttings will always consist of wondering admiration of your genius, of +paragraphs about your charming personal appearance under the heading, +'Our Celebrities'? Have you thought of the Uncomplimentary criticisms, +of the spiteful paragraphs, of the everlasting fear of slipping a few +inches down the greasy pole called 'popular taste,' to which you are +condemned to cling for life, as some lesser criminal to his weary +tread-mill, struggling with no hope but not to fall! Make a home, lad, +for the woman who loves you; gather one or two friends about you; +work, think, and play, that will bring you happiness. Shun this roaring +gingerbread fair that calls itself, forsooth, the 'World of art and +letters.' Let its clowns and its contortionists fight among themselves +for the plaudits and the halfpence of the mob. Let it be with its +shouting and its surging, its blare and its cheap flare. Come away, the +summer's night is just the other side of the hedge, with its silence and +its stars." + +You and I, Cinderella, are experienced people, and can therefore offer +good advice, but do you think we should be listened to? + +"Ah, no, my Prince is not as yours. Mine will love me always, and I am +peculiarly fitted for the life of a palace. I have the instinct and +the ability for it. I am sure I was made for a princess. Thank you, +Cinderella, for your well-meant counsel, but there is much difference +between you and me." + +That is the answer you would receive, Cinderella; and my young friend +would say to me, "Yes, I can understand YOUR finding disappointment in +the literary career; but then, you see, our cases are not quite similar. +_I_ am not likely to find much trouble in keeping my position. _I_ +shall not fear reading what the critics say of ME. No doubt there are +disadvantages, when you are among the ruck, but there is always plenty +of room at the top. So thank you, and goodbye." + +Besides, Cinderella dear, we should not quite mean it--this excellent +advice. We have grown accustomed to these gew-gaws, and we should miss +them in spite of our knowledge of their trashiness: you, your palace and +your little gold crown; I, my mountebank's cap, and the answering laugh +that goes up from the crowd when I shake my bells. We want everything. +All the happiness that earth and heaven are capable of bestowing. +Creature comforts, and heart and soul comforts also; and, proud-spirited +beings that we are, we will not be put off with a part. Give us only +everything, and we will be content. And, after all, Cinderella, you have +had your day. Some little dogs never get theirs. You must not be greedy. +You have KNOWN happiness. The palace was Paradise for those few months, +and the Prince's arms were about you, Cinderella, the Prince's kisses on +your lips; the gods themselves cannot take THAT from you. + +The cake cannot last for ever if we will eat of it so greedily. There +must come the day when we have picked hungrily the last crumb--when we +sit staring at the empty board, nothing left of the feast, Cinderella, +but the pain that comes of feasting. + +It is a naive confession, poor Human Nature has made to itself, in +choosing, as it has, this story of Cinderella for its leading moral:--Be +good, little girl. Be meek under your many trials. Be gentle and kind, +in spite of your hard lot, and one day--you shall marry a prince and +ride in your own carriage. Be brave and true, little boy. Work hard and +wait with patience, and in the end, with God's blessing, you shall +earn riches enough to come back to London town and marry your master's +daughter. + +You and I, gentle Reader, could teach these young folks a truer lesson, +an we would. We know, alas! that the road of all the virtues does +not lead to wealth, rather the contrary; else how explain our limited +incomes? But would it be well, think you, to tell them bluntly the +truth--that honesty is the most expensive luxury a man can indulge in; +that virtue, if persisted in, leads, generally speaking, to a six-roomed +house in an outlying suburb? Maybe the world is wise: the fiction has +its uses. + +I am acquainted with a fairly intelligent young lady. She can read and +write, knows her tables up to six times, and can argue. I regard her +as representative of average Humanity in its attitude towards Fate; and +this is a dialogue I lately overheard between her and an older lady who +is good enough to occasionally impart to her the wisdom of the world-- + +"I've been good this morning, haven't I?" + +"Yes--oh yes, fairly good, for you." + +"You think Papa WILL take me to the circus to-night?" + +"Yes, if you keep good. If you don't get naughty this afternoon." + +A pause. + +"I was good on Monday, you may remember, nurse." + +"Tolerably good." + +"VERY good, you said, nurse." + +"Well, yes, you weren't bad." + +"And I was to have gone to the pantomime, and I didn't." + +"Well, that was because your aunt came up suddenly, and your Papa +couldn't get another seat. Poor auntie wouldn't have gone at all if she +hadn't gone then." + +"Oh, wouldn't she?" + +"No." + +Another pause. + +"Do you think she'll come up suddenly to-day?" + +"Oh no, I don't think so." + +"No, I hope she doesn't. I want to go to the circus to-night. Because, +you see, nurse, if I don't it will discourage me." + +So, perhaps the world is wise in promising us the circus. We believe her +at first. But after a while, I fear, we grow discouraged. + + + + +ON THE EXCEPTIONAL MERIT ATTACHING TO THE THINGS WE MEANT TO DO + +I can remember--but then I can remember a long time ago. You, gentle +Reader, just entering upon the prime of life, that age by thoughtless +youth called middle, I cannot, of course, expect to follow me--when +there was in great demand a certain periodical ycleped The Amateur. Its +aim was noble. It sought to teach the beautiful lesson of independence, +to inculcate the fine doctrine of self-help. One chapter explained to a +man how he might make flower-pots out of Australian meat cans; another +how he might turn butter-tubs into music-stools; a third how he might +utilize old bonnet boxes for Venetian blinds: that was the principle of +the whole scheme, you made everything from something not intended for +it, and as ill-suited to the purpose as possible. + +Two pages, I distinctly recollect, were devoted to the encouragement of +the manufacture of umbrella stands out of old gaspiping. Anything less +adapted to the receipt of hats and umbrellas than gas-piping I cannot +myself conceive: had there been, I feel sure the author would have +thought of it, and would have recommended it. + +Picture-frames you fashioned out of gingerbeer corks. You saved your +ginger-beer corks, you found a picture--and the thing was complete. +How much ginger-beer it would be necessary to drink, preparatory to +the making of each frame; and the effect of it upon the frame-maker's +physical, mental and moral well-being, did not concern The Amateur. +I calculate that for a fair-sized picture sixteen dozen bottles might +suffice. Whether, after sixteen dozen of ginger-beer, a man would take +any interest in framing a picture--whether he would retain any pride in +the picture itself, is doubtful. But this, of course, was not the point. + +One young gentleman of my acquaintance--the son of the gardener of my +sister, as friend Ollendorff would have described him--did succeed in +getting through sufficient ginger-beer to frame his grandfather, but the +result was not encouraging. Indeed, the gardener's wife herself was but +ill satisfied. + +"What's all them corks round father?" was her first question. + +"Can't you see," was the somewhat indignant reply, "that's the frame." + +"Oh! but why corks?" + +"Well, the book said corks." + +Still the old lady remained unimpressed. + +"Somehow it don't look like father now," she sighed. + +Her eldest born grew irritable: none of us appreciate criticism! + +"What does it look like, then?" he growled. + +"Well, I dunno. Seems to me to look like nothing but corks." + +The old lady's view was correct. Certain schools of art possibly lend +themselves to this method of framing. I myself have seen a funeral +card improved by it; but, generally speaking, the consequence was a +predominance of frame at the expense of the thing framed. The more +honest and tasteful of the framemakers would admit as much themselves. + +"Yes, it is ugly when you look at it," said one to me, as we stood +surveying it from the centre of the room. "But what one feels about it +is that one has done it oneself." + +Which reflection, I have noticed, reconciles us to many other things +beside cork frames. + +Another young gentleman friend of mine--for I am bound to admit it was +youth that profited most by the advice and counsel of The Amateur: I +suppose as one grows older one grows less daring, less industrious--made +a rocking-chair, according to the instructions of this book, out of a +couple of beer barrels. From every practical point of view it was a bad +rocking-chair. It rocked too much, and it rocked in too many directions +at one and the same time. I take it, a man sitting on a rocking-chair +does not want to be continually rocking. There comes a time when he says +to himself--"Now I have rocked sufficiently for the present; now I will +sit still for a while, lest a worse thing befall me." But this was one +of those headstrong rocking-chairs that are a danger to humanity, and +a nuisance to themselves. Its notion was that it was made to rock, and +that when it was not rocking, it was wasting its time. Once started +nothing could stop it--nothing ever did stop it, until it found itself +topsy turvy on its own occupant. That was the only thing that ever +sobered it. + +I had called, and had been shown into the empty drawing-room. The +rocking-chair nodded invitingly at me. I never guessed it was an amateur +rocking-chair. I was young in those days, with faith in human nature, +and I imagined that, whatever else a man might attempt without knowledge +or experience, no one would be fool enough to experiment upon a +rocking-chair. + +I threw myself into it lightly and carelessly. I immediately noticed +the ceiling. I made an instinctive movement forward. The window and +a momentary glimpse of the wooded hills beyond shot upwards and +disappeared. The carpet flashed across my eyes, and I caught sight of my +own boots vanishing beneath me at the rate of about two hundred miles an +hour. I made a convulsive effort to recover them. I suppose I over-did +it. I saw the whole of the room at once, the four walls, the ceiling, +and the floor at the same moment. It was a sort of vision. I saw the +cottage piano upside down, and I again saw my own boots flash past me, +this time over my head, soles uppermost. Never before had I been in a +position where my own boots had seemed so all-pervading. The next moment +I lost my boots, and stopped the carpet with my head just as it was +rushing past me. At the same instant something hit me violently in the +small of the back. Reason, when recovered, suggested that my assailant +must be the rocking-chair. + +Investigation proved the surmise correct. Fortunately I was still alone, +and in consequence was able, a few minutes later, to meet my hostess +with calm and dignity. I said nothing about the rocking-chair. As a +matter of fact, I was hoping to have the pleasure, before I went, of +seeing some other guest arrive and sample it: I had purposely replaced +it in the most prominent and convenient position. But though I felt +capable of schooling myself to silence, I found myself unable to agree +with my hostess when she called for my admiration of the thing. My +recent experiences had too deeply embittered me. + +"Willie made it himself," explained the fond mother. "Don't you think it +was very clever of him?" + +"Oh yes, it was clever," I replied, "I am willing to admit that." + +"He made it out of some old beer barrels," she continued; she seemed +proud of it. + +My resentment, though I tried to keep it under control, was mounting +higher. + +"Oh! did he?" I said; "I should have thought he might have found +something better to do with them." + +"What?" she asked. + +"Oh! well, many things," I retorted. "He might have filled them again +with beer." + +My hostess looked at me astonished. I felt some reason for my tone was +expected. + +"You see," I explained, "it is not a well-made chair. These rockers are +too short, and they are too curved, and one of them, if you notice, is +higher than the other and of a smaller radius; the back is at too obtuse +an angle. When it is occupied the centre of gravity becomes--" + +My hostess interrupted me. + +"You have been sitting on it," she said. + +"Not for long," I assured her. + +Her tone changed. She became apologetic. + +"I am so sorry," she said. "It looks all right." + +"It does," I agreed; "that is where the dear lad's cleverness displays +itself. Its appearance disarms suspicion. With judgment that chair might +be made to serve a really useful purpose. There are mutual +acquaintances of ours--I mention no names, you will know them--pompous, +self-satisfied, superior persons who would be improved by that chair. +If I were Willie I should disguise the mechanism with some artistic +drapery, bait the thing with a couple of exceptionally inviting +cushions, and employ it to inculcate modesty and diffidence. I defy any +human being to get out of that chair, feeling as important as when +he got into it. What the dear boy has done has been to construct an +automatic exponent of the transitory nature of human greatness. As a +moral agency that chair should prove a blessing in disguise." + +My hostess smiled feebly; more, I fear, from politeness than genuine +enjoyment. + +"I think you are too severe," she said. "When you remember that the boy +has never tried his hand at anything of the kind before, that he has no +knowledge and no experience, it really is not so bad." + +Considering the matter from that point of view I was bound to concur. +I did not like to suggest to her that before entering upon a difficult +task it would be better for young men to ACQUIRE knowledge and +experience: that is so unpopular a theory. + +But the thing that The Amateur put in the front and foremost of its +propaganda was the manufacture of household furniture out of egg-boxes. +Why egg-boxes I have never been able to understand, but egg-boxes, +according to the prescription of The Amateur, formed the foundation of +household existence. With a sufficient supply of egg-boxes, and what The +Amateur termed a "natural deftness," no young couple need hesitate to +face the furnishing problem. Three egg-boxes made a writing-table; on +another egg-box you sat to write; your books were ranged in egg-boxes +around you--and there was your study, complete. + +For the dining-room two egg-boxes made an overmantel; four egg-boxes +and a piece of looking-glass a sideboard; while six egg-boxes, with +some wadding and a yard or so of cretonne, constituted a so-called "cosy +corner." About the "corner" there could be no possible doubt. You sat on +a corner, you leant against a corner; whichever way you moved you struck +a fresh corner. The "cosiness," however, I deny. Egg-boxes I admit +can be made useful; I am even prepared to imagine them ornamental; but +"cosy," no. I have sampled egg-boxes in many shapes. I speak of years +ago, when the world and we were younger, when our fortune was the +Future; secure in which, we hesitated not to set up house upon incomes +folks with lesser expectations might have deemed insufficient. Under +such circumstances, the sole alternative to the egg-box, or similar +school of furniture, would have been the strictly classical, consisting +of a doorway joined to architectural proportions. + +I have from Saturday to Monday, as honoured guest, hung my clothes in +egg-boxes. + +I have sat on an egg-box at an egg-box to take my dish of tea. I have +made love on egg-boxes.--Aye, and to feel again the blood running +through my veins as then it ran, I would be content to sit only on +egg-boxes till the time should come when I could be buried in an +egg-box, with an egg-box reared above me as tombstone.--I have spent +many an evening on an egg-box; I have gone to bed in egg-boxes. They +have their points--I am intending no pun--but to claim for them cosiness +would be but to deceive. + +How quaint they were, those home-made rooms! They rise out of the +shadows and shape themselves again before my eyes. I see the knobbly +sofa; the easy-chairs that might have been designed by the Grand +Inquisitor himself; the dented settle that was a bed by night; the few +blue plates, purchased in the slums off Wardour Street; the enamelled +stool to which one always stuck; the mirror framed in silk; the two +Japanese fans crossed beneath each cheap engraving; the piano cloth +embroidered in peacock's feathers by Annie's sister; the tea-cloth +worked by Cousin Jenny. We dreamt, sitting on those egg-boxes--for we +were young ladies and gentlemen with artistic taste--of the days when we +would eat in Chippendale dining-rooms; sip our coffee in Louis Quatorze +drawing-rooms; and be happy. Well, we have got on, some of us, since +then, as Mr. Bumpus used to say; and I notice, when on visits, that +some of us have contrived so that we do sit on Chippendale chairs, at +Sheraton dining-tables, and are warmed from Adam's fireplaces; but, ah +me, where are the dreams, the hopes, the enthusiasms that clung like +the scent of a March morning about those gim-crack second floors? In the +dustbin, I fear, with the cretonne-covered egg-boxes and the penny fans. +Fate is so terribly even-handed. As she gives she ever takes away. She +flung us a few shillings and hope, where now she doles us out pounds and +fears. Why did not we know how happy we were, sitting crowned with sweet +conceit upon our egg-box thrones? + +Yes, Dick, you have climbed well. You edit a great newspaper. You spread +abroad the message--well, the message that Sir Joseph Goldbug, your +proprietor, instructs you to spread abroad. You teach mankind the +lessons that Sir Joseph Goldbug wishes them to learn. They say he is to +have a peerage next year. I am sure he has earned it; and perhaps there +may be a knighthood for you, Dick. + +Tom, you are getting on now. You have abandoned those unsaleable +allegories. What rich art patron cares to be told continually by his own +walls that Midas had ass's ears; that Lazarus sits ever at the gate? You +paint portraits now, and everybody tells me you are the coming man. That +"Impression" of old Lady Jezebel was really wonderful. The woman +looks quite handsome, and yet it is her ladyship. Your touch is truly +marvellous. + +But into your success, Tom--Dick, old friend, do not there creep moments +when you would that we could fish up those old egg-boxes from the past, +refurnish with them the dingy rooms in Camden Town, and find there our +youth, our loves, and our beliefs? + +An incident brought back to my mind, the other day, the thought of all +these things. I called for the first time upon a man, an actor, who had +asked me to come and see him in the little home where he lives with his +old father. To my astonishment--for the craze, I believe, has long since +died out--I found the house half furnished out of packing cases, butter +tubs, and egg-boxes. My friend earns his twenty pounds a week, but it +was the old father's hobby, so he explained to me, the making of these +monstrosities; and of them he was as proud as though they were specimen +furniture out of the South Kensington Museum. + +He took me into the dining-room to show me the latest outrage--a new +book-case. A greater disfigurement to the room, which was otherwise +prettily furnished, could hardly be imagined. There was no need for +him to assure me, as he did, that it had been made out of nothing but +egg-boxes. One could see at a glance that it was made out of egg-boxes, +and badly constructed egg-boxes at that--egg-boxes that were a disgrace +to the firm that had turned them out; egg-boxes not worthy the storage +of "shop 'uns" at eighteen the shilling. + +We went upstairs to my friend's bedroom. He opened the door as a man +might open the door of a museum of gems. + +"The old boy," he said, as he stood with his hand upon the door-knob, +"made everything you see here, everything," and we entered. He drew my +attention to the wardrobe. "Now I will hold it up," he said, "while you +pull the door open; I think the floor must be a bit uneven, it wobbles +if you are not careful." It wobbled notwithstanding, but by coaxing and +humouring we succeeded without mishap. I was surprised to notice a very +small supply of clothes within, although my friend is a dressy man. + +"You see," he explained, "I dare not use it more than I can help. I am +a clumsy chap, and as likely as not, if I happened to be in a hurry, I'd +have the whole thing over:" which seemed probable. + +I asked him how he contrived. "I dress in the bath-room as a rule," he +replied; "I keep most of my things there. Of course the old boy doesn't +know." + +He showed me a chest of drawers. One drawer stood half open. + +"I'm bound to leave that drawer open," he said; "I keep the things I use +in that. They don't shut quite easily, these drawers; or rather, they +shut all right, but then they won't open. It is the weather, I think. +They will open and shut all right in the summer, I dare say." He is of a +hopeful disposition. + +But the pride of the room was the washstand. + +"What do you think of this?" cried he enthusiastically, "real marble +top--" + +He did not expatiate further. In his excitement he had laid his hand +upon the thing, with the natural result that it collapsed. More by +accident than design I caught the jug in my arms. I also caught the +water it contained. The basin rolled on its edge and little damage was +done, except to me and the soap-box. + +I could not pump up much admiration for this washstand; I was feeling +too wet. + +"What do you do when you want to wash?" I asked, as together we reset +the trap. + +There fell upon him the manner of a conspirator revealing secrets. He +glanced guiltily round the room; then, creeping on tip-toe, he opened a +cupboard behind the bed. Within was a tin basin and a small can. + +"Don't tell the old boy," he said. "I keep these things here, and wash +on the floor." + +That was the best thing I myself ever got out of egg-boxes--that picture +of a deceitful son stealthily washing himself upon the floor behind the +bed, trembling at every footstep lest it might be the "old boy" coming +to the door. + +One wonders whether the Ten Commandments are so all-sufficient as we +good folk deem them--whether the eleventh is not worth the whole pack +of them: "that ye love one another" with just a common-place, human, +practical love. Could not the other ten be comfortably stowed away into +a corner of that! One is inclined, in one's anarchic moments, to agree +with Louis Stevenson, that to be amiable and cheerful is a good religion +for a work-a-day world. We are so busy NOT killing, NOT stealing, NOT +coveting our neighbour's wife, we have not time to be even just to +one another for the little while we are together here. Need we be so +cocksure that our present list of virtues and vices is the only possibly +correct and complete one? Is the kind, unselfish man necessarily a +villain because he does not always succeed in suppressing his natural +instincts? Is the narrow-hearted, sour-souled man, incapable of a +generous thought or act, necessarily a saint because he has none? +Have we not--we unco guid--arrived at a wrong method of estimating our +frailer brothers and sisters? We judge them, as critics judge books, not +by the good that is in them, but by their faults. Poor King David! What +would the local Vigilance Society have had to say to him? + +Noah, according to our plan, would be denounced from every teetotal +platform in the country, and Ham would head the Local Vestry poll as a +reward for having exposed him. And St. Peter! weak, frail St. Peter, +how lucky for him that his fellow-disciples and their Master were not as +strict in their notions of virtue as are we to-day. + +Have we not forgotten the meaning of the word "virtue"? Once it stood +for the good that was in a man, irrespective of the evil that might lie +there also, as tares among the wheat. We have abolished virtue, and for +it substituted virtues. Not the hero--he was too full of faults--but the +blameless valet; not the man who does any good, but the man who has not +been found out in any evil, is our modern ideal. The most virtuous thing +in nature, according to this new theory, should be the oyster. He is +always at home, and always sober. He is not noisy. He gives no trouble +to the police. I cannot think of a single one of the Ten Commandments +that he ever breaks. He never enjoys himself, and he never, so long as +he lives, gives a moment's pleasure to any other living thing. + +I can imagine the oyster lecturing a lion on the subject of morality. + +"You never hear me," the oyster might say, "howling round camps and +villages, making night hideous, frightening quiet folk out of their +lives. Why don't you go to bed early, as I do? I never prowl round +the oyster-bed, fighting other gentlemen oysters, making love to lady +oysters already married. I never kill antelopes or missionaries. Why +can't you live as I do on salt water and germs, or whatever it is that I +do live on? Why don't you try to be more like me?" + +An oyster has no evil passions, therefore we say he is a virtuous fish. +We never ask ourselves--"Has he any good passions?" A lion's behaviour +is often such as no just man could condone. Has he not his good points +also? + +Will the fat, sleek, "virtuous" man be as Welcome at the gate of heaven +as he supposes? + +"Well," St. Peter may say to him, opening the door a little way and +looking him up and down, "what is it now?" + +"It's me," the virtuous man will reply, with an oily, self-satisfied +smile; "I should say, I--I've come." + +"Yes, I see you have come; but what is your claim to admittance? What +have you done with your three score years and ten?" + +"Done!" the virtuous man will answer, "I have done nothing, I assure +you." + +"Nothing!" + +"Nothing; that is my strong point; that is why I am here. I have never +done any wrong." + +"And what good have you done?" + +"What good!" + +"Aye, what good? Do not you even know the meaning of the word? What +human creature is the better for your having eaten and drunk and slept +these years? You have done no harm--no harm to yourself. Perhaps, if you +had you might have done some good with it; the two are generally to be +found together down below, I remember. What good have you done that you +should enter here? This is no mummy chamber; this is the place of +men and women who have lived, who have wrought good--and evil also, +alas!--for the sinners who fight for the right, not the righteous who +run with their souls from the fight." + +It was not, however, to speak of these things that I remembered The +Amateur and its lessons. My intention was but to lead up to the story of +a certain small boy, who in the doing of tasks not required of him was +exceedingly clever. I wish to tell you his story, because, as do most +true tales, it possesses a moral, and stories without a moral I deem to +be but foolish literature, resembling roads that lead to nowhere, such +as sick folk tramp for exercise. + +I have known this little boy to take an expensive eight-day clock to +pieces, and make of it a toy steamboat. True, it was not, when made, +very much of a steamboat; but taking into consideration all the +difficulties--the inadaptability of eight-day clock machinery to +steamboat requirements, the necessity of getting the work accomplished +quickly, before conservatively-minded people with no enthusiasm for +science could interfere--a good enough steamboat. With merely an +ironing-board and a few dozen meat-skewers, he would--provided the +ironing-board was not missed in time--turn out quite a practicable +rabbit-hutch. He could make a gun out of an umbrella and a gas-bracket, +which, if not so accurate as a Martini-Henry, was, at all events, more +deadly. With half the garden-hose, a copper scalding-pan out of +the dairy, and a few Dresden china ornaments off the drawing-room +mantelpiece, he would build a fountain for the garden. He could make +bookshelves out of kitchen tables, and crossbows out of crinolines. He +could dam you a stream so that all the water would flow over the croquet +lawn. He knew how to make red paint and oxygen gas, together with many +other suchlike commodities handy to have about a house. Among other +things he learned how to make fireworks, and after a few explosions of +an unimportant character, came to make them very well indeed. The boy +who can play a good game of cricket is liked. The boy who can fight well +is respected. The boy who can cheek a master is loved. But the boy who +can make fireworks is revered above all others as a boy belonging to a +superior order of beings. The fifth of November was at hand, and with +the consent of an indulgent mother, he determined to give to the world +a proof of his powers. A large party of friends, relatives, and +school-mates was invited, and for a fortnight beforehand the scullery +was converted into a manufactory for fireworks. The female servants +went about in hourly terror of their lives, and the villa, did we judge +exclusively by smell, one might have imagined had been taken over by +Satan, his main premises being inconveniently crowded, as an annex. By +the evening of the fourth all was in readiness, and samples were tested +to make sure that no contretemps should occur the following night. All +was found to be perfect. + +The rockets rushed heavenward and descended in stars, the Roman candles +tossed their fiery balls into the darkness, the Catherine wheels +sparkled and whirled, the crackers cracked, and the squibs banged. That +night he went to bed a proud and happy boy, and dreamed of fame. He +stood surrounded by blazing fireworks, and the vast crowd cheered him. +His relations, most of whom, he knew, regarded him as the coming idiot +of the family, were there to witness his triumph; so too was Dickey +Bowles, who laughed at him because he could not throw straight. The girl +at the bun-shop, she also was there, and saw that he was clever. + +The night of the festival arrived, and with it the guests. They sat, +wrapped up in shawls and cloaks, outside the hall door--uncles, cousins, +aunts, little boys and big boys, little girls and big girls, with, as +the theatre posters say, villagers and retainers, some forty of them in +all, and waited. + +But the fireworks did not go off. Why they did not go off I cannot +explain; nobody ever COULD explain. The laws of nature seemed to be +suspended for that night only. The rockets fell down and died where they +stood. No human agency seemed able to ignite the squibs. The crackers +gave one bang and collapsed. The Roman candles might have been English +rushlights. The Catherine wheels became mere revolving glow-worms. The +fiery serpents could not collect among them the spirit of a tortoise. +The set piece, a ship at sea, showed one mast and the captain, and +then went out. One or two items did their duty, but this only served +to render the foolishness of the whole more striking. The little girls +giggled, the little boys chaffed, the aunts and cousins said it was +beautiful, the uncles inquired if it was all over, and talked about +supper and trains, the "villagers and retainers" dispersed laughing, the +indulgent mother said "never mind," and explained how well everything +had gone off yesterday; the clever little boy crept upstairs to his +room, and blubbered his heart out in the dark. + +Hours later, when the crowd had forgotten him, he stole out again into +the garden. He sat down amid the ruins of his hope, and wondered what +could have caused the fiasco. Still puzzled, he drew from his pocket +a box of matches, and, lighting one, he held it to the seared end of a +rocket he had tried in vain to light four hours ago. It smouldered for +an instant, then shot with a swish into the air and broke into a hundred +points of fire. He tried another and another with the same result. He +made a fresh attempt to fire the set piece. Point by point the whole +picture--minus the captain and one mast--came out of the night, and +stood revealed in all the majesty of flame. Its sparks fell upon the +piled-up heap of candles, wheels, and rockets that a little while before +had obstinately refused to burn, and that, one after another, had been +thrown aside as useless. Now with the night frost upon them, they leaped +to light in one grand volcanic eruption. And in front of the gorgeous +spectacle he stood with only one consolation--his mother's hand in his. + +The whole thing was a mystery to him at the time, but, as he learned to +know life better, he came to understand that it was only one example of +a solid but inexplicable fact, ruling all human affairs--YOUR FIREWORKS +WON'T GO OFF WHILE THE CROWD IS AROUND. + +Our brilliant repartees do not occur to us till the door is closed upon +us and we are alone in the street, or, as the French would say, are +coming down the stairs. Our after-dinner oratory, that sounded so +telling as we delivered it before the looking-glass, falls strangely +flat amidst the clinking of the glasses. The passionate torrent of +words we meant to pour into her ear becomes a halting rigmarole, at +which--small blame to her--she only laughs. + +I would, gentle Reader, you could hear the stories that I meant to +tell you. You judge me, of course, by the stories of mine that you have +read--by this sort of thing, perhaps; but that is not just to me. The +stories I have not told you, that I am going to tell you one day, I +would that you judge me by those. + +They are so beautiful; you will say so; over them, you will laugh and +cry with me. + +They come into my brain unbidden, they clamour to be written, yet when +I take my pen in hand they are gone. It is as though they were shy of +publicity, as though they would say to me--"You alone, you shall read +us, but you must not write us; we are too real, too true. We are like +the thoughts you cannot speak. Perhaps a little later, when you know +more of life, then you shall tell us." + +Next to these in merit I would place, were I writing a critical essay +on myself, the stories I have begun to write and that remain unfinished, +why I cannot explain to myself. They are good stories, most of them; +better far than the stories I have accomplished. Another time, perhaps, +if you care to listen, I will tell you the beginning of one or two and +you shall judge. Strangely enough, for I have always regarded myself as +a practical, commonsensed man, so many of these still-born children of +my mind I find, on looking through the cupboard where their thin bodies +lie, are ghost stories. I suppose the hope of ghosts is with us all. The +world grows somewhat interesting to us heirs of all the ages. Year by +year, Science with broom and duster tears down the moth-worn tapestry, +forces the doors of the locked chambers, lets light into the +secret stairways, cleans out the dungeons, explores the hidden +passages--finding everywhere only dust. This echoing old castle, the +world, so full of mystery in the days when we were children, is losing +somewhat its charm for us as we grow older. The king sleeps no longer in +the hollow of the hills. We have tunnelled through his mountain chamber. +We have shivered his beard with our pick. We have driven the gods from +Olympus. No wanderer through the moonlit groves now fears or hopes the +sweet, death-giving gleam of Aphrodite's face. Thor's hammer echoes not +among the peaks--'tis but the thunder of the excursion train. We have +swept the woods of the fairies. We have filtered the sea of its nymphs. +Even the ghosts are leaving us, chased by the Psychical Research +Society. + +Perhaps of all, they are the least, however, to be regretted. They were +dull old fellows, clanking their rusty chains and groaning and sighing. +Let them go. + +And yet how interesting they might be, if only they would. The old +gentleman in the coat of mail, who lived in King John's reign, who was +murdered, so they say, on the outskirts of the very wood I can see from +my window as I write--stabbed in the back, poor gentleman, as he was +riding home, his body flung into the moat that to this day is called +Tor's tomb. Dry enough it is now, and the primroses love its steep +banks; but a gloomy enough place in those days, no doubt, with its +twenty feet of stagnant water. Why does he haunt the forest paths at +night, as they tell me he does, frightening the children out of their +wits, blanching the faces and stilling the laughter of the peasant lads +and lasses, slouching home from the village dance? Instead, why does +he not come up here and talk to me? He should have my easy-chair and +welcome, would he only be cheerful and companionable. + +What brave tales could he not tell me. He fought in the first Crusade, +heard the clarion voice of Peter, met the great Godfrey face to face, +stood, hand on sword-hilt, at Runny-mede, perhaps. Better than a whole +library of historical novels would an evening's chat be with such a +ghost. What has he done with his eight hundred years of death? where has +he been? what has he seen? Maybe he has visited Mars; has spoken to the +strange spirits who can live in the liquid fires of Jupiter. What has he +learned of the great secret? Has he found the truth? or is he, even as +I, a wanderer still seeking the unknown? + +You, poor, pale, grey nun--they tell me that of midnights one may see +your white face peering from the ruined belfry window, hear the clash of +sword and shield among the cedar-trees beneath. + +It was very sad, I quite understand, my dear lady. Your lovers both were +killed, and you retired to a convent. Believe me, I am sincerely +sorry for you, but why waste every night renewing the whole painful +experience? Would it not be better forgotten? Good Heavens, madam, +suppose we living folk were to spend our lives wailing and wringing our +hands because of the wrongs done to us when we were children? It is all +over now. Had he lived, and had you married him, you might not have been +happy. I do not wish to say anything unkind, but marriages founded upon +the sincerest mutual love have sometimes turned out unfortunately, as +you must surely know. + +Do take my advice. Talk the matter over with the young men themselves. +Persuade them to shake hands and be friends. Come in, all of you, out of +the cold, and let us have some reasonable talk. + +Why seek you to trouble us, you poor pale ghosts? Are we not your +children? Be our wise friends. Tell me, how loved the young men in your +young days? how answered the maidens? Has the world changed much, do you +think? Had you not new women even then? girls who hated the everlasting +tapestry frame and spinning-wheel? Your father's servants, were they so +much worse off than the freemen who live in our East-end slums and sew +slippers for fourteen hours a day at a wage of nine shillings a week? +Do you think Society much improved during the last thousand years? Is it +worse? is it better? or is it, on the whole, about the same, save that +we call things by other names? Tell me, what have YOU learned? + +Yet might not familiarity breed contempt, even for ghosts. + +One has had a tiring day's shooting. One is looking forward to one's +bed. As one opens the door, however, a ghostly laugh comes from behind +the bed-curtains, and one groans inwardly, knowing what is in store for +one: a two or three hours' talk with rowdy old Sir Lanval--he of the +lance. We know all his tales by heart, and he will shout them. Suppose +our aunt, from whom we have expectations, and who sleeps in the next +room, should wake and overhear! They were fit and proper enough stories, +no doubt, for the Round Table, but we feel sure our aunt would not +appreciate them:--that story about Sir Agravain and the cooper's wife! +and he always will tell that story. + +Or imagine the maid entering after dinner to say-- + +"Oh, if you please, sir, here is the veiled lady." + +"What, again!" says your wife, looking up from her work. + +"Yes, ma'am; shall I show her up into the bedroom?" + +"You had better ask your master," is the reply. The tone is suggestive +of an unpleasant five minutes so soon as the girl shall have withdrawn, +but what are you to do? + +"Yes, yes, show her up," you say, and the girl goes out, closing the +door. + +Your wife gathers her work together, and rises. + +"Where are you going?" you ask. + +"To sleep with the children," is the frigid answer. + +"It will look so rude," you urge. "We must be civil to the poor thing; +and you see it really is her room, as one might say. She has always +haunted it." + +"It is very curious," returns the wife of your bosom, still more icily, +"that she never haunts it except when you are down here. Where she goes +when you are in town I'm sure I don't know." + +This is unjust. You cannot restrain your indignation. + +"What nonsense you talk, Elizabeth," you reply; "I am only barely polite +to her." + +"Some men have such curious notions of politeness," returns Elizabeth. +"But pray do not let us quarrel. I am only anxious not to disturb you. +Two are company, you know. I don't choose to be the third, that's all." +With which she goes out. + +And the veiled lady is still waiting for you up-stairs. You wonder how +long she will stop, also what will happen after she is gone. + +I fear there is no room for you, ghosts, in this our world. You remember +how they came to Hiawatha--the ghosts of the departed loved ones. He had +prayed to them that they would come back to him to comfort him, so +one day they crept into his wigwam, sat in silence round his fireside, +chilled the air for Hiawatha, froze the smiles of Laughing Water. + +There is no room for you, oh you poor pale ghosts, in this our world. +Do not trouble us. Let us forget. You, stout elderly matron, your thin +locks turning grey, your eyes grown weak, your chin more ample, your +voice harsh with much scolding and complaining, needful, alas! to +household management, I pray you leave me. I loved you while you lived. +How sweet, how beautiful you were. I see you now in your white frock +among the apple-blossom. But you are dead, and your ghost disturbs my +dreams. I would it haunted me not. + +You, dull old fellow, looking out at me from the glass at which I shave, +why do you haunt me? You are the ghost of a bright lad I once knew well. +He might have done much, had he lived. I always had faith in him. Why +do you haunt me? I would rather think of him as I remember him. I never +imagined he would make such a poor ghost. + + + + +ON THE PREPARATION AND EMPLOYMENT OF LOVE PHILTRES + +Occasionally a friend will ask me some such question as this, Do you +prefer dark women or fair? Another will say, Do you like tall women or +short? A third, Do you think light-hearted women, or serious, the more +agreeable company? I find myself in the position that, once upon a time, +overtook a certain charming young lady of taste who was asked by an +anxious parent, the years mounting, and the family expenditure not +decreasing, which of the numerous and eligible young men, then paying +court to her, she liked the best. She replied, that was her difficulty. +She could not make up her mind which she liked the best. They were all +so nice. She could not possibly select one to the exclusion of all the +others. What she would have liked would have been to marry the lot, but +that, she presumed, was impracticable. + +I feel I resemble that young lady, not so much, perhaps, in charm and +beauty as indecision of mind, when questions such as the above are put +to me. It is as if one were asked one's favourite food. There are times +when one fancies an egg with one's tea. On other occasions one dreams of +a kipper. Today one clamours for lobsters. To-morrow one feels one never +wishes to see a lobster again; one determines to settle down, for a +time, to a diet of bread and milk and rice-pudding. Asked suddenly to +say whether I preferred ices to soup, or beefsteaks to caviare, I should +be nonplussed. + +I like tall women and short, dark women and fair, merry women and grave. + +Do not blame me, Ladies, the fault lies with you. Every right-thinking +man is an universal lover; how could it be otherwise? You are so +diverse, yet each so charming of your kind; and a man's heart is large. +You have no idea, fair Reader, how large a man's heart is: that is his +trouble--sometimes yours. + +May I not admire the daring tulip, because I love also the modest lily? +May I not press a kiss upon the sweet violet, because the scent of the +queenly rose is precious to me? + +"Certainly not," I hear the Rose reply. "If you can see anything in her, +you shall have nothing to do with me." + +"If you care for that bold creature," says the Lily, trembling, "you are +not the man I took you for. Good-bye." + +"Go to your baby-faced Violet," cries the Tulip, with a toss of her +haughty head. "You are just fitted for each other." + +And when I return to the Lily, she tells me that she cannot trust me. +She has watched me with those others. She knows me for a gad-about. Her +gentle face is full of pain. + +So I must live unloved merely because I love too much. + +My wonder is that young men ever marry. The difficulty of selection must +be appalling. I walked the other evening in Hyde Park. The band of the +Life Guards played heart-lifting music, and the vast crowd were basking +in a sweet enjoyment such as rarely woos the English toiler. I strolled +among them, and my attention was chiefly drawn towards the women. The +great majority of them were, I suppose, shop-girls, milliners, and +others belonging to the lower middle-class. They had put on their best +frocks, their bonniest hats, their newest gloves. They sat or walked in +twos and threes, chattering and preening, as happy as young sparrows on +a clothes line. And what a handsome crowd they made! I have seen German +crowds, I have seen French crowds, I have seen Italian crowds; but +nowhere do you find such a proportion of pretty women as among the +English middle-class. Three women out of every four were worth looking +at, every other woman was pretty, while every fourth, one might say +without exaggeration, was beautiful. As I passed to and fro the idea +occurred to me: suppose I were an unprejudiced young bachelor, free +from predilection, looking for a wife; and let me suppose--it is only a +fancy--that all these girls were ready and willing to accept me. I have +only to choose! I grew bewildered. There were fair girls, to look at +whom was fatal; dark girls that set one's heart aflame; girls with red +gold hair and grave grey eyes, whom one would follow to the confines +of the universe; baby-faced girls that one longed to love and cherish; +girls with noble faces, whom a man might worship; laughing girls, with +whom one could dance through life gaily; serious girls, with whom life +would be sweet and good, domestic-looking girls--one felt such would +make delightful wives; they would cook, and sew, and make of home a +pleasant, peaceful place. Then wicked-looking girls came by, at the stab +of whose bold eyes all orthodox thoughts were put to a flight, whose +laughter turned the world into a mad carnival; girls one could mould; +girls from whom one could learn; sad girls one wanted to comfort; merry +girls who would cheer one; little girls, big girls, queenly girls, +fairy-like girls. + +Suppose a young man had to select his wife in this fashion from some +twenty or thirty thousand; or that a girl were suddenly confronted with +eighteen thousand eligible young bachelors, and told to take the one +she wanted and be quick about it? Neither boy nor girl would ever marry. +Fate is kinder to us. She understands, and assists us. In the hall of a +Paris hotel I once overheard one lady asking another to recommend her a +milliner's shop. + +"Go to the Maison Nouvelle," advised the questioned lady, with +enthusiasm. "They have the largest selection there of any place in +Paris." + +"I know they have," replied the first lady, "that is just why I don't +mean to go there. It confuses me. If I see six bonnets I can tell the +one I want in five minutes. If I see six hundred I come away without any +bonnet at all. Don't you know a little shop?" + +Fate takes the young man or the young woman aside. + +"Come into this village, my dear," says Fate; "into this by-street of +this salubrious suburb, into this social circle, into this church, into +this chapel. Now, my dear boy, out of these seventeen young ladies, +which will you have?--out of these thirteen young men, which would you +like for your very own, my dear?" + +"No, miss, I am sorry, but I am not able to show you our up-stairs +department to-day, the lift is not working. But I am sure we shall be +able to find something in this room to suit you. Just look round, my +dear, perhaps you will see something." + +"No, sir, I cannot show you the stock in the next room, we never +take that out except for our very special customers. We keep our most +expensive goods in that room. (Draw that curtain, Miss Circumstance, +please. I have told you of that before.) Now, sir, wouldn't you like +this one? This colour is quite the rage this season; we are getting rid +of quite a lot of these." + +"NO, sir! Well, of course, it would not do for every one's taste to be +the same. Perhaps something dark would suit you better. Bring out those +two brunettes, Miss Circumstance. Charming girls both of them, don't +you think so, sir? I should say the taller one for you, sir. Just one +moment, sir, allow me. Now, what do you think of that, sir? might have +been made to fit you, I'm sure. You prefer the shorter one. Certainly, +sir, no difference to us at all. Both are the same price. There's +nothing like having one's own fancy, I always say. NO, sir, I cannot +put her aside for you, we never do that. Indeed, there's rather a run +on brunettes just at present. I had a gentleman in only this morning, +looking at this particular one, and he is going to call again to-night. +Indeed, I am not at all sure--Oh, of course, sir, if you like to settle +on this one now, that ends the matter. (Put those others away, Miss +Circumstance, please, and mark this one sold.) I feel sure you'll like +her, sir, when you get her home. Thank YOU, sir. Good-morning!" + +"Now, miss, have YOU seen anything you fancy? YES, miss, this is all +we have at anything near your price. (Shut those other cupboards, Miss +Circumstance; never show more stock than you are obliged to, it only +confuses customers. How often am I to tell you that?) YES, miss, you are +quite right, there IS a slight blemish. They all have some slight flaw. +The makers say they can't help it--it's in the material. It's not once +in a season we get a perfect specimen; and when we do ladies don't seem +to care for it. Most of our customers prefer a little faultiness. They +say it gives character. Now, look at this, miss. This sort of thing +wears very well, warm and quiet. You'd like one with more colour in it? +Certainly. Miss Circumstance, reach me down the art patterns. NO, miss, +we don't guarantee any of them over the year, so much depends on how you +use them. OH YES, miss, they'll stand a fair amount of wear. People do +tell you the quieter patterns last longer; but my experience is that one +is much the same as another. There's really no telling any of them until +you come to try them. We never recommend one more than another. There's +a lot of chance about these goods, it's in the nature of them. What I +always say to ladies is--'Please yourself, it's you who have got to wear +it; and it's no good having an article you start by not liking.' YES, +miss, it IS pretty and it looks well against you: it does indeed. Thank +you, miss. Put that one aside, Miss Circumstance, please. See that it +doesn't get mixed up with the unsold stock." + +It is a useful philtre, the juice of that small western flower, that +Oberon drops upon our eyelids as we sleep. It solves all difficulties +in a trice. Why of course Helena is the fairer. Compare her with Hermia! +Compare the raven with the dove! How could we ever have doubted for a +moment? Bottom is an angel, Bottom is as wise as he is handsome. Oh, +Oberon, we thank you for that drug. Matilda Jane is a goddess; Matilda +Jane is a queen; no woman ever born of Eve was like Matilda Jane. The +little pimple on her nose--her little, sweet, tip-tilted nose--how +beautiful it is. Her bright eyes flash with temper now and then; how +piquant is a temper in a woman. William is a dear old stupid, how +lovable stupid men can be--especially when wise enough to love us. +William does not shine in conversation; how we hate a magpie of a man. +William's chin is what is called receding, just the sort of chin a beard +looks well on. Bless you, Oberon darling, for that drug; rub it on our +eyelids once again. Better let us have a bottle, Oberon, to keep by us. + +Oberon, Oberon, what are you thinking of? You have given the bottle to +Puck. Take it away from him, quick. Lord help us all if that Imp has the +bottle. Lord save us from Puck while we sleep. + +Or may we, fairy Oberon, regard your lotion as an eye-opener, rather +than as an eye-closer? You remember the story the storks told the +children, of the little girl who was a toad by day, only her sweet dark +eyes being left to her. But at night, when the Prince clasped her close +to his breast, lo! again she became the king's daughter, fairest and +fondest of women. There be many royal ladies in Marshland, with bad +complexion and thin straight hair, and the silly princes sneer and ride +away to woo some kitchen wench decked out in queen's apparel. Lucky the +prince upon whose eyelids Oberon has dropped the magic philtre. + +In the gallery of a minor Continental town I have forgotten, hangs a +picture that lives with me. The painting I cannot recall, whether good +or bad; artists must forgive me for remembering only the subject. It +shows a man, crucified by the roadside. No martyr he. If ever a man +deserved hanging it was this one. So much the artist has made clear. +The face, even under its mask of agony, is an evil, treacherous face. +A peasant girl clings to the cross; she stands tip-toe upon a patient +donkey, straining her face upward for the half-dead man to stoop and +kiss her lips. + +Thief, coward, blackguard, they are stamped upon his face, but UNDER the +face, under the evil outside? Is there no remnant of manhood--nothing +tender, nothing, true? A woman has crept to the cross to kiss him: +no evidence in his favour, my Lord? Love is blind-aye, to our faults. +Heaven help us all; Love's eyes would be sore indeed if it were not +so. But for the good that is in us her eyes are keen. You, crucified +blackguard, stand forth. A hundred witnesses have given their evidence +against you. Are there none to give evidence for him? A woman, great +Judge, who loved him. Let her speak. + +But I am wandering far from Hyde Park and its show of girls. + +They passed and re-passed me, laughing, smiling, talking. Their eyes +were bright with merry thoughts; their voices soft and musical. They +were pleased, and they wanted to please. Some were married, some had +evidently reasonable expectations of being married; the rest hoped to +be. And we, myself, and some ten thousand other young men. I repeat +it--myself and some ten thousand other young men; for who among us ever +thinks of himself but as a young man? It is the world that ages, not we. +The children cease their playing and grow grave, the lasses' eyes are +dimmer. The hills are a little steeper, the milestones, surely, further +apart. The songs the young men sing are less merry than the songs we +used to sing. The days have grown a little colder, the wind a little +keener. The wine has lost its flavour somewhat; the new humour is not +like the old. The other boys are becoming dull and prosy; but we are not +changed. It is the world that is growing old. Therefore, I brave your +thoughtless laughter, youthful Reader, and repeat that we, myself and +some ten thousand other young men, walked among these sweet girls; and, +using our boyish eyes, were fascinated, charmed, and captivated. How +delightful to spend our lives with them, to do little services for them +that would call up these bright smiles. How pleasant to jest with them, +and hear their flute-like laughter, to console them and read their +grateful eyes. Really life is a pleasant thing, and the idea of marriage +undoubtedly originated in the brain of a kindly Providence. + +We smiled back at them, and we made way for them; we rose from our +chairs with a polite, "Allow me, miss," "Don't mention it, I prefer +standing." "It is a delightful evening, is it not?" And perhaps--for +what harm was there?--we dropped into conversation with these chance +fellow-passengers upon the stream of life. There were those among +us--bold daring spirits--who even went to the length of mild flirtation. +Some of us knew some of them, and in such happy case there followed +interchange of pretty pleasantries. Your English middle-class young man +and woman are not adepts at the game of flirtation. I will confess that +our methods were, perhaps, elephantine, that we may have grown a trifle +noisy as the evening wore on. But we meant no evil; we did but our best +to enjoy ourselves, to give enjoyment, to make the too brief time, pass +gaily. + +And then my thoughts travelled to small homes in distant suburbs, +and these bright lads and lasses round me came to look older and more +careworn. But what of that? Are not old faces sweet when looked at by +old eyes a little dimmed by love, and are not care and toil but the +parents of peace and joy? + +But as I drew nearer, I saw that many of the faces were seared with sour +and angry looks, and the voices that rose round me sounded surly and +captious. The pretty compliment and praise had changed to sneers and +scoldings. The dimpled smile had wrinkled to a frown. There seemed so +little desire to please, so great a determination not to be pleased. + +And the flirtations! Ah me, they had forgotten how to flirt! Oh, the +pity of it! All the jests were bitter, all the little services were +given grudgingly. The air seemed to have grown chilly. A darkness had +come over all things. + +And then I awoke to reality, and found I had been sitting in my chair +longer than I had intended. The band-stand was empty, the sun had set; I +rose and made my way home through the scattered crowd. + +Nature is so callous. The Dame irritates one at times by her devotion to +her one idea, the propagation of the species. + +"Multiply and be fruitful; let my world be ever more and more peopled." + +For this she trains and fashions her young girls, models them with +cunning hand, paints them with her wonderful red and white, crowns them +with her glorious hair, teaches them to smile and laugh, trains their +voices into music, sends them out into the world to captivate, to +enslave us. + +"See how beautiful she is, my lad," says the cunning old woman. "Take +her; build your little nest with her in your pretty suburb; work for her +and live for her; enable her to keep the little ones that I will send." + +And to her, old hundred-breasted Artemis whispers, "Is he not a bonny +lad? See how he loves you, how devoted he is to you! He will work for +you and make you happy; he will build your home for you. You will be the +mother of his children." + +So we take each other by the hand, full of hope and love, and from that +hour Mother Nature has done with us. Let the wrinkles come; let our +voices grow harsh; let the fire she lighted in our hearts die out; let +the foolish selfishness we both thought we had put behind us for ever +creep back to us, bringing unkindness and indifference, angry thoughts +and cruel words into our lives. What cares she? She has caught us, and +chained us to her work. She is our universal mother-in-law. She has done +the match-making; for the rest, she leaves it to ourselves. We can love +or we can fight; it is all one to her, confound her. + +I wonder sometimes if good temper might not be taught. In business +we use no harsh language, say no unkind things to one another. The +shopkeeper, leaning across the counter, is all smiles and affability, +he might put up his shutters were he otherwise. The commercial gent, no +doubt, thinks the ponderous shopwalker an ass, but refrains from telling +him so. Hasty tempers are banished from the City. Can we not see that +it is just as much to our interest to banish them from Tooting and +Hampstead? + +The young man who sat in the chair next to me, how carefully he wrapped +the cloak round the shoulders of the little milliner beside him. And +when she said she was tired of sitting still, how readily he sprang +from his chair to walk with her, though it was evident he was very +comfortable where he was. And she! She had laughed at his jokes; they +were not very clever jokes, they were not very new. She had probably +read them herself months before in her own particular weekly journal. +Yet the harmless humbug made him happy. I wonder if ten years hence +she will laugh at such old humour, if ten years hence he will take such +clumsy pains to put her cape about her. Experience shakes her head, and +is amused at my question. + +I would have evening classes for the teaching of temper to married +couples, only I fear the institution would languish for lack of pupils. +The husbands would recommend their wives to attend, generously offering +to pay the fee as a birthday present. The wife would be indignant at the +suggestion of good money being thus wasted. "No, John, dear," she would +unselfishly reply, "you need the lessons more than I do. It would be a +shame for me to take them away from you," and they would wrangle upon +the subject for the rest of the day. + +Oh! the folly of it. We pack our hamper for life's picnic with such +pains. We spend so much, we work so hard. We make choice pies, we cook +prime joints, we prepare so carefully the mayonnaise, we mix with loving +hands the salad, we cram the basket to the lid with every delicacy we +can think of. Everything to make the picnic a success is there except +the salt. Ah! woe is me, we forget the salt. We slave at our desks, +in our workshops, to make a home for those we love; we give up our +pleasures, we give up our rest. We toil in our kitchen from morning till +night, and we render the whole feast tasteless for want of a ha'porth +of salt--for want of a soupcon of amiability, for want of a handful of +kindly words, a touch of caress, a pinch of courtesy. + +Who does not know that estimable housewife, working from eight till +twelve to keep the house in what she calls order? She is so good a +woman, so untiring, so unselfish, so conscientious, so irritating. Her +rooms are so clean, her servants so well managed, her children so well +dressed, her dinners so well cooked; the whole house so uninviting. +Everything about her is in apple-pie order, and everybody wretched. + +My good Madam, you polish your tables, you scour your kettles, but the +most valuable piece of furniture in the whole house you are letting to +rack and ruin for want of a little pains. You will find it in your own +room, my dear Lady, in front of your own mirror. It is getting shabby +and dingy, old-looking before its time; the polish is rubbed off it, +Madam, it is losing its brightness and charm. Do you remember when he +first brought it home, how proud he was of it? Do you think you have +used it well, knowing how he valued it? A little less care of your +pots and your pans, Madam, a little more of yourself were wiser. Polish +yourself up, Madam; you had a pretty wit once, a pleasant laugh, a +conversation that was not confined exclusively to the short-comings of +servants, the wrong-doings of tradesmen. My dear Madam, we do not live +on spotless linen, and crumbless carpets. Hunt out that bundle of old +letters you keep tied up in faded ribbon at the back of your bureau +drawer--a pity you don't read them oftener. He did not enthuse about +your cuffs and collars, gush over the neatness of your darning. It was +your tangled hair he raved about, your sunny smile (we have not seen +it for some years, Madam--the fault of the Cook and the Butcher, I +presume), your little hands, your rosebud mouth--it has lost its shape, +Madam, of late. Try a little less scolding of Mary Ann, and practise +a laugh once a day: you might get back the dainty curves. It would be +worth trying. It was a pretty mouth once. + +Who invented that mischievous falsehood that the way to a man's heart +was through his stomach? How many a silly woman, taking it for truth, +has let love slip out of the parlour, while she was busy in the kitchen. +Of course, if you were foolish enough to marry a pig, I suppose you must +be content to devote your life to the preparation of hog's-wash. But are +you sure that he IS a pig? If by any chance he be not?--then, Madam, you +are making a grievous mistake. My dear Lady, you are too modest. If I +may say so without making you unduly conceited, even at the dinner-table +itself, you are of much more importance than the mutton. Courage, Madam, +be not afraid to tilt a lance even with your own cook. You can be more +piquant than the sauce a la Tartare, more soothing surely than the +melted butter. There was a time when he would not have known whether +he was eating beef or pork with you the other side of the table. Whose +fault is it? Don't think so poorly of us. We are not ascetics, neither +are we all gourmets: most of us plain men, fond of our dinner, as a +healthy man should be, but fonder still of our sweethearts and wives, +let us hope. Try us. A moderately-cooked dinner--let us even say a +not-too-well-cooked dinner, with you looking your best, laughing and +talking gaily and cleverly--as you can, you know--makes a pleasanter +meal for us, after the day's work is done, than that same dinner, cooked +to perfection, with you silent, jaded, and anxious, your pretty hair +untidy, your pretty face wrinkled with care concerning the sole, with +anxiety regarding the omelette. + +My poor Martha, be not troubled about so many things. YOU are the one +thing needful--if the bricks and mortar are to be a home. See to it that +YOU are well served up, that YOU are done to perfection, that YOU are +tender and satisfying, that YOU are worth sitting down to. We wanted a +wife, a comrade, a friend; not a cook and a nurse on the cheap. + +But of what use is it to talk? the world will ever follow its own folly. +When I think of all the good advice that I have given it, and of the +small result achieved, I confess I grow discouraged. I was giving good +advice to a lady only the other day. I was instructing her as to the +proper treatment of aunts. She was sucking a lead-pencil, a thing I am +always telling her not to do. She took it out of her mouth to speak. + +"I suppose you know how everybody ought to do everything," she said. + +There are times when it is necessary to sacrifice one's modesty to one's +duty. + +"Of course I do," I replied. + +"And does Mama know how everybody ought to do everything?" was the +second question. + +My conviction on this point was by no means so strong, but for domestic +reasons I again sacrificed myself to expediency. + +"Certainly," I answered; "and take that pencil out of your mouth. I've +told you of that before. You'll swallow it one day, and then you'll get +perichondritis and die." + +She appeared to be solving a problem. + +"All grown-up people seem to know everything," she summarized. + +There are times when I doubt if children are as simple as they look. +If it be sheer stupidity that prompts them to make remarks of this +character, one should pity them, and seek to improve them. But if it be +not stupidity? well then, one should still seek to improve them, but by +a different method. + +The other morning I overheard the nurse talking to this particular +specimen. The woman is a most worthy creature, and she was imparting +to the child some really sound advice. She was in the middle of an +unexceptional exhortation concerning the virtue of silence, when +Dorothea interrupted her with-- + +"Oh, do be quiet, Nurse. I never get a moment's peace from your +chatter." + +Such an interruption discourages a woman who is trying to do her duty. + +Last Tuesday evening she was unhappy. Myself, I think that rhubarb +should never be eaten before April, and then never with lemonade. Her +mother read her a homily upon the subject of pain. It was impressed upon +her that we must be patient, that we must put up with the trouble that +God sends us. Dorothea would descend to details, as children will. + +"Must we put up with the cod-liver oil that God sends us?" + +"Yes, decidedly." + +"And with the nurses that God sends us?" + +"Certainly; and be thankful that you've got them, some little girls +haven't any nurse. And don't talk so much." + +On Friday I found the mother in tears. + +"What's the matter?" I asked. + +"Oh, nothing," was the answer; "only Baby. She's such a strange child. I +can't make her out at all." + +"What has she been up to now?" + +"Oh, she will argue, you know." + +She has that failing. I don't know where she gets it from, but she's got +it. + +"Well?" + +"Well, she made me cross; and, to punish her, I told her she shouldn't +take her doll's perambulator out with her." + +"Yes?" + +"Well, she didn't say anything then, but so soon as I was outside the +door, I heard her talking to herself--you know her way?" + +"Yes?" + +"She said--" + +"Yes, she said?" + +"She said, 'I must be patient. I must put up with the mother God has +sent me.'" + +She lunches down-stairs on Sundays. We have her with us once a week to +give her the opportunity of studying manners and behaviour. Milson had +dropped in, and we were discussing politics. I was interested, and, +pushing my plate aside, leant forward with my elbows on the table. +Dorothea has a habit of talking to herself in a high-pitched whisper +capable of being heard above an Adelphi love scene. I heard her say-- + +"I must sit up straight. I mustn't sprawl with my elbows on the table. +It is only common, vulgar people behave that way." + +I looked across at her; she was sitting most correctly, and appeared to +be contemplating something a thousand miles away. We had all of us been +lounging! We sat up stiffly, and conversation flagged. + +Of course we made a joke of it after the child was gone. But somehow it +didn't seem to be OUR joke. + +I wish I could recollect my childhood. I should so like to know if +children are as simple as they can look. + + + + +ON THE DELIGHTS AND BENEFITS OF SLAVERY + +My study window looks down upon Hyde Park, and often, to quote the +familiar promise of each new magazine, it amuses and instructs me to +watch from my tower the epitome of human life that passes to and +fro beneath. At the opening of the gates, creeps in the woman of the +streets. Her pitiful work for the time being is over. Shivering in +the chill dawn, she passes to her brief rest. Poor Slave! Lured to the +galley's lowest deck, then chained there. Civilization, tricked fool, +they say has need of such. You serve as the dogs of Eastern towns. But +at least, it seems to me, we need not spit on you. Home to your kennel! +Perchance, if the Gods be kind, they may send you dreams of a cleanly +hearth, where you lie with a silver collar round your neck. + +Next comes the labourer--the hewer of wood, the drawer of +water--slouching wearily to his toil; sleep clinging still about his +leaden eyes, his pittance of food carried tied up in a dish-clout. The +first stroke of the hour clangs from Big Ben. Haste thee, fellow-slave, +lest the overseer's whip, "Out, we will have no lie-a-beds here," +descend upon thy patient back. + +Later, the artisan, with his bag of tools across his shoulder. He, too, +listens fearfully to the chiming of the bells. For him also there hangs +ready the whip. + +After him, the shop boy and the shop girl, making love as they walk, +not to waste time. And after these the slaves of the desk and of the +warehouse, employers and employed, clerks and tradesmen, office boys +and merchants. To your places, slaves of all ranks. Get you unto your +burdens. + +Now, laughing and shouting as they run, the children, the sons and +daughters of the slaves. Be industrious, little children, and learn +your lessons, that when the time comes you may be ready to take from our +hands the creaking oar, to slip into our seat at the roaring loom. For +we shall not be slaves for ever, little children. It is the good law +of the land. So many years in the galleys, so many years in the fields; +then we can claim our freedom. Then we shall go, little children, back +to the land of our birth. And you we must leave behind us to take up the +tale of our work. So, off to your schools, little children, and learn to +be good little slaves. + +Next, pompous and sleek, come the educated slaves--journalists, doctors, +judges, and poets; the attorney, the artist, the player, the priest. +They likewise scurry across the Park, looking anxiously from time +to time at their watches, lest they be late for their appointments; +thinking of the rates and taxes to be earned, of the bonnets to be paid +for, the bills to be met. The best scourged, perhaps, of all, these +slaves. The cat reserved for them has fifty tails in place of merely two +or three. Work, you higher middle-class slave, or you shall come down to +the smoking of twopenny cigars; harder yet, or you shall drink shilling +claret; harder, or you shall lose your carriage and ride in a penny bus; +your wife's frocks shall be of last year's fashion; your trousers shall +bag at the knees; from Kensington you shall be banished to Kilburn, if +the tale of your bricks run short. Oh, a many-thonged whip is yours, my +genteel brother. + +The slaves of fashion are the next to pass beneath me in review. They +are dressed and curled with infinite pains. The liveried, pampered +footman these, kept more for show than use; but their senseless tasks +none the less labour to them. Here must they come every day, merry or +sad. By this gravel path and no other must they walk; these phrases +shall they use when they speak to one another. For an hour they must go +slowly up and down upon a bicycle from Hyde Park Corner to the Magazine +and back. And these clothes must they wear; their gloves of this colour, +their neck-ties of this pattern. In the afternoon they must return +again, this time in a carriage, dressed in another livery, and for an +hour they must pass slowly to and fro in foolish procession. For dinner +they must don yet another livery, and after dinner they must stand about +at dreary social functions till with weariness and boredom their heads +feel dropping from their shoulders. + +With the evening come the slaves back from their work: barristers, +thinking out their eloquent appeals; school-boys, conning their +dog-eared grammars; City men, planning their schemes; the wearers of +motley, cudgelling their poor brains for fresh wit with which to please +their master; shop boys and shop girls, silent now as, together, they +plod homeward; the artisan; the labourer. Two or three hours you shall +have to yourselves, slaves, to think and love and play, if you be not +too tired to think, or love, or play. Then to your litter, that you may +be ready for the morrow's task. + +The twilight deepens into dark; there comes back the woman of the +streets. As the shadows, she rounds the City's day. Work strikes its +tent. Evil creeps from its peering place. + +So we labour, driven by the whip of necessity, an army of slaves. If we +do not our work, the whip descends upon us; only the pain we feel in our +stomach instead of on our back. And because of that, we call ourselves +free men. + +Some few among us bravely struggle to be really free: they are our +tramps and outcasts. We well-behaved slaves shrink from them, for the +wages of freedom in this world are vermin and starvation. We can live +lives worth living only by placing the collar round our neck. + +There are times when one asks oneself: Why this endless labour? Why this +building of houses, this cooking of food, this making of clothes? Is the +ant so much more to be envied than the grasshopper, because she spends +her life in grubbing and storing, and can spare no time for singing? +Why this complex instinct, driving us to a thousand labours to satisfy +a thousand desires? We have turned the world into a workshop to provide +ourselves with toys. To purchase luxury we have sold our ease. + +Oh, Children of Israel! why were ye not content in your wilderness? It +seems to have been a pattern wilderness. For you, a simple wholesome +food, ready cooked, was provided. You took no thought for rent and +taxes; you had no poor among you--no poor-rate collectors. You suffered +not from indigestion, nor the hundred ills that follow over-feeding; an +omer for every man was your portion, neither more nor less. You knew +not you had a liver. Doctors wearied you not with their theories, their +physics, and their bills. You were neither landowners nor leaseholders, +neither shareholders nor debenture holders. The weather and the market +reports troubled you not. The lawyer was unknown to you; you wanted no +advice; you had nought to quarrel about with your neighbour. No riches +were yours for the moth and rust to damage. Your yearly income and +expenditure you knew would balance to a fraction. Your wife and children +were provided for. Your old age caused you no anxiety; you knew you +would always have enough to live upon in comfort. Your funeral, a simple +and tasteful affair, would be furnished by the tribe. And yet, poor, +foolish child, fresh from the Egyptian brickfield, you could not rest +satisfied. You hungered for the fleshpots, knowing well what flesh-pots +entail: the cleaning of the flesh-pots, the forging of the flesh-pots, +the hewing of wood to make the fires for the boiling of the flesh-pots, +the breeding of beasts to fill the pots, the growing of fodder to feed +the beasts to fill the pots. + +All the labour of our life is centred round our flesh-pots. On the altar +of the flesh-pot we sacrifice our leisure, our peace of mind. For a mess +of pottage we sell our birthright. + +Oh! Children of Israel, saw you not the long punishment you were +preparing for yourselves, when in your wilderness you set up the image +of the Calf, and fell before it, crying--"This shall be our God." + +You would have veal. Thought you never of the price man pays for Veal? +The servants of the Golden Calf! I see them, stretched before my eyes, a +weary, endless throng. I see them toiling in the mines, the black sweat +on their faces. I see them in sunless cities, silent, and grimy, and +bent. I see them, ague-twisted, in the rain-soaked fields. I see them, +panting by the furnace doors. I see them, in loin-cloth and necklace, +the load upon their head. I see them in blue coats and red coats, +marching to pour their blood as an offering on the altar of the Calf. I +see them in homespun and broadcloth, I see them in smock and gaiters, I +see them in cap and apron, the servants of the Calf. They swarm on the +land and they dot the sea. They are chained to the anvil and counter; +they are chained to the bench and the desk. They make ready the soil, +they till the fields where the Golden Calf is born. They build the ship, +and they sail the ship that carries the Golden Calf. They fashion the +pots, they mould the pans, they carve the tables, they turn the chairs, +they dream of the sauces, they dig for the salt, they weave the damask, +they mould the dish to serve the Golden Calf. + +The work of the world is to this end, that we eat of the Calf. War and +Commerce, Science and Law! what are they but the four pillars supporting +the Golden Calf? He is our God. It is on his back that we have journeyed +from the primeval forest, where our ancestors ate nuts and fruit. He +is our God. His temple is in every street. His blue-robed priest stands +ever at the door, calling to the people to worship. Hark! his voice +rises on the gas-tainted air--"Now's your time! Now's your time! Buy! +Buy! ye people. Bring hither the sweat of your brow, the sweat of your +brain, the ache of your heart, buy Veal with it. Bring me the best years +of your life. Bring me your thoughts, your hopes, your loves; ye shall +have Veal for them. Now's your time! Now's your time! Buy! Buy!" + +Oh! Children of Israel, was Veal, even with all its trimmings, quite +worth the price? + +And we! what wisdom have we learned, during the centuries? I talked +with a rich man only the other evening. He calls himself a Financier, +whatever that may mean. He leaves his beautiful house, some twenty miles +out of London, at a quarter to eight, summer and winter, after a hurried +breakfast by himself, while his guests still sleep, and he gets back +just in time to dress for an elaborate dinner he himself is too weary +or too preoccupied to more than touch. If ever he is persuaded to give +himself a holiday it is for a fortnight in Ostend, when it is most +crowded and uncomfortable. He takes his secretary with him, receives +and despatches a hundred telegrams a day, and has a private telephone, +through which he can speak direct to London, brought up into his +bedroom. + +I suppose the telephone is really a useful invention. Business men tell +me they wonder how they contrived to conduct their affairs without it. +My own wonder always is, how any human being with the ordinary passions +of his race can conduct his business, or even himself, creditably, +within a hundred yards of the invention. I can imagine Job, or Griselda, +or Socrates liking to have a telephone about them as exercise. Socrates, +in particular, would have made quite a reputation for himself out of a +three months' subscription to a telephone. Myself, I am, perhaps, too +sensitive. I once lived for a month in an office with a telephone, if +one could call it life. I was told that if I had stuck to the thing for +two or three months longer, I should have got used to it. I know friends +of mine, men once fearless and high-spirited, who now stand in front +of their own telephone for a quarter of an hour at a time, and never so +much as answer it back. They tell me that at first they used to swear +and shout at it as I did; but now their spirit seems crushed. That is +what happens: you either break the telephone, or the telephone breaks +you. You want to see a man two streets off. You might put on your hat, +and be round at his office in five minutes. You are on the point of +starting when the telephone catches your eye. You think you will ring +him up to make sure he is in. You commence by ringing up some half-dozen +times before anybody takes any notice of you whatever. You are burning +with indignation at this neglect, and have left the instrument to sit +down and pen a stinging letter of complaint to the Company when the +ring-back re-calls you. You seize the ear trumpets, and shout-- + +"How is it that I can never get an answer when I ring? Here have I been +ringing for the last half-hour. I have rung twenty times." (This is +a falsehood. You have rung only six times, and the "half-hour" is an +absurd exaggeration; but you feel the mere truth would not be adequate +to the occasion.) "I think it disgraceful," you continue, "and I shall +complain to the Company. What is the use of my having a telephone if I +can't get any answer when I ring? Here I pay a large sum for having +this thing, and I can't get any notice taken. I've been ringing all the +morning. Why is it?" + +Then you wait for the answer. + +"What--what do you say? I can't hear what you say." + +"I say I've been ringing here for over an hour, and I can't get any +reply," you call back. "I shall complain to the Company." + +"You want what? Don't stand so near the tube. I can't hear what you say. +What number?" + +"Bother the number; I say why is it I don't get an answer when I ring?" + +"Eight hundred and what?" + +You can't argue any more, after that. The machine would give way under +the language you want to make use of. Half of what you feel would +probably cause an explosion at some point where the wire was weak. +Indeed, mere language of any kind would fall short of the requirements +of the case. A hatchet and a gun are the only intermediaries through +which you could convey your meaning by this time. So you give up all +attempt to answer back, and meekly mention that you want to be put in +communication with four-five-seven-six. + +"Four-nine-seven-six?" says the girl. + +"No; four-five-seven-six." + +"Did you say seven-six or six-seven?" + +"Six-seven--no! I mean seven-six: no--wait a minute. I don't know what I +do mean now." + +"Well, I wish you'd find out," says the young lady severely. "You are +keeping me here all the morning." + +So you look up the number in the book again, and at last she tells you +that you are in connection; and then, ramming the trumpet tight against +your ear, you stand waiting. + +And if there is one thing more than another likely to make a man feel +ridiculous it is standing on tip-toe in a corner, holding a machine to +his head, and listening intently to nothing. Your back aches and your +head aches, your very hair aches. You hear the door open behind you and +somebody enter the room. You can't turn your head. You swear at them, +and hear the door close with a bang. It immediately occurs to you that +in all probability it was Henrietta. She promised to call for you at +half-past twelve: you were to take her to lunch. It was twelve o'clock +when you were fool enough to mix yourself up with this infernal machine, +and it probably is half-past twelve by now. Your past life rises before +you, accompanied by dim memories of your grandmother. You are wondering +how much longer you can bear the strain of this attitude, and whether +after all you do really want to see the man in the next street but two, +when the girl in the exchange-room calls up to know if you're done. + +"Done!" you retort bitterly; "why, I haven't begun yet." + +"Well, be quick," she says, "because you're wasting time." + +Thus admonished, you attack the thing again. "ARE you there?" you cry in +tones that ought to move the heart of a Charity Commissioner; and then, +oh joy! oh rapture! you hear a faint human voice replying--"Yes, what +is it?" + +"Oh! Are you four-five-seven-six?" + +"What?" + +"Are you four-five-seven-six, Williamson?" + +"What! who are you?" + +"Eight-one-nine, Jones." + +"Bones?" + +"No, JONES. Are you four-five-seven-six?" + +"Yes; what is it?" + +"Is Mr. Williamson in?" + +"Will I what--who are you?" + +"Jones! Is Mr. Williamson in?" + +"Who?" + +"Williamson. Will-i-am-son!" + +"You're the son of what? I can't hear what you say." + +Then you gather yourself for one final effort, and succeed, by +superhuman patience, in getting the fool to understand that you wish to +know if Mr. Williamson is in, and he says, so it sounds to you, "Be in +all the morning." + +So you snatch up your hat and run round. + +"Oh, I've come to see Mr. Williamson," you say. + +"Very sorry, sir," is the polite reply, "but he's out." + +"Out? Why, you just now told me through the telephone that he'd be in +all the morning." + +"No, I said, he 'WON'T be in all the morning.'" + +You go back to the office, and sit down in front of that telephone and +look at it. There it hangs, calm and imperturbable. Were it an +ordinary instrument, that would be its last hour. You would go straight +down-stairs, get the coal-hammer and the kitchen-poker, and divide it +into sufficient pieces to give a bit to every man in London. But you +feel nervous of these electrical affairs, and there is a something about +that telephone, with its black hole and curly wires, that cows you. You +have a notion that if you don't handle it properly something may come +and shock you, and then there will be an inquest, and bother of that +sort, so you only curse it. + +That is what happens when you want to use the telephone from your end. +But that is not the worst that the telephone can do. A sensible man, +after a little experience, can learn to leave the thing alone. Your +worst troubles are not of your own making. You are working against time; +you have given instructions not to be disturbed. Perhaps it is after +lunch, and you are thinking with your eyes closed, so that your thoughts +shall not be distracted by the objects about the room. In either case +you are anxious not to leave your chair, when off goes that telephone +bell and you spring from your chair, uncertain, for the moment, whether +you have been shot, or blown up with dynamite. It occurs to you in your +weakness that if you persist in taking no notice, they will get tired, +and leave you alone. But that is not their method. The bell rings +violently at ten-second intervals. You have nothing to wrap your head up +in. You think it will be better to get this business over and done with. +You go to your fate and call back savagely-- + +"What is it? What do you want?" + +No answer, only a confused murmur, prominent out of which come the +voices of two men swearing at one another. The language they are making +use of is disgraceful. The telephone seems peculiarly adapted for the +conveyance of blasphemy. Ordinary language sounds indistinct through +it; but every word those two men are saying can be heard by all the +telephone subscribers in London. + +It is useless attempting to listen till they have done. When they are +exhausted, you apply to the tube again. No answer is obtainable. You get +mad, and become sarcastic; only being sarcastic when you are not sure +that anybody is at the other end to hear you is unsatisfying. + +At last, after a quarter of an hour or so of saying, "Are you there?" +"Yes, I'm here," "Well?" the young lady at the Exchange asks what you +want. + +"I don't want anything," you reply. + +"Then why do you keep talking?" she retorts; "you mustn't play with the +thing." + +This renders you speechless with indignation for a while, upon +recovering from which you explain that somebody rang you up. + +"WHO rang you up?" she asks. + +"I don't know." + +"I wish you did," she observes. + +Generally disgusted, you slam the trumpet up and return to your chair. +The instant you are seated the bell clangs again; and you fly up and +demand to know what the thunder they want, and who the thunder they are. + +"Don't speak so loud, we can't hear you. What do you want?" is the +answer. + +"I don't want anything. What do you want? Why do you ring me up, and +then not answer me? Do leave me alone, if you can!" + +"We can't get Hong Kongs at seventy-four." + +"Well, I don't care if you can't." + +"Would you like Zulus?" + +"What are you talking about?" you reply; "I don't know what you mean." + +"Would you like Zulus--Zulus at seventy-three and a half?" + +"I wouldn't have 'em at six a penny. What are you talking about?" + +"Hong Kongs--we can't get them at seventy-four. Oh, half-a-minute" (the +half-a-minute passes). "Are you there?" + +"Yes, but you are talking to the wrong man." + +"We can get you Hong Kongs at seventy-four and seven-eights." + +"Bother Hong Kongs, and you too. I tell you, you are talking to the +wrong man. I've told you once." + +"Once what?" + +"Why, that I am the wrong man--I mean that you are talking to the wrong +man." + +"Who are you?" + +"Eight-one-nine, Jones." + +"Oh, aren't you one-nine-eight?" + +"No." + +"Oh, good-bye." + +"Good-bye." + +How can a man after that sit down and write pleasantly of the European +crisis? And, if it were needed, herein lies another indictment against +the telephone. I was engaged in an argument, which, if not in itself +serious, was at least concerned with a serious enough subject, the +unsatisfactory nature of human riches; and from that highly moral +discussion have I been lured, by the accidental sight of the word +"telephone," into the writing of matter which can have the effect only +of exciting to frenzy all critics of the New Humour into whose hands, +for their sins, this book may come. Let me forget my transgression +and return to my sermon, or rather to the sermon of my millionaire +acquaintance. + +It was one day after dinner, we sat together in his magnificently +furnished dining-room. We had lighted our cigars at the silver lamp. The +butler had withdrawn. + +"These cigars we are smoking," my friend suddenly remarked, a propos +apparently of nothing, "they cost me five shillings apiece, taking them +by the thousand." + +"I can quite believe it," I answered; "they are worth it." + +"Yes, to you," he replied, almost savagely. "What do you usually pay for +your cigars?" + +We had known each other years ago. When I first met him his offices +consisted of a back room up three flights of stairs in a dingy by-street +off the Strand, which has since disappeared. We occasionally dined +together, in those days, at a restaurant in Great Portland Street, for +one and nine. Our acquaintanceship was of sufficient standing to allow +of such a question. + +"Threepence," I answered. "They work out at about twopence +three-farthings by the box." + +"Just so," he growled; "and your twopenny-three-farthing weed gives you +precisely the same amount of satisfaction that this five shilling cigar +affords me. That means four and ninepence farthing wasted every time I +smoke. I pay my cook two hundred a year. I don't enjoy my dinner as much +as when it cost me four shillings, including a quarter flask of Chianti. +What is the difference, personally, to me whether I drive to my office +in a carriage and pair, or in an omnibus? I often do ride in a bus: it +saves trouble. It is absurd wasting time looking for one's coachman, +when the conductor of an omnibus that passes one's door is hailing one +a few yards off. Before I could afford even buses--when I used to +walk every morning to the office from Hammersmith--I was healthier. It +irritates me to think how hard I work for no earthly benefit to myself. +My money pleases a lot of people I don't care two straws about, and +who are only my friends in the hope of making something out of me. If I +could eat a hundred-guinea dinner myself every night, and enjoy it four +hundred times as much as I used to enjoy a five-shilling dinner, there +would be some sense in it. Why do I do it?" + +I had never heard him talk like this before. In his excitement he rose +from the table, and commenced pacing the room. + +"Why don't I invest my money in the two and a half per cents?" he +continued. "At the very worst I should be safe for five thousand a +year. What, in the name of common sense, does a man want with more? I am +always saying to myself, I'll do it; why don't I? + +"Well, why not?" I echoed. + +"That's what I want you to tell me," he returned. "You set up for +understanding human nature, it's a mystery to me. In my place, you +would do as I do; you know that. If somebody left you a hundred thousand +pounds to-morrow, you would start a newspaper, or build a theatre--some +damn-fool trick for getting rid of the money and giving yourself +seventeen hours' anxiety a day; you know you would." + +I hung my head in shame. I felt the justice of the accusation. It has +always been my dream to run a newspaper and own a theatre. + +"If we worked only for what we could spend," he went on, "the City might +put up its shutters to-morrow morning. What I want to get at the bottom +of is this instinct that drives us to work apparently for work's own +sake. What is this strange thing that gets upon our back and spurs us?" + +A servant entered at that moment with a cablegram from the manager of +one of his Austrian mines, and he had to leave me for his study. But, +walking home, I fell to pondering on his words. WHY this endless work? +Why each morning do we get up and wash and dress ourselves, to undress +ourselves at night and go to bed again? Why do we work merely to earn +money to buy food; and eat food so as to gain strength that we may work? +Why do we live, merely in the end to say good-bye to one another? Why +do we labour to bring children into the world that they may die and be +buried? + +Of what use our mad striving, our passionate desire? Will it matter +to the ages whether, once upon a time, the Union Jack or the Tricolour +floated over the battlements of Badajoz? Yet we poured our blood into +its ditches to decide the question. Will it matter, in the days when the +glacial period shall have come again, to clothe the earth with silence, +whose foot first trod the Pole? Yet, generation after generation, we +mile its roadway with our whitening bones. So very soon the worms come +to us; does it matter whether we love, or hate? Yet the hot blood rushes +through our veins, we wear out heart and brain for shadowy hopes that +ever fade as we press forward. + +The flower struggles up from seed-pod, draws the sweet sap from the +ground, folds its petals each night, and sleeps. Then love comes to it +in a strange form, and it longs to mingle its pollen with the pollen of +some other flower. So it puts forth its gay blossoms, and the wandering +insect bears the message from seed-pod to seed-pod. And the seasons +pass, bringing with them the sunshine and the rain, till the flower +withers, never having known the real purpose for which it lived, +thinking the garden was made for it, not it for the garden. The coral +insect dreams in its small soul, which is possibly its small stomach, +of home and food. So it works and strives deep down in the dark waters, +never knowing of the continents it is fashioning. + +But the question still remains: for what purpose is it all? Science +explains it to us. By ages of strife and effort we improve the race; +from ether, through the monkey, man is born. So, through the labour +of the coming ages, he will free himself still further from the brute. +Through sorrow and through struggle, by the sweat of brain and brow, he +will lift himself towards the angels. He will come into his kingdom. + +But why the building? Why the passing of the countless ages? Why should +he not have been born the god he is to be, imbued at birth with all the +capabilities his ancestors have died acquiring? Why the Pict and Hun +that _I_ may be? Why _I_, that a descendant of my own, to whom I shall +seem a savage, shall come after me? Why, if the universe be ordered by a +Creator to whom all things are possible, the protoplasmic cell? Why not +the man that is to be? Shall all the generations be so much human waste +that he may live? Am I but another layer of the soil preparing for him? + +Or, if our future be in other spheres, then why the need of this planet? +Are we labouring at some Work too vast for us to perceive? Are our +passions and desires mere whips and traces by the help of which we are +driven? Any theory seems more hopeful than the thought that all our +eager, fretful lives are but the turning of a useless prison crank. +Looking back the little distance that our dim eyes can penetrate the +past, what do we find? Civilizations, built up with infinite care, +swept aside and lost. Beliefs for which men lived and died, proved to be +mockeries. Greek Art crushed to the dust by Gothic bludgeons. Dreams of +fraternity, drowned in blood by a Napoleon. What is left to us, but the +hope that the work itself, not the result, is the real monument? Maybe, +we are as children, asking, "Of what use are these lessons? What good +will they ever be to us?" But there comes a day when the lad understands +why he learnt grammar and geography, when even dates have a meaning for +him. But this is not until he has left school, and gone out into the +wider world. So, perhaps, when we are a little more grown up, we too may +begin to understand the reason for our living. + + + + +ON THE CARE AND MANAGEMENT OF WOMEN + +I talked to a woman once on the subject of honeymoons. I said, "Would +you recommend a long honeymoon, or a Saturday to Monday somewhere?" +A silence fell upon her. I gathered she was looking back rather than +forward to her answer. + +"I would advise a long honeymoon," she replied at length, "the +old-fashioned month." + +"Why," I persisted, "I thought the tendency of the age was to cut these +things shorter and shorter." + +"It is the tendency of the age," she answered, "to seek escape from many +things it would be wiser to face. I think myself that, for good or evil, +the sooner it is over--the sooner both the man and the woman know--the +better." + +"The sooner what is over?" I asked. + +If she had a fault, this woman, about which I am not sure, it was an +inclination towards enigma. + +She crossed to the window and stood there, looking out. + +"Was there not a custom," she said, still gazing down into the wet, +glistening street, "among one of the ancient peoples, I forget which, +ordaining that when a man and woman, loving one another, or thinking +that they loved, had been joined together, they should go down upon +their wedding night to the temple? And into the dark recesses of the +temple, through many winding passages, the priest led them until they +came to the great chamber where dwelt the voice of their god. There the +priest left them, clanging-to the massive door behind him, and there, +alone in silence, they made their sacrifice; and in the night the Voice +spoke to them, showing them their future life--whether they had chosen +well; whether their love would live or die. And in the morning the +priest returned and led them back into the day; and they dwelt among +their fellows. But no one was permitted to question them, nor they +to answer should any do so. Well, do you know, our nineteenth-century +honeymoon at Brighton, Switzerland, or Ramsgate, as the choice or +necessity may be, always seems to me merely another form of that night +spent alone in the temple before the altar of that forgotten god. Our +young men and women marry, and we kiss them and congratulate them; and, +standing on the doorstep, throw rice and old slippers, and shout good +wishes after them; and he waves his gloved hand to us, and she flutters +her little handkerchief from the carriage window; and we watch their +smiling faces and hear their laughter until the corner hides them from +our view. Then we go about our own business, and a short time passes +by; and one day we meet them again, and their faces have grown older +and graver; and I always wonder what the Voice has told them during that +little while that they have been absent from our sight. But of course it +would not do to ask them. Nor would they answer truly if we did." + +My friend laughed, and, leaving the window, took her place beside the +tea-things, and other callers dropping in, we fell to talk of pictures, +plays, and people. + +But I felt it would be unwise to act on her sole advice, much as I have +always valued her opinion. + +A woman takes life too seriously. It is a serious affair to most of us, +the Lord knows. That is why it is well not to take it more seriously +than need be. + +Little Jack and little Jill fall down the hill, hurting their little +knees, and their little noses, spilling the hard-earned water. We are +very philosophical. + +"Oh, don't cry!" we tell them, "that is babyish. Little boys and little +girls must learn to bear pain. Up you get, fill the pail again, and try +once more." + +Little Jack and little Jill rub their dirty knuckles into their little +eyes, looking ruefully at their bloody little knees, and trot back with +the pail. We laugh at them, but not ill-naturedly. + +"Poor little souls," we say; "how they did hullabaloo. One might have +thought they were half-killed. And it was only a broken crown, after +all. What a fuss children make!" We bear with much stoicism the fall of +little Jack and little Jill. + +But when WE--grown-up Jack with moustache turning grey; grown-up Jill +with the first faint "crow's feet" showing--when WE tumble down the +hill, and OUR pail is spilt. Ye Heavens! what a tragedy has happened. +Put out the stars, turn off the sun, suspend the laws of nature. Mr. +Jack and Mrs. Jill, coming down the hill--what they were doing on the +hill we will not inquire--have slipped over a stone, placed there surely +by the evil powers of the universe. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill have bumped +their silly heads. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill have hurt their little hearts, +and stand marvelling that the world can go about its business in the +face of such disaster. + +Don't take the matter quite so seriously, Jack and Jill. You have +spilled your happiness, you must toil up the hill again and refill the +pail. Carry it more carefully next time. What were you doing? Playing +some fool's trick, I'll be bound. + +A laugh and a sigh, a kiss and good-bye, is our life. Is it worth so +much fretting? It is a merry life on the whole. Courage, comrade. A +campaign cannot be all drum and fife and stirrup-cup. The marching and +the fighting must come into it somewhere. There are pleasant bivouacs +among the vineyards, merry nights around the camp fires. White hands +wave a welcome to us; bright eyes dim at our going. Would you run from +the battle-music? What have you to complain of? Forward: the medal to +some, the surgeon's knife to others; to all of us, sooner or later, six +feet of mother earth. What are you afraid of? Courage, comrade. + +There is a mean between basking through life with the smiling +contentment of the alligator, and shivering through it with the +aggressive sensibility of the Lama determined to die at every cross +word. To bear it as a man we must also feel it as a man. My philosophic +friend, seek not to comfort a brother standing by the coffin of his +child with the cheery suggestion that it will be all the same a hundred +years hence, because, for one thing, the observation is not true: the +man is changed for all eternity--possibly for the better, but don't add +that. A soldier with a bullet in his neck is never quite the man he was. +But he can laugh and he can talk, drink his wine and ride his horse. +Now and again, towards evening, when the weather is trying, the sickness +will come upon him. You will find him on a couch in a dark corner. + +"Hallo! old fellow, anything up?" + +"Oh, just a twinge, the old wound, you know. I will be better in a +little while." + +Shut the door of the dark room quietly. I should not stay even to +sympathize with him if I were you. The men will be coming to screw the +coffin down soon. I think he would like to be alone with it till then. +Let us leave him. He will come back to the club later on in the season. +For a while we may have to give him another ten points or so, but he +will soon get back his old form. Now and again, when he meets the other +fellows' boys shouting on the towing-path; when Brown rushes up the +drive, paper in hand, to tell him how that young scapegrace Jim has won +his Cross; when he is congratulating Jones's eldest on having passed +with honours, the old wound may give him a nasty twinge. But the pain +will pass away. He will laugh at our stories and tell us his own; eat +his dinner, play his rubber. It is only a wound. + +Tommy can never be ours, Jenny does not love us. We cannot afford +claret, so we will have to drink beer. Well, what would you have us do? +Yes, let us curse Fate by all means--some one to curse is always useful. +Let us cry and wring our hands--for how long? The dinner-bell will ring +soon, and the Smiths are coming. We shall have to talk about the opera +and the picture-galleries. Quick, where is the eau-de-Cologne? where are +the curling-tongs? Or would you we committed suicide? Is it worth while? +Only a few more years--perhaps to-morrow, by aid of a piece of orange +peel or a broken chimney-pot--and Fate will save us all that trouble. + +Or shall we, as sulky children, mope day after day? We are a +broken-hearted little Jack--little Jill. We will never smile again; we +will pine away and die, and be buried in the spring. The world is sad, +and life so cruel, and heaven so cold. Oh dear! oh dear! we have hurt +ourselves. + +We whimper and whine at every pain. In old strong days men faced real +dangers, real troubles every hour; they had no time to cry. Death and +disaster stood ever at the door. Men were contemptuous of them. Now +in each snug protected villa we set to work to make wounds out of +scratches. Every head-ache becomes an agony, every heart-ache a tragedy. +It took a murdered father, a drowned sweetheart, a dishonoured mother, +a ghost, and a slaughtered Prime Minister to produce the emotions in +Hamlet that a modern minor poet obtains from a chorus girl's frown, or +a temporary slump on the Stock Exchange. Like Mrs. Gummidge, we feel it +more. The lighter and easier life gets the more seriously we go out to +meet it. The boatmen of Ulysses faced the thunder and the sunshine alike +with frolic welcome. We modern sailors have grown more sensitive. +The sunshine scorches us, the rain chills us. We meet both with loud +self-pity. + +Thinking these thoughts, I sought a second friend--a man whose breezy +common-sense has often helped me, and him likewise I questioned on this +subject of honeymoons. + +"My dear boy," he replied; "take my advice, if ever you get married, +arrange it so that the honeymoon shall only last a week, and let it be a +bustling week into the bargain. Take a Cook's circular tour. Get married +on the Saturday morning, cut the breakfast and all that foolishness, and +catch the eleven-ten from Charing Cross to Paris. Take her up the Eiffel +Tower on Sunday. Lunch at Fontainebleau. Dine at the Maison Doree, +and show her the Moulin Rouge in the evening. Take the night train for +Lucerne. Devote Monday and Tuesday to doing Switzerland, and get into +Rome by Thursday morning, taking the Italian lakes en route. On Friday +cross to Marseilles, and from there push along to Monte Carlo. Let her +have a flutter at the tables. Start early Saturday morning for Spain, +cross the Pyrenees on mules, and rest at Bordeaux on Sunday. Get back +to Paris on Monday (Monday is always a good day for the opera), and on +Tuesday evening you will be at home, and glad to get there. Don't give +her time to criticize you until she has got used to you. No man will +bear unprotected exposure to a young girl's eyes. The honeymoon is the +matrimonial microscope. Wobble it. Confuse it with many objects. Cloud +it with other interests. Don't sit still to be examined. Besides, +remember that a man always appears at his best when active, and a woman +at her worst. Bustle her, my dear boy, bustle her: I don't care who she +may be. Give her plenty of luggage to look after; make her catch trains. +Let her see the average husband sprawling comfortably over the railway +cushions, while his wife has to sit bolt upright in the corner left +to her. Let her hear how other men swear. Let her smell other men's +tobacco. Hurry up, and get her accustomed quickly to the sight of +mankind. Then she will be less surprised and shocked as she grows to +know you. One of the best fellows I ever knew spoilt his married life +beyond repair by a long quiet honeymoon. They went off for a month to +a lonely cottage in some heaven-forsaken spot, where never a soul came +near them, and never a thing happened but morning, afternoon, and night. +There for thirty days she overhauled him. When he yawned--and he yawned +pretty often, I guess, during that month--she thought of the size of +his mouth, and when he put his heels upon the fender she sat and brooded +upon the shape of his feet. At meal-time, not feeling hungry herself, +having nothing to do to make her hungry, she would occupy herself with +watching him eat; and at night, not feeling sleepy for the same reason, +she would lie awake and listen to his snoring. After the first day or +two he grew tired of talking nonsense, and she of listening to it (it +sounded nonsense now they could speak it aloud; they had fancied it +poetry when they had had to whisper it); and having no other subject, +as yet, of common interest, they would sit and stare in front of them +in silence. One day some trifle irritated him and he swore. On a busy +railway platform, or in a crowded hotel, she would have said, 'Oh!' and +they would both have laughed. From that echoing desert the silly words +rose up in widening circles towards the sky, and that night she cried +herself to sleep. Bustle them, my dear boy, bustle them. We all like +each other better the less we think about one another, and the honeymoon +is an exceptionally critical time. Bustle her, my dear boy, bustle her." + +My very worst honeymoon experience took place in the South of England in +eighteen hundred and--well, never mind the exact date, let us say a +few years ago. I was a shy young man at that time. Many complain of my +reserve to this day, but then some girls expect too much from a man. We +all have our shortcomings. Even then, however, I was not so shy as she. +We had to travel from Lyndhurst in the New Forest to Ventnor, an awkward +bit of cross-country work in those days. + +"It's so fortunate you are going too," said her aunt to me on the +Tuesday; "Minnie is always nervous travelling alone. You will be able to +look after her, and I shan't be anxious." + +I said it would be a pleasure, and at the time I honestly thought it. On +the Wednesday I went down to the coach office, and booked two places +for Lymington, from where we took the steamer. I had not a suspicion of +trouble. + +The booking-clerk was an elderly man. He said-- + +"I've got the box seat, and the end place on the back bench." + +I said-- + +"Oh, can't I have two together?" + +He was a kindly-looking old fellow. He winked at me. I wondered all the +way home why he had winked at me. He said-- + +"I'll manage it somehow." + +I said-- + +"It's very kind of you, I'm sure." + +He laid his hand on my shoulder. He struck me as familiar, but +well-intentioned. He said-- + +"We have all of us been there." + +I thought he was alluding to the Isle of Wight. I said-- + +"And this is the best time of the year for it, so I'm told." It was +early summer time. + +He said--"It's all right in summer, and it's good enough in +winter--WHILE IT LASTS. You make the most of it, young 'un;" and he +slapped me on the back and laughed. + +He would have irritated me in another minute. I paid for the seats and +left him. + +At half-past eight the next morning Minnie and I started for the +coach-office. I call her Minnie, not with any wish to be impertinent, +but because I have forgotten her surname. It must be ten years since +I last saw her. She was a pretty girl, too, with those brown eyes that +always cloud before they laugh. Her aunt did not drive down with us as +she had intended, in consequence of a headache. She was good enough to +say she felt every confidence in me. + +The old booking-clerk caught sight of us when we were about a quarter +of a mile away, and drew to us the attention of the coachman, who +communicated the fact of our approach to the gathered passengers. +Everybody left off talking, and waited for us. The boots seized his +horn, and blew--one could hardly call it a blast; it would be difficult +to say what he blew. He put his heart into it, but not sufficient wind. +I think his intention was to welcome us, but it suggested rather a +feeble curse. We learnt subsequently that he was a beginner on the +instrument. + +In some mysterious way the whole affair appeared to be our party. The +booking-clerk bustled up and helped Minnie from the cart. I feared, for +a moment, he was going to kiss her. The coachman grinned when I said +good-morning to him. The passengers grinned, the boots grinned. Two +chamber-maids and a waiter came out from the hotel, and they grinned. I +drew Minnie aside, and whispered to her. I said-- + +"There's something funny about us. All these people are grinning." + +She walked round me, and I walked round her, but we could neither of us +discover anything amusing about the other. The booking-clerk said-- + +"It's all right. I've got you young people two places just behind the +box-seat. We'll have to put five of you on that seat. You won't mind +sitting a bit close, will you?" + +The booking-clerk winked at the coachman, the coachman winked at the +passengers, the passengers winked at one another--those of them +who could wink--and everybody laughed. The two chamber-maids became +hysterical, and had to cling to each other for support. With the +exception of Minnie and myself, it seemed to be the merriest coach party +ever assembled at Lyndhurst. + +We had taken our places, and I was still busy trying to fathom the joke, +when a stout lady appeared on the scene, and demanded to know her place. + +The clerk explained to her that it was in the middle behind the driver. + +"We've had to put five of you on that seat," added the clerk. + +The stout lady looked at the seat. + +"Five of us can't squeeze into that," she said. + +Five of her certainly could not. Four ordinary sized people with her +would find it tight. + +"Very well then," said the clerk, "you can have the end place on the +back seat." + +"Nothing of the sort," said the stout lady. "I booked my seat on Monday, +and you told me any of the front places were vacant. + +"I'LL take the back place," I said, "I don't mind it. + +"You stop where you are, young 'un," said the clerk, firmly, "and don't +be a fool. I'll fix HER." + +I objected to his language, but his tone was kindness itself. + +"Oh, let ME have the back seat," said Minnie, rising, "I'd so like it." + +For answer the coachman put both his hands on her shoulders. He was a +heavy man, and she sat down again. + +"Now then, mum," said the clerk, addressing the stout lady, "are you +going up there in the middle, or are you coming up here at the back?" + +"But why not let one of them take the back seat?" demanded the stout +lady, pointing her reticule at Minnie and myself; "they say they'd like +it. Let them have it." + +The coachman rose, and addressed his remarks generally. + +"Put her up at the back, or leave her behind," he directed. "Man and +wife have never been separated on this coach since I started running it +fifteen year ago, and they ain't going to be now." + +A general cheer greeted this sentiment. The stout lady, now regarded +as a would-be blighter of love's young dream, was hustled into the back +seat, the whip cracked, and away we rolled. + +So here was the explanation. We were in a honeymoon district, in +June--the most popular month in the whole year for marriage. Every two +out of three couples found wandering about the New Forest in June are +honeymoon couples; the third are going to be. When they travel anywhere +it is to the Isle of Wight. We both had on new clothes. Our bags +happened to be new. By some evil chance our very umbrellas were new. +Our united ages were thirty-seven. The wonder would have been had we NOT +been mistaken for a young married couple. + +A day of greater misery I have rarely passed. To Minnie, so her aunt +informed me afterwards, the journey was the most terrible experience of +her life, but then her experience, up to that time, had been limited. +She was engaged, and devotedly attached, to a young clergyman; I was +madly in love with a somewhat plump girl named Cecilia who lived with +her mother at Hampstead. I am positive as to her living at Hampstead. I +remember so distinctly my weekly walk down the hill from Church Row to +the Swiss Cottage station. When walking down a steep hill all the weight +of the body is forced into the toe of the boot, and when the boot is two +sizes too small for you, and you have been living in it since the early +afternoon, you remember a thing like that. But all my recollections of +Cecilia are painful, and it is needless to pursue them. + +Our coach-load was a homely party, and some of the jokes were +broad--harmless enough in themselves, had Minnie and I really been +the married couple we were supposed to be, but even in that case +unnecessary. I can only hope that Minnie did not understand them. +Anyhow, she looked as if she didn't. + +I forget where we stopped for lunch, but I remember that lamb and mint +sauce was on the table, and that the circumstance afforded the greatest +delight to all the party, with the exception of the stout lady, who was +still indignant, Minnie and myself. About my behaviour as a bridegroom +opinion appeared to be divided. "He's a bit standoffish with her," +I overheard one lady remark to her husband; "I like to see 'em a bit +kittenish myself." A young waitress, on the other hand, I am happy to +say, showed more sense of natural reserve. "Well, I respect him for it," +she was saying to the barmaid, as we passed through the hall; "I'd just +hate to be fuzzled over with everybody looking on." Nobody took the +trouble to drop their voices for our benefit. We might have been a pair +of prize love birds on exhibition, the way we were openly discussed. By +the majority we were clearly regarded as a sulky young couple who would +not go through their tricks. + +I have often wondered since how a real married couple would have faced +the situation. Possibly, had we consented to give a short display of +marital affection, "by desire," we might have been left in peace for the +remainder of the journey. + +Our reputation preceded us on to the steamboat. Minnie begged and prayed +me to let it be known we were not married. How I was to let it be known, +except by requesting the captain to summon the whole ship's company on +deck, and then making them a short speech, I could not think. Minnie +said she could not bear it any longer, and retired to the ladies' cabin. +She went off crying. Her trouble was attributed by crew and passengers +to my coldness. One fool planted himself opposite me with his legs +apart, and shook his head at me. + +"Go down and comfort her," he began. "Take an old man's advice. Put your +arms around her." (He was one of those sentimental idiots.) "Tell her +that you love her." + +I told him to go and hang himself, with so much vigour that he all but +fell overboard. He was saved by a poultry crate: I had no luck that day. + +At Ryde the guard, by superhuman effort, contrived to keep us a carriage +to ourselves. I gave him a shilling, because I did not know what else +to do. I would have made it half-a-sovereign if he had put eight other +passengers in with us. At every station people came to the window to +look in at us. + +I handed Minnie over to her father on Ventnor platform; and I took the +first train the next morning, to London. I felt I did not want to see +her again for a little while; and I felt convinced she could do without +a visit from me. Our next meeting took place the week before her +marriage. + +"Where are you going to spend your honeymoon?" I asked her; "in the New +Forest?" + +"No," she replied; "nor in the Isle of Wight." + +To enjoy the humour of an incident one must be at some distance from it +either in time or relationship. I remember watching an amusing scene in +Whitefield Street, just off Tottenham Court Road, one winter's Saturday +night. A woman--a rather respectable looking woman, had her hat only +been on straight--had just been shot out of a public-house. She was very +dignified, and very drunk. A policeman requested her to move on. She +called him "Fellow," and demanded to know of him if he considered that +was the proper tone in which to address a lady. She threatened to report +him to her cousin, the Lord Chancellor. + +"Yes; this way to the Lord Chancellor," retorted the policeman. "You +come along with me;" and he caught hold of her by the arm. + +She gave a lurch, and nearly fell. To save her the man put his arm round +her waist. She clasped him round the neck, and together they spun +round two or three times; while at the very moment a piano-organ at the +opposite corner struck up a waltz. + +"Choose your partners, gentlemen, for the next dance," shouted a wag, +and the crowd roared. + +I was laughing myself, for the situation was undeniably comical, the +constable's expression of disgust being quite Hogarthian, when the sight +of a child's face beneath the gas-lamp stayed me. Her look was so full +of terror that I tried to comfort her. + +"It's only a drunken woman," I said; "he's not going to hurt her." + +"Please, sir," was the answer, "it's my mother." + +Our joke is generally another's pain. The man who sits down on the +tin-tack rarely joins in the laugh. + + + + +ON THE MINDING OF OTHER PEOPLE'S BUSINESS + +I walked one bright September morning in the Strand. I love London best +in the autumn. Then only can one see the gleam of its white pavements, +the bold, unbroken outline of its streets. I love the cool vistas one +comes across of mornings in the parks, the soft twilights that linger in +the empty bye-streets. In June the restaurant manager is off-hand with +me; I feel I am but in his way. In August he spreads for me the table +by the window, pours out for me my wine with his own fat hands. I cannot +doubt his regard for me: my foolish jealousies are stilled. Do I care +for a drive after dinner through the caressing night air, I can climb +the omnibus stair without a preliminary fight upon the curb, can sit +with easy conscience and unsquashed body, not feeling I have deprived +some hot, tired woman of a seat. Do I desire the play, no harsh, +forbidding "House full" board repels me from the door. During her +season, London, a harassed hostess, has no time for us, her intimates. +Her rooms are overcrowded, her servants overworked, her dinners +hurriedly cooked, her tone insincere. In the spring, to be truthful, the +great lady condescends to be somewhat vulgar--noisy and ostentatious. +Not till the guests are departed is she herself again, the London that +we, her children, love. + +Have you, gentle Reader, ever seen London--not the London of the waking +day, coated with crawling life, as a blossom with blight, but the London +of the morning, freed from her rags, the patient city, clad in mists? +Get you up with the dawn one Sunday in summer time. Wake none else, but +creep down stealthily into the kitchen, and make your own tea and toast. + +Be careful you stumble not over the cat. She will worm herself +insidiously between your legs. It is her way; she means it in +friendship. Neither bark your shins against the coal-box. Why the +kitchen coal-box has its fixed place in the direct line between the +kitchen door and the gas-bracket I cannot say. I merely know it as an +universal law; and I would that you escaped that coal-box, lest the +frame of mind I desire for you on this Sabbath morning be dissipated. + +A spoon to stir your tea, I fear you must dispense with. Knives and +forks you will discover in plenty; blacking brushes you will put your +hand upon in every drawer; of emery paper, did one require it, there +are reams; but it is a point with every housekeeper that the spoons be +hidden in a different place each night. If anybody excepting herself can +find them in the morning, it is a slur upon her. No matter, a stick of +firewood, sharpened at one end, makes an excellent substitute. + +Your breakfast done, turn out the gas, remount the stairs quietly, open +gently the front door and slip out. You will find yourself in an unknown +land. A strange city grown round you in the night. + +The sweet long streets lie silent in sunlight. Not a living thing is +to be seen save some lean Tom that slinks from his gutter feast as you +approach. From some tree there will sound perhaps a fretful chirp: but +the London sparrow is no early riser; he is but talking in his sleep. +The slow tramp of unseen policeman draws near or dies away. The clatter +of your own footsteps goes with you, troubling you. You find yourself +trying to walk softly, as one does in echoing cathedrals. A voice is +everywhere about you whispering to you "Hush." Is this million-breasted +City then some tender Artemis, seeking to keep her babes asleep? "Hush, +you careless wayfarer; do not waken them. Walk lighter; they are so +tired, these myriad children of mine, sleeping in my thousand arms. +They are over-worked and over-worried; so many of them are sick, so many +fretful, many of them, alas, so full of naughtiness. But all of them +so tired. Hush! they worry me with their noise and riot when they are +awake. They are so good now they are asleep. Walk lightly, let them +rest." + +Where the ebbing tide flows softly through worn arches to the sea, you +may hear the stone-faced City talking to the restless waters: "Why will +you never stay with me? Why come but to go?" + +"I cannot say, I do not understand. From the deep sea I come, but only +as a bird loosed from a child's hand with a cord. When she calls I must +return." + +"It is so with these children of mine. They come to me, I know not +whence. I nurse them for a little while, till a hand I do not see plucks +them back. And others take their place." + +Through the still air there passes a ripple of sound. The sleeping +City stirs with a faint sigh. A distant milk-cart rattling by raises +a thousand echoes; it is the vanguard of a yoked army. Soon from every +street there rises the soothing cry, "Mee'hilk--mee'hilk." + +London like some Gargantuan babe, is awake, crying for its milk. These +be the white-smocked nurses hastening with its morning nourishment. The +early church bells ring. "You have had your milk, little London. Now +come and say your prayers. Another week has just begun, baby London. God +knows what will happen, say your prayers." + +One by one the little creatures creep from behind the blinds into the +streets. The brooding tenderness is vanished from the City's face. The +fretful noises of the day have come again. Silence, her lover of the +night, kisses her stone lips, and steals away. And you, gentle Reader, +return home, garlanded with the self-sufficiency of the early riser. + +But it was of a certain week-day morning, in the Strand that I was +thinking. I was standing outside Gatti's Restaurant, where I had just +breakfasted, listening leisurely to an argument between an indignant +lady passenger, presumably of Irish extraction, and an omnibus +conductor. + +"For what d'ye want thin to paint Putney on ye'r bus, if ye don't GO to +Putney?" said the lady. + +"We DO go to Putney," said the conductor. + +"Thin why did ye put me out here?" + +"I didn't put you out, yer got out." + +"Shure, didn't the gintleman in the corner tell me I was comin' further +away from Putney ivery minit?" + +"Wal, and so yer was." + +"Thin whoy didn't you tell me?" + +"How was I to know yer wanted to go to Putney? Yer sings out Putney, and +I stops and in yer jumps." + +"And for what d'ye think I called out Putney thin?" + +"'Cause it's my name, or rayther the bus's name. This 'ere IS a Putney." + +"How can it be a Putney whin it isn't goin' to Putney, ye gomerhawk?" + +"Ain't you an Hirishwoman?" retorted the conductor. "Course yer are. But +yer aren't always goin' to Ireland. We're goin' to Putney in time, only +we're a-going to Liverpool Street fust. 'Igher up, Jim." + +The bus moved on, and I was about cross the road, when a man, muttering +savagely to himself, walked into me. He would have swept past me had +I not, recognizing him, arrested him. It was my friend B-----, a busy +editor of magazines and journals. It was some seconds before he appeared +able to struggle out of his abstraction, and remember himself. "Halloo," +he then said, "who would have thought of seeing YOU here?" + +"To judge by the way you were walking," I replied, "one would imagine +the Strand the last place in which you expected to see any human being. +Do you ever walk into a short-tempered, muscular man?" + +"Did I walk into you?" he asked surprised. + +"Well, not right in," I answered, "I if we are to be literal. You walked +on to me; if I had not stopped you, I suppose you would have walked over +me." + +"It is this confounded Christmas business," he explained. "It drives me +off my head." + +"I have heard Christmas advanced as an excuse for many things," I +replied, "but not early in September." + +"Oh, you know what I mean," he answered, "we are in the middle of our +Christmas number. I am working day and night upon it. By the bye," he +added, "that puts me in mind. I am arranging a symposium, and I want you +to join. 'Should Christmas,'"--I interrupted him. + +"My dear fellow," I said, "I commenced my journalistic career when I +was eighteen, and I have continued it at intervals ever since. I have +written about Christmas from the sentimental point of view; I have +analyzed it from the philosophical point of view; and I have scarified +it from the sarcastic standpoint. I have treated Christmas humorously +for the Comics, and sympathetically for the Provincial Weeklies. I +have said all that is worth saying on the subject of Christmas--maybe a +trifle more. I have told the new-fashioned Christmas story--you know the +sort of thing: your heroine tries to understand herself, and, failing, +runs off with the man who began as the hero; your good woman turns out +to be really bad when one comes to know her; while the villain, the only +decent person in the story, dies with an enigmatic sentence on his lips +that looks as if it meant something, but which you yourself would +be sorry to have to explain. I have also written the old-fashioned +Christmas story--you know that also: you begin with a good old-fashioned +snowstorm; you have a good old-fashioned squire, and he lives in a good +old-fashioned Hall; you work in a good old-fashioned murder; and end up +with a good old-fashioned Christmas dinner. I have gathered Christmas +guests together round the crackling logs to tell ghost stories to each +other on Christmas Eve, while without the wind howled, as it always does +on these occasions, at its proper cue. I have sent children to Heaven +on Christmas Eve--it must be quite a busy time for St. Peter, Christmas +morning, so many good children die on Christmas Eve. It has always been +a popular night with them.--I have revivified dead lovers and brought +them back well and jolly, just in time to sit down to the Christmas +dinner. I am not ashamed of having done these things. At the time I +thought them good. I once loved currant wine and girls with towzley +hair. One's views change as one grows older. I have discussed Christmas +as a religious festival. I have arraigned it as a social incubus. If +there be any joke connected with Christmas that I have not already made +I should be glad to hear it. I have trotted out the indigestion jokes +till the sight of one of them gives me indigestion myself. I have +ridiculed the family gathering. I have scoffed at the Christmas present. +I have made witty use of paterfamilias and his bills. I have--" + +"Did I ever show you," I broke off to ask as we were crossing the +Haymarket, "that little parody of mine on Poe's poem of 'The Bells'? It +begins--" He interrupted me in his turn-- + +"Bills, bills, bills," he repeated. + +"You are quite right," I admitted. "I forgot I ever showed it to you." + +"You never did," he replied. + +"Then how do you know how it begins?" I asked. + +"I don't know for certain," he admitted, "but I get, on an average, +sixty-five a year submitted to me, and they all begin that way. I +thought, perhaps, yours did also." + +"I don't see how else it could begin," I retorted. He had rather annoyed +me. "Besides, it doesn't matter how a poem begins, it is how it goes +on that is the important thing and anyhow, I'm not going to write you +anything about Christmas. Ask me to make you a new joke about a plumber; +suggest my inventing something original and not too shocking for a child +to say about heaven; propose my running you off a dog story that can be +believed by a man of average determination and we may come to terms. But +on the subject of Christmas I am taking a rest." + +By this time we had reached Piccadilly Circus. + +"I don't blame you," he said, "if you are as sick of the subject as I +am. So soon as these Christmas numbers are off my mind, and Christmas +is over till next June at the office, I shall begin it at home. The +housekeeping is gone up a pound a week already. I know what that means. +The dear little woman is saving up to give me an expensive present that +I don't want. I think the presents are the worst part of Christmas. Emma +will give me a water-colour that she has painted herself. She always +does. There would be no harm in that if she did not expect me to hang it +in the drawing room. Have you ever seen my cousin Emma's water-colours?" +he asked. + +"I think I have," I replied. + +"There's no thinking about it," he retorted angrily. "They're not the +sort of water-colours you forget." + +He apostrophized the Circus generally. + +"Why do people do these things?" he demanded. "Even an amateur artist +must have SOME sense. Can't they see what is happening? There's that +thing of hers hanging in the passage. I put it in the passage because +there's not much light in the passage. She's labelled it Reverie. If she +had called it Influenza I could have understood it. I asked her where +she got the idea from, and she said she saw the sky like that one +evening in Norfolk. Great Heavens! then why didn't she shut her eyes or +go home and hide behind the bed-curtains? If I had seen a sky like that +in Norfolk I should have taken the first train back to London. I suppose +the poor girl can't help seeing these things, but why paint them?" + +I said, "I suppose painting is a necessity to some natures." + +"But why give the things to me?" he pleaded. + +I could offer him no adequate reason. + +"The idiotic presents that people give you!" he continued. "I said I'd +like Tennyson's poems one year. They had worried me to know what I did +want. I didn't want anything really; that was the only thing I could +think of that I wasn't dead sure I didn't want. Well, they clubbed +together, four of them, and gave me Tennyson in twelve volumes, +illustrated with coloured photographs. They meant kindly, of course. If +you suggest a tobacco-pouch they give you a blue velvet bag capable of +holding about a pound, embroidered with flowers, life-size. The only way +one could use it would be to put a strap to it and wear it as a satchel. +Would you believe it, I have got a velvet smoking-jacket, ornamented +with forget-me-nots and butterflies in coloured silk; I'm not joking. +And they ask me why I never wear it. I'll bring it down to the Club one +of these nights and wake the place up a bit: it needs it." + +We had arrived by this at the steps of the 'Devonshire.' + +"And I'm just as bad," he went on, "when I give presents. I never give +them what they want. I never hit upon anything that is of any use +to anybody. If I give Jane a chinchilla tippet, you may be certain +chinchilla is the most out-of-date fur that any woman could wear. 'Oh! +that is nice of you,' she says; 'now that is just the very thing I +wanted. I will keep it by me till chinchilla comes in again.' I give +the girls watch-chains when nobody is wearing watch-chains. When +watch-chains are all the rage I give them ear-rings, and they thank me, +and suggest my taking them to a fancy-dress ball, that being their only +chance to wear the confounded things. I waste money on white gloves with +black backs, to find that white gloves with black backs stamp a woman as +suburban. I believe all the shop-keepers in London save their old stock +to palm it off on me at Christmas time. And why does it always take +half-a-dozen people to serve you with a pair of gloves, I'd like to +know? Only last week Jane asked me to get her some gloves for that last +Mansion House affair. I was feeling amiable, and I thought I would +do the thing handsomely. I hate going into a draper's shop; everybody +stares at a man as if he were forcing his way into the ladies' +department of a Turkish bath. One of those marionette sort of men came +up to me and said it was a fine morning. What the devil did I want +to talk about the morning to him for? I said I wanted some gloves. I +described them to the best of my recollection. I said, 'I want them four +buttons, but they are not to be button-gloves; the buttons are in the +middle and they reach up to the elbow, if you know what I mean.' He +bowed, and said he understood exactly what I meant, which was a damned +sight more than I did. I told him I wanted three pair cream and +three pair fawn-coloured, and the fawn-coloured were to be swedes. He +corrected me. He said I meant 'Suede.' I dare say he was right, but +the interruption put me off, and I had to begin over again. He listened +attentively until I had finished. I guess I was about five minutes +standing with him there close to the door. He said, 'Is that all you +require, sir, this morning?' I said it was. + +"' Thank you, sir,' he replied. 'This way, please, sir.' + +"He took me into another room, and there we met a man named Jansen, to +whom he briefly introduced me as a gentleman who 'desired gloves.' 'Yes, +sir,' said Mr. Jansen; and what sort of gloves do you desire?' + +"I told him I wanted six pairs altogether--three suede, fawn-coloured, +and three cream-coloured--kids. + +"He said, 'Do you mean kid gloves, sir, or gloves for children?' + +"He made me angry by that. I told him I was not in the habit of using +slang. Nor am I when buying gloves. He said he was sorry. I explained to +him about the buttons, so far as I could understand it myself, and +about the length. I asked him to see to it that the buttons were sewn on +firmly, and that the stitching everywhere was perfect, adding that the +last gloves my wife had had of his firm had been most unsatisfactory. +Jane had impressed upon me to add that. She said it would make them more +careful. + +"He listened to me in rapt ecstacy. I might have been music. + +"'And what size, sir?' he asked. + +"I had forgotten that. 'Oh, sixes,' I answered, 'unless they are +very stretchy indeed, in which case they had better be five and +three-quarter.' + +"'Oh, and the stitching on the cream is to be black,' I added. That was +another thing I had forgotten. + +"'Thank you very much,' said Mr. Jansen; 'is there anything else that +you require this morning?' + +"'No, thank you,' I replied, 'not this morning.' I was beginning to like +the man. + +"He took me for quite a walk, and wherever we went everybody left off +what they were doing to stare at me. I was getting tired when we reached +the glove department. He marched me up to a young man who was sticking +pins into himself. He said 'Gloves,' and disappeared through a curtain. +The young man left off sticking pins into himself, and leant across the +counter. + +"'Ladies' gloves or gentlemen's gloves?' he said. + +"Well, I was pretty mad by this time, as you can guess. It is funny +when you come to think of it afterwards, but the wonder then was that I +didn't punch his head. + +"I said, 'Are you ever busy in this shop? Does there ever come a time +when you feel you would like to get your work done, instead of lingering +over it and spinning it out for pure love of the thing?' + +"He did not appear to understand me. I said, 'I met a man at your door +a quarter of an hour ago, and we talked about these gloves that I want, +and I told him all my ideas on the subject. He took me to your Mr. +Jansen, and Mr. Jansen and I went over the whole business again. Now +Mr. Jansen leaves it with you--you who do not even know whether I want +ladies' or gentlemen's gloves. Before I go over this story for the third +time, I want to know whether you are the man who is going to serve me, +or whether you are merely a listener, because personally I am tired of +the subject?' + +"Well, this was the right man at last, and I got my gloves from him. But +what is the explanation--what is the idea? I was in that shop from first +to last five-and-thirty minutes. And then a fool took me out the wrong +way to show me a special line in sleeping-socks. I told him I was not +requiring any. He said he didn't want me to buy, he only wanted me +to see them. No wonder the drapers have had to start luncheon and +tea-rooms. They'll fix up small furnished flats soon, where a woman can +live for a week." + +I said it was very trying, shopping. I also said, as he invited me, +and as he appeared determined to go on talking, that I would have a +brandy-and-soda. We were in the smoke-room by this time. + +"There ought to be an association," he continued, "a kind of +clearing-house for the collection and distribution of Christmas +presents. One would give them a list of the people from whom to collect +presents, and of the people to whom to send. Suppose they collected on +my account twenty Christmas presents, value, say, ten pounds, while on +the other hand they sent out for me thirty presents at a cost of fifteen +pounds. They would debit me with the balance of five pounds, together +with a small commission. I should pay it cheerfully, and there would be +no further trouble. Perhaps one might even make a profit. The idea might +include birthdays and weddings. A firm would do the business thoroughly. +They would see that all your friends paid up--I mean sent presents; and +they would not forget to send to your most important relative. There +is only one member of our family capable of leaving a shilling; and of +course if I forget to send to any one it is to him. When I remember him +I generally make a muddle of the business. Two years ago I gave him a +bath--I don't mean I washed him--an india-rubber thing, that he +could pack in his portmanteau. I thought he would find it useful for +travelling. Would you believe it, he took it as a personal affront, and +wouldn't speak to me for a month, the snuffy old idiot." + +"I suppose the children enjoy it," I said. + +"Enjoy what?" he asked. + +"Why, Christmas," I explained. + +"I don't believe they do," he snapped; "nobody enjoys it. We excite them +for three weeks beforehand, telling them what a good time they are going +to have, over-feed them for two or three days, take them to something +they do not want to see, but which we do, and then bully them for a +fortnight to get them back into their normal condition. I was always +taken to the Crystal Palace and Madame Tussaud's when I was a child, I +remember. How I did hate that Crystal Palace! Aunt used to superintend. +It was always a bitterly cold day, and we always got into the wrong +train, and travelled half the day before we got there. We never had any +dinner. It never occurs to a woman that anybody can want their meals +while away from home. She seems to think that nature is in suspense from +the time you leave the house till the time you get back to it. A bun and +a glass of milk was her idea of lunch for a school-boy. Half her time +was taken up in losing us, and the other half in slapping us when she +had found us. The only thing we really enjoyed was the row with the +cabman coming home." + +I rose to go. + +"Then you won't join that symposium?" said B-----. "It would be an easy +enough thing to knock off--'Why Christmas should be abolished.'" + +"It sounds simple," I answered. "But how do you propose to abolish +it?" The lady editor of an "advanced" American magazine once set the +discussion--"Should sex be abolished?" and eleven ladies and gentlemen +seriously argued the question. + +"Leave it to die of inanition," said B-----; "the first step is to +arouse public opinion. Convince the public that it should be abolished." + +"But why should it be abolished?" I asked. + +"Great Scott! man," he exclaimed; "don't you want it abolished?" + +"I'm not sure that I do," I replied. + +"Not sure," he retorted; "you call yourself a journalist, and admit +there is a subject under Heaven of which you are not sure!" + +"It has come over me of late years," I replied. "It used not to be my +failing, as you know." + +He glanced round to make sure we were out of earshot, then sunk his +voice to a whisper. + +"Between ourselves," he said, "I'm not so sure of everything myself as I +used to be. Why is it?" + +"Perhaps we are getting older," I suggested. + +He said--"I started golf last year, and the first time I took the club +in my hand I sent the ball a furlong. 'It seems an easy game,' I said +to the man who was teaching me. 'Yes, most people find it easy at the +beginning,' he replied dryly. He was an old golfer himself; I thought he +was jealous. I stuck well to the game, and for about three weeks I was +immensely pleased with myself. Then, gradually, I began to find out the +difficulties. I feel I shall never make a good player. Have you ever +gone through that experience?" + +"Yes," I replied; "I suppose that is the explanation. The game seems so +easy at the beginning." + +I left him to his lunch, and strolled westward, musing on the time when +I should have answered that question of his about Christmas, or any +other question, off-hand. That good youth time when I knew everything, +when life presented no problems, dangled no doubts before me! + +In those days, wishful to give the world the benefit of my wisdom, and +seeking for a candle-stick wherefrom my brilliancy might be visible and +helpful unto men, I arrived before a dingy portal in Chequers Street, +St. Luke's, behind which a conclave of young men, together with a +few old enough to have known better, met every Friday evening for +the purpose of discussing and arranging the affairs of the universe. +"Speaking members" were charged ten-and-sixpence per annum, which must +have worked out at an extremely moderate rate per word; and "gentlemen +whose subscriptions were more than three months in arrear," became, by +Rule seven, powerless for good or evil. We called ourselves "The Stormy +Petrels," and, under the sympathetic shadow of those wings, I laboured +two seasons towards the reformation of the human race; until, indeed, +our treasurer, an earnest young man, and a tireless foe of all that was +conventional, departed for the East, leaving behind him a balance sheet, +showing that the club owed forty-two pounds fifteen and fourpence, and +that the subscriptions for the current year, amounting to a little over +thirty-eight pounds, had been "carried forward," but as to where, the +report afforded no indication. Whereupon our landlord, a man utterly +without ideals, seized our furniture, offering to sell it back to us +for fifteen pounds. We pointed out to him that this was an extravagant +price, and tendered him five. + +The negotiations terminated with ungentlemanly language on his part, and +"The Stormy Petrels" scattered, never to be foregathered together again +above the troubled waters of humanity. Now-a-days, listening to the +feeble plans of modern reformers, I cannot help but smile, remembering +what was done in Chequers Street, St. Luke's, in an age when Mrs. Grundy +still gave the law to literature, while yet the British matron was the +guide to British art. I am informed that there is abroad the question of +abolishing the House of Lords! Why, "The Stormy Petrels" abolished the +aristocracy and the Crown in one evening, and then only adjourned +for the purpose of appointing a committee to draw up and have ready a +Republican Constitution by the following Friday evening. They talk +of Empire lounges! We closed the doors of every music-hall in London +eighteen years ago by twenty-nine votes to seventeen. They had a patient +hearing, and were ably defended; but we found that the tendency of such +amusements was anti-progressive, and against the best interests of an +intellectually advancing democracy. I met the mover of the condemnatory +resolution at the old "Pav" the following evening, and we continued +the discussion over a bottle of Bass. He strengthened his argument by +persuading me to sit out the whole of the three songs sung by the "Lion +Comique"; but I subsequently retorted successfully, by bringing under +his notice the dancing of a lady in blue tights and flaxen hair. I +forget her name but never shall I cease to remember her exquisite charm +and beauty. Ah, me! how charming and how beautiful "artistes" were in +those golden days! Whence have they vanished? Ladies in blue tights and +flaxen hair dance before my eyes to-day, but move me not, unless it be +towards boredom. Where be the tripping witches of twenty years ago, whom +to see once was to dream of for a week, to touch whose white hand would +have been joy, to kiss whose red lips would have been to foretaste +Heaven. I heard only the other day that the son of an old friend of +mine had secretly married a lady from the front row of the ballet, and +involuntarily I exclaimed, "Poor devil!" There was a time when my first +thought would have been, "Lucky beggar! is he worthy of her?" For then +the ladies of the ballet were angels. How could one gaze at them--from +the shilling pit--and doubt it? They danced to keep a widowed mother in +comfort, or to send a younger brother to school. Then they were glorious +creatures a young man did well to worship; but now-a-days-- + +It is an old jest. The eyes of youth see through rose-tinted glasses. +The eyes of age are dim behind smoke-clouded spectacles. My flaxen +friend, you are not the angel I dreamed you, nor the exceptional sinner +some would paint you; but under your feathers, just a woman--a bundle of +follies and failings, tied up with some sweetness and strength. You keep +a brougham I am sure you cannot afford on your thirty shillings a week. +There are ladies I know, in Mayfair, who have paid an extravagant price +for theirs. You paint and you dye, I am told: it is even hinted you pad. +Don't we all of us deck ourselves out in virtues that are not our own? +When the paint and the powder, my sister, is stripped both from you and +from me, we shall know which of us is entitled to look down on the other +in scorn. + +Forgive me, gentle Reader, for digressing. The lady led me astray. I was +speaking of "The Stormy Petrels," and of the reforms they accomplished, +which were many. We abolished, I remember, capital punishment and war; +we were excellent young men at heart. Christmas we reformed altogether, +along with Bank Holidays, by a majority of twelve. I never recollect any +proposal to abolish anything ever being lost when put to the vote. There +were few things that we "Stormy Petrels" did not abolish. We attacked +Christmas on grounds of expediency, and killed it by ridicule. We +exposed the hollow mockery of Christmas sentiment; we abused the +indigestible Christmas dinner, the tiresome Christmas party, the silly +Christmas pantomime. Our funny member was side-splitting on the +subject of Christmas Waits; our social reformer bitter upon Christmas +drunkenness; our economist indignant upon Christmas charities. Only one +argument of any weight with us was advanced in favour of the festival, +and that was our leading cynic's suggestion that it was worth enduring +the miseries of Christmas, to enjoy the soul-satisfying comfort of the +after reflection that it was all over, and could not occur again for +another year. + +But since those days when I was prepared to put this old world of ours +to rights upon all matters, I have seen many sights and heard many +sounds, and I am not quite so sure as I once was that my particular +views are the only possibly correct ones. Christmas seems to me somewhat +meaningless; but I have looked through windows in poverty-stricken +streets, and have seen dingy parlours gay with many chains of coloured +paper. They stretched from corner to corner of the smoke-grimed ceiling, +they fell in clumsy festoons from the cheap gasalier, they framed the +fly-blown mirror and the tawdry pictures; and I know tired hands and +eyes worked many hours to fashion and fix those foolish chains, saying, +"It will please him--she will like to see the room look pretty;" and +as I have looked at them they have grown, in some mysterious manner, +beautiful to me. The gaudy-coloured child and dog irritates me, I +confess; but I have watched a grimy, inartistic personage, smoothing it +affectionately with toil-stained hand, while eager faces crowded round +to admire and wonder at its blatant crudity. It hangs to this day in its +cheap frame above the chimney-piece, the one bright spot relieving those +damp-stained walls; dull eyes stare and stare again at it, catching a +vista, through its flashy tints, of the far-off land of art. Christmas +Waits annoy me, and I yearn to throw open the window and fling coal at +them--as once from the window of a high flat in Chelsea I did. I doubted +their being genuine Waits. I was inclined to the opinion they were young +men seeking excuse for making a noise. One of them appeared to know +a hymn with a chorus, another played the concertina, while a third +accompanied with a step dance. Instinctively I felt no respect for them; +they disturbed me in my work, and the desire grew upon me to injure +them. It occurred to me it would be good sport if I turned out the +light, softly opened the window, and threw coal at them. It would be +impossible for them to tell from which window in the block the coal +came, and thus subsequent unpleasantness would be avoided. They were a +compact little group, and with average luck I was bound to hit one of +them. + +I adopted the plan. I could not see them very clearly. I aimed rather +at the noise; and I had thrown about twenty choice lumps without effect, +and was feeling somewhat discouraged, when a yell, followed by language +singularly unappropriate to the season, told me that Providence had +aided my arm. The music ceased suddenly, and the party dispersed, +apparently in high glee--which struck me as curious. + +One man I noticed remained behind. He stood under the lamp-post, and +shook his fist at the block generally. + +"Who threw that lump of coal?" he demanded in stentorian tones. + +To my horror, it was the voice of the man at Eighty-eight, an Irish +gentleman, a journalist like myself. I saw it all, as the +unfortunate hero always exclaims, too late, in the play. He--number +Eighty-eight--also disturbed by the noise, had evidently gone out to +expostulate with the rioters. Of course my lump of coal had hit him--him +the innocent, the peaceful (up till then), the virtuous. That is the +justice Fate deals out to us mortals here below. There were ten to +fourteen young men in that crowd, each one of whom fully deserved that +lump of coal; he, the one guiltless, got it--seemingly, so far as the +dim light from the gas lamp enabled me to judge, full in the eye. + +As the block remained silent in answer to his demand, he crossed the +road and mounted the stairs. On each landing he stopped and shouted-- + +"Who threw that lump of coal? I want the man who threw that lump of +coal. Out you come." + +Now a good man in my place would have waited till number Eighty-eight +arrived on his landing, and then, throwing open the door would have said +with manly candour-- + +"_I_ threw that lump of coal. I was-," He would not have got further, +because at that point, I feel confident, number Eighty--eight would +have punched his head. There would have been an unseemly fracas on the +staircase, to the annoyance of all the other tenants and later, there +would have issued a summons and a cross-summons. Angry passions would +have been roused, bitter feeling engendered which might have lasted for +years. + +I do not pretend to be a good man. I doubt if the pretence would be of +any use were I to try: I am not a sufficiently good actor. I said to +myself, as I took off my boots in the study, preparatory to retiring to +my bedroom--"Number Eighty-eight is evidently not in a frame of mind +to listen to my story. It will be better to let him shout himself cool; +after which he will return to his own flat, bathe his eye, and obtain +some refreshing sleep. In the morning, when we shall probably meet as +usual on our way to Fleet Street, I will refer to the incident casually, +and sympathize with him. I will suggest to him the truth--that in all +probability some fellow-tenant, irritated also by the noise, had +aimed coal at the Waits, hitting him instead by a regrettable but pure +accident. With tact I may even be able to make him see the humour of the +incident. Later on, in March or April, choosing my moment with judgment, +I will, perhaps, confess that I was that fellow-tenant, and over a +friendly brandy-and-soda we will laugh the whole trouble away." + +As a matter of fact, that is what happened. Said number Eighty-eight--he +was a big man, as good a fellow at heart as ever lived, but +impulsive--"Damned lucky for you, old man, you did not tell me at the +time." + +"I felt," I replied, "instinctively that it was a case for delay." + +There are times when one should control one's passion for candour; and +as I was saying, Christmas waits excite no emotion in my breast save +that of irritation. But I have known "Hark, the herald angels sing," +wheezily chanted by fog-filled throats, and accompanied, hopelessly out +of tune, by a cornet and a flute, bring a great look of gladness to a +work-worn face. To her it was a message of hope and love, making +the hard life taste sweet. The mere thought of family gatherings, so +customary at Christmas time, bores us superior people; but I think of an +incident told me by a certain man, a friend of mine. One Christmas, my +friend, visiting in the country, came face to face with a woman whom in +town he had often met amid very different surroundings. The door of +the little farmhouse was open; she and an older woman were ironing at +a table, and as her soft white hands passed to and fro, folding and +smoothing the rumpled heap, she laughed and talked, concerning simple +homely things. My friend's shadow fell across her work, and she looking +up, their eyes met; but her face said plainly, "I do not know you here, +and here you do not know me. Here I am a woman loved and respected." My +friend passed in and spoke to the older woman, the wife of one of his +host's tenants, and she turned towards, and introduced the younger--"My +daughter, sir. We do not see her very often. She is in a place in +London, and cannot get away. But she always spends a few days with us at +Christmas." + +"It is the season for family re-unions," answered my friend with just +the suggestion of a sneer, for which he hated himself. + +"Yes, sir," said the woman, not noticing; "she has never missed her +Christmas with us, have you, Bess?" + +"No, mother," replied the girl simply, and bent her head again over her +work. + +So for these few days every year this woman left her furs and jewels, +her fine clothes and dainty foods, behind her, and lived for a little +space with what was clean and wholesome. It was the one anchor holding +her to womanhood; and one likes to think that it was, perhaps, in +the end strong enough to save her from the drifting waters. All which +arguments in favour of Christmas and of Christmas customs are, I admit, +purely sentimental ones, but I have lived long enough to doubt whether +sentiment has not its legitimate place in the economy of life. + + + + +ON THE TIME WASTED IN LOOKING BEFORE ONE LEAPS + +Have you ever noticed the going out of a woman? + +When a man goes out, he says--"I'm going out, shan't be long." + +"Oh, George," cries his wife from the other end of the house, "don't go +for a moment. I want you to--" She hears a falling of hats, followed by +the slamming of the front door. + +"Oh, George, you're not gone!" she wails. It is but the voice of +despair. As a matter of fact, she knows he is gone. She reaches the +hall, breathless. + +"He might have waited a minute," she mutters to herself, as she picks up +the hats, "there were so many things I wanted him to do." + +She does not open the door and attempt to stop him, she knows he is +already half-way down the street. It is a mean, paltry way of going out, +she thinks; so like a man. + +When a woman, on the other hand, goes out, people know about it. She +does not sneak out. She says she is going out. She says it, generally, +on the afternoon of the day before; and she repeats it, at intervals, +until tea-time. At tea, she suddenly decides that she won't, that she +will leave it till the day after to-morrow instead. An hour later she +thinks she will go to-morrow, after all, and makes arrangements to wash +her hair overnight. For the next hour or so she alternates between fits +of exaltation, during which she looks forward to going out, and moments +of despondency, when a sense of foreboding falls upon her. At dinner +she persuades some other woman to go with her; the other woman, once +persuaded, is enthusiastic about going, until she recollects that she +cannot. The first woman, however, convinces her that she can. + +"Yes," replies the second woman, "but then, how about you, dear? You are +forgetting the Joneses." + +"So I was," answers the first woman, completely non-plussed. "How very +awkward, and I can't go on Wednesday. I shall have to leave it till +Thursday, now." + +"But _I_ can't go Thursday," says the second woman. + +"Well, you go without me, dear," says the first woman, in the tone of +one who is sacrificing a life's ambition. + +"Oh no, dear, I should not think of it," nobly exclaims the second +woman. "We will wait and go together, Friday!" + +"I'll tell you what we'll do," says the first woman. "We will start +early" (this is an inspiration), "and be back before the Joneses +arrive." + +They agree to sleep together; there is a lurking suspicion in both their +minds that this may be their last sleep on earth. They retire early with +a can of hot water. At intervals, during the night, one overhears them +splashing water, and talking. + +They come down very late for breakfast, and both very cross. Each seems +to have argued herself into the belief that she has been lured into this +piece of nonsense, against her better judgment, by the persistent folly +of the other one. During the meal each one asks the other, every five +minutes, if she is quite ready. Each one, it appears, has only her hat +to put on. They talk about the weather, and wonder what it is going to +do. They wish it would make up its mind, one way or the other. They are +very bitter on weather that cannot make up its mind. After breakfast it +still looks cloudy, and they decide to abandon the scheme altogether. +The first woman then remembers that it is absolutely necessary for her, +at all events, to go. + +"But there is no need for you to come, dear," she says. + +Up to that point the second woman was evidently not sure whether she +wished to go or whether she didn't. Now she knows. + +"Oh yes, I'll come," she says, "then it will be over!" + +"I am sure you don't want to go," urges the first woman, "and I shall be +quicker by myself. I am ready to start now." + +The second woman bridles. + +"_I_ shan't be a couple of minutes," she retorts. "You know, dear, it's +generally I who have to wait for you." + +"But you've not got your boots on," the first woman reminds her. + +"Well, they won't take ANY time," is the answer. "But of course, dear, +if you'd really rather I did not come, say so." By this time she is on +the verge of tears. + +"Of course, I would like you to come, dear," explains the first in a +resigned tone. "I thought perhaps you were only coming to please me." + +"Oh no, I'd LIKE to come," says the second woman. + +"Well, we must hurry up," says the first; "I shan't be more than a +minute myself, I've merely got to change my skirt." + +Half-an-hour later you hear them calling to each other, from different +parts of the house, to know if the other one is ready. It appears they +have both been ready for quite a long while, waiting only for the other +one. + +"I'm afraid," calls out the one whose turn it is to be down-stairs, +"it's going to rain." + +"Oh, don't say that," calls back the other one. + +"Well, it looks very like it." + +"What a nuisance," answers the up-stairs woman; "shall we put it off?" + +"Well, what do YOU think, dear?" replies the down-stairs. + +They decide they will go, only now they will have to change their boots, +and put on different hats. + +For the next ten minutes they are still shouting and running about. Then +it seems as if they really were ready, nothing remaining but for them to +say "Good-bye," and go. + +They begin by kissing the children. A woman never leaves her house +without secret misgivings that she will never return to it alive. One +child cannot be found. When it is found it wishes it hadn't been. It has +to be washed, preparatory to being kissed. After that, the dog has to be +found and kissed, and final instructions given to the cook. + +Then they open the front door. + +"Oh, George," calls out the first woman, turning round again. "Are you +there?" + +"Hullo," answers a voice from the distance. "Do you want me?" + +"No, dear, only to say good-bye. I'm going." + +"Oh, good-bye." + +"Good-bye, dear. Do you think it's going to rain?" + +"Oh no, I should not say so." + +"George." + +"Yes." + +"Have you got any money?" + +Five minutes later they come running back; the one has forgotten her +parasol, the other her purse. + +And speaking of purses, reminds one of another essential difference +between the male and female human animal. A man carries his money in his +pocket. When he wants to use it, he takes it out and lays it down. This +is a crude way of doing things, a woman displays more subtlety. Say she +is standing in the street, and wants fourpence to pay for a bunch of +violets she has purchased from a flower-girl. She has two parcels in one +hand, and a parasol in the other. With the remaining two fingers of the +left hand she secures the violets. The question then arises, how to +pay the girl? She flutters for a few minutes, evidently not quite +understanding why it is she cannot do it. The reason then occurs to her: +she has only two hands and both these are occupied. First she thinks +she will put the parcels and the flowers into her right hand, then she +thinks she will put the parasol into her left. Then she looks round +for a table or even a chair, but there is not such a thing in the whole +street. Her difficulty is solved by her dropping the parcels and the +flowers. The girl picks them up for her and holds them. This enables +her to feel for her pocket with her right hand, while waving her open +parasol about with her left. She knocks an old gentleman's hat off into +the gutter, and nearly blinds the flower-girl before it occurs to her to +close it. This done, she leans it up against the flower-girl's basket, +and sets to work in earnest with both hands. She seizes herself firmly +by the back, and turns the upper part of her body round till her hair is +in front and her eyes behind. Still holding herself firmly with her +left hand--did she let herself go, goodness knows where she would spin +to;--with her right she prospects herself. The purse is there, she can +feel it, the problem is how to get at it. The quickest way would, of +course, be to take off the skirt, sit down on the kerb, turn it inside +out, and work from the bottom of the pocket upwards. But this simple +idea never seems to occur to her. There are some thirty folds at the +back of the dress, between two of these folds commences the secret +passage. At last, purely by chance, she suddenly discovers it, nearly +upsetting herself in the process, and the purse is brought up to the +surface. The difficulty of opening it still remains. She knows it opens +with a spring, but the secret of that spring she has never mastered, and +she never will. Her plan is to worry it generally until it does open. +Five minutes will always do it, provided she is not flustered. + +At last it does open. It would be incorrect to say that she opens it. It +opens because it is sick of being mauled about; and, as likely as not, +it opens at the moment when she is holding it upside down. If you happen +to be near enough to look over her shoulder, you will notice that the +gold and silver lies loose within it. In an inner sanctuary, carefully +secured with a second secret spring, she keeps her coppers, together +with a postage-stamp and a draper's receipt, nine months old, for +elevenpence three-farthings. + +I remember the indignation of an old Bus-conductor, once. Inside we were +nine women and two men. I sat next the door, and his remarks therefore +he addressed to me. It was certainly taking him some time to collect +the fares, but I think he would have got on better had he been less +bustling; he worried them, and made them nervous. + +"Look at that," he said, drawing my attention to a poor lady opposite, +who was diving in the customary manner for her purse, "they sit on their +money, women do. Blest if you wouldn't think they was trying to 'atch +it." + +At length the lady drew from underneath herself an exceedingly fat +purse. + +"Fancy riding in a bumpby bus, perched up on that thing," he continued. +"Think what a stamina they must have." He grew confidential. "I've seen +one woman," he said, "pull out from underneath 'er a street doorkey, a +tin box of lozengers, a pencil-case, a whopping big purse, a packet +of hair-pins, and a smelling-bottle. Why, you or me would be wretched, +sitting on a plain door-knob, and them women goes about like that all +day. I suppose they gets used to it. Drop 'em on an eider-down pillow, +and they'd scream. The time it takes me to get tuppence out of them, +why, it's 'eart-breaking. First they tries one side, then they tries the +other. Then they gets up and shakes theirselves till the bus jerks them +back again, and there they are, a more 'opeless 'eap than ever. If I 'ad +my way I'd make every bus carry a female searcher as could over'aul +'em one at a time, and take the money from 'em. Talk about the poor +pickpocket. What I say is, that a man as finds his way into a woman's +pocket--well, he deserves what he gets." + +But it was the thought of more serious matters that lured me into +reflections concerning the over-carefulness of women. It is a theory of +mine--wrong possibly; indeed I have so been informed--that we pick our +way through life with too much care. We are for ever looking down upon +the ground. Maybe, we do avoid a stumble or two over a stone or a brier, +but also we miss the blue of the sky, the glory of the hills. These +books that good men write, telling us that what they call "success" in +life depends on our flinging aside our youth and wasting our manhood +in order that we may have the means when we are eighty of spending a +rollicking old age, annoy me. We save all our lives to invest in a +South Sea Bubble; and in skimping and scheming, we have grown mean, +and narrow, and hard. We will put off the gathering of the roses +till tomorrow, to-day it shall be all work, all bargain-driving, all +plotting. Lo, when to-morrow comes, the roses are blown; nor do we care +for roses, idle things of small marketable value; cabbages are more to +our fancy by the time to-morrow comes. + +Life is a thing to be lived, not spent, to be faced, not ordered. Life +is not a game of chess, the victory to the most knowing; it is a game of +cards, one's hand by skill to be made the best of. Is it the wisest who +is always the most successful? I think not. The luckiest whist-player I +ever came across was a man who was never QUITE certain what were trumps, +and whose most frequent observation during the game was "I really +beg your pardon," addressed to his partner; a remark which generally +elicited the reply, "Oh, don't apologize. All's well that ends well." +The man I knew who made the most rapid fortune was a builder in the +outskirts of Birmingham, who could not write his name, and who, for +thirty years of his life, never went to bed sober. I do not say that +forgetfulness of trumps should be cultivated by whist-players. I think +my builder friend might have been even more successful had he learned +to write his name, and had he occasionally--not overdoing it--enjoyed a +sober evening. All I wish to impress is, that virtue is not the road to +success--of the kind we are dealing with. We must find other reasons for +being virtuous; maybe, there are some. The truth is, life is a gamble +pure and simple, and the rules we lay down for success are akin to the +infallible systems with which a certain class of idiot goes armed each +season to Monte Carlo. We can play the game with coolness and judgment, +decide when to plunge and when to stake small; but to think that wisdom +will decide it, is to imagine that we have discovered the law of chance. +Let us play the game of life as sportsmen, pocketing our winnings with +a smile, leaving our losings with a shrug. Perhaps that is why we have +been summoned to the board and the cards dealt round: that we may learn +some of the virtues of the good gambler; his self-control, his courage +under misfortune, his modesty under the strain of success, his firmness, +his alertness, his general indifference to fate. Good lessons these, +all of them. If by the game we learn some of them our time on the green +earth has not been wasted. If we rise from the table having learned only +fretfulness and self-pity I fear it has been. + +The grim Hall Porter taps at the door: "Number Five hundred billion and +twenty-eight, your boatman is waiting, sir." + +So! is it time already? We pick up our counters. Of what use are they? +In the country the other side of the river they are no tender. The +blood-red for gold, and the pale-green for love, to whom shall we fling +them? Here is some poor beggar longing to play, let us give them to him +as we pass out. Poor devil! the game will amuse him--for a while. + +Keep your powder dry, and trust in Providence, is the motto of the wise. +Wet powder could never be of any possible use to you. Dry, it may +be, WITH the help of Providence. We will call it Providence, it is a +prettier name than Chance--perhaps also a truer. + +Another mistake we make when we reason out our lives is this: we +reason as though we were planning for reasonable creatures. It is a big +mistake. Well-meaning ladies and gentlemen make it when they picture +their ideal worlds. When marriage is reformed, and the social problem +solved, when poverty and war have been abolished by acclamation, and sin +and sorrow rescinded by an overwhelming parliamentary majority! Ah, then +the world will be worthy of our living in it. You need not wait, ladies +and gentlemen, so long as you think for that time. No social revolution +is needed, no slow education of the people is necessary. It would all +come about to-morrow, IF ONLY WE WERE REASONABLE CREATURES. + +Imagine a world of reasonable beings! The Ten Commandments would be +unnecessary: no reasoning being sins, no reasoning creature makes +mistakes. There would be no rich men, for what reasonable man cares for +luxury and ostentation? There would be no poor: that I should eat +enough for two while my brother in the next street, as good a man as I, +starves, is not reasonable. There would be no difference of opinion on +any two points: there is only one reason. You, dear Reader, would find, +that on all subjects you were of the same opinion as I. No novels would +be written, no plays performed; the lives of reasonable creatures do +not afford drama. No mad loves, no mad laughter, no scalding tears, no +fierce unreasoning, brief-lived joys, no sorrows, no wild dreams--only +reason, reason everywhere. + +But for the present we remain unreasonable. If I eat this mayonnaise, +drink this champagne, I shall suffer in my liver. Then, why do I eat it? +Julia is a charming girl, amiable, wise, and witty; also she has a share +in a brewery. Then, why does John marry Ann? who is short-tempered, +to say the least of it, who, he feels, will not make him so good a +house-wife, who has extravagant notions, who has no little fortune. +There is something about Ann's chin that fascinates him--he could not +explain to you what. On the whole, Julia is the better-looking of the +two. But the more he thinks of Julia, the more he is drawn towards Ann. +So Tom marries Julia and the brewery fails, and Julia, on a holiday, +contracts rheumatic fever, and is a helpless invalid for life; while Ann +comes in for ten thousand pounds left to her by an Australian uncle no +one had ever heard of. + +I have been told of a young man, who chose his wife with excellent +care. Said he to himself, very wisely, "In the selection of a wife a +man cannot be too circumspect." He convinced himself that the girl was +everything a helpmate should be. She had every virtue that could be +expected in a woman, no faults, but such as are inseparable from a +woman. Speaking practically, she was perfection. He married her, and +found she was all he had thought her. Only one thing could he urge +against her--that he did not like her. And that, of course, was not her +fault. + +How easy life would be did we know ourselves. Could we always be sure +that tomorrow we should think as we do today. We fall in love during a +summer holiday; she is fresh, delightful, altogether charming; the blood +rushes to our head every time we think of her. Our ideal career is one +of perpetual service at her feet. It seems impossible that Fate could +bestow upon us any greater happiness than the privilege of cleaning her +boots, and kissing the hem of her garment--if the hem be a little muddy +that will please us the more. We tell her our ambition, and at that +moment every word we utter is sincere. But the summer holiday passes, +and with it the holiday mood, and winter finds us wondering how we are +going to get out of the difficulty into which we have landed ourselves. +Or worse still, perhaps, the mood lasts longer than is usual. We become +formally engaged. We marry--I wonder how many marriages are the result +of a passion that is burnt out before the altar-rails are reached?--and +three months afterwards the little lass is broken-hearted to find that +we consider the lacing of her boots a bore. Her feet seem to have grown +bigger. There is no excuse for us, save that we are silly children, +never sure of what we are crying for, hurting one another in our play, +crying very loudly when hurt ourselves. + +I knew an American lady once who used to bore me with long accounts of +the brutalities exercised upon her by her husband. She had instituted +divorce proceedings against him. The trial came on, and she was highly +successful. We all congratulated her, and then for some months she +dropped out of my life. But there came a day when we again found +ourselves together. One of the problems of social life is to know what +to say to one another when we meet; every man and woman's desire is to +appear sympathetic and clever, and this makes conversation difficult, +because, taking us all round, we are neither sympathetic nor clever--but +this by the way. + +Of course, I began to talk to her about her former husband. I asked +her how he was getting on. She replied that she thought he was very +comfortable. + +"Married again?" I suggested. + +"Yes," she answered. + +"Serve him right," I exclaimed, "and his wife too." She was a pretty, +bright-eyed little woman, my American friend, and I wished to ingratiate +myself. "A woman who would marry such a man, knowing what she must have +known of him, is sure to make him wretched, and we may trust him to be a +curse to her." + +My friend seemed inclined to defend him. + +"I think he is greatly improved," she argued. + +"Nonsense!" I returned, "a man never improves. Once a villain, always a +villain." + +"Oh, hush!" she pleaded, "you mustn't call him that." + +"Why not?" I answered. "I have heard you call him a villain yourself." + +"It was wrong of me," she said, flushing. "I'm afraid he was not the +only one to be blamed; we were both foolish in those days, but I think +we have both learned a lesson." + +I remained silent, waiting for the necessary explanation. + +"You had better come and see him for yourself," she added, with a little +laugh; "to tell the truth, I am the woman who has married him. Tuesday +is my day, Number 2, K---- Mansions," and she ran off, leaving me +staring after her. + +I believe an enterprising clergyman who would set up a little church +in the Strand, just outside the Law Courts, might do quite a trade, +re-marrying couples who had just been divorced. A friend of mine, +a respondent, told me he had never loved his wife more than on two +occasions--the first when she refused him, the second when she came into +the witness-box to give evidence against him. + +"You are curious creatures, you men," remarked a lady once to another +man in my presence. "You never seem to know your own mind." + +She was feeling annoyed with men generally. I do not blame her, I feel +annoyed with them myself sometimes. There is one man in particular I am +always feeling intensely irritated against. He says one thing, and acts +another. He will talk like a saint and behave like a fool, knows what is +right and does what is wrong. But we will not speak further of him. He +will be all he should be one day, and then we will pack him into a nice, +comfortably-lined box, and screw the lid down tight upon him, and put +him away in a quiet little spot near a church I know of, lest he should +get up and misbehave himself again. + +The other man, who is a wise man as men go, looked at his fair critic +with a smile. + +"My dear madam," he replied, "you are blaming the wrong person. I +confess I do not know my mind, and what little I do know of it I do not +like. I did not make it, I did not select it. I am more dissatisfied +with it than you can possibly be. It is a greater mystery to me than it +is to you, and I have to live with it. You should pity not blame me." + +There are moods in which I fall to envying those old hermits who +frankly, and with courageous cowardice, shirked the problem of life. +There are days when I dream of an existence unfettered by the thousand +petty strings with which our souls lie bound to Lilliputia land. I +picture myself living in some Norwegian sater, high above the black +waters of a rockbound fiord. No other human creature disputes with me my +kingdom. I am alone with the whispering fir forests and the stars. How +I live I am not quite sure. Once a month I could journey down into the +villages and return laden. I should not need much. For the rest, my gun +and fishing-rod would supply me. I would have with me a couple of big +dogs, who would talk to me with their eyes, so full of dumb thought, and +together we would wander over the uplands, seeking our dinner, after the +old primitive fashion of the men who dreamt not of ten-course dinners +and Savoy suppers. I would cook the food myself, and sit down to the +meal with a bottle of good wine, such as starts a man's thoughts (for I +am inconsistent, as I acknowledge, and that gift of civilization I +would bear with me into my hermitage). Then in the evening, with pipe +in mouth, beside my log-wood fire, I would sit and think, until new +knowledge came to me. Strengthened by those silent voices that are +drowned in the roar of Streetland, I might, perhaps, grow into something +nearer to what it was intended that a man should be--might catch a +glimpse, perhaps, of the meaning of life. + +No, no, my dear lady, into this life of renunciation I would not take a +companion, certainly not of the sex you are thinking of, even would +she care to come, which I doubt. There are times when a man is better +without the woman, when a woman is better without the man. Love drags +us from the depths, makes men and women of us, but if we would climb a +little nearer to the stars we must say good-bye to it. We men and women +do not show ourselves to each other at our best; too often, I fear, at +our worst. The woman's highest ideal of man is the lover; to a man the +woman is always the possible beloved. We see each other's hearts, +but not each other's souls. In each other's presence we never shake +ourselves free from the earth. Match-making mother Nature is always at +hand to prompt us. A woman lifts us up into manhood, but there she +would have us stay. "Climb up to me," she cries to the lad, walking with +soiled feet in muddy ways; "be a true man that you may be worthy to walk +by my side; be brave to protect me, kind and tender, and true; but climb +no higher, stay here by my side." The martyr, the prophet, the leader of +the world's forlorn hopes, she would wake from his dream. Her arms she +would fling about his neck holding him down. + +To the woman the man says, "You are my wife. Here is your America, +within these walls, here is your work, your duty." True, in nine hundred +and ninety-nine cases out of every thousand, but men and women are +not made in moulds, and the world's work is various. Sometimes to her +sorrow, a woman's work lies beyond the home. The duty of Mary was not to +Joseph. + +The hero in the popular novel is the young man who says, "I love you +better than my soul." Our favourite heroine in fiction is the woman who +cries to her lover, "I would go down into Hell to be with you." There +are men and women who cannot answer thus--the men who dream dreams, the +women who see visions--impracticable people from the Bayswater point +of view. But Bayswater would not be the abode of peace it is had it not +been for such. + +Have we not placed sexual love on a pedestal higher than it deserves? It +is a noble passion, but it is not the noblest. There is a wider love by +the side of which it is but as the lamp illumining the cottage, to the +moonlight bathing the hills and valleys. There were two women once. +This is a play I saw acted in the daylight. They had been friends from +girlhood, till there came between them the usual trouble--a man. A weak, +pretty creature not worth a thought from either of them; but women love +the unworthy; there would be no over-population problem did they not; +and this poor specimen, ill-luck had ordained they should contend for. + +Their rivalry brought out all that was worst in both of them. It is +a mistake to suppose love only elevates; it can debase. It was a +mean struggle for what to an onlooker must have appeared a remarkably +unsatisfying prize. The loser might well have left the conqueror to her +poor triumph, even granting it had been gained unfairly. But the +old, ugly, primeval passions had been stirred in these women, and the +wedding-bells closed only the first act. + +The second is not difficult to guess. It would have ended in the Divorce +Court had not the deserted wife felt that a finer revenge would be +secured to her by silence. + +In the third, after an interval of only eighteen months, the man +died--the first piece of good fortune that seems to have occurred to +him personally throughout the play. His position must have been +an exceedingly anxious one from the beginning. Notwithstanding his +flabbiness, one cannot but regard him with a certain amount of pity--not +unmixed with amusement. Most of life's dramas can be viewed as either +farce or tragedy according to the whim of the spectator. The actors +invariably play them as tragedy; but then that is the essence of good +farce acting. + +Thus was secured the triumph of legal virtue and the punishment of +irregularity, and the play might be dismissed as uninterestingly +orthodox were it not for the fourth act, showing how the wronged wife +came to the woman she had once wronged to ask and grant forgiveness. +Strangely as it may sound, they found their love for one another +unchanged. They had been long parted: it was sweet to hold each other's +hands again. Two lonely women, they agreed to live together. Those +who knew them well in this later time say that their life was very +beautiful, filled with graciousness and nobility. + +I do not say that such a story could ever be common, but it is more +probable than the world might credit. Sometimes the man is better +without the woman, the woman without the man. + + + + +ON THE NOBILITY OF OURSELVES + +AN old Anglicized Frenchman, I used to meet often in my earlier +journalistic days, held a theory, concerning man's future state, that +has since come to afford me more food for reflection than, at the time, +I should have deemed possible. He was a bright-eyed, eager little man. +One felt no Lotus land could be Paradise to him. We build our heaven of +the stones of our desires: to the old, red-bearded Norseman, a foe to +fight and a cup to drain; to the artistic Greek, a grove of animated +statuary; to the Red Indian, his happy hunting ground; to the Turk, +his harem; to the Jew, his New Jerusalem, paved with gold; to others, +according to their taste, limited by the range of their imagination. + +Few things had more terrors for me, when a child, than Heaven--as +pictured for me by certain of the good folks round about me. I was told +that if I were a good lad, kept my hair tidy, and did not tease the cat, +I would probably, when I died, go to a place where all day long I would +sit still and sing hymns. (Think of it! as reward to a healthy boy for +being good.) There would be no breakfast and no dinner, no tea and no +supper. One old lady cheered me a little with a hint that the monotony +might be broken by a little manna; but the idea of everlasting manna +palled upon me, and my suggestions, concerning the possibilities of +sherbet or jumbles, were scouted as irreverent. There would be no +school, but also there would be no cricket and no rounders. I should +feel no desire, so I was assured, to do another angel's "dags" by +sliding down the heavenly banisters. My only joy would be to sing. + +"Shall we start singing the moment we get up in the morning?" I asked. + +"There won't be any morning," was the answer. "There will be no day and +no night. It will all be one long day without end." + +"And shall we always be singing?" I persisted. + +"Yes, you will be so happy, you will always want to sing." + +"Shan't I ever get tired?" + +"No, you will never get tired, and you will never get sleepy or hungry +or thirsty." + +"And does it go on like that for ever?" + +"Yes, for ever and ever." + +"Will it go on for a million years?" + +"Yes, a million years, and then another million years, and then another +million years after that. There will never be any end to it." + +I can remember to this day the agony of those nights, when I would lie +awake, thinking of this endless heaven, from which there seemed to be +no possible escape. For the other place was equally eternal, or I might +have been tempted to seek refuge there. + +We grown-up folk, our brains dulled by the slowly acquired habit of +not thinking, do wrong to torture children with these awful themes. +Eternity, Heaven, Hell are meaningless words to us. We repeat them, as +we gabble our prayers, telling our smug, self-satisfied selves that we +are miserable sinners. But to the child, the "intelligent stranger" in +the land, seeking to know, they are fearful realities. If you doubt me, +Reader, stand by yourself, beneath the stars, one night, and SOLVE this +thought, Eternity. Your next address shall be the County Lunatic Asylum. + +My actively inclined French friend held cheerier views than are common +of man's life beyond the grave. His belief was that we were destined to +constant change, to everlasting work. We were to pass through the older +planets, to labour in the greater suns. + +But for such advanced career a more capable being was needed. No one of +us was sufficient, he argued, to be granted a future existence all to +himself. His idea was that two or three or four of us, according to +our intrinsic value, would be combined to make a new and more important +individuality, fitted for a higher existence. Man, he pointed out, was +already a collection of the beasts. "You and I," he would say, tapping +first my chest and then his own, "we have them all here--the ape, the +tiger, the pig, the motherly hen, the gamecock, the good ant; we are +all, rolled into one. So the man of the future, he will be made up of +many men--the courage of one, the wisdom of another, the kindliness of a +third." + +"Take a City man," he would continue, "say the Lord Mayor; add to him a +poet, say Swinburne; mix them with a religious enthusiast, say General +Booth. There you will have the man fit for the higher life." + +Garibaldi and Bismarck, he held, should make a very fine mixture, +correcting one another; if needful, extract of Ibsen might be added, as +seasoning. He thought that Irish politicians would mix admirably with +Scotch divines; that Oxford Dons would go well with lady novelists. He +was convinced that Count Tolstoi, a few Gaiety Johnnies (we called them +"mashers" in those days), together with a humourist--he was kind enough +to suggest myself--would produce something very choice. Queen Elizabeth, +he fancied, was probably being reserved to go--let us hope in the long +distant future--with Ouida. It sounds a whimsical theory, set down here +in my words, not his; but the old fellow was so much in earnest that few +of us ever thought to laugh as he talked. Indeed, there were moments +on starry nights, as walking home from the office, we would pause on +Waterloo Bridge to enjoy the witchery of the long line of the Embankment +lights, when I could almost believe, as I listened to him, in the not +impossibility of his dreams. + +Even as regards this world, it would often be a gain, one thinks, and no +loss, if some half-dozen of us were rolled together, or boiled down, or +whatever the process necessary might be, and something made out of us in +that way. + +Have not you, my fair Reader, sometimes thought to yourself what a +delightful husband Tom this, plus Harry that, plus Dick the other, would +make? Tom is always so cheerful and good-tempered, yet you feel that in +the serious moments of life he would be lacking. A delightful hubby +when you felt merry, yes; but you would not go to him for comfort and +strength in your troubles, now would you? No, in your hour of sorrow, +how good it would be to have near you grave, earnest Harry. He is +a "good sort," Harry. Perhaps, after all, he is the best of the +three--solid, staunch, and true. What a pity he is just a trifle +commonplace and unambitious. Your friends, not knowing his sterling +hidden qualities, would hardly envy you; and a husband that no other +girl envies you--well, that would hardly be satisfactory, would it? +Dick, on the other hand, is clever and brilliant. He will make his way; +there will come a day, you are convinced, when a woman will be proud to +bear his name. If only he were not so self-centred, if only he were more +sympathetic. + +But a combination of the three, or rather of the best qualities of the +three--Tom's good temper, Harry's tender strength, Dick's brilliant +masterfulness: that is the man who would be worthy of you. + +The woman David Copperfield wanted was Agnes and Dora rolled into one. +He had to take them one after the other, which was not so nice. And did +he really love Agnes, Mr. Dickens; or merely feel he ought to? Forgive +me, but I am doubtful concerning that second marriage of Copperfield's. +Come, strictly between ourselves, Mr. Dickens, was not David, good human +soul! now and again a wee bit bored by the immaculate Agnes? She made +him an excellent wife, I am sure. SHE never ordered oysters by the +barrel, unopened. It would, on any day, have been safe to ask Traddles +home to dinner; in fact, Sophie and the whole rose-garden might have +accompanied him, Agnes would have been equal to the occasion. The dinner +would have been perfectly cooked and served, and Agnes' sweet smile +would have pervaded the meal. But AFTER the dinner, when David and +Traddles sat smoking alone, while from the drawing-room drifted down the +notes of high-class, elevating music, played by the saintly Agnes, did +they never, glancing covertly towards the empty chair between them, see +the laughing, curl-framed face of a very foolish little woman--one of +those foolish little women that a wise man thanks God for making--and +wish, in spite of all, that it were flesh and blood, not shadow? + +Oh, you foolish wise folk, who would remodel human nature! Cannot you +see how great is the work given unto childish hands? Think you that in +well-ordered housekeeping and high-class conversation lies the whole +making of a man? Foolish Dora, fashioned by clever old magician Nature, +who knows that weakness and helplessness are as a talisman calling forth +strength and tenderness in man, trouble yourself not unduly about those +oysters nor the underdone mutton, little woman. Good plain cooks at +twenty pounds a year will see to these things for us; and, now and +then, when a windfall comes our way, we will dine together at a +moderate-priced restaurant where these things are managed even better. +Your work, Dear, is to teach us gentleness and kindliness. Lay your +curls here, child. It is from such as you that we learn wisdom. Foolish +wise folk sneer at you; foolish wise folk would pull up the useless +lilies, the needless roses, from the garden, would plant in their places +only serviceable wholesome cabbage. But the Gardener knowing better, +plants the silly short-lived flowers; foolish wise folk, asking for what +purpose. + +As for Agnes, Mr. Dickens, do you know what she always makes me think +of? You will not mind my saying?--the woman one reads about. Frankly, +I don't believe in her. I do not refer to Agnes in particular, but the +woman of whom she is a type, the faultless woman we read of. Women have +many faults, but, thank God, they have one redeeming virtue--they are +none of them faultless. + +But the heroine of fiction! oh, a terrible dragon of virtue is she. May +heaven preserve us poor men, undeserving though we be, from a life with +the heroine of fiction. She is all soul, and heart, and intellect, with +never a bit of human nature to catch hold of her by. Her beauty, it +appals one, it is so painfully indescribable. Whence comes she, whither +goes she, why do we never meet her like? Of women I know a goodish few, +and I look among them for her prototype; but I find it not. They are +charming, they are beautiful, all these women that I know. It would +not be right for me to tell you, Ladies, the esteem and veneration with +which I regard you all. You yourselves, blushing, would be the first to +cheek my ardour. But yet, dear Ladies, seen even through my eyes, you +come not near the ladies that I read about. You are not--if I may be +permitted an expressive vulgarism--in the same street with them. Your +beauty I can look upon, and retain my reason--for whatever value that +may be to me. Your conversation, I admit, is clever and brilliant in the +extreme; your knowledge vast and various; your culture quite Bostonian; +yet you do not--I hardly know how to express it--you do not shine with +the sixteen full-moon-power of the heroine of fiction. You do not--and +I thank you for it--impress me with the idea that you are the only women +on earth. You, even you, possess tempers of your own. I am inclined to +think you take an interest in your clothes. I would not be sure, even, +that you do not mingle a little of "your own hair" (you know what I +mean) with the hair of your head. There is in your temperament a vein of +vanity, a suggestion of selfishness, a spice of laziness. I have known +you a trifle unreasonable, a little inconsiderate, slightly exacting. +Unlike the heroine of fiction, you have a certain number of human +appetites and instincts; a few human follies, perhaps, a human fault, or +shall we say two? In short, dear Ladies, you also, even as we men, are +the children of Adam and Eve. Tell me, if you know, where I may meet +with this supernatural sister of yours, this woman that one reads about. +She never keeps any one waiting while she does her back hair, she is +never indignant with everybody else in the house because she cannot find +her own boots, she never scolds the servants, she is never cross with +the children, she never slams the door, she is never jealous of her +younger sister, she never lingers at the gate with any cousin but the +right one. + +Dear me, where DO they keep them, these women that one reads about? I +suppose where they keep the pretty girl of Art. You have seen her, +have you not, Reader, the pretty girl in the picture? She leaps the +six-barred gate with a yard and a half to spare, turning round in her +saddle the while to make some smiling remark to the comic man behind, +who, of course, is standing on his head in the ditch. She floats +gracefully off Dieppe on stormy mornings. Her baigneuse--generally of +chiffon and old point lace--has not lost a curve. The older ladies, +bathing round her, look wet. Their dress clings damply to their limbs. +But the pretty girl of Art dives, and never a curl of her hair is +disarranged. The pretty girl of Art stands lightly on tip-toe and +volleys a tennis-ball six feet above her head. The pretty girl of Art +keeps the head of the punt straight against a stiff current and a strong +wind. SHE never gets the water up her sleeve, and down her back, and +all over the cushions. HER pole never sticks in the mud, with the steam +launch ten yards off and the man looking the other way. The pretty girl +of Art skates in high-heeled French shoes at an angle of forty-five +to the surface of the ice, both hands in her muff. SHE never sits down +plump, with her feet a yard apart, and says "Ough." The pretty girl of +Art drives tandem down Piccadilly, during the height of the season, at +eighteen miles an hour. It never occurs to HER leader that the time has +now arrived for him to turn round and get into the cart. The pretty +girl of Art rides her bicycle through the town on market day, carrying +a basket of eggs, and smiling right and left. SHE never throws away +both her handles and runs into a cow. The pretty girl of Art goes trout +fishing in open-work stockings, under a blazing sun, with a bunch of +dew-bespangled primroses in her hair; and every time she gracefully +flicks her rod she hauls out a salmon. SHE never ties herself up to a +tree, or hooks the dog. SHE never comes home, soaked and disagreeable, +to tell you that she caught six, but put them all back again, because +they were merely two or three-pounders, and not worth the trouble of +carrying. The pretty girl of Art plays croquet with one hand, and looks +as if she enjoyed the game. SHE never tries to accidentally kick her +ball into position when nobody is noticing, or stands it out that she is +through a hoop that she knows she isn't. + +She is a good, all-round sportswoman, is the pretty girl in the +picture. The only thing I have to say against her is that she makes one +dissatisfied with the girl out of the picture--the girl who mistakes a +punt for a teetotum, so that you land feeling as if you had had a day +in the Bay of Biscay; and who, every now and again, stuns you with the +thick end of the pole: the girl who does not skate with her hands in her +muff; but who, throwing them up to heaven, says, "I'm going," and who +goes, taking care that you go with her: the girl who, as you brush her +down, and try to comfort her, explains to you indignantly that the horse +took the corner too sharply and never noticed the mile-stone; the girl +whose hair sea water does NOT improve. + +There can be no doubt about it: that is where they keep the good woman +of Fiction, where they keep the pretty girl of Art. + +Does it not occur to you, Messieurs les Auteurs, that you are sadly +disturbing us? These women that are a combination of Venus, St. Cecilia, +and Elizabeth Fry! you paint them for us in your glowing pages: it is +not kind of you, knowing, as you must, the women we have to put up with. + +Would we not be happier, we men and women, were we to idealize one +another less? My dear young lady, you have nothing whatever to complain +to Fate about, I assure you. Unclasp those pretty hands of yours, and +come away from the darkening window. Jack is as good a fellow as you +deserve; don't yearn so much. Sir Galahad, my dear--Sir Galahad rides +and fights in the land that lies beyond the sunset, far enough away +from this noisy little earth where you and I spend much of our time +tittle-tattling, flirting, wearing fine clothes, and going to shows. And +besides, you must remember, Sir Galahad was a bachelor: as an idealist +he was wise. Your Jack is by no means a bad sort of knight, as knights +go nowadays in this un-idyllic world. There is much solid honesty about +him, and he does not pose. He is not exceptional, I grant you; but, my +dear, have you ever tried the exceptional man? Yes, he is very nice in +a drawing-room, and it is interesting to read about him in the Society +papers: you will find most of his good qualities there: take my advice, +don't look into him too closely. You be content with Jack, and thank +heaven he is no worse. We are not saints, we men--none of us, and our +beautiful thoughts, I fear, we write in poetry not action. The White +Knight, my dear young lady, with his pure soul, his heroic heart, his +life's devotion to a noble endeavour, does not live down here to any +great extent. They have tried it, one or two of them, and the world--you +and I: the world is made up of you and I--has generally starved, and +hooted them. There are not many of them left now: do you think you would +care to be the wife of one, supposing one were to be found for you? +Would you care to live with him in two furnished rooms in Clerkenwell, +die with him on a chair bedstead? A century hence they will put up a +statue to him, and you may be honoured as the wife who shared with him +his sufferings. Do you think you are woman enough for that? If not, +thank your stars you have secured, for your own exclusive use, one of us +UNexceptional men, who knows no better than to admire you. YOU are not +exceptional. + +And in us ordinary men there is some good. It wants finding, that is +all. We are not so commonplace as you think us. Even your Jack, fond of +his dinner, his conversation four-cornered by the Sporting Press--yes, I +agree he is not interesting, as he sits snoring in the easy-chair; but, +believe it or not, there are the makings of a great hero in Jack, if +Fate would but be kinder to him, and shake him out of his ease. + +Dr. Jekyll contained beneath his ample waist-coat not two egos, but +three--not only Hyde but another, a greater than Jekyll--a man as near +to the angels as Hyde was to the demons. These well-fed City men, these +Gaiety Johnnies, these plough-boys, apothecaries, thieves! within each +one lies hidden the hero, did Fate, the sculptor, choose to use his +chisel. That little drab we have noticed now and then, our way taking +us often past the end of the court, there was nothing by which to +distinguish her. She was not over-clean, could use coarse language on +occasion--just the spawn of the streets: take care lest the cloak of our +child should brush her. + +One morning the district Coroner, not, generally speaking, a poet +himself, but an adept at discovering poetry buried under unlikely +rubbish-heaps, tells us more about her. She earned six shillings a week, +and upon it supported a bed-ridden mother and three younger children. +She was housewife, nurse, mother, breadwinner, rolled into one. Yes, +there are heroines OUT of fiction. + +So loutish Tom has won the Victoria Cross--dashed out under a storm +of bullets and rescued the riddled flag. Who would have thought it of +loutish Tom? The village alehouse one always deemed the goal of his +endeavours. Chance comes to Tom and we find him out. To Harry the Fates +were less kind. A ne'er-do-well was Harry--drank, knocked his wife +about, they say. Bury him, we are well rid of him, he was good for +nothing. Are we sure? + +Let us acknowledge we are sinners. We know, those of us who dare to +examine ourselves, that we are capable of every meanness, of every +wrong under the sun. It is by the accident of circumstance, aided by the +helpful watchfulness of the policeman, that our possibilities of crime +are known only to ourselves. But having acknowledged our evil, let us +also acknowledge that we are capable of greatness. The martyrs who faced +death and torture unflinchingly for conscience' sake, were men and women +like ourselves. They had their wrong side. Before the small trials of +daily life they no doubt fell as we fall. By no means were they the pick +of humanity. Thieves many of them had been, and murderers, evil-livers, +and evil-doers. But the nobility was there also, lying dormant, and +their day came. Among them must have been men who had cheated their +neighbours over the counter; men who had been cruel to their wives and +children; selfish, scandal-mongering women. In easier times their virtue +might never have been known to any but their Maker. + +In every age and in every period, when and where Fate has called upon +men and women to play the man, human nature has not been found wanting. +They were a poor lot, those French aristocrats that the Terror seized: +cowardly, selfish, greedy had been their lives. Yet there must have been +good, even in them. When the little things that in their little lives +they had thought so great were swept away from them, when they found +themselves face to face with the realities; then even they played the +man. Poor shuffling Charles the First, crusted over with weakness and +folly, deep down in him at last we find the great gentleman. + +I like to hear stories of the littleness of great men. I like to think +that Shakespeare was fond of his glass. I even cling to the tale of that +disgraceful final orgie with friend Ben Jonson. Possibly the story may +not be true, but I hope it was. I like to think of him as poacher, as +village ne'er-do-well, denounced by the local grammar-school master, +preached at by the local J. P. of the period. I like to reflect that +Cromwell had a wart on his nose; the thought makes me more contented +with my own features. I like to think that he put sweets upon the +chairs, to see finely-dressed ladies spoil their frocks; to tell myself +that he roared with laughter at the silly jest, like any East End 'Arry +with his Bank Holiday squirt of dirty water. I like to read that Carlyle +threw bacon at his wife and occasionally made himself highly ridiculous +over small annoyances, that would have been smiled at by a man of +well-balanced mind. I think of the fifty foolish things a week _I_ do, +and say to myself, "I, too, am a literary man." + +I like to think that even Judas had his moments of nobility, his good +hours when he would willingly have laid down his life for his Master. +Perhaps even to him there came, before the journey's end, the memory of +a voice saying--"Thy sins be forgiven thee." There must have been good, +even in Judas. + +Virtue lies like the gold in quartz, there is not very much of it, and +much pains has to be spent on the extracting of it. But Nature seems +to think it worth her while to fashion these huge useless stones, if +in them she may hide away her precious metals. Perhaps, also, in +human nature, she cares little for the mass of dross, provided that by +crushing and cleansing she can extract from it a little gold, sufficient +to repay her for the labour of the world. We wonder why she troubles to +make the stone. Why cannot the gold lie in nuggets on the surface? +But her methods are secrets to us. Perchance there is a reason for the +quartz. Perchance there is a reason for the evil and folly, through +which run, unseen to the careless eye, the tiny veins of virtue. + +Aye, the stone predominates, but the gold is there. We claim to have it +valued. The evil that there is in man no tongue can tell. We are vile +among the vile, a little evil people. But we are great. Pile up the +bricks of our sins till the tower knocks at Heaven's gate, calling for +vengeance, yet we are great--with a greatness and a virtue that the +untempted angels may not reach to. The written history of the human +race, it is one long record of cruelty, of falsehood, of oppression. +Think you the world would be spinning round the sun unto this day, if +that written record were all? Sodom, God would have spared had there +been found ten righteous men within its walls. The world is saved by its +just men. History sees them not; she is but the newspaper, a report of +accidents. Judge you life by that? Then you shall believe that the true +Temple of Hymen is the Divorce Court; that men are of two classes +only, the thief and the policeman; that all noble thought is but a +politician's catchword. History sees only the destroying conflagrations, +she takes no thought of the sweet fire-sides. History notes the wrong; +but the patient suffering, the heroic endeavour, that, slowly and +silently, as the soft processes of Nature re-clothing with verdure the +passion-wasted land, obliterate that wrong, she has no eyes for. In +the days of cruelty and oppression--not altogether yet of the past, one +fears--must have lived gentle-hearted men and women, healing with their +help and sympathy the wounds that else the world had died of. After the +thief, riding with jingle of sword and spur, comes, mounted on his ass, +the good Samaritan. The pyramid of the world's evil--God help us! it +rises high, shutting out almost the sun. But the record of man's good +deeds, it lies written in the laughter of the children, in the light of +lovers' eyes, in the dreams of the young men; it shall not be forgotten. +The fires of persecution served as torches to show Heaven the heroism +that was in man. From the soil of tyranny sprang self-sacrifice, and +daring for the Right. Cruelty! what is it but the vile manure, making +the ground ready for the flowers of tenderness and pity? Hate and +Anger shriek to one another across the ages, but the voices of Love and +Comfort are none the less existent that they speak in whispers, lips to +ear. + +We have done wrong, oh, ye witnessing Heavens, but we have done good. We +claim justice. We have laid down our lives for our friends: greater love +hath no man than this. We have fought for the Right. We have died for +the Truth--as the Truth seemed to us. We have done noble deeds; we have +lived noble lives; we have comforted the sorrowful; we have succoured +the weak. Failing, falling, making in our blindness many a false step, +yet we have striven. For the sake of the army of just men and true, for +the sake of the myriads of patient, loving women, for the sake of the +pitiful and helpful, for the sake of the good that lies hidden within +us,--spare us, O Lord. + + + + +ON THE MOTHERLINESS OF MAN + +It was only a piece of broken glass. From its shape and colour, I should +say it had, in its happier days, formed portion of a cheap scent-bottle. +Lying isolated on the grass, shone upon by the early morning sun, it +certainly appeared at its best. It attracted him. + +He cocked his head, and looked at it with his right eye. Then he hopped +round to the other side, and looked at it with his left eye. With either +optic it seemed equally desirable. + +That he was an inexperienced young rook goes without saying. An older +bird would not have given a second glance to the thing. Indeed, one +would have thought his own instinct might have told him that broken +glass would be a mistake in a bird's nest. But its glitter drew him too +strongly for resistance. I am inclined to suspect that at some time, +during the growth of his family tree, there must have occurred a +mesalliance, perhaps worse. Possibly a strain of magpie blood?--one +knows the character of magpies, or rather their lack of character--and +such things have happened. But I will not pursue further so painful a +train: I throw out the suggestion as a possible explanation, that is +all. + +He hopped nearer. Was it a sweet illusion, this flashing fragment of +rainbow; a beautiful vision to fade upon approach, typical of so much +that is un-understandable in rook life? He made a dart forward and +tapped it with his beak. No, it was real--as fine a lump of jagged green +glass as any newly-married rook could desire, and to be had for the +taking. SHE would be pleased with it. He was a well-meaning bird; the +mere upward inclination of his tail suggested earnest though possibly +ill-directed endeavour. + +He turned it over. It was an awkward thing to carry; it had so very many +corners. But he succeeded at last in getting it firmly between his beak, +and in haste, lest some other bird should seek to dispute with him its +possession, at once flew off with it. + +A second rook who had been watching the proceedings from the lime tree, +called to a third who was passing. Even with my limited knowledge of the +language I found it easy to follow the conversation: it was so obvious. + +"Issachar!" + +"Hallo!" + +"What do you think? Zebulan's found a piece of broken bottle. He's going +to line his nest with it." + +"No!" + +"God's truth. Look at him. There he goes, he's got it in his beak." + +"Well, I'm ----!" + +And they both burst into a laugh. + +But Zebulan heeded them not. If he overheard, he probably put down the +whole dialogue to jealousy. He made straight for his tree. By standing +with my left cheek pressed close against the window-pane, I was able to +follow him. He is building in what we call the Paddock elms--a suburb +commenced only last season, but rapidly growing. I wanted to see what +his wife would say. + +At first she said nothing. He laid it carefully down on the branch near +the half-finished nest, and she stretched up her head and looked at it. + +Then she looked at him. For about a minute neither spoke. I could see +that the situation was becoming strained. When she did open her beak, +it was with a subdued tone, that had a vein of weariness running through +it. + +"What is it?" she asked. + +He was evidently chilled by her manner. As I have explained, he is an +inexperienced young rook. This is clearly his first wife, and he stands +somewhat in awe of her. + +"Well, I don't exactly know what it's CALLED," he answered. + +"Oh." + +"No. But it's pretty, isn't it?" he added. He moved it, trying to get it +where the sun might reach it. It was evident he was admitting to himself +that, seen in the shade, it lost much of its charm. + +"Oh, yes; very pretty," was the rejoinder; "perhaps you'll tell me what +you're going to do with it." + +The question further discomforted him. It was growing upon him that this +thing was not going to be the success he had anticipated. It would be +necessary to proceed warily. + +"Of course, it's not a twig," he began. + +"I see it isn't." + +"No. You see, the nest is nearly all twigs as it is, and I thought--" + +"Oh, you did think." + +"Yes, my dear. I thought--unless you are of opinion that it's too +showy--I thought we might work it in somewhere." + +Then she flared out. + +"Oh, did you? You thought that a good idea. An A1 prize idiot I seem to +have married, I do. You've been gone twenty minutes, and you bring me +back an eight-cornered piece of broken glass, which you think we might +'work into' the nest. You'd like to see me sitting on it for a month, +you would. You think it would make a nice bed for the children to lie +on. You don't think you could manage to find a packet of mixed pins +if you went down again, I suppose. They'd look pretty 'worked in' +somewhere, don't you think?--Here, get out of my way. I'll finish this +nest by myself." She always had been short with him. + +She caught up the offending object--it was a fairly heavy lump of +glass--and flung it out of the tree with all her force. I heard it crash +through the cucumber frame. That makes the seventh pane of glass broken +in that cucumber frame this week. The couple in the branch above are the +worst. Their plan of building is the most extravagant, the most absurd +I ever heard of. They hoist up ten times as much material as they can +possibly use; you might think they were going to build a block, and let +it out in flats to the other rooks. Then what they don't want they +fling down again. Suppose we built on such a principle? Suppose a +human husband and wife were to start erecting their house in Piccadilly +Circus, let us say; and suppose the man spent all the day steadily +carrying bricks up the ladder while his wife laid them, never asking +her how many she wanted, whether she didn't think he had brought +up sufficient, but just accumulating bricks in a senseless fashion, +bringing up every brick he could find. And then suppose, when evening +came, and looking round, they found they had some twenty cart-loads of +bricks lying unused upon the scaffold, they were to commence flinging +them down into Waterloo Place. They would get themselves into trouble; +somebody would be sure to speak to them about it. Yet that is precisely +what those birds do, and nobody says a word to them. They are supposed +to have a President. He lives by himself in the yew tree outside the +morning-room window. What I want to know is what he is supposed to be +good for. This is the sort of thing I want him to look into. I would +like him to be worming underneath one evening when those two birds are +tidying up: perhaps he would do something then. I have done all I can. I +have thrown stones at them, that, in the course of nature, have returned +to earth again, breaking more glass. I have blazed at them with a +revolver; but they have come to regard this proceeding as a mere +expression of light-heartedness on my part, possibly confusing me with +the Arab of the Desert, who, I am given to understand, expresses himself +thus in moments of deep emotion. They merely retire to a safe distance +to watch me; no doubt regarding me as a poor performer, inasmuch as I do +not also dance and shout between each shot. I have no objection to their +building there, if they only would build sensibly. I want somebody to +speak to them to whom they will pay attention. + +You can hear them in the evening, discussing the matter of this surplus +stock. + +"Don't you work any more," he says, as he comes up with the last load, +"you'll tire yourself." + +"Well, I am feeling a bit done up," she answers, as she hops out of the +nest and straightens her back. + +"You're a bit peckish, too, I expect," he adds sympathetically. "I know +I am. We will have a scratch down, and be off." + +"What about all this stuff?" she asks, while titivating herself; "we'd +better not leave it about, it looks so untidy." + +"Oh, we'll soon get rid of that," he answers. "I'll have that down in a +jiffy." + +To help him, she seizes a stick and is about to drop it. He darts +forward and snatches it from her. + +"Don't you waste that one," he cries, "that's a rare one, that is. You +see me hit the old man with it." + +And he does. What the gardener says, I will leave you to imagine. + +Judged from its structure, the rook family is supposed to come next in +intelligence to man himself. Judging from the intelligence displayed by +members of certain human families with whom I have come in contact, I +can quite believe it. That rooks talk I am positive. No one can spend +half-an-hour watching a rookery without being convinced of this. Whether +the talk be always wise and witty, I am not prepared to maintain; but +that there is a good deal of it is certain. A young French gentleman of +my acquaintance, who visited England to study the language, told me that +the impression made upon him by his first social evening in London was +that of a parrot-house. Later on, when he came to comprehend, he, +of course, recognized the brilliancy and depth of the average London +drawing-room talk; but that is how, not comprehending, it impressed +him at first. Listening to the riot of a rookery is much the same +experience. The conversation to us sounds meaningless; the rooks +themselves would probably describe it as sparkling. + +There is a Misanthrope I know who hardly ever goes into Society. I +argued the question with him one day. "Why should I?" he replied; "I +know, say, a dozen men and women with whom intercourse is a pleasure; +they have ideas of their own which they are not afraid to voice. To +rub brains with such is a rare and goodly thing, and I thank Heaven for +their friendship; but they are sufficient for my leisure. What more do +I require? What is this 'Society' of which you all make so much ado? +I have sampled it, and I find it unsatisfying. Analyze it into its +elements, what is it? Some person I know very slightly, who knows me +very slightly, asks me to what you call an 'At Home.' The evening comes, +I have done my day's work and I have dined. I have been to a theatre or +concert, or I have spent a pleasant hour or so with a friend. I am more +inclined for bed than anything else, but I pull myself together, dress, +and drive to the house. While I am taking off my hat and coat in the +hall, a man enters I met a few hours ago at the Club. He is a man I have +very little opinion of, and he, probably, takes a similar view of me. +Our minds have no thought in common, but as it is necessary to talk, I +tell him it is a warm evening. Perhaps it is a warm evening, perhaps +it isn't; in either case he agrees with me. I ask him if he is going +to Ascot. I do not care a straw whether he is going to Ascot or not. He +says he is not quite sure, but asks me what chance Passion Flower has +for the Thousand Guineas. I know he doesn't value my opinion on the +subject at a brass farthing--he would be a fool if he did, but I cudgel +my brains to reply to him, as though he were going to stake his shirt on +my advice. We reach the first floor, and are mutually glad to get rid of +one another. I catch my hostess' eye. She looks tired and worried; she +would be happier in bed, only she doesn't know it. She smiles sweetly, +but it is clear she has not the slightest idea who I am, and is waiting +to catch my name from the butler. I whisper it to him. Perhaps he will +get it right, perhaps he won't; it is quite immaterial. They have asked +two hundred and forty guests, some seventy-five of whom they know by +sight, for the rest, any chance passer-by, able, as the theatrical +advertisements say, 'to dress and behave as a gentleman,' would do every +bit as well. Indeed, I sometimes wonder why people go to the trouble +and expense of invitation cards at all. A sandwich-man outside the door +would answer the purpose. 'Lady Tompkins, At Home, this afternoon +from three to seven; Tea and Music. Ladies and Gentlemen admitted on +presentation of visiting card. Afternoon dress indispensable.' The +crowd is the thing wanted; as for the items, well, tell me, what is the +difference, from the Society point of view, between one man in a black +frock-coat and another? + +"I remember being once invited to a party at a house in Lancaster Gate. +I had met the woman at a picnic. In the same green frock and parasol I +might have recognized her the next time I saw her. In any other clothes +I did not expect to. My cabman took me to the house opposite, where +they were also giving a party. It made no difference to any of us. The +hostess--I never learnt her name--said it was very good of me to come, +and then shunted me off on to a Colonial Premier (I did not catch his +name, and he did not catch mine, which was not extraordinary, seeing +that my hostess did not know it) who, she whispered to me, had +come over, from wherever it was (she did not seem to be very sure) +principally to make my acquaintance. Half through the evening, and +by accident, I discovered my mistake, but judged it too late to say +anything then. I met a couple of people I knew, had a little supper with +them, and came away. The next afternoon I met my right hostess--the lady +who should have been my hostess. She thanked me effusively for having +sacrificed the previous evening to her and her friends; she said she +knew how seldom I went out: that made her feel my kindness all the more. +She told me that the Brazilian Minister's wife had told her that I was +the cleverest man she had ever met. I often think I should like to meet +that man, whoever he may be, and thank him. + +"But perhaps the butler does pronounce my name rightly, and perhaps +my hostess actually does recognize me. She smiles, and says she was so +afraid I was not coming. She implies that all the other guests are +but as a feather in her scales of joy compared with myself. I smile in +return, wondering to myself how I look when I do smile. I have never +had the courage to face my own smile in the looking-glass. I notice the +Society smile of other men, and it is not reassuring. I murmur something +about my not having been likely to forget this evening; in my turn, +seeking to imply that I have been looking forward to it for weeks. A few +men shine at this sort of thing, but they are a small percentage, and +without conceit I regard myself as no bigger a fool than the average +male. Not knowing what else to say, I tell her also that it is a warm +evening. She smiles archly as though there were some hidden witticism in +the remark, and I drift away, feeling ashamed of myself. To talk as an +idiot when you ARE an idiot brings no discomfort; to behave as an idiot +when you have sufficient sense to know it, is painful. I hide myself in +the crowd, and perhaps I'll meet a woman I was introduced to three weeks +ago at a picture gallery. We don't know each other's names, but, both +of us feeling lonesome, we converse, as it is called. If she be the +ordinary type of woman, she asks me if I am going on to the Johnsons'. +I tell her no. We stand silent for a moment, both thinking what next to +say. She asks me if I was at the Thompsons' the day before yesterday. I +again tell her no. I begin to feel dissatisfied with myself that I was +not at the Thompsons'. Trying to get even with her, I ask her if she is +going to the Browns' next Monday. (There are no Browns, she will have to +say, No.) She is not, and her tone suggests that a social stigma rests +upon the Browns. I ask her if she has been to Barnum's Circus; she +hasn't, but is going. I give her my impressions of Barnum's Circus, +which are precisely the impressions of everybody else who has seen the +show. + +"Or if luck be against me, she is possibly a smart woman, that is to +say, her conversation is a running fire of spiteful remarks at the +expense of every one she knows, and of sneers at the expense of every +one she doesn't. I always feel I could make a better woman myself, out +of a bottle of vinegar and a penn'orth of mixed pins. Yet it usually +takes one about ten minutes to get away from her. + +"Even when, by chance, one meets a flesh-and-blood man or woman at such +gatherings, it is not the time or place for real conversation; and as +for the shadows, what person in their senses would exhaust a single +brain cell upon such? I remember a discussion once concerning Tennyson, +considered as a social item. The dullest and most densely-stupid bore I +ever came across was telling how he had sat next to Tennyson at dinner. +'I found him a most uninteresting man,' so he confided to us; 'he +had nothing to say for himself--absolutely nothing.' I should like to +resuscitate Dr. Samuel Johnson for an evening, and throw him into one of +these 'At Homes' of yours." + +My friend is an admitted misanthrope, as I have explained; but one +cannot dismiss him as altogether unjust. That there is a certain mystery +about Society's craving for Society must be admitted. I stood one +evening trying to force my way into the supper room of a house in +Berkeley Square. A lady, hot and weary, a few yards in front of me was +struggling to the same goal. + +"Why," remarked she to her companion, "why do we come to these places, +and fight like a Bank Holiday crowd for eighteenpenny-worth of food?" + +"We come here," replied the man, whom I judged to be a philosopher, "to +say we've been here." + +I met A----- the other evening, and asked him to dine with me on Monday. +I don't know why I ask A----- to dine with me, but about once a month I +do. He is an uninteresting man. + +"I can't," he said, "I've got to go to the B-----s'; confounded +nuisance, it will be infernally dull." + +"Why go?" I asked. + +"I really don't know," he replied. + +A little later B----- met me, and asked me to dine with him on Monday. + +"I can't," I answered, "some friends are coming to us that evening. It's +a duty dinner, you know the sort of thing." + +"I wish you could have managed it," he said, "I shall have no one to +talk to. The A-----s are coming, and they bore me to death." + +"Why do you ask him?" I suggested. + +"Upon my word, I really don't know," he replied. + +But to return to our rooks. We were speaking of their social instincts. +Some dozen of them--the "scallywags" and bachelors of the community, +I judge them to be--have started a Club. For a month past I have been +trying to understand what the affair was. Now I know: it is a Club. + +And for their Club House they have chosen, of course, the tree nearest +my bedroom window. I can guess how that came about; it was my own fault, +I never thought of it. About two months ago, a single rook--suffering +from indigestion or an unhappy marriage, I know not--chose this tree one +night for purposes of reflection. He woke me up: I felt angry. I opened +the window, and threw an empty soda-water bottle at him. Of course it +did not hit him, and finding nothing else to throw, I shouted at him, +thinking to frighten him away. He took no notice, but went on talking +to himself. I shouted louder, and woke up my own dog. The dog barked +furiously, and woke up most things within a quarter of a mile. I had to +go down with a boot-jack--the only thing I could find handy--to soothe +the dog. Two hours later I fell asleep from exhaustion. I left the rook +still cawing. + +The next night he came again. I should say he was a bird with a sense of +humour. Thinking this might happen, I had, however, taken the precaution +to have a few stones ready. I opened the window wide, and fired them one +after another into the tree. After I had closed the window, he hopped +down nearer, and cawed louder than ever. I think he wanted me to throw +more stones at him: he appeared to regard the whole proceeding as a +game. On the third night, as I heard nothing of him, I flattered myself +that, in spite of his bravado, I had discouraged him. I might have known +rooks better. + +What happened when the Club was being formed, I take it, was this: + +"Where shall we fix upon for our Club House?" said the secretary, all +other points having been disposed of. One suggested this tree, another +suggested that. Then up spoke this particular rook: + +"I'll tell you where," said he, "in the yew tree opposite the porch. And +I'll tell you for why. Just about an hour before dawn a man comes to the +window over the porch, dressed in the most comical costume you ever set +eyes upon. I'll tell you what he reminds me of--those little statues +that men use for decorating fields. He opens the window, and throws +a lot of things out upon the lawn, and then he dances and sings. It's +awfully interesting, and you can see it all from the yew tree." + +That, I am convinced, is how the Club came to fix upon the tree next my +window. I have had the satisfaction of denying them the exhibition they +anticipated, and I cheer myself with the hope that they have visited +their disappointment upon their misleader. + +There is a difference between Rook Clubs and ours. In our clubs the +respectable members arrive early, and leave at a reasonable hour; in +Rook Clubs, it would appear, this principle is reversed. The Mad Hatter +would have liked this Club--it would have been a club after his own +heart. It opens at half-past two in the morning, and the first to +arrive are the most disreputable members. In Rook-land the rowdy-dowdy, +randy-dandy, rollicky-ranky boys get up very early in the morning and go +to bed in the afternoon. Towards dawn, the older, more orderly members +drop in for reasonable talk, and the Club becomes more respectable. The +tree closes about six. For the first two hours, however, the goings-on +are disgraceful. The proceedings, as often as not, open with a fight. If +no two gentlemen can be found to oblige with a fight, the next noisiest +thing to fall back upon is held to be a song. It is no satisfaction to +me to be told that rooks cannot sing. _I_ know that, without the trouble +of referring to the natural history book. It is the rook who does not +know it; HE thinks he can; and as a matter of fact, he does. You can +criticize his singing, you can call it what you like, but you can't stop +it--at least, that is my experience. The song selected is sure to be +one with a chorus. Towards the end it becomes mainly chorus, unless the +soloist be an extra powerful bird, determined to insist upon his rights. + +The President knows nothing of this Club. He gets up himself about +seven--three hours after all the others have finished breakfast--and +then fusses round under the impression that he is waking up the colony, +the fat-headed old fool. He is the poorest thing in Presidents I have +ever heard of. A South American Republic would supply a better article. +The rooks themselves, the married majority, fathers of families, +respectable nestholders, are as indignant as I am. I hear complaints +from all quarters. + +Reflection comes to one as, towards the close of these chill afternoons +in early spring, one leans upon the paddock gate watching the noisy +bustling in the bare elms. + +So the earth is growing green again, and love is come again unto the +hearts of us old sober-coated fellows. Oh, Madam, your feathers gleam +wondrous black, and your bonnie bright eye stabs deep. Come, sit by our +side, and we'll tell you a tale such as rook never told before. It's +the tale of a nest in a topmost bough, that sways in the good west wind. +It's strong without, but it's soft within, where the little green eggs +lie safe. And there sits in that nest a lady sweet, and she caws with +joy, for, afar, she sees the rook she loves the best. Oh, he has been +east, and he has been west, and his crop it is full of worms and slugs, +and they are all for her. + +We are old, old rooks, so many of us. The white is mingling with the +purple black upon our breasts. We have seen these tall elms grow from +saplings; we have seen the old trees fall and die. Yet each season come +to us again the young thoughts. So we mate and build and gather that +again our old, old hearts may quiver to the thin cry of our newborn. + +Mother Nature has but one care, the children. We talk of Love as the +Lord of Life: it is but the Minister. Our novels end where Nature's tale +begins. The drama that our curtain falls upon, is but the prologue to +her play. How the ancient Dame must laugh as she listens to the prattle +of her children. "Is Marriage a Failure?" "Is Life worth Living?" +"The New Woman versus the Old." So, perhaps, the waves of the Atlantic +discuss vehemently whether they shall flow east or west. + +Motherhood is the law of the Universe. The whole duty of man is to be a +mother. We labour: to what end? the children--the woman in the home, the +man in the community. The nation takes thought for its future: why? In a +few years its statesmen, its soldiers, its merchants, its toilers, +will be gathered unto their fathers. Why trouble we ourselves about the +future? The country pours its blood and treasure into the earth that the +children may reap. Foolish Jacques Bonhomie, his addled brain full +of dreams, rushes with bloody hands to give his blood for Liberty, +Equality, Fraternity. He will not live to see, except in vision, the new +world he gives his bones to build--even his spinning word-whipped head +knows that. But the children! they shall live sweeter lives. The peasant +leaves his fireside to die upon the battle-field. What is it to him, +a grain in the human sand, that Russia should conquer the East, that +Germany should be united, that the English flag should wave above new +lands? the heritage his fathers left him shall be greater for his sons. +Patriotism! what is it but the mother instinct of a people? + +Take it that the decree has gone forth from Heaven: There shall be +no more generations, with this life the world shall die. Think you we +should move another hand? The ships would rot in the harbours, the grain +would rot in the ground. Should we paint pictures, write books, make +music? hemmed in by that onward creeping sea of silence. Think you with +what eyes husband and wife would look on one another. Think you of the +wooing--the spring of Love dried up; love only a pool of stagnant water. + +How little we seem to realize this foundation of our life. Herein, if +nowhere else, lies our eternity. This Ego shall never die--unless the +human race from beginning to end be but a passing jest of the Gods, to +be swept aside when wearied of, leaving room for new experiments. These +features of mine--we will not discuss their aesthetic value--shall +never disappear; modified, varied, but in essential the same, they shall +continue in ever increasing circles to the end of Time. This temperament +of mine--this good and evil that is in me, it shall grow with every age, +spreading ever wider, combining, amalgamating. I go into my children and +my children's children, I am eternal. I am they, they are I. The tree +withers and you clear the ground, thankful if out of its dead limbs you +can make good firewood; but its spirit, its life, is in fifty saplings. +The tree dies not, it changes. + +These men and women that pass me in the street, this one hurrying to his +office, this one to his club, another to his love, they are the mothers +of the world to come. + +This greedy trickster in stocks and shares, he cheats, he lies, he +wrongs all men--for what? Follow him to his luxurious home in the +suburbs: what do you find? A man with children on his knee, telling them +stories, promising them toys. His anxious, sordid life, for what object +is it lived? That these children may possess the things that he thinks +good for them. Our very vices, side by side with our virtues, spring +from this one root, Motherhood. It is the one seed of the Universe. The +planets are but children of the sun, the moon but an offspring of the +earth, stone of her stone, iron of her iron. What is the Great Centre +of us all, life animate and inanimate--if any life be inanimate? Is the +eternal universe one dim figure, Motherhood, filling all space? + +This scheming Mother of Mayfair, angling for a rich son-in-law! Not a +pleasing portrait to look upon, from one point of view. Let us look at +it, for a moment, from another. How weary she must be! This is her third +"function" to-night; the paint is running off her poor face. She has +been snubbed a dozen times by her social superiors, openly insulted by +a Duchess; yet she bears it with a patient smile. It is a pitiful +ambition, hers: it is that her child shall marry money, shall have +carriages and many servants, live in Park Lane, wear diamonds, see her +name in the Society Papers. At whatever cost to herself, her daughter +shall, if possible, enjoy these things. She could so much more +comfortably go to bed, and leave the child to marry some well-to-do +commercial traveller. Justice, Reader, even for such. Her sordid +scheming is but the deformed child of Motherhood. + +Motherhood! it is the gamut of God's orchestra, savageness and cruelty +at the one end, tenderness and self-sacrifice at the other. + +The sparrow-hawk fights the hen: he seeking food for his brood, she +defending hers with her life. The spider sucks the fly to feed its +myriad young; the cat tortures the mouse to give its still throbbing +carcase to her kittens, and man wrongs man for children's sake. Perhaps +when the riot of the world reaches us whole, not broken, we shall learn +it is a harmony, each jangling discord fallen into its place around the +central theme, Motherhood. + + + + +ON THE INADVISABILITY OF FOLLOWING ADVICE + +I was pacing the Euston platform late one winter's night, waiting for +the last train to Watford, when I noticed a man cursing an automatic +machine. Twice he shook his fist at it. I expected every moment to see +him strike it. Naturally curious, I drew near softly. I wanted to catch +what he was saying. However, he heard my approaching footsteps, and +turned on me. "Are you the man," said he, "who was here just now?" + +"Just where?" I replied. I had been pacing up and down the platform for +about five minutes. + +"Why here, where we are standing," he snapped out. "Where do you think +'here' is--over there?" He seemed irritable. + +"I may have passed this spot in the course of my peregrinations, if that +is what you mean," I replied. I spoke with studied politeness; my idea +was to rebuke his rudeness. + +"I mean," he answered, "are you the man that spoke to me, just a minute +ago?" + +"I am not that man," I said; "good-night." + +"Are you sure?" he persisted. + +"One is not likely to forget talking to you," I retorted. + +His tone had been most offensive. "I beg your pardon," he replied +grudgingly. "I thought you looked like the man who spoke to me a minute +or so ago." + +I felt mollified; he was the only other man on the platform, and I had +a quarter of an hour to wait. "No, it certainly wasn't me," I returned +genially, but ungrammatically. "Why, did you want him?" + +"Yes, I did," he answered. "I put a penny in the slot here," he +continued, feeling apparently the need of unburdening himself: "wanted +a box of matches. I couldn't get anything put, and I was shaking the +machine, and swearing at it, as one does, when there came along a man, +about your size, and--you're SURE it wasn't you?" + +"Positive," I again ungrammatically replied; "I would tell you if it had +been. What did he do?" + +"Well, he saw what had happened, or guessed it. He said, 'They are +troublesome things, those machines; they want understanding.' I said, +'They want taking up and flinging into the sea, that's what they want!' +I was feeling mad because I hadn't a match about me, and I use a lot. He +said, 'They stick sometimes; the thing to do is to put another penny in; +the weight of the first penny is not always sufficient. The second penny +loosens the drawer and tumbles out itself; so that you get your purchase +together with your first penny back again. I have often succeeded that +way.' Well, it seemed a silly explanation, but he talked as if he had +been weaned by an automatic machine, and I was sawney enough to listen +to him. I dropped in what I thought was another penny. I have just +discovered it was a two-shilling piece. The fool was right to a certain +extent; I have got something out. I have got this." + +He held it towards me; I looked at it. It was a packet of Everton +toffee. + +"Two and a penny," he remarked, bitterly. "I'll sell it for a third of +what it cost me." + +"You have put your money into the wrong machine," I suggested. + +"Well, I know that!" he answered, a little crossly, as it seemed to +me--he was not a nice man: had there been any one else to talk to I +should have left him. "It isn't losing the money I mind so much; it's +getting this damn thing, that annoys me. If I could find that idiot Id +ram it down his throat." + +We walked to the end of the platform, side by side, in silence. + +"There are people like that," he broke out, as we turned, "people who +will go about, giving advice. I'll be getting six months over one of +them, I'm always afraid. I remember a pony I had once." (I judged the +man to be a small farmer; he talked in a wurzelly tone. I don't know if +you understand what I mean, but an atmosphere of wurzels was the thing +that somehow he suggested.) "It was a thoroughbred Welsh pony, as sound +a little beast as ever stepped. I'd had him out to grass all the winter, +and one day in the early spring I thought I'd take him for a run. I had +to go to Amersham on business. I put him into the cart, and drove him +across; it is just ten miles from my place. He was a bit uppish, and had +lathered himself pretty freely by the time we reached the town. + +"A man was at the door of the hotel. He says, 'That's a good pony of +yours.' + +"'Pretty middling,' I says. + +"'It doesn't do to over-drive 'em, when they're young,' he says. + +"I says, 'He's done ten miles, and I've done most of the pulling. I +reckon I'm a jolly sight more exhausted than he is. + +"I went inside and did my business, and when I came out the man was +still there. 'Going back up the hill?' he says to me. + +"Somehow, I didn't cotton to him from the beginning. 'Well, I've got to +get the other side of it,' I says, 'and unless you know any patent way +of getting over a hill without going up it, I reckon I am.' + +"He says, 'You take my advice: give him a pint of old ale before you +start.' + +"'Old ale,' I says; 'why he's a teetotaler.' + +"'Never you mind that,' he answers; 'you give him a pint of old ale. I +know these ponies; he's a good 'un, but he ain't set. A pint of old +ale, and he'll take you up that hill like a cable tramway, and not hurt +himself.' + +"I don't know what it is about this class of man. One asks oneself +afterwards why one didn't knock his hat over his eyes and run his head +into the nearest horse-trough. But at the time one listens to them. +I got a pint of old ale in a hand-bowl, and brought it out. About +half-a-dozen chaps were standing round, and of course there was a good +deal of chaff. + +"'You're starting him on the downward course, Jim,' says one of them. +'He'll take to gambling, rob a bank, and murder his mother. That's +always the result of a glass of ale, 'cording to the tracts.' + +"'He won't drink it like that,' says another; 'it's as flat as ditch +water. Put a head on it for him.' + +"'Ain't you got a cigar for him?' says a third. + +"'A cup of coffee and a round of buttered toast would do him a sight +more good, a cold day like this,' says a fourth. + +"I'd half a mind then to throw the stuff away, or drink it myself; it +seemed a piece of bally nonsense, giving good ale to a four-year-old +pony; but the moment the beggar smelt the bowl he reached out his head, +and lapped it up as though he'd been a Christian; and I jumped into the +cart and started off, amid cheers. We got up the hill pretty steady. +Then the liquor began to work into his head. I've taken home a drunken +man more than once and there's pleasanter jobs than that. I've seen a +drunken woman, and they're worse. But a drunken Welsh pony I never want +to have anything more to do with so long as I live. Having four legs he +managed to hold himself up; but as to guiding himself, he couldn't; +and as for letting me do it, he wouldn't. First we were one side of the +road, and then we were the other. When we were not either side, we were +crossways in the middle. I heard a bicycle bell behind me, but I dared +not turn my head. All I could do was to shout to the fellow to keep +where he was. + +"'I want to pass you,' he sang out, so soon as he was near enough. + +"'Well, you can't do it,' I called back. + +"'Why can't I?' he answered. 'How much of the road do YOU want?' + +"'All of it and a bit over,' I answered him, 'for this job, and nothing +in the way.' + +"He followed me for half-a-mile, abusing me; and every time he thought +he saw a chance he tried to pass me. But the pony was always a bit too +smart for him. You might have thought the brute was doing it on purpose. + +"'You're not fit to be driving,' he shouted. He was quite right; I +wasn't. I was feeling just about dead beat. + +"'What do you think you are?' he continued, 'the charge of the Light +Brigade?' (He was a common sort of fellow.) 'Who sent YOU home with the +washing?' + +"Well, he was making me wild by this time. 'What's the good of talking +to me?' I shouted back. 'Come and blackguard the pony if you want to +blackguard anybody. I've got all I can do without the help of that alarm +clock of yours. Go away, you're only making him worse.' + +"'What's the matter with the pony?' he called out. + +"'Can't you see?' I answered. 'He's drunk.' + +"Well, of course it sounded foolish; the truth often does. + +"'One of you's drunk,' he retorted; 'for two pins I'd come and haul you +out of the cart.' + +"I wish to goodness he had; I'd have given something to be out of that +cart. But he didn't have the chance. At that moment the pony gave a +sudden swerve; and I take it he must have been a bit too close. I heard +a yell and a curse, and at the same instant I was splashed from head to +foot with ditch water. Then the brute bolted. A man was coming along, +asleep on the top of a cart-load of windsor chairs. It's disgraceful the +way those wagoners go to sleep; I wonder there are not more accidents. I +don't think he ever knew what had happened to him. I couldn't look round +to see what became of him; I only saw him start. Half-way down the hill +a policeman holla'd to me to stop. I heard him shouting out something +about furious driving. Half-a-mile this side of Chesham we came upon a +girls' school walking two and two--a 'crocodile' they call it, I think. +I bet you those girls are still talking about it. It must have taken the +old woman a good hour to collect them together again. + +"It was market-day in Chesham; and I guess there has not been a busier +market-day in Chesham before or since. We went through the town at about +thirty miles an hour. I've never seen Chesham so lively--it's a sleepy +hole as a rule. A mile outside the town I sighted the High Wycombe +coach. I didn't feel I minded much; I had got to that pass when it +didn't seem to matter to me what happened; I only felt curious. A dozen +yards off the coach the pony stopped dead; that jerked me off the seat +to the bottom of the cart. I couldn't get up, because the seat was on +top of me. I could see nothing but the sky, and occasionally the head +of the pony, when he stood upon his hind legs. But I could hear what the +driver of the coach said, and I judged he was having trouble also. + +"'Take that damn circus out of the road,' he shouted. If he'd had +any sense he'd have seen how helpless I was. I could hear his cattle +plunging about; they are like that, horses--if they see one fool, then +they all want to be fools. + +"'Take it home, and tie it up to its organ,' shouted the guard. + +"Then an old woman went into hysterics, and began laughing like an +hyena. That started the pony off again, and, as far as I could calculate +by watching the clouds, we did about another four miles at the gallop. +Then he thought he'd try to jump a gate, and finding, I suppose, that +the cart hampered him, he started kicking it to pieces. I'd never have +thought a cart could have been separated into so many pieces, if I +hadn't seen it done. When he had got rid of everything but half a wheel +and the splashboard he bolted again. I remained behind with the other +ruins, and glad I was to get a little rest. He came back later in +the afternoon, and I was pleased to sell him the next week for a +five-pound-note: it cost me about another ten to repair myself. + +"To this day I am chaffed about that pony, and the local temperance +society made a lecture out of me. That's what comes of following +advice." + +I sympathized with him. I have suffered from advice myself. I have a +friend, a City man, whom I meet occasionally. One of his most +ardent passions in life is to make my fortune. He button-holes me in +Threadneedle Street. "The very man I wanted to see," he says; "I'm going +to let you in for a good thing. We are getting up a little syndicate." +He is for ever "getting up" a little syndicate, and for every hundred +pounds you put into it you take a thousand out. Had I gone into all +his little syndicates, I could have been worth at the present moment, +I reckon, two million five hundred thousand pounds. But I have not gone +into all his little syndicates. I went into one, years ago, when I was +younger. I am still in it; my friend is confident that my holding, later +on, will yield me thousands. Being, however, hard-up for ready money, +I am willing to part with my share to any deserving person at a genuine +reduction, upon a cash basis. Another friend of mine knows another man +who is "in the know" as regards racing matters. I suppose most people +possess a friend of this type. He is generally very popular just +before a race, and extremely unpopular immediately afterwards. A third +benefactor of mine is an enthusiast upon the subject of diet. One day he +brought me something in a packet, and pressed it into my hand with the +air of a man who is relieving you of all your troubles. + +"What is it?" I asked. + +"Open it and see," he answered, in the tone of a pantomime fairy. + +I opened it and looked, but I was no wiser. + +"It's tea," he explained. + +"Oh!" I replied; "I was wondering if it could be snuff." + +"Well, it's not exactly tea," he continued, "it's a sort of tea. You +take one cup of that--one cup, and you will never care for any other +kind of tea again." + +He was quite right, I took one cup. After drinking it I felt I didn't +care for any other tea. I felt I didn't care for anything, except to die +quietly and inoffensively. He called on me a week later. + +"You remember that tea I gave you?" he said. + +"Distinctly," I answered; "I've got the taste of it in my mouth now." + +"Did it upset you?" he asked. + +"It annoyed me at the time," I answered; "but that's all over now." + +He seemed thoughtful. "You were quite correct," he answered; "it WAS +snuff, a very special snuff, sent me all the way from India." + +"I can't say I liked it," I replied. + +"A stupid mistake of mine," he went on--"I must have mixed up the +packets!" + +"Oh, accidents will happen," I said, "and you won't make another +mistake, I feel sure; so far as I am concerned." + +We can all give advice. I had the honour once of serving an old +gentleman whose profession it was to give legal advice, and excellent +legal advice he always gave. In common with most men who know the +law, he had little respect for it. I have heard him say to a would-be +litigant-- + +"My dear sir, if a villain stopped me in the street and demanded of me +my watch and chain, I should refuse to give it to him. If he thereupon +said, 'Then I shall take it from you by brute force,' I should, old as +I am, I feel convinced, reply to him, 'Come on.' But if, on the other +hand, he were to say to me, 'Very well, then I shall take proceedings +against you in the Court of Queen's Bench to compel you to give it up +to me,' I should at once take it from my pocket, press it into his hand, +and beg of him to say no more about the matter. And I should consider I +was getting off cheaply." + +Yet that same old gentleman went to law himself with his next-door +neighbour over a dead poll parrot that wasn't worth sixpence to anybody, +and spent from first to last a hundred pounds, if he spent a penny. + +"I know I'm a fool," he confessed. "I have no positive proof that it WAS +his cat; but I'll make him pay for calling me an Old Bailey Attorney, +hanged if I don't!" + +We all know how the pudding OUGHT to be made. We do not profess to be +able to make it: that is not our business. Our business is to criticize +the cook. It seems our business to criticize so many things that it is +not our business to do. We are all critics nowadays. I have my opinion +of you, Reader, and you possibly have your own opinion of me. I do not +seek to know it; personally, I prefer the man who says what he has to +say of me behind my back. I remember, when on a lecturing tour, the +ground-plan of the hall often necessitated my mingling with the audience +as they streamed out. This never happened but I would overhear somebody +in front of me whisper to his or her companion--"Take care, he's just +behind you." I always felt so grateful to that whisperer. + +At a Bohemian Club, I was once drinking coffee with a Novelist, who +happened to be a broad-shouldered, athletic man. A fellow-member, +joining us, said to the Novelist, "I have just finished that last book +of yours; I'll tell you my candid opinion of it." Promptly replied the +Novelist, "I give you fair warning--if you do, I shall punch your head." +We never heard that candid opinion. + +Most of our leisure time we spend sneering at one another. It is a +wonder, going about as we do with our noses so high in the air, we do +not walk off this little round world into space, all of us. The Masses +sneer at the Classes. The morals of the Classes are shocking. If +only the Classes would consent as a body to be taught behaviour by a +Committee of the Masses, how very much better it would be for them. If +only the Classes would neglect their own interests and devote themselves +to the welfare of the Masses, the Masses would be more pleased with +them. + +The Classes sneer at the Masses. If only the Masses would follow the +advice given them by the Classes; if only they would be thrifty on their +ten shillings a week; if only they would all be teetotalers, or drink +old claret, which is not intoxicating; if only all the girls would be +domestic servants on five pounds a year, and not waste their money on +feathers; if only the men would be content to work for fourteen hours a +day, and to sing in tune, "God bless the Squire and his relations," and +would consent to be kept in their proper stations, all things would go +swimmingly--for the Classes. + +The New Woman pooh-poohs the Old; the Old Woman is indignant with the +New. The Chapel denounces the Stage; the Stage ridicules Little Bethel; +the Minor Poet sneers at the world; the world laughs at the Minor Poet. + +Man criticizes Woman. We are not altogether pleased with woman. We +discuss her shortcomings, we advise her for her good. If only English +wives would dress as French wives, talk as American wives, cook as +German wives! if only women would be precisely what we want them +to be--patient and hard-working, brilliantly witty and exhaustively +domestic, bewitching, amenable, and less suspicious; how very much +better it would be for them--also for us. We work so hard to teach +them, but they will not listen. Instead of paying attention to our wise +counsel, the tiresome creatures are wasting their time criticizing us. +It is a popular game, this game of school. All that is needful is a +doorstep, a cane, and six other children. The difficulty is the six +other children. Every child wants to be the schoolmaster; they will keep +jumping up, saying it is their turn. + +Woman wants to take the stick now, and put man on the doorstep. There +are one or two things she has got to say to him. He is not at all the +man she approves of. He must begin by getting rid of all his natural +desires and propensities; that done, she will take him in hand and make +of him--not a man, but something very much superior. + +It would be the best of all possible worlds if everybody would only +follow our advice. I wonder, would Jerusalem have been the cleanly city +it is reported, if, instead of troubling himself concerning his own +twopenny-halfpenny doorstep, each citizen had gone out into the road and +given eloquent lectures to all the other inhabitants on the subject of +sanitation? + +We have taken to criticizing the Creator Himself of late. The world is +wrong, we are wrong. If only He had taken our advice, during those first +six days! + +Why do I seem to have been scooped out and filled up with lead? Why do +I hate the smell of bacon, and feel that nobody cares for me? It is +because champagne and lobsters have been made wrong. + +Why do Edwin and Angelina quarrel? It is because Edwin has been given +a fine, high-spirited nature that will not brook contradiction; while +Angelina, poor girl, has been cursed with contradictory instincts. + +Why is excellent Mr. Jones brought down next door to beggary? Mr. Jones +had an income of a thousand a year, secured by the Funds. But there +came along a wicked Company promoter (why are wicked Company promoters +permitted?) with a prospectus, telling good Mr. Jones how to obtain a +hundred per cent. for his money by investing it in some scheme for the +swindling of Mr. Jones's fellow-citizens. + +The scheme does not succeed; the people swindled turn out, contrary to +the promise of the prospectus, to be Mr. Jones and his fellow-investors. +Why does Heaven allow these wrongs? + +Why does Mrs. Brown leave her husband and children, to run off with the +New Doctor? It is because an ill-advised Creator has given Mrs. Brown +and the New Doctor unduly strong emotions. Neither Mrs. Brown nor the +New Doctor are to be blamed. If any human being be answerable it is, +probably, Mrs. Brown's grandfather, or some early ancestor of the New +Doctor's. + +We shall criticize Heaven when we get there. I doubt if any of us will +be pleased with the arrangements; we have grown so exceedingly critical. + +It was once said of a very superior young man that he seemed to be under +the impression that God Almighty had made the universe chiefly to hear +what he would say about it. Consciously or unconsciously, most of us are +of this way of thinking. It is an age of mutual improvement societies--a +delightful idea, everybody's business being to improve everybody else; +of amateur parliaments, of literary councils, of playgoers' clubs. + +First Night criticism seems to have died out of late, the Student of the +Drama having come to the conclusion, possibly, that plays are not worth +criticizing. But in my young days we were very earnest at this work. We +went to the play, less with the selfish desire of enjoying our evening, +than with the noble aim of elevating the Stage. Maybe we did good, +maybe we were needed--let us think so. Certain it is, many of the old +absurdities have disappeared from the Theatre, and our rough-and-ready +criticism may have helped the happy dispatch. A folly is often served by +an unwise remedy. + +The dramatist in those days had to reckon with his audience. Gallery and +Pit took an interest in his work such as Galleries and Pits no longer +take. I recollect witnessing the production of a very blood-curdling +melodrama at, I think, the old Queen's Theatre. The heroine had been +given by the author a quite unnecessary amount of conversation, so we +considered. The woman, whenever she appeared on the stage, talked by the +yard; she could not do a simple little thing like cursing the Villain +under about twenty lines. When the hero asked her if she loved him she +stood up and made a speech about it that lasted three minutes by the +watch. One dreaded to see her open her mouth. In the Third Act, somebody +got hold of her and shut her up in a dungeon. He was not a nice man, +speaking generally, but we felt he was the man for the situation, and +the house cheered him to the echo. We flattered ourselves we had got +rid of her for the rest of the evening. Then some fool of a turnkey came +along, and she appealed to him, through the grating, to let her out for +a few minutes. The turnkey, a good but soft-hearted man, hesitated. + +"Don't you do it," shouted one earnest Student of the Drama, from the +Gallery; "she's all right. Keep her there!" + +The old idiot paid no attention to our advice; he argued the matter to +himself. "'Tis but a trifling request," he remarked; "and it will make +her happy." + +"Yes, but what about us?" replied the same voice from the Gallery. "You +don't know her. You've only just come on; we've been listening to her +all the evening. She's quiet now, you let her be." + +"Oh, let me out, if only for one moment!" shrieked the poor woman. "I +have something that I must say to my child." + +"Write it on a bit of paper, and pass it out," suggested a voice from +the Pit. "We'll see that he gets it." + +"Shall I keep a mother from her dying child?" mused the turnkey. "No, it +would be inhuman." + +"No, it wouldn't," persisted the voice of the Pit; "not in this +instance. It's too much talk that has made the poor child ill." + +The turnkey would not be guided by us. He opened the cell door amidst +the execrations of the whole house. She talked to her child for about +five minutes, at the end of which time it died. + +"Ah, he is dead!" shrieked the distressed parent. + +"Lucky beggar!" was the unsympathetic rejoinder of the house. + +Sometimes the criticism of the audience would take the form of remarks, +addressed by one gentleman to another. We had been listening one night +to a play in which action seemed to be unnecessarily subordinated to +dialogue, and somewhat poor dialogue at that. Suddenly, across the +wearying talk from the stage, came the stentorian whisper-- + +"Jim!" + +"Hallo!" + +"Wake me up when the play begins." + +This was followed by an ostentatious sound as of snoring. Then the voice +of the second speaker was heard-- + +"Sammy!" + +His friend appeared to awake. + +"Eh? Yes? What's up? Has anything happened?" + +"Wake you up at half-past eleven in any event, I suppose?" + +"Thanks, do, sonny." And the critic slept again. + +Yes, we took an interest in our plays then. I wonder shall I ever enjoy +the British Drama again as I enjoyed it in those days? Shall I ever +enjoy a supper again as I enjoyed the tripe and onions washed down with +bitter beer at the bar of the old Albion? I have tried many suppers +after the theatre since then, and some, when friends have been in +generous mood, have been expensive and elaborate. The cook may have come +from Paris, his portrait may be in the illustrated papers, his salary +may be reckoned by hundreds; but there is something wrong with his art, +for all that, I miss a flavour in his meats. There is a sauce lacking. + +Nature has her coinage, and demands payment in her own currency. At +Nature's shop it is you yourself must pay. Your unearned increment, your +inherited fortune, your luck, are not legal tenders across her counter. + +You want a good appetite. Nature is quite willing to supply you. +"Certainly, sir," she replies, "I can do you a very excellent article +indeed. I have here a real genuine hunger and thirst that will make your +meal a delight to you. You shall eat heartily and with zest, and you +shall rise from the table refreshed, invigorated, and cheerful." + +"Just the very thing I want," exclaims the gourmet delightedly. "Tell me +the price." + +"The price," answers Mrs. Nature, "is one long day's hard work." + +The customer's face falls; he handles nervously his heavy purse. + +"Cannot I pay for it in money?" he asks. "I don't like work, but I am a +rich man, I can afford to keep French cooks, to purchase old wines." + +Nature shakes her head. + +"I cannot take your cheques, tissue and nerve are my charges. For these +I can give you an appetite that will make a rump-steak and a tankard +of ale more delicious to you than any dinner that the greatest chef in +Europe could put before you. I can even promise you that a hunk of bread +and cheese shall be a banquet to you; but you must pay my price in my +money; I do not deal in yours." + +And next the Dilettante enters, demanding a taste for Art and +Literature, and this also Nature is quite prepared to supply. + +"I can give you true delight in all these things," she answers. "Music +shall be as wings to you, lifting you above the turmoil of the world. +Through Art you shall catch a glimpse of Truth. Along the pleasant paths +of Literature you shall walk as beside still waters." + +"And your charge?" cries the delighted customer. + +"These things are somewhat expensive," replies Nature. "I want from you +a life lived simply, free from all desire of worldly success, a life +from which passion has been lived out; a life to which appetite has been +subdued." + +"But you mistake, my dear lady," replies the Dilettante; "I have many +friends, possessed of taste, and they are men who do not pay this price +for it. Their houses are full of beautiful pictures, they rave about +'nocturnes' and 'symphonies,' their shelves are packed with first +editions. Yet they are men of luxury and wealth and fashion. They +trouble much concerning the making of money, and Society is their +heaven. Cannot I be as one of these?" + +"I do not deal in the tricks of apes," answers Nature coldly; "the +culture of these friends of yours is a mere pose, a fashion of the hour, +their talk mere parrot chatter. Yes, you can purchase such culture as +this, and pretty cheaply, but a passion for skittles would be of more +service to you, and bring you more genuine enjoyment. My goods are of a +different class. I fear we waste each other's time." + +And next comes the boy, asking with a blush for love, and Nature's +motherly old heart goes out to him, for it is an article she loves to +sell, and she loves those who come to purchase it of her. So she leans +across the counter, smiling, and tells him that she has the very thing +he wants, and he, trembling with excitement, likewise asks the figure. + +"It costs a good deal," explains Nature, but in no discouraging tone; +"it is the most expensive thing in all my shop." + +"I am rich," replies the lad. "My father worked hard and saved, and +he has left me all his wealth. I have stocks and shares, and lands and +factories; and will pay any price in reason for this thing." + +But Nature, looking graver, lays her hand upon his arm. + +"Put by your purse, boy," she says, "my price is not a price in reason, +nor is gold the metal that I deal in. There are many shops in various +streets where your bank-notes will be accepted. But if you will take an +old woman's advice, you will not go to them. The thing they will sell +you will bring sorrow and do evil to you. It is cheap enough, but, like +all things cheap, it is not worth the buying. No man purchases it, only +the fool." + +"And what is the cost of the thing YOU sell then?" asks the lad. + +"Self-forgetfulness, tenderness, strength," answers the old Dame; "the +love of all things that are of good repute, the hate of all things +evil--courage, sympathy, self-respect, these things purchase love. Put +by your purse, lad, it will serve you in other ways, but it will not buy +for you the goods upon my shelves." + +"Then am I no better off than the poor man?" demands the lad. + +"I know not wealth or poverty as you understand it," answers Nature. +"Here I exchange realities only for realities. You ask for my treasures, +I ask for your brain and heart in exchange--yours, boy, not your +father's, not another's." + +"And this price," he argues, "how shall I obtain it?" + +"Go about the world," replies the great Lady. "Labour, suffer, help. +Come back to me when you have earned your wages, and according to how +much you bring me so we will do business." + +Is real wealth so unevenly distributed as we think? Is not Fate the true +Socialist? Who is the rich man, who the poor? Do we know? Does even +the man himself know? Are we not striving for the shadow, missing the +substance? Take life at its highest; which was the happier man, rich +Solomon or poor Socrates? Solomon seems to have had most things that +most men most desire--maybe too much of some for his own comfort. +Socrates had little beyond what he carried about with him, but that was +a good deal. According to our scales, Solomon should have been one of +the happiest men that ever lived, Socrates one of the most wretched. But +was it so? + +Or taking life at its lowest, with pleasure its only goal. Is my +lord Tom Noddy, in the stalls, so very much jollier than 'Arry in the +gallery? Were beer ten shillings the bottle, and champagne fourpence a +quart, which, think you, we should clamour for? If every West End Club +had its skittle alley, and billiards could only be played in East End +pubs, which game, my lord, would you select? Is the air of Berkeley +Square so much more joy-giving than the atmosphere of Seven Dials? I +find myself a piquancy in the air of Seven Dials, missing from Berkeley +Square. Is there so vast a difference between horse-hair and straw, when +you are tired? Is happiness multiplied by the number of rooms in one's +house? Are Lady Ermintrude's lips so very much sweeter than Sally's of +the Alley? What IS success in life? + + + + +ON THE PLAYING OF MARCHES AT THE FUNERALS OF MARIONETTES + +He began the day badly. He took me out and lost me. It would be so much +better, would he consent to the usual arrangement, and allow me to take +him out. I am far the abler leader: I say it without conceit. I am older +than he is, and I am less excitable. I do not stop and talk with every +person I meet, and then forget where I am. I do less to distract myself: +I rarely fight, I never feel I want to run after cats, I take but little +pleasure in frightening children. I have nothing to think about but the +walk, and the getting home again. If, as I say, he would give up taking +me out, and let me take him out, there would be less trouble all round. +But into this I have never been able to persuade him. + +He had mislaid me once or twice, but in Sloane Square he lost me +entirely. When he loses me, he stands and barks for me. If only he would +remain where he first barked, I might find my way to him; but, before +I can cross the road, he is barking half-way down the next street. I am +not so young as I was and I sometimes think he exercises me more than +is good for me. I could see him from where I was standing in the King's +Road. Evidently he was most indignant. I was too far off to distinguish +the barks, but I could guess what he was saying-- + +"Damn that man, he's off again." + +He made inquiries of a passing dog-- + +"You haven't smelt my man about anywhere, have you?" + +(A dog, of course, would never speak of SEEING anybody or anything, +smell being his leading sense. Reaching the top of a hill, he would say +to his companion--"Lovely smell from here, I always think; I could +sit and sniff here all the afternoon." Or, proposing a walk, he would +say--"I like the road by the canal, don't you? There's something +interesting to catch your nose at every turn.") + +"No, I haven't smelt any man in particular," answered the other dog. +"What sort of a smelling man is yours?" + +"Oh, an egg-and-bacony sort of a man, with a dash of soap about him." + +"That's nothing to go by," retorted the other; "most men would answer to +that description, this time of the morning. Where were you when you last +noticed him?" + +At this moment he caught sight of me, and came up, pleased to find me, +but vexed with me for having got lost. + +"Oh, here you are," he barked; "didn't you see me go round the corner? +Do keep closer. Bothered if half my time isn't taken up, finding you and +losing you again." + +The incident appeared to have made him bad-tempered; he was just in +the humour for a row of any sort. At the top of Sloane Street a stout +military-looking gentleman started running after the Chelsea bus. With +a "Hooroo" William Smith was after him. Had the old gentleman taken no +notice, all would have been well. A butcher boy, driving just behind, +would--I could read it in his eye--have caught Smith a flick as he +darted into the road, which would have served him right; the old +gentleman would have captured his bus; and the affair would have been +ended. Unfortunately, he was that type of retired military man all gout +and curry and no sense. He stopped to swear at the dog. That, of course, +was what Smith wanted. It is not often he gets a scrimmage with a +full-grown man. "They're a poor-spirited lot, most of them," he thinks; +"they won't even answer you back. I like a man who shows a bit of +pluck." He was frenzied with delight at his success. He flew round +his victim, weaving whooping circles and curves that paralyzed the old +gentleman as though they had been the mystic figures of a Merlin. The +colonel clubbed his umbrella, and attempted to defend himself. I called +to the dog, I gave good advice to the colonel (I judged him to be a +colonel; the louder he spoke, the less one could understand him), but +both were too excited to listen to me. A sympathetic bus driver leaned +over, and whispered hoarse counsel. + +"Ketch 'im by the tail, sir," he advised the old gentleman; "don't you +be afraid of him; you ketch 'im firmly by the tail." + +A milkman, on the other hand, sought rather to encourage Smith, shouting +as he passed-- + +"Good dog, kill him!" + +A child, brained within an inch by the old gentleman's umbrella, began +to cry. The nurse told the old gentleman he was a fool--a remark +which struck me as singularly apt The old gentleman gasped back that +perambulators were illegal on the pavement; and, between his exercises, +inquired after myself. A crowd began to collect; and a policeman +strolled up. + +It was not the right thing: I do not defend myself; but, at this point, +the temptation came to me to desert William Smith. He likes a street +row, I don't. These things are matters of temperament. I have also +noticed that he has the happy instinct of knowing when to disappear from +a crisis, and the ability to do so; mysteriously turning up, quarter +of a mile off, clad in a peaceful and pre-occupied air, and to all +appearances another and a better dog. + +Consoling myself with the reflection that I could be of no practical +assistance to him and remembering with some satisfaction that, by a +fortunate accident, he was without his collar, which bears my name +and address, I slipped round the off side of a Vauxhall bus, making no +attempt at ostentation, and worked my way home through Lowndes Square +and the Park. + +Five minutes after I had sat down to lunch, he flung open the +dining-room door, and marched in. It is his customary "entrance." In +a previous state of existence, his soul was probably that of an +Actor-Manager. + +From his exuberant self-satisfaction, I was inclined to think he must +have succeeded in following the milkman's advice; at all events, I have +not seen the colonel since. His bad temper had disappeared, but his +"uppishness" had, if possible, increased. Previous to his return, I had +given The O'Shannon a biscuit. The O'Shannon had been insulted; he did +not want a dog biscuit; if he could not have a grilled kidney he did not +want anything. He had thrown the biscuit on the floor. Smith saw it and +made for it. Now Smith never eats biscuits. I give him one occasionally, +and he at once proceeds to hide it. He is a thrifty dog; he thinks of +the future. "You never know what may happen," he says; "suppose the +Guv'nor dies, or goes mad, or bankrupt, I may be glad even of this +biscuit; I'll put it under the door-mat--no, I won't, somebody will find +it there. I'll scratch a hole in the tennis lawn, and bury it there. +That's a good idea; perhaps it'll grow!" Once I caught him hiding it in +my study, behind the shelf devoted to my own books. It offended me, his +doing that; the argument was so palpable. Generally, wherever he hides +it somebody finds it. We find it under our pillows--inside our boots; +no place seems safe. This time he had said to himself--"By Jove! a whole +row of the Guv'nor's books. Nobody will ever want to take these out; +I'll hide it here." One feels a thing like that from one's own dog. + +But The O'Shannon's biscuit was another matter. Honesty is the best +policy; but dishonesty is the better fun. He made a dash for it, and +commenced to devour it greedily; you might have thought he had not +tasted food for a week. + +The indignation of The O'Shannon was a sight for the gods. He has the +good-nature of his race: had Smith asked him for the biscuit he would +probably have given it to him; it was the insult--the immorality of the +proceeding, that maddened The O'Shannon. + +For a moment he was paralyzed. + +"Well, of all the--Did ye see that now?" he said to me with his eyes. +Then he made a rush and snatched the biscuit out of Smith's very jaws. +"Ye onprincipled black Saxon thief," growled The O'Shannon; "how dare ye +take my biscuit?" + +"You miserable Irish cur," growled Smith; "how was I to know it was your +biscuit? Does everything on the floor belong to you? Perhaps you think I +belong to you, I'm on the floor. I don't believe it is your biscuit, you +long-eared, snubbed-nosed bog-trotter; give it me back." + +"I don't require any of your argument, you flop-eared son of a tramp +with half a tail," replied The O'Shannon. "You come and take it, if you +think you are dog enough." + +He did think he was dog enough. He is half the size of The O'Shannon, +but such considerations weigh not with him. His argument is, if a dog is +too big for you to fight the whole of him, take a bit of him and fight +that. He generally gets licked, but what is left of him invariably +swaggers about afterwards under the impression it is the victor. When +he is dead, he will say to himself, as he settles himself in his +grave--"Well, I flatter myself I've laid out that old world at last. It +won't trouble ME any more, I'm thinking." + +On this occasion, _I_ took a hand in the fight. It becomes necessary +at intervals to remind Master Smith that the man, as the useful and +faithful friend of dog, has his rights. I deemed such interval had +arrived. He flung himself on to the sofa, muttering. It sounded +like--"Wish I'd never got up this morning. Nobody understands me." + +Nothing, however, sobers him for long. Half-an-hour later, he was +killing the next-door cat. He will never learn sense; he has been +killing that cat for the last three months. Why the next morning his +nose is invariably twice its natural size, while for the next week he +can see objects on one side of his head only, he never seems to grasp; I +suppose he attributes it to change in the weather. + +He ended up the afternoon with what he no doubt regarded as a complete +and satisfying success. Dorothea had invited a lady to take tea with her +that day. I heard the sound of laughter, and, being near the nursery, +I looked in to see what was the joke. Smith was worrying a doll. I +have rarely seen a more worried-looking doll. Its head was off, and its +sawdust strewed the floor. Both the children were crowing with delight; +Dorothea, in particular, was in an ecstasy of amusement. + +"Whose doll is it?" I asked. + +"Eva's," answered Dorothea, between her peals of laughter. + +"Oh no, it isn't," explained Eva, in a tone of sweet content; "here's +my doll." She had been sitting on it, and now drew it forth, warm but +whole. "That's Dorry's doll." + +The change from joy to grief on the part of Dorothea was distinctly +dramatic. Even Smith, accustomed to storm, was nonplussed at the +suddenness of the attack upon him. + +Dorothea's sorrow lasted longer than I had expected. I promised her +another doll. But it seemed she did not want another; that was the only +doll she would ever care for so long as life lasted; no other doll could +ever take its place; no other doll would be to her what that doll had +been. These little people are so absurd: as if it could matter whether +you loved one doll or another, when all are so much alike! They have +curly hair, and pink-and-white complexions, big eyes that open and shut, +a little red mouth, two little hands. Yet these foolish little people! +they will love one, while another they will not look upon. I find the +best plan is not to reason with them, but to sympathize. Later on--but +not too soon--introduce to them another doll. They will not care for +it at first, but in time they will come to take an interest in it. Of +course, it cannot make them forget the first doll; no doll ever born in +Lowther Arcadia could be as that, but still---- It is many weeks before +they forget entirely the first love. + +We buried Dolly in the country under the yew tree. A friend of mine who +plays the fiddle came down on purpose to assist. We buried her in the +hot spring sunshine, while the birds from shady nooks sang joyously of +life and love. And our chief mourner cried real tears, just for all the +world as though it were not the fate of dolls, sooner or later, to get +broken--the little fragile things, made for an hour, to be dressed and +kissed; then, paintless and stript, to be thrown aside on the nursery +floor. Poor little dolls! I wonder do they take themselves seriously, +not knowing the springs that stir their sawdust bosoms are but +clockwork, not seeing the wires to which they dance? Poor little +marionettes! do they talk together, I wonder, when the lights of the +booth are out? + +You, little sister doll, were the heroine. You lived in the white-washed +cottage, all honeysuckle and clematis without--earwiggy and damp within, +maybe. How pretty you always looked in your simple, neatly-fitting print +dress. How good you were! How nobly you bore your poverty. How patient +you were under your many wrongs. You never harboured an evil thought, a +revengeful wish--never, little doll? Were there never moments when you +longed to play the wicked woman's part, live in a room with many doors, +be-clad in furs and jewels, with lovers galore at your feet? In those +long winter evenings? the household work is done--the greasy dishes +washed, the floor scrubbed; the excellent child is asleep in the corner; +the one-and-elevenpenny lamp sheds its dismal light on the darned +table-cloth; you sit, busy at your coarse sewing, waiting for Hero Dick, +knowing--guessing, at least, where he is--! Yes, dear, I remember your +fine speeches, when you told her, in stirring language the gallery +cheered to the echo, what you thought of her and of such women as she; +when, lifting your hand to heaven, you declared you were happier in your +attic, working your fingers to the bone, than she in her gilded salon--I +think "gilded salon" was the term, was it not?--furnished by sin. +But speaking of yourself, weak little sister doll, not of your fine +speeches, the gallery listening, did you not, in your secret heart, +envy her? Did you never, before blowing out the one candle, stand for +a minute in front of the cracked glass, and think to yourself that +you, too, would look well in low-cut dresses from Paris, the diamonds +flashing on your white smooth skin? Did you never, toiling home through +the mud, bearing your bundle of needlework, feel bitter with the wages +of virtue, as she splashed you, passing by in her carriage? Alone, over +your cup of weak tea, did you never feel tempted to pay the price for +champagne suppers, and gaiety, and admiration? Ah, yes, it is easy +for folks who have had their good time, to prepare copybooks for weary +little inkstained fingers, longing for play. The fine maxims sound such +cant when we are in that mood, do they not? You, too, were young and +handsome: did the author of the play think you were never hungry for the +good things of life? Did he think that reading tracts to crotchety old +women was joy to a full-blooded girl in her twenties? Why should SHE +have all the love, and all the laughter? How fortunate that the villain, +the Wicked Baronet, never opened the cottage door at that moment, eh, +dear! He always came when you were strong, when you felt that you could +denounce him, and scorn his temptations. Would that the villain came +to all of us at such time; then we would all, perhaps, be heroes and +heroines. + +Ah well, it was only a play: it is over now. You and I, little tired +dolls, lying here side by side, waiting to know our next part, we can +look back and laugh. Where is she, this wicked dolly, that made such a +stir on our tiny stage? Ah, here you are, Madam; I thought you could +not be far; they have thrown us all into this corner together. But how +changed you are, Dolly: your paint rubbed off, your golden hair worn to +a wisp. No wonder; it was a trying part you had to play. How tired you +must have grown of the glare and the glitter! And even hope was denied +you. The peace you so longed for you knew you had lost the power to +enjoy. Like the girl bewitched in the fairy tale, you knew you must +dance ever faster and faster, with limbs growing palsied, with face +growing ashen, and hair growing grey, till Death should come to release +you; and your only prayer was he might come ere your dancing grew comic. + +Like the smell of the roses to Nancy, hawking them through the hot +streets, must the stifling atmosphere of love have been to you. The song +of passion, how monotonous in your ears, sung now by the young and now +by the old; now shouted, now whined, now shrieked; but ever the one +strident tune. Do you remember when first you heard it? You dreamt it +the morning hymn of Heaven. You came to think it the dance music of +Hell, ground from a cracked hurdy-gurdy, lent out by the Devil on hire. + +An evil race we must have seemed to you, Dolly Faustine, as to some Old +Bailey lawyer. You saw but one side of us. You lived in a world upside +down, where the leaves and the blossoms were hidden, and only the roots +saw your day. You imagined the worm-beslimed fibres the plant, and +all things beautiful you deemed cant. Chivalry, love, honour! how you +laughed at the lying words. You knew the truth--as you thought: aye, +half the truth. We were swine while your spell was upon us, Daughter of +Circe, and you, not knowing your island secret, deemed it our natural +shape. + +No wonder, Dolly, your battered waxen face is stamped with an angry +sneer. The Hero, who eventually came into his estates amid the plaudits +of the Pit, while you were left to die in the streets! you remembered, +but the house had forgotten those earlier scenes in always wicked Paris. +The good friend of the family, the breezy man of the world, the Deus ex +Machina of the play, who was so good to everybody, whom everybody loved! +aye, YOU loved him once--but that was in the Prologue. In the Play +proper, he was respectable. (How you loathed that word, that meant to +you all you vainly longed for!) To him the Prologue was a period past +and dead; a memory, giving flavour to his life. To you, it was the +First Act of the Play, shaping all the others. His sins the house had +forgotten: at yours, they held up their hands in horror. No wonder the +sneer lies on your waxen lips. + +Never mind, Dolly; it was a stupid house. Next time, perhaps, you will +play a better part; and then they will cheer, instead of hissing you. +You were wasted, I am inclined to think, on modern comedy. You should +have been cast for the heroine of some old-world tragedy. The strength +of character, the courage, the power of self-forgetfulness, the +enthusiasm were yours: it was the part that was lacking. You might have +worn the mantle of a Judith, a Boadicea, or a Jeanne d'Arc, had such +plays been popular in your time. Perhaps they, had they played in your +day, might have had to be content with such a part as yours. They could +not have played the meek heroine, and what else would there have been +for them in modern drama? Catherine of Russia! had she been a waiter's +daughter in the days of the Second Empire, should we have called +her Great? The Magdalene! had her lodging in those days been in some +bye-street of Rome instead of in Jerusalem, should we mention her name +in our churches? + +You were necessary, you see, Dolly, to the piece. We cannot all play +heroes and heroines. There must be wicked people in the play, or it +would not interest. Think of it, Dolly, a play where all the women were +virtuous, all the men honest! We might close the booth; the world would +be as dull as an oyster-bed. Without you wicked folk there would be no +good. How should we have known and honoured the heroine's worth, but +by contrast with your worthlessness? Where would have been her fine +speeches, but for you to listen to them? Where lay the hero's strength, +but in resisting temptation of you? Had not you and the Wicked Baronet +between you robbed him of his estates, falsely accused him of crime, he +would have lived to the end of the play an idle, unheroic, incomplete +existence. You brought him down to poverty; you made him earn his own +bread--a most excellent thing for him; gave him the opportunity to play +the man. But for your conduct in the Prologue, of what value would have +been that fine scene at the end of the Third Act, that stirred the house +to tears and laughter? You and your accomplice, the Wicked Baronet, +made the play possible. How would Pit and Gallery have known they were +virtuous, but for the indignation that came to them, watching your +misdeeds? Pity, sympathy, excitement, all that goes to the making of +a play, you were necessary for. It was ungrateful of the house to hiss +you. + +And you, Mr. Merryman, the painted grin worn from your pale lips, you +too were dissatisfied, if I remember rightly, with your part. You wanted +to make the people cry, not laugh. Was it a higher ambition? The poor +tired people! so much happens in their life to make them weep, is it not +good sport to make them merry for awhile? Do you remember that old soul +in the front row of the Pit? How she laughed when you sat down on the +pie! I thought she would have to be carried out. I heard her talking to +her companion as they passed the stage-door on their way home. "I have +not laughed, my dear, till to-night," she was saying, the good, gay +tears still in her eyes, "since the day poor Sally died." Was not +that alone worth the old stale tricks you so hated? Aye, they were +commonplace and conventional, those antics of yours that made us laugh; +are not the antics that make us weep commonplace and conventional also? +Are not all the plays, played since the booth was opened, but of one +pattern, the plot old-fashioned now, the scenes now commonplace? Hero, +villain, cynic--are their parts so much the fresher? The love duets, +are they so very new? The death-bed scenes, would you call them +UNcommonplace? Hate, and Evil, and Wrong--are THEIR voices new to the +booth? What are you waiting for, people? a play with a plot that is +novel, with characters that have never strutted before? It will be ready +for you, perhaps, when you are ready for it, with new tears and new +laughter. + +You, Mr. Merryman, were the true philosopher. You saved us from +forgetting the reality when the fiction grew somewhat strenuous. How we +all applauded your gag in answer to the hero, when, bewailing his +sad fate, he demanded of Heaven how much longer he was to suffer evil +fortune. "Well, there cannot be much more of it in store for you," you +answered him; "it's nearly nine o'clock already, and the show closes at +ten." And true to your prophecy the curtain fell at the time appointed, +and his troubles were of the past. You showed us the truth behind the +mask. When pompous Lord Shallow, in ermine and wig, went to take his +seat amid the fawning crowd, you pulled the chair from under him, and +down he sat plump on the floor. His robe flew open, his wig flew off. +No longer he awed us. His aped dignity fell from him; we saw him a +stupid-eyed, bald little man; he imposed no longer upon us. It is your +fool who is the only true wise man. + +Yours was the best part in the play, Brother Merryman, had you and the +audience but known it. But you dreamt of a showier part, where you loved +and fought. I have heard you now and again, when you did not know I was +near, shouting with sword in hand before your looking-glass. You had +thrown your motley aside to don a dingy red coat; you were the hero of +the play, you performed the gallant deeds, you made the noble speeches. +I wonder what the play would be like, were we all to write our own +parts. There would be no clowns, no singing chambermaids. We would +all be playing lead in the centre of the stage, with the lime-light +exclusively devoted to ourselves. Would it not be so? + +What grand acting parts they are, these characters we write for +ourselves alone in our dressing-rooms. We are always brave and +noble--wicked sometimes, but if so, in a great, high-minded way; never +in a mean or little way. What wondrous deeds we do, while the house +looks on and marvels. Now we are soldiers, leading armies to victory. +What if we die: it is in the hour of triumph, and a nation is left to +mourn. Not in some forgotten skirmish do we ever fall; not for some +"affair of outposts" do we give our blood, our very name unmentioned in +the dispatches home. Now we are passionate lovers, well losing a +world for love--a very different thing to being a laughter-provoking +co-respondent in a sordid divorce case. + +And the house is always crowded when we play. Our fine speeches always +fall on sympathetic ears, our brave deeds are noted and applauded. It +is so different in the real performance. So often we play our parts to +empty benches, or if a thin house be present, they misunderstand, and +laugh at the pathetic passages. And when our finest opportunity comes, +the royal box, in which HE or SHE should be present to watch us, is +vacant. + +Poor little dolls, how seriously we take ourselves, not knowing the +springs that stir our bosoms are but clockwork, not seeing the wires +to which we dance. Poor little marionettes, shall we talk together, I +wonder, when the lights of the booth are out? + +We are little wax dollies with hearts. We are little tin soldiers with +souls. Oh, King of many toys, are you merely playing with us? IS it only +clockwork within us, this thing that throbs and aches? Have you wound us +up but to let us run down? Will you wind us again to-morrow, or leave us +here to rust? IS it only clockwork to which we respond and quiver? Now +we laugh, now we cry, now we dance; our little arms go out to clasp +one another, our little lips kiss, then say good-bye. We strive, and we +strain, and we struggle. We reach now for gold, now for laurel. We call +it desire and ambition: are they only wires that you play? Will you +throw the clockwork aside, or use it again, O Master? + +The lights of the booth grow dim. The springs are broken that kept our +eyes awake. The wire that held us erect is snapped, and helpless we fall +in a heap on the stage. Oh, brother and sister dollies we played beside, +where are you? Why is it so dark and silent? Why are we being put into +this black box? And hark! the little doll orchestra--how far away the +music sounds! what is it they are playing:-- + +[Start of Gounod's Funeral March of a Marionette] + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Second Thoughts of An Idle Fellow, by +Jerome K. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset from the +1899 Hurst and Blackett edition. + + + + + +The Second Thoughts of an Idle Fellow + + + + +Contents + +On the art of making up one's mind. +On the disadvantage of not getting what one wants. +On the exceptional merit attaching to the things we meant to do. +On the preparation and employment of love philtres. +On the delights and benefits of slavery. +On the care and management of women. +On the minding of other people's business. +On the time wasted in looking before one leaps. +On the nobility of ourselves. +On the motherliness of man. +On the inadvisability of following advice. +On the playing of marches at the funerals of marionettes. + + + + +ON THE ART OF MAKING UP ONE'S MIND + +"Now, which would you advise, dear? You see, with the red I shan't +be able to wear my magenta hat." + +"Well then, why not have the grey?" + +"Yes--yes, I think the grey will be MORE useful." + +"It's a good material." + +"Yes, and it's a PRETTY grey. You know what I mean, dear; not a +COMMON grey. Of course grey is always an UNINTERESTING colour." + +"Its quiet." + +"And then again, what I feel about the red is that it is so +warm-looking. Red makes you FEEL warm even when you're NOT warm. +You know what I mean, dear!" + +"Well then, why not have the red? It suits you--red." + +"No; do you really think so?" + +"Well, when you've got a colour, I mean, of course!" + +"Yes, that is the drawback to red. No, I think, on the whole, the +grey is SAFER." + +"Then you will take the grey, madam?" + +"Yes, I think I'd better; don't you, dear?" + +"I like it myself very much." + +"And it is good wearing stuff. I shall have it trimmed with--Oh! +you haven't cut it off, have you?" + +"I was just about to, madam." + +"Well, don't for a moment. Just let me have another look at the +red. You see, dear, it has just occurred to me--that chinchilla +would look so well on the red!" + +"So it would, dear!" + +"And, you see, I've got the chinchilla." + +"Then have the red. Why not?" + +"Well, there is the hat I'm thinking of." + +"You haven't anything else you could wear with that?" + +"Nothing at all, and it would go so BEAUTIFULLY with the grey.--Yes, +I think I'll have the grey. It's always a safe colour--grey." + +"Fourteen yards I think you said, madam?" + +"Yes, fourteen yards will be enough; because I shall mix it with-- +One minute. You see, dear, if I take the grey I shall have nothing +to wear with my black jacket." + +"Won't it go with grey?" + +"Not well--not so well as with red." + +"I should have the red then. You evidently fancy it yourself." + +"No, personally I prefer the grey. But then one must think of +EVERYTHING, and--Good gracious! that's surely not the right time?" + +"No, madam, it's ten minutes slow. We always keep our clocks a +little slow!" + +"And we were too have been at Madame Jannaway's at a quarter past +twelve. How long shopping does take I--Why, whatever time did we +start?" + +"About eleven, wasn't it?" + +"Half-past ten. I remember now; because, you know, we said we'd +start at half-past nine. We've been two hours already!" + +"And we don't seem to have done much, do we?" + +"Done literally nothing, and I meant to have done so much. I must +go to Madame Jannaway's. Have you got my purse, dear? Oh, it's all +right, I've got it." + +"Well, now you haven't decided whether you're going to have the grey +or the red." + +"I'm sure I don't know what I do want now. I had made up my mind a +minute ago, and now it's all gone again--oh yes, I remember, the +red. Yes, I'll have the red. No, I don't mean the red, I mean the +grey." + +"You were talking about the red last time, if you remember, dear." + +"Oh, so I was, you're quite right. That's the worst of shopping. +Do you know I get quite +confused sometimes." + +"Then you will decide on the red, madam?" + +"Yes--yes, I shan't do any better, shall I, dear? What do you +think? You haven't got any other shades of red, have you? This is +such an ugly red." + +The shopman reminds her that she has seen all the other reds, and +that this is the particular shade she selected and admired. + +"Oh, very well," she replies, with the air of one from whom all +earthly cares are falling, "I must take that then, I suppose. I +can't be worried about it any longer. I've wasted half the morning +already." + +Outside she recollects three insuperable objections to the red, and +four unanswerable arguments why she should have selected the grey. +She wonders would they change it, if she went back and asked to see +the shopwalker? Her friend, who wants her lunch, thinks not. + +"That is what I hate about shopping," she says. "One never has time +to really THINK." + +She says she shan't go to that shop again. + +We laugh at her, but are we so very much better? Come, my superior +male friend, have you never stood, amid your wardrobe, undecided +whether, in her eyes, you would appear more imposing, clad in the +rough tweed suit that so admirably displays your broad shoulders; or +in the orthodox black frock, that, after all, is perhaps more +suitable to the figure of a man approaching--let us say, the +nine-and-twenties? Or, better still, why not riding costume? Did +we not hear her say how well Jones looked in his top-boots and +breeches, and, "hang it all," we have a better leg than Jones. What +a pity riding-breeches are made so baggy nowadays. Why is it that +male fashions tend more and more to hide the male leg? As women +have become less and less ashamed of theirs, we have become more and +more reticent of ours. Why are the silken hose, the tight-fitting +pantaloons, the neat kneebreeches of our forefathers impossible +to-day? Are we grown more modest--or has there come about a falling +off, rendering concealment advisable? + +I can never understand, myself, why women love us. It must be our +honest worth, our sterling merit, that attracts them--certainly not +our appearance, in a pair of tweed "dittos," black angora coat and +vest, stand-up collar, and chimney-pot hat! No, it must be our +sheer force of character that compels their admiration. + +What a good time our ancestors must have had was borne in upon me +when, on one occasion, I appeared in character at a fancy dress +ball. What I represented I am unable to say, and I don't +particularly care. I only know it was something military. I also +remember that the costume was two sizes too small for me in the +chest, and thereabouts; and three sizes too large for me in the hat. +I padded the hat, and dined in the middle of the day off a chop and +half a glass of soda-water. I have gained prizes as a boy for +mathematics, also for scripture history--not often, but I have done +it. A literary critic, now dead, once praised a book of mine. I +know there have been occasions when my conduct has won the +approbation of good men; but never--never in my whole life, have I +felt more proud, more satisfied with myself than on that evening +when, the last hook fastened, I gazed at my full-length Self in the +cheval glass. I was a dream. I say it who should not; but I am not +the only one who said it. I was a glittering dream. The groundwork +was red, trimmed with gold braid wherever there was room for gold +braid; and where there was no more possible room for gold braid +there hung gold cords, and tassels, and straps. Gold buttons and +buckles fastened me, gold embroidered belts and sashes caressed me, +white horse-hair plumes waved o'er me. I am not sure that +everything was in its proper place, but I managed to get everything +on somehow, and I looked well. It suited me. My success was a +revelation to me of female human nature. Girls who had hitherto +been cold and distant gathered round me, timidly solicitous of +notice. Girls on whom I smiled lost their heads and gave themselves +airs. Girls who were not introduced to me sulked and were rude to +girls that had been. For one poor child, with whom I sat out two +dances (at least she sat, while I stood gracefully beside her--I had +been advised, by the costumier, NOT to sit), I was sorry. He was a +worthy young fellow, the son of a cotton broker, and he would have +made her a good husband, I feel sure. But he was foolish to come as +a beer-bottle. + +Perhaps, after all, it is as well those old fashions have gone out. +A week in that suit might have impaired my natural modesty. + +One wonders that fancy dress balls are not more popular in this grey +age of ours. The childish instinct to "dress up," to "make +believe," is with us all. We grow so tired of being always +ourselves. A tea-table discussion, at which I once assisted, fell +into this:- Would any one of us, when it came to the point, change +with anybody else, the poor man with the millionaire, the governess +with the princess--change not only outward circumstances and +surroundings, but health and temperament, heart, brain, and soul; so +that not one mental or physical particle of one's original self one +would retain, save only memory? The general opinion was that we +would not, but one lady maintained the affirmative. + +"Oh no, you wouldn't really, dear," argued a friend; "you THINK you +would." + +"Yes, I would," persisted the first lady; "I am tired of myself. +I'd even be you, for a change." + +In my youth, the question chiefly important to me was--What sort of +man shall I decide to be? At nineteen one asks oneself this +question; at thirty-nine we say, "I wish Fate hadn't made me this +sort of man." + +In those days I was a reader of much well-meant advice to young men, +and I gathered that, whether I should become a Sir Lancelot, a Herr +Teufelsdrockh, or an Iago was a matter for my own individual choice. +Whether I should go through life gaily or gravely was a question the +pros and cons of which I carefully considered. For patterns I +turned to books. Byron was then still popular, and many of us made +up our minds to be gloomy, saturnine young men, weary with the +world, and prone to soliloquy. I determined to join them. + +For a month I rarely smiled, or, when I did, it was with a weary, +bitter smile, concealing a broken heart--at least that was the +intention. Shallow-minded observers misunderstood. + +"I know exactly how it feels," they would say, looking at me +sympathetically, "I often have it myself. It's the sudden change in +the weather, I think;" and they would press neat brandy upon me, and +suggest ginger. + +Again, it is distressing to the young man, busy burying his secret +sorrow under a mound of silence, to be slapped on the back by +commonplace people and asked--"Well, how's 'the hump' this morning?" +and to hear his mood of dignified melancholy referred to, by those +who should know better, as "the sulks." + +There are practical difficulties also in the way of him who would +play the Byronic young gentleman. He must be supernaturally +wicked--or rather must have been; only, alas! in the unliterary +grammar of life, where the future tense stands first, and the past +is formed, not from the indefinite, but from the present indicative, +"to have been" is "to be"; and to be wicked on a small income is +impossible. The ruin of even the simplest of maidens costs money. +In the Courts of Love one cannot sue in forma pauperis; nor would it +be the Byronic method. + +"To drown remembrance in the cup" sounds well, but then the "cup," +to be fitting, should be of some expensive brand. To drink deep of +old Tokay or Asti is poetical; but when one's purse necessitates +that the draught, if it is to be deep enough to drown anything, +should be of thin beer at five-and-nine the four and a half gallon +cask, or something similar in price, sin is robbed of its flavour. + +Possibly also--let me think it--the conviction may have been within +me that Vice, even at its daintiest, is but an ugly, sordid thing, +repulsive in the sunlight; that though--as rags and dirt to art--it +may afford picturesque material to Literature, it is an +evil-smelling garment to the wearer; one that a good man, by reason +of poverty of will, may come down to, but one to be avoided with all +one's effort, discarded with returning mental prosperity. + +Be this as it may, I grew weary of training for a saturnine young +man; and, in the midst of my doubt, I chanced upon a book the hero +of which was a debonnaire young buck, own cousin to Tom and Jerry. +He attended fights, both of cocks and men, flirted with actresses, +wrenched off door-knockers, extinguished street lamps, played many a +merry jest upon many an unappreciative night watch-man. For all the +which he was much beloved by the women of the book. Why should not +I flirt with actresses, put out street lamps, play pranks on +policemen, and be beloved? London life was changed since the days +of my hero, but much remained, and the heart of woman is eternal. +If no longer prizefighting was to be had, at least there were boxing +competitions, so called, in dingy back parlours out Whitechapel way. +Though cockfighting was a lost sport, were there not damp cellars +near the river where for twopence a gentleman might back mongrel +terriers to kill rats against time, and feel himself indeed a +sportsman? True, the atmosphere of reckless gaiety, always +surrounding my hero, I missed myself from these scenes, finding in +its place an atmosphere more suggestive of gin, stale tobacco, and +nervous apprehension of the police; but the essentials must have +been the same, and the next morning I could exclaim in the very +words of my prototype--"Odds crickets, but I feel as though the +devil himself were in my head. Peste take me for a fool." + +But in this direction likewise my fatal lack of means opposed me. +(It affords much food to the philosophic mind, this influence of +income upon character.) Even fifth-rate "boxing competitions," +organized by "friendly leads," and ratting contests in Rotherhithe +slums, become expensive, when you happen to be the only gentleman +present possessed of a collar, and are expected to do the honours of +your class in dog's-nose. True, climbing lamp-posts and putting out +the gas is fairly cheap, providing always you are not caught in the +act, but as a recreation it lacks variety. Nor is the modern London +lamp-post adapted to sport. Anything more difficult to +grip--anything with less "give" in it--I have rarely clasped. The +disgraceful amount of dirt allowed to accumulate upon it is another +drawback from the climber's point of view. By the time you have +swarmed up your third post a positive distaste for "gaiety" steals +over you. Your desire is towards arnica and a bath. + +Nor in jokes at the expense of policemen is the fun entirely on your +side. Maybe I did not proceed with judgment. It occurs to me now, +looking back, that the neighbourhoods of Covent Garden and Great +Marlborough Street were ill-chosen for sport of this nature. To +bonnet a fat policeman is excellent fooling. While he is struggling +with his helmet you can ask him comic questions, and by the time he +has got his head free you are out of sight. But the game should be +played in a district where there is not an average of three +constables to every dozen square yards. When two other policemen, +who have had their eye on you for the past ten minutes, are watching +the proceedings from just round the next corner, you have little or +no leisure for due enjoyment of the situation. By the time you have +run the whole length of Great Titchfield Street and twice round +Oxford Market, you are of opinion that a joke should never be +prolonged beyond the point at which there is danger of its becoming +wearisome; and that the time has now arrived for home and friends. +The "Law," on the other hand, now raised by reinforcements to a +strength of six or seven men, is just beginning to enjoy the chase. +You picture to yourself, while doing Hanover Square, the scene in +Court the next morning. You will be accused of being drunk and +disorderly. It will be idle for you to explain to the magistrate +(or to your relations afterwards) that you were only trying to live +up to a man who did this sort of thing in a book and was admired for +it. You will be fined the usual forty shillings; and on the next +occasion of your calling at the Mayfields' the girls will be out, +and Mrs. Mayfield, an excellent lady, who has always taken a +motherly interest in you, will talk seriously to you and urge you to +sign the pledge. + +Thanks to your youth and constitution you shake off the pursuit at +Notting Hill; and, to avoid any chance of unpleasant contretemps on +the return journey, walk home to Bloomsbury by way of Camden Town +and Islington. + +I abandoned sportive tendencies as the result of a vow made by +myself to Providence, during the early hours of a certain Sunday +morning, while clinging to the waterspout of an unpretentious house +situate in a side street off Soho. I put it to Providence as man to +man. "Let me only get out of this," I think were the muttered words +I used, "and no more 'sport' for me." Providence closed on the +offer, and did let me get out of it. True, it was a complicated +"get out," involving a broken skylight and three gas globes, two +hours in a coal cellar, and a sovereign to a potman for the loan of +an ulster; and when at last, secure in my chamber, I took stock of +myself--what was left of me,--I could not but reflect that +Providence might have done the job neater. Yet I experienced no +desire to escape the terms of the covenant; my inclining for the +future was towards a life of simplicity. + +Accordingly, I cast about for a new character, and found one to suit +me. The German professor was becoming popular as a hero about this +period. He wore his hair long and was otherwise untidy, but he had +"a heart of steel," occasionally of gold. The majority of folks in +the book, judging him from his exterior together with his +conversation--in broken English, dealing chiefly with his dead +mother and his little sister Lisa,--dubbed him uninteresting, but +then they did not know about the heart. His chief possession was a +lame dog which he had rescued from a brutal mob; and when he was not +talking broken English he was nursing this dog. + +But his speciality was stopping runaway horses, thereby saving the +heroine's life. This, combined with the broken English and the dog, +rendered him irresistible. + +He seemed a peaceful, amiable sort of creature, and I decided to try +him. I could not of course be a German professor, but I could, and +did, wear my hair long in spite of much public advice to the +contrary, voiced chiefly by small boys. I endeavoured to obtain +possession of a lame dog, but failed. A one-eyed dealer in Seven +Dials, to whom, as a last resource, I applied, offered to lame one +for me for an extra five shillings, but this suggestion I declined. +I came across an uncanny-looking mongrel late one night. He was not +lame, but he seemed pretty sick; and, feeling I was not robbing +anybody of anything very valuable, I lured him home and nursed him. +I fancy I must have over-nursed him. He got so healthy in the end, +there was no doing anything with him. He was an ill-conditioned +cur, and he was too old to be taught. He became the curse of the +neighbourhood. His idea of sport was killing chickens and sneaking +rabbits from outside poulterers' shops. For recreation he killed +cats and frightened small children by yelping round their legs. +There were times when I could have lamed him myself, if only I could +have got hold of him. I made nothing by running that dog--nothing +whatever. People, instead of admiring me for nursing him back to +life, called me a fool, and said that if I didn't drown the brute +they would. He spoilt my character utterly--I mean my character at +this period. It is difficult to pose as a young man with a heart of +gold, when discovered in the middle of the road throwing stones at +your own dog. And stones were the only things that would reach and +influence him. + +I was also hampered by a scarcity in runaway horses. The horse of +our suburb was not that type of horse. Once and only once did an +opportunity offer itself for practice. It was a good opportunity, +inasmuch as he was not running away very greatly. Indeed, I doubt +if he knew himself that he was running away. It transpired +afterwards that it was a habit of his, after waiting for his driver +outside the Rose and Crown for what he considered to be a reasonable +period, to trot home on his own account. He passed me going about +seven miles an hour, with the reins dragging conveniently beside +him. He was the very thing for a beginner, and I prepared myself. +At the critical moment, however, a couple of officious policemen +pushed me aside and did it themselves. + +There was nothing for me to regret, as the matter turned out. I +should only have rescued a bald-headed commercial traveller, very +drunk, who swore horribly, and pelted the crowd with empty +collar-boxes. + +From the window of a very high flat I once watched three men, +resolved to stop a runaway horse. Each man marched deliberately +into the middle of the road and took up his stand. My window was +too far away for me to see their faces, but their attitude suggested +heroism unto death. The first man, as the horse came charging +towards him, faced it with his arms spread out. He never flinched +until the horse was within about twenty yards of him. Then, as the +animal was evidently determined to continue its wild career, there +was nothing left for him to do but to retire again to the kerb, +where he stood looking after it with evident sorrow, as though +saying to himself--"Oh, well, if you are going to be headstrong I +have done with you." + +The second man, on the catastrophe being thus left clear for him, +without a moment's hesitation, walked up a bye street and +disappeared. The third man stood his ground, and, as the horse +passed him, yelled at it. I could not hear what he said. I have +not the slightest doubt it was excellent advice, but the animal was +apparently too excited even to listen. The first and the third man +met afterwards, and discussed the matter sympathetically. I judged +they were regretting the pig-headedness of runaway horses in +general, and hoping that nobody had been hurt. + +I forget the other characters I assumed about this period. One, I +know, that got me into a good deal of trouble was that of a +downright, honest, hearty, outspoken young man who always said what +he meant. + +I never knew but one man who made a real success of speaking his +mind. I have heard him slap the table with his open hand and +exclaim-- + +"You want me to flatter you--to stuff you up with a pack of lies. +That's not me, that's not Jim Compton. But if you care for my +honest opinion, all I can say is, that child is the most marvellous +performer on the piano I've ever heard. I don't say she is a +genius, but I have heard Liszt and Metzler and all the crack +players, and I prefer HER. That's my opinion. I speak my mind, and +I can't help it if you're offended." + +"How refreshing," the parents would say, "to come across a man who +is not afraid to say what he really thinks. Why are we not all +outspoken?" + +The last character I attempted I thought would be easy to assume. +It was that of a much admired and beloved young man, whose great +charm lay in the fact that he was always just--himself. Other +people posed and acted. He never made any effort to be anything but +his own natural, simple self. + +I thought I also would be my own natural, simple self. But then the +question arose--What was my own natural, simple self? + +That was the preliminary problem I had to solve; I have not solved +it to this day. What am I? I am a great gentleman, walking through +the world with dauntless heart and head erect, scornful of all +meanness, impatient of all littleness. I am a mean-thinking, +little-daring man--the type of man that I of the dauntless heart and +the erect head despise greatly--crawling to a poor end by devious +ways, cringing to the strong, timid of all pain. I--but, dear +reader, I will not sadden your sensitive ears with details I could +give you, showing how contemptible a creature this wretched I +happens to be. Nor would you understand me. You would only be +astonished, discovering that such disreputable specimens of humanity +contrive to exist in this age. It is best, my dear sir, or madam, +you should remain ignorant of these evil persons. Let me not +trouble you with knowledge. + +I am a philosopher, greeting alike the thunder and the sunshine with +frolic welcome. Only now and then, when all things do not fall +exactly as I wish them, when foolish, wicked people will persist in +doing foolish, wicked acts, affecting my comfort and happiness, I +rage and fret a goodish deal. + +As Heine said of himself, I am knight, too, of the Holy Grail, +valiant for the Truth, reverent of all women, honouring all men, +eager to yield life to the service of my great Captain. + +And next moment, I find myself in the enemy's lines, fighting under +the black banner. (It must be confusing to these opposing Generals, +all their soldiers being deserters from both armies.) What are +women but men's playthings! Shall there be no more cakes and ale +for me because thou art virtuous! What are men but hungry dogs, +contending each against each for a limited supply of bones! Do +others lest thou be done. What is the Truth but an unexploded lie! + +I am a lover of all living things. You, my poor sister, struggling +with your heavy burden on your lonely way, I would kiss the tears +from your worn cheeks, lighten with my love the darkness around your +feet. You, my patient brother, breathing hard as round and round +you tramp the trodden path, like some poor half-blind gin-horse, +stripes your only encouragement, scanty store of dry chaff in your +manger! I would jog beside you, taking the strain a little from +your aching shoulders; and we would walk nodding, our heads side by +side, and you, remembering, should tell me of the fields where long +ago you played, of the gallant races that you ran and won. And you, +little pinched brats, with wondering eyes, looking from +dirt-encrusted faces, I would take you in my arms and tell you fairy +stories. Into the sweet land of make-believe we would wander, +leaving the sad old world behind us for a time, and you should be +Princes and Princesses, and know Love. + +But again, a selfish, greedy man comes often, and sits in my +clothes. A man who frets away his life, planning how to get more +money--more food, more clothes, more pleasures for himself; a man so +busy thinking of the many things he needs he has no time to dwell +upon the needs of others. He deems himself the centre of the +universe. You would imagine, hearing him grumbling, that the world +had been created and got ready against the time when he should come +to take his pleasure in it. He would push and trample, heedless, +reaching towards these many desires of his; and when, grabbing, he +misses, he curses Heaven for its injustice, and men and women for +getting in his path. He is not a nice man, in any way. I wish, as +I say, he would not come so often and sit in my clothes. He +persists that he is I, and that I am only a sentimental fool, +spoiling his chances. Sometimes, for a while, I get rid of him, but +he always comes back; and then he gets rid of me and I become him. +It is very confusing. Sometimes I wonder if I really am myself. + + + +ON THE DISADVANTAGE OF NOT GETTING WHAT ONE WANTS + +Long, long ago, when you and I, dear Reader, were young, when the +fairies dwelt in the hearts of the roses, when the moonbeams bent +each night beneath the weight of angels' feet, there lived a good, +wise man. Or rather, I should say, there had lived, for at the time +of which I speak the poor old gentleman lay dying. Waiting each +moment the dread summons, he fell a-musing on the life that +stretched far back behind him. How full it seemed to him at that +moment of follies and mistakes, bringing bitter tears not to himself +alone but to others also. How much brighter a road might it have +been, had he been wiser, had he known! + +"Ah, me!" said the good old gentleman, "if only I could live my life +again in the light of experience." + +Now as he spoke these words he felt the drawing near to him of a +Presence, and thinking it was the One whom he expected, raising +himself a little from his bed, he feebly cried, + +"I am ready." + +But a hand forced him gently back, a voice saying, "Not yet; I bring +life, not death. Your wish shall be granted. You shall live your +life again, and the knowledge of the past shall be with you to guide +you. See you use it. I will come again." + +Then a sleep fell upon the good man, and when he awoke, he was again +a little child, lying in his mother's arms; but, locked within his +brain was the knowledge of the life that he had lived already. + +So once more he lived and loved and laboured. So a second time he +lay an old, worn man with life behind him. And the angel stood +again beside his bed; and the voice said, + +"Well, are you content now?" + +"I am well content," said the old gentleman. "Let Death come." + +"And have you understood?" asked the angel. + +"I think so," was the answer; "that experience is but as of the +memory of the pathways he has trod to a traveller journeying ever +onward into an unknown land. I have been wise only to reap the +reward of folly. Knowledge has ofttimes kept me from my good. I +have avoided my old mistakes only to fall into others that I knew +not of. I have reached the old errors by new roads. Where I have +escaped sorrow I have lost joy. Where I have grasped happiness I +have plucked pain also. Now let me go with Death that I may +learn.." + +Which was so like the angel of that period, the giving of a gift, +bringing to a man only more trouble. Maybe I am overrating my +coolness of judgment under somewhat startling circumstances, but I +am inclined to think that, had I lived in those days, and had a +fairy or an angel come to me, wanting to give me something--my +soul's desire, or the sum of my ambition, or any trifle of that kind +I should have been short with him. + +"You pack up that precious bag of tricks of yours," I should have +said to him (it would have been rude, but that is how I should have +felt), "and get outside with it. I'm not taking anything in your +line to-day. I don't require any supernatural aid to get me into +trouble. All the worry I want I can get down here, so it's no good +your calling. You take that little joke of yours,--I don't know +what it is, but I know enough not to want to know,--and run it off +on some other idiot. I'm not priggish. I have no objection to an +innocent game of 'catch-questions' in the ordinary way, and when I +get a turn myself. But if I've got to pay every time, and the +stakes are to be my earthly happiness plus my future existence--why, +I don't play. There was the case of Midas; a nice, shabby trick you +fellows played off upon him! making pretence you did not understand +him, twisting round the poor old fellow's words, just for all the +world as though you were a pack of Old Bailey lawyers, trying to +trip up a witness; I'm ashamed of the lot of you, and I tell you so- +-coming down here, fooling poor unsuspecting mortals with your +nonsense, as though we had not enough to harry us as it was. Then +there was that other case of the poor old peasant couple to whom you +promised three wishes, the whole thing ending in a black pudding. +And they never got even that. You thought that funny, I suppose. +That was your fairy humour! A pity, I say, you have not, all of +you, something better to do with your time. As I said before, you +take that celestial 'Joe Miller' of yours and work it off on +somebody else. I have read my fairy lore, and I have read my +mythology, and I don't want any of your blessings. And what's more, +I'm not going to have them. When I want blessings I will put up +with the usual sort we are accustomed to down here. You know the +ones I mean, the disguised brand--the blessings that no human being +would think were blessings, if he were not told; the blessings that +don't look like blessings, that don't feel like blessings; that, as +a matter of fact, are not blessings, practically speaking; the +blessings that other people think are blessings for us and that we +don't. They've got their drawbacks, but they are better than yours, +at any rate, and they are sooner over. I don't want your blessings +at any price. If you leave one here I shall simply throw it out +after you." + +I feel confident I should have answered in that strain, and I feel +it would have done good. Somebody ought to have spoken plainly, +because with fairies and angels of that sort fooling about, no one +was ever safe for a moment. Children could hardly have been allowed +outside the door. One never could have told what silly trick some +would-be funny fairy might be waiting to play off on them. The poor +child would not know, and would think it was getting something worth +having. The wonder to me is that some of those angels didn't get +tarred and feathered. + +I am doubtful whether even Cinderella's luck was quite as satisfying +as we are led to believe. After the carpetless kitchen and the +black beetles, how beautiful the palace must have seemed--for the +first year, perhaps for the first two. And the Prince! how loving, +how gallant, how tender--for the first year, perhaps for the first +two. And after? You see he was a Prince, brought up in a Court, +the atmosphere of which is not conducive to the development of the +domestic virtues; and she--was Cinderella. And then the marriage +altogether was rather a hurried affair. Oh yes, she is a good, +loving little woman; but perhaps our Royal Highness-ship did act too +much on the impulse of the moment. It was her dear, dainty feet +that danced their way into our heart. How they flashed and +twinkled, eased in those fairy slippers. How like a lily among +tulips she moved that night amid the over-gorgeous Court dames. She +was so sweet, so fresh, so different to all the others whom we knew +so well. How happy she looked as she put her trembling little hand +in ours. What possibilities might lie behind those drooping lashes. +And we were in amorous mood that night, the music in our feet, the +flash and glitter in our eyes. And then, to pique us further, she +disappeared as suddenly and strangely as she had come. Who was she? +Whence came she? What was the mystery surrounding her? Was she +only a delicious dream, a haunting phantasy that we should never +look upon again, never clasp again within our longing arms? Was our +heart to be for ever hungry, haunted by the memory of--No, by +heavens, she is real, and a woman. Here is her dear slipper, made +surely to be kissed. Of a size too that a man may well wear within +the breast of his doublet. Had any woman--nay, fairy, angel, such +dear feet! Search the whole kingdom through, but find her, find +her. The gods have heard our prayers, and given us this clue. +"Suppose she be not all she seemed. Suppose she be not of birth fit +to mate with our noble house!" Out upon thee, for an earth-bound, +blind curmudgeon of a Lord High Chancellor. How could a woman, whom +such slipper fitted, be but of the noblest and the best, as far +above us, mere Princelet that we are, as the stars in heaven are +brighter than thy dull old eyes! Go, search the kingdom, we tell +thee, from east to west, from north to south, and see to it that +thou findest her, or it shall go hard with thee. By Venus, be she a +swineherd's daughter, she shall be our Queen--an she deign to accept +of us, and of our kingdom. + +Ah well, of course, it was not a wise piece of business, that goes +without saying; but we were young, and Princes are only human. Poor +child, she could not help her education, or rather her lack of it. +Dear little thing, the wonder is that she has contrived to be no +more ignorant than she is, dragged up as she was, neglected and +overworked. Nor does life in a kitchen, amid the companionship of +peasants and menials, tend to foster the intellect. Who can blame +her for being shy and somewhat dull of thought? not we, generous- +minded, kind-hearted Prince that we are. And she is very +affectionate. The family are trying, certainly; father-in-law not a +bad sort, though a little prosy when upon the subject of his +domestic troubles, and a little too fond of his glass; mamma-in-law, +and those two ugly, ill-mannered sisters, decidedly a nuisance about +the palace. Yet what can we do? they are our relations now, and +they do not forget to let us know it. Well, well, we had to expect +that, and things might have been worse. Anyhow she is not jealous-- +thank goodness. + +So the day comes when poor little Cinderella sits alone of a night +in the beautiful palace. The courtiers have gone home in their +carriages. The Lord High Chancellor has bowed himself out +backwards. The Gold-Stick-in-Waiting and the Grooms of the Chamber +have gone to their beds. The Maids of Honour have said "Good- +night," and drifted out of the door, laughing and whispering among +themselves. The clock strikes twelve--one--two, and still no +footstep creaks upon the stair. Once it followed swiftly upon the +"good-night" of the maids, who did not laugh or whisper then. + +At last the door opens, and the Prince enters, none too pleased at +finding Cinderella still awake. "So sorry I'm late, my love-- +detained on affairs of state. Foreign policy very complicated, +dear. Have only just this moment left the Council Chamber." + +And little Cinderella, while the Prince sleeps, lies sobbing out her +poor sad heart into the beautiful royal pillow, embroidered with the +royal arms and edged with the royal monogram in lace. "Why did he +ever marry me? I should have been happier in the old kitchen. The +black beetles did frighten me a little, but there was always the +dear old cat; and sometimes, when mother and the girls were out, +papa would call softly down the kitchen stairs for me to come up, +and we would have such a merry evening together, and sup off +sausages: dear old dad, I hardly ever see him now. And then, when +my work was done, how pleasant it was to sit in front of the fire, +and dream of the wonderful things that would come to me some day. I +was always going to be a Princess, even in my dreams, and live in a +palace, but it was so different to this. Oh, how I hate it, this +beastly palace where everybody sneers at me--I know they do, though +they bow and scrape, and pretend to be so polite. And I'm not +clever and smart as they are. I hate them. I hate these bold-faced +women who are always here. That is the worst of a palace, everybody +can come in. Oh, I hate everybody and everything. Oh, god-mamma, +god-mamma, come and take me away. Take me back to my old kitchen. +Give me back my old poor frock. Let me dance again with the fire- +tongs for a partner, and be happy, dreaming." + +Poor little Cinderella, perhaps it would have been better had god- +mamma been less ambitious for you, dear; had you married some good, +honest yeoman, who would never have known that you were not +brilliant, who would have loved you because you were just amiable +and pretty; had your kingdom been only a farmhouse, where your +knowledge of domestic economy, gained so hardly, would have been +useful; where you would have shone instead of being overshadowed; +where Papa would have dropped in of an evening to smoke his pipe and +escape from his domestic wrangles; where you would have been REAL +Queen. + +But then you know, dear, you would not have been content. Ah yes, +with your present experience--now you know that Queens as well as +little drudges have their troubles; but WITHOUT that experience? +You would have looked in the glass when you were alone; you would +have looked at your shapely hands and feet, and the shadows would +have crossed your pretty face. "Yes," you would have said to +yourself--"John is a dear, kind fellow, and I love him very much, +and all that, but--" and the old dreams, dreamt in the old low- +ceilinged kitchen before the dying fire, would have come back to +you, and you would have been discontented then as now, only in a +different way. Oh yes, you would, Cinderella, though you gravely +shake your gold-crowned head. And let me tell you why. It is +because you are a woman, and the fate of all us, men and women +alike, is to be for ever wanting what we have not, and to be +finding, when we have it, that it is not what we wanted. That is +the law of life, dear. Do you think as you lie upon the floor with +your head upon your arms, that you are the only woman whose tears +are soaking into the hearthrug at that moment? My dear Princess, if +you could creep unseen about your City, peeping at will through the +curtain-shielded windows, you would come to think that all the world +was little else than a big nursery full of crying children with none +to comfort them. The doll is broken: no longer it sweetly squeaks +in answer to our pressure, "I love you, kiss me." The drum lies +silent with the drumstick inside; no longer do we make a brave noise +in the nursery. The box of tea-things we have clumsily put our foot +upon; there will be no more merry parties around the three-legged +stool. The tin trumpet will not play the note we want to sound; the +wooden bricks keep falling down; the toy cannon has exploded and +burnt our fingers. Never mind, little man, little woman, we will +try and mend things tomorrow. + +And after all, Cinderella dear, you do live in a fine palace, and +you have jewels and grand dresses and--No, no, do not be indignant +with ME. Did not you dream of these things AS WELL AS of love? +Come now, be honest. It was always a prince, was it not, or, at the +least, an exceedingly well-to-do party, that handsome young +gentleman who bowed to you so gallantly from the red embers? He was +never a virtuous young commercial traveller, or cultured clerk, +earning a salary of three pounds a week, was he, Cinderella? Yet +there are many charming commercial travellers, many delightful +clerks with limited incomes, quite sufficient, however, to a +sensible man and woman desiring but each other's love. Why was it +always a prince, Cinderella? Had the palace and the liveried +servants, and the carriages and horses, and the jewels and the +dresses, NOTHING to do with the dream? + +No, Cinderella, you were human, that is all. The artist, shivering +in his conventional attic, dreaming of Fame!-do you think he is not +hoping she will come to his loving arms in the form Jove came to +Danae? Do you think he is not reckoning also upon the good dinners +and the big cigars, the fur coat and the diamond studs, that her +visits will enable him to purchase? + +There is a certain picture very popular just now. You may see it, +Cinderella, in many of the shop-windows of the town. It is called +"The Dream of Love," and it represents a beautiful young girl, +sleeping in a very beautiful but somewhat disarranged bed. Indeed, +one hopes, for the sleeper's sake, that the night is warm, and that +the room is fairly free from draughts. A ladder of light streams +down from the sky into the room, and upon this ladder crowd and +jostle one another a small army of plump Cupids, each one laden with +some pledge of love. Two of the Imps are emptying a sack of jewels +upon the floor. Four others are bearing, well displayed, a +magnificent dress (a "confection," I believe, is the proper term) +cut somewhat low, but making up in train what is lacking elsewhere. +Others bear bonnet boxes from which peep stylish toques and +bewitching hoods. Some, representing evidently wholesale houses, +stagger under silks and satins in the piece. Cupids are there from +the shoemakers with the daintiest of bottines. Stockings, garters, +and even less mentionable articles, are not forgotten. Caskets, +mirrors, twelve-buttoned gloves, scent-bottles and handkerchiefs, +hair-pins, and the gayest of parasols, has the God of Love piled +into the arms of his messengers. Really a most practical, up-to- +date God of Love, moving with the times! One feels that the modern +Temple of Love must be a sort of Swan and Edgar's; the god himself a +kind of celestial shop-walker; while his mother, Venus, no doubt +superintends the costume department. Quite an Olympian Whiteley, +this latter-day Eros; he has forgotten nothing, for, at the back of +the picture, I notice one Cupid carrying a rather fat heart at the +end of a string. + +You, Cinderella, could give good counsel to that sleeping child. +You would say to her--"Awake from such dreams. The contents of a +pawnbroker's store-room will not bring you happiness. Dream of love +if you will; that is a wise dream, even if it remain ever a dream. +But these coloured beads, these Manchester goods! are you then--you, +heiress of all the ages--still at heart only as some poor savage +maiden but little removed above the monkeys that share the primeval +forest with her? Will you sell your gold to the first trader that +brings you THIS barter? These things, child, will only dazzle your +eyes for a few days. Do you think the Burlington Arcade is the gate +of Heaven?" + +Ah, yes, I too could talk like that--I, writer of books, to the +young lad, sick of his office stool, dreaming of a literary career +leading to fame and fortune. "And do you think, lad, that by that +road you will reach Happiness sooner than by another? Do you think +interviews with yourself in penny weeklies will bring you any +satisfaction after the first halfdozen? Do you think the gushing +female who has read all your books, and who wonders what it must +feel like to be so clever, will be welcome to you the tenth time you +meet her? Do you think press cuttings will always consist of +wondering admiration of your genius, of paragraphs about your +charming personal appearance under the heading, 'Our Celebrities'? +Have you thought of the Uncomplimentary criticisms, of the spiteful +paragraphs, of the everlasting fear of slipping a few inches down +the greasy pole called 'popular taste,' to which you are condemned +to cling for life, as some lesser criminal to his weary tread-mill, +struggling with no hope but not to fall! Make a home, lad, for the +woman who loves you; gather one or two friends about you; work, +think, and play, that will bring you happiness. Shun this roaring +gingerbread fair that calls itself, forsooth, the 'World of art and +letters.' Let its clowns and its contortionists fight among +themselves for the plaudits and the halfpence of the mob. Let it be +with its shouting and its surging, its blare and its cheap flare. +Come away, the summer's night is just the other side of the hedge, +with its silence and its stars." + +You and I, Cinderella, are experienced people, and can therefore +offer good advice, but do you think we should be listened to? + +"Ah, no, my Prince is not as yours. Mine will love me always, and I +am peculiarly fitted for the life of a palace. I have the instinct +and the ability for it. I am sure I was made for a princess. Thank +you, Cinderella, for your well-meant counsel, but there is much +difference between you and me." + +That is the answer you would receive, Cinderella; and my young +friend would say to me, "Yes, I can understand YOUR finding +disappointment in the literary career; but then, you see, our cases +are not quite similar. _I_ am not likely to find much trouble in +keeping my position. _I_ shall not fear reading what the critics +say of ME. No doubt there are disadvantages, when you are among the +ruck, but there is always plenty of room at the top. So thank you, +and goodbye." + +Besides, Cinderella dear, we should not quite mean it--this +excellent advice. We have grown accustomed to these gew-gaws, and +we should miss them in spite of our knowledge of their trashiness: +you, your palace and your little gold crown; I, my mountebank's cap, +and the answering laugh that goes up from the crowd when I shake my +bells. We want everything. All the happiness that earth and heaven +are capable of bestowing. Creature comforts, and heart and soul +comforts also; and, proud-spirited beings that we are, we will not +be put off with a part. Give us only everything, and we will be +content. And, after all, Cinderella, you have had your day. Some +little dogs never get theirs. You must not be greedy. You have +KNOWN happiness. The palace was Paradise for those few months, and +the Prince's arms were about you, Cinderella, the Prince's kisses on +your lips; the gods themselves cannot take THAT from you. + +The cake cannot last for ever if we will eat of it so greedily. +There must come the day when we have picked hungrily the last crumb- +-when we sit staring at the empty board, nothing left of the feast, +Cinderella, but the pain that comes of feasting. + +It is a naive confession, poor Human Nature has made to itself, in +choosing, as it has, this story of Cinderella for its leading +moral:--Be good, little girl. Be meek under your many trials. Be +gentle and kind, in spite of your hard lot, and one day--you shall +marry a prince and ride in your own carriage. Be brave and true, +little boy. Work hard and wait with patience, and in the end, with +God's blessing, you shall earn riches enough to come back to London +town and marry your master's daughter. + +You and I, gentle Reader, could teach these young folks a truer +lesson, an we would. We know, alas! that the road of all the +virtues does not lead to wealth, rather the contrary; else how +explain our limited incomes? But would it be well, think you, to +tell them bluntly the truth--that honesty is the most expensive +luxury a man can indulge in; that virtue, if persisted in, leads, +generally speaking, to a six-roomed house in an outlying suburb? +Maybe the world is wise: the fiction has its uses. + +I am acquainted with a fairly intelligent young lady. She can read +and write, knows her tables up to six times, and can argue. I +regard her as representative of average Humanity in its attitude +towards Fate; and this is a dialogue I lately overheard between her +and an older lady who is good enough to occasionally impart to her +the wisdom of the world-- + +"I've been good this morning, haven't I?" + +"Yes--oh yes, fairly good, for you." + +"You think Papa WILL take me to the circus to-night? " + +"Yes, if you keep good. If you don't get naughty this afternoon." + +A pause. + +"I was good on Monday, you may remember, nurse." + +"Tolerably good." + +"VERY good, you said, nurse." + +"Well, yes, you weren't bad." + +"And I was to have gone to the pantomime, and I didn't." + +"Well, that was because your aunt came up suddenly, and your Papa +couldn't get another seat. Poor auntie wouldn't have gone at all if +she hadn't gone then." + +"Oh, wouldn't she?" + +"No." + +Another pause. + +"Do you think she'll come up suddenly to-day?" + +"Oh no, I don't think so." + +"No, I hope she doesn't. I want to go to the circus to-night. +Because, you see, nurse, if I don't it will discourage me." + +So, perhaps the world is wise in promising us the circus. We +believe her at first. But after a while, I fear, we grow +discouraged. + + + +ON THE EXCEPTIONAL MERIT ATTACHING TO THE THINGS WE MEANT TO DO + +I can remember--but then I can remember a long time ago. You, +gentle Reader, just entering upon the prime of life, that age by +thoughtless youth called middle, I cannot, of course, expect to +follow me--when there was in great demand a certain periodical +ycleped The Amateur. Its aim was noble. It sought to teach the +beautiful lesson of independence, to inculcate the fine doctrine of +self-help. One chapter explained to a man how he might make +flower-pots out of Australian meat cans; another how he might turn +butter-tubs into music-stools; a third how he might utilize old +bonnet boxes for Venetian blinds: that was the principle of the +whole scheme, you made everything from something not intended for +it, and as ill-suited to the purpose as possible. + +Two pages, I distinctly recollect, were devoted to the encouragement +of the manufacture of umbrella stands out of old gaspiping. +Anything less adapted to the receipt of hats and umbrellas than +gas-piping I cannot myself conceive: had there been, I feel sure the +author would have thought of it, and would have recommended it. + +Picture-frames you fashioned out of gingerbeer corks. You saved +your ginger-beer corks, you found a picture--and the thing was +complete. How much ginger-beer it would be necessary to drink, +preparatory to the making of each frame; and the effect of it upon +the frame-maker's physical, mental and moral well-being, did not +concern The Amateur. I calculate that for a fair-sized picture +sixteen dozen bottles might suffice. Whether, after sixteen dozen +of ginger-beer, a man would take any interest in framing a picture-- +whether he would retain any pride in the picture itself, is +doubtful. But this, of course, was not the point. + +One young gentleman of my acquaintance--the son of the gardener of +my sister, as friend Ollendorff would have described him--did +succeed in getting through sufficient ginger-beer to frame his +grandfather, but the result was not encouraging. Indeed, the +gardener's wife herself was but ill satisfied. + +"What's all them corks round father?" was her first question. + +"Can't you see," was the somewhat indignant reply, "that's the +frame." + +"Oh! but why corks?" + +"Well, the book said corks." + +Still the old lady remained unimpressed. + +"Somehow it don't look like father now," she sighed. + +Her eldest born grew irritable: none of us appreciate criticism! + +"What does it look like, then?" he growled. + +"Well, I dunno. Seems to me to look like nothing but corks." + +The old lady's view was correct. Certain schools of art possibly +lend themselves to this method of framing. I myself have seen a +funeral card improved by it; but, generally speaking, the +consequence was a predominance of frame at the expense of the thing +framed. The more honest and tasteful of the framemakers would admit +as much themselves. + +"Yes, it is ugly when you look at it," said one to me, as we stood +surveying it from the centre of the room. "But what one feels about +it is that one has done it oneself." + +Which reflection, I have noticed, reconciles us to many other things +beside cork frames. + +Another young gentleman friend of mine--for I am bound to admit it +was youth that profited most by the advice and counsel of The +Amateur: I suppose as one grows older one grows less daring, less +industrious--made a rocking-chair, according to the instructions of +this book, out of a couple of beer barrels. From every practical +point of view it was a bad rocking-chair. It rocked too much, and +it rocked in too many directions at one and the same time. I take +it, a man sitting on a rocking-chair does not want to be continually +rocking. There comes a time when he says to himself--"Now I have +rocked sufficiently for the present; now I will sit still for a +while, lest a worse thing befall me." But this was one of those +headstrong rocking-chairs that are a danger to humanity, and a +nuisance to themselves. Its notion was that it was made to rock, +and that when it was not rocking, it was wasting its time. Once +started nothing could stop it--nothing ever did stop it, until it +found itself topsy turvy on its own occupant. That was the only +thing that ever sobered it. + +I had called, and had been shown into the empty drawing-room. The +rocking-chair nodded invitingly at me. I never guessed it was an +amateur rocking-chair. I was young in those days, with faith in +human nature, and I imagined that, whatever else a man might attempt +without knowledge or experience, no one would be fool enough to +experiment upon a rocking-chair. + +I threw myself into it lightly and carelessly. I immediately +noticed the ceiling. I made an instinctive movement forward. The +window and a momentary glimpse of the wooded hills beyond shot +upwards and disappeared. The carpet flashed across my eyes, and I +caught sight of my own boots vanishing beneath me at the rate of +about two hundred miles an hour. I made a convulsive effort to +recover them. I suppose I over-did it. I saw the whole of the room +at once, the four walls, the ceiling, and the floor at the same +moment. It was a sort of vision. I saw the cottage piano upside +down, and I again saw my own boots flash past me, this time over my +head, soles uppermost. Never before had I been in a position where +my own boots had seemed so all-pervading. The next moment I lost my +boots, and stopped the carpet with my head just as it was rushing +past me. At the same instant something hit me violently in the +small of the back. Reason, when recovered, suggested that my +assailant must be the rocking-chair. + +Investigation proved the surmise correct. Fortunately I was still +alone, and in consequence was able, a few minutes later, to meet my +hostess with calm and dignity. I said nothing about the +rocking-chair. As a matter of fact, I was hoping to have the +pleasure, before I went, of seeing some other guest arrive and +sample it: I had purposely replaced it in the most prominent and +convenient position. But though I felt capable of schooling myself +to silence, I found myself unable to agree with my hostess when she +called for my admiration of the thing. My recent experiences had +too deeply embittered me. + +"Willie made it himself," explained the fond mother. "Don't you +think it was very clever of him?" + +"Oh yes, it was clever," I replied, "I am willing to admit that." + +"He made it out of some old beer barrels," she continued; she seemed +proud of it. + +My resentment, though I tried to keep it under control, was mounting +higher. + +"Oh! did he?" I said; "I should have thought he might have found +something better to do with them." + +"What?" she asked. + +"Oh! well, many things," I retorted. "He might have filled them +again with beer." + +My hostess looked at me astonished. I felt some reason for my tone +was expected. + +"You see," I explained, "it is not a well-made chair. These rockers +are too short, and they are too curved, and one of them, if you +notice, is higher than the other and of a smaller radius; the back +is at too obtuse an angle. When it is occupied the centre of +gravity becomes--" + +My hostess interrupted me. + +"You have been sitting on it," she said. + +"Not for long," I assured her. + +Her tone changed. She became apologetic. + +"I am so sorry," she said. "It looks all right." + +"It does," I agreed; "that is where the dear lad's cleverness +displays itself. Its appearance disarms suspicion. With judgment +that chair might be made to serve a really useful purpose. There +are mutual acquaintances of ours--I mention no names, you will know +them--pompous, self-satisfied, superior persons who would be +improved by that chair. If I were Willie I should disguise the +mechanism with some artistic drapery, bait the thing with a couple +of exceptionally inviting cushions, and employ it to inculcate +modesty and diffidence. I defy any human being to get out of that +chair, feeling as important as when he got into it. What the dear +boy has done has been to construct an automatic exponent of the +transitory nature of human greatness. As a moral agency that chair +should prove a blessing in disguise." + +My hostess smiled feebly; more, I fear, from politeness than genuine +enjoyment. + +"I think you are too severe," she said. "When you remember that the +boy has never tried his hand at anything of the kind before, that he +has no knowledge and no experience, it really is not so bad." + +Considering the matter from that point of view I was bound to +concur. I did not like to suggest to her that before entering upon +a difficult task it would be better for young men to ACQUIRE +knowledge and experience: that is so unpopular a theory. + +But the thing that The Amateur put in the front and foremost of its +propaganda was the manufacture of household furniture out of +egg-boxes. Why egg-boxes I have never been able to understand, but +egg-boxes, according to the prescription of The Amateur, formed the +foundation of household existence. With a sufficient supply of +egg-boxes, and what The Amateur termed a "natural deftness," no +young couple need hesitate to face the furnishing problem. Three +egg-boxes made a writing-table; on another egg-box you sat to write; +your books were ranged in egg-boxes around you--and there was your +study, complete. + +For the dining-room two egg-boxes made an overmantel; four egg-boxes +and a piece of looking-glass a sideboard; while six egg-boxes, with +some wadding and a yard or so of cretonne, constituted a so-called +"cosy corner." About the "corner" there could be no possible doubt. +You sat on a corner, you leant against a corner; whichever way you +moved you struck a fresh corner. The "cosiness," however, I deny. +Egg-boxes I admit can be made useful; I am even prepared to imagine +them ornamental; but "cosy," no. I have sampled egg-boxes in many +shapes. I speak of years ago, when the world and we were younger, +when our fortune was the Future; secure in which, we hesitated not +to set up house upon incomes folks with lesser expectations might +have deemed insufficient. Under such circumstances, the sole +alternative to the egg-box, or similar school of furniture, would +have been the strictly classical, consisting of a doorway joined to +architectural proportions. + +I have from Saturday to Monday, as honoured guest, hung my clothes +in egg-boxes. + +I have sat on an egg-box at an egg-box to take my dish of tea. I +have made love on egg-boxes.--Aye, and to feel again the blood +running through my veins as then it ran, I would be content to sit +only on egg-boxes till the time should come when I could be buried +in an egg-box, with an egg-box reared above me as tombstone.--I have +spent many an evening on an egg-box; I have gone to bed in +egg-boxes. They have their points--I am intending no pun--but to +claim for them cosiness would be but to deceive. + +How quaint they were, those home-made rooms! They rise out of the +shadows and shape themselves again before my eyes. I see the +knobbly sofa; the easy-chairs that might have been designed by the +Grand Inquisitor himself; the dented settle that was a bed by night; +the few blue plates, purchased in the slums off Wardour Street; the +enamelled stool to which one always stuck; the mirror framed in +silk; the two Japanese fans crossed beneath each cheap engraving; +the piano cloth embroidered in peacock's feathers by Annie's sister; +the tea-cloth worked by Cousin Jenny. We dreamt, sitting on those +egg-boxes--for we were young ladies and gentlemen with artistic +taste--of the days when we would eat in Chippendale dining-rooms; +sip our coffee in Louis Quatorze drawing-rooms; and be happy. Well, +we have got on, some of us, since then, as Mr. Bumpus used to say; +and I notice, when on visits, that some of us have contrived so that +we do sit on Chippendale chairs, at Sheraton dining-tables, and are +warmed from Adam's fireplaces; but, ah me, where are the dreams, the +hopes, the enthusiasms that clung like the scent of a March morning +about those gim-crack second floors? In the dustbin, I fear, with +the cretonne-covered egg-boxes and the penny fans. Fate is so +terribly even-handed. As she gives she ever takes away. She flung +us a few shillings and hope, where now she doles us out pounds and +fears. Why did not we know how happy we were, sitting crowned with +sweet conceit upon our egg-box thrones? + +Yes, Dick, you have climbed well. You edit a great newspaper. You +spread abroad the message--well, the message that Sir Joseph +Goldbug, your proprietor, instructs you to spread abroad. You teach +mankind the lessons that Sir Joseph Goldbug wishes them to learn. +They say he is to have a peerage next year. I am sure he has earned +it; and perhaps there may be a knighthood for you, Dick. + +Tom, you are getting on now. You have abandoned those unsaleable +allegories. What rich art patron cares to be told continually by +his own walls that Midas had ass's ears; that Lazarus sits ever at +the gate? You paint portraits now, and everybody tells me you are +the coming man. That "Impression" of old Lady Jezebel was really +wonderful. The woman looks quite handsome, and yet it is her +ladyship. Your touch is truly marvellous. + +But into your success, Tom--Dick, old friend, do not there creep +moments when you would that we could fish up those old egg-boxes +from the past, refurnish with them the dingy rooms in Camden Town, +and find there our youth, our loves, and our beliefs? + +An incident brought back to my mind, the other day, the thought of +all these things. I called for the first time upon a man, an actor, +who had asked me to come and see him in the little home where he +lives with his old father. To my astonishment--for the craze, I +believe, has long since died out--I found the house half furnished +out of packing cases, butter tubs, and egg-boxes. My friend earns +his twenty pounds a week, but it was the old father's hobby, so he +explained to me, the making of these monstrosities; and of them he +was as proud as though they were specimen furniture out of the South +Kensington Museum. + +He took me into the dining-room to show me the latest outrage--a new +book-case. A greater disfigurement to the room, which was otherwise +prettily furnished, could hardly be imagined. There was no need for +him to assure me, as he did, that it had been made out of nothing +but egg-boxes. One could see at a glance that it was made out of +egg-boxes, and badly constructed egg-boxes at that--egg-boxes that +were a disgrace to the firm that had turned them out; egg-boxes not +worthy the storage of "shop 'uns" at eighteen the shilling. + +We went upstairs to my friend's bedroom. He opened the door as a +man might open the door of a museum of gems. + +"The old boy," he said, as he stood with his hand upon the +door-knob, "made everything you see here, everything," and we +entered. He drew my attention to the wardrobe. "Now I will hold it +up," he said, "while you pull the door open; I think the floor must +be a bit uneven, it wobbles if you are not careful." It wobbled +notwithstanding, but by coaxing and humouring we succeeded without +mishap. I was surprised to notice a very small supply of clothes +within, although my friend is a dressy man. + +"You see," he explained, "I dare not use it more than I can help. I +am a clumsy chap, and as likely as not, if I happened to be in a +hurry, I'd have the whole thing over:" which seemed probable. + +I asked him how he contrived. "I dress in the bath-room as a rule," +he replied; "I keep most of my things there. Of course the old boy +doesn't know." + +He showed me a chest of drawers. One drawer stood half open. + +"I'm bound to leave that drawer open," he said; "I keep the things I +use in that. They don't shut quite easily, these drawers; or +rather, they shut all right, but then they won't open. It is the +weather, I think. They will open and shut all right in the summer, +I dare say." He is of a hopeful disposition. + +But the pride of the room was the washstand. + +"What do you think of this?" cried he enthusiastically, "real marble +top--" + +He did not expatiate further. In his excitement he had laid his +hand upon the thing, with the natural result that it collapsed. +More by accident than design I caught the jug in my arms. I also +caught the water it contained. The basin rolled on its edge and +little damage was done, except to me and the soap-box. + +I could not pump up much admiration for this washstand; I was +feeling too wet. + +"What do you do when you want to wash?" I asked, as together we +reset the trap. + +There fell upon him the manner of a conspirator revealing secrets. +He glanced guiltily round the room; then, creeping on tip-toe, he +opened a cupboard behind the bed. Within was a tin basin and a +small can. + +"Don't tell the old boy," he said. "I keep these things here, and +wash on the floor." + +That was the best thing I myself ever got out of egg-boxes--that +picture of a deceitful son stealthily washing himself upon the floor +behind the bed, trembling at every footstep lest it might be the +"old boy" coming to the door. + +One wonders whether the Ten Commandments are so all-sufficient as we +good folk deem them--whether the eleventh is not worth the whole +pack of them: "that ye love one another" with just a common-place, +human, practical love. Could not the other ten be comfortably +stowed away into a corner of that! One is inclined, in one's +anarchic moments, to agree with Louis Stevenson, that to be amiable +and cheerful is a good religion for a work-a-day world. We are so +busy NOT killing, NOT stealing, NOT coveting our neighbour's wife, +we have not time to be even just to one another for the little while +we are together here. Need we be so cocksure that our present list +of virtues and vices is the only possibly correct and complete one? +Is the kind, unselfish man necessarily a villain because he does not +always succeed in suppressing his natural instincts? Is the +narrow-hearted, sour-souled man, incapable of a generous thought or +act, necessarily a saint because he has none? Have we not--we unco +guid--arrived at a wrong method of estimating our frailer brothers +and sisters? We judge them, as critics judge books, not by the good +that is in them, but by their faults. Poor King David! What would +the local Vigilance Society have had to say to him? + +Noah, according to our plan, would be denounced from every teetotal +platform in the country, and Ham would head the Local Vestry poll as +a reward for having exposed him. And St. Peter! weak, frail St. +Peter, how lucky for him that his fellow-disciples and their Master +were not as strict in their notions of virtue as are we to-day. + +Have we not forgotten the meaning of the word "virtue"? Once it +stood for the good that was in a man, irrespective of the evil that +might lie there also, as tares among the wheat. We have abolished +virtue, and for it substituted virtues. Not the hero--he was too +full of faults--but the blameless valet; not the man who does any +good, but the man who has not been found out in any evil, is our +modern ideal. The most virtuous thing in nature, according to this +new theory, should be the oyster. He is always at home, and always +sober. He is not noisy. He gives no trouble to the police. I +cannot think of a single one of the Ten Commandments that he ever +breaks. He never enjoys himself, and he never, so long as he lives, +gives a moment's pleasure to any other living thing. + +I can imagine the oyster lecturing a lion on the subject of +morality. + +"You never hear me," the oyster might say, "howling round camps and +villages, making night hideous, frightening quiet folk out of their +lives. Why don't you go to bed early, as I do? I never prowl round +the oyster-bed, fighting other gentlemen oysters, making love to +lady oysters already married. I never kill antelopes or +missionaries. Why can't you live as I do on salt water and germs, +or whatever it is that I do live on? Why don't you try to be more +like me?" + +An oyster has no evil passions, therefore we say he is a virtuous +fish. We never ask ourselves--"Has he any good passions?" A lion's +behaviour is often such as no just man could condone. Has he not +his good points also? + +Will the fat, sleek, "virtuous" man be as Welcome at the gate of +heaven as he supposes? + +"Well," St. Peter may say to him, opening the door a little way and +looking him up and down, "what is it now?" + +"It's me," the virtuous man will reply, with an oily, self-satisfied +smile; "I should say, I--I've come." + +"Yes, I see you have come; but what is your claim to admittance? +What have you done with your three score years and ten?" + +"Done!" the virtuous man will answer, "I have done nothing, I assure +you." + +"Nothing!" + +"Nothing; that is my strong point; that is why I am here. I have +never done any wrong." + +"And what good have you done?" + +"What good!" + +"Aye, what good? Do not you even know the meaning of the word? +What human creature is the better for your having eaten and drunk +and slept these years? You have done no harm--no harm to yourself. +Perhaps, if you had you might have done some good with it; the two +are generally to be found together down below, I remember. What +good have you done that you should enter here? This is no mummy +chamber; this is the place of men and women who have lived, who have +wrought good--and evil also, alas!--for the sinners who fight for +the right, not the righteous who run with their souls from the +fight." + +It was not, however, to speak of these things that I remembered The +Amateur and its lessons. My intention was but to lead up to the +story of a certain small boy, who in the doing of tasks not required +of him was exceedingly clever. I wish to tell you his story, +because, as do most true tales, it possesses a moral, and stories +without a moral I deem to be but foolish literature, resembling +roads that lead to nowhere, such as sick folk tramp for exercise. + +I have known this little boy to take an expensive eight-day clock to +pieces, and make of it a toy steamboat. True, it was not, when +made, very much of a steamboat; but taking into consideration all +the difficulties--the inadaptability of eight-day clock machinery to +steamboat requirements, the necessity of getting the work +accomplished quickly, before conservatively-minded people with no +enthusiasm for science could interfere--a good enough steamboat. +With merely an ironing-board and a few dozen meat-skewers, he +would--provided the ironing-board was not missed in time--turn out +quite a practicable rabbit-hutch. He could make a gun out of an +umbrella and a gas-bracket, which, if not so accurate as a +Martini-Henry, was, at all events, more deadly. With half the +garden-hose, a copper scalding-pan out of the dairy, and a few +Dresden china ornaments off the drawing-room mantelpiece, he would +build a fountain for the garden. He could make bookshelves out of +kitchen tables, and crossbows out of crinolines. He could dam you a +stream so that all the water would flow over the croquet lawn. He +knew how to make red paint and oxygen gas, together with many other +suchlike commodities handy to have about a house. Among other +things he learned how to make fireworks, and after a few explosions +of an unimportant character, came to make them very well indeed. +The boy who can play a good game of cricket is liked. The boy who +can fight well is respected. The boy who can cheek a master is +loved. But the boy who can make fireworks is revered above all +others as a boy belonging to a superior order of beings. The fifth +of November was at hand, and with the consent of an indulgent +mother, he determined to give to the world a proof of his powers. A +large party of friends, relatives, and school-mates was invited, and +for a fortnight beforehand the scullery was converted into a +manufactory for fireworks. The female servants went about in hourly +terror of their lives, and the villa, did we judge exclusively by +smell, one might have imagined had been taken over by Satan, his +main premises being inconveniently crowded, as an annex. By the +evening of the fourth all was in readiness, and samples were tested +to make sure that no contretemps should occur the following night. +All was found to be perfect. + +The rockets rushed heavenward and descended in stars, the Roman +candles tossed their fiery balls into the darkness, the Catherine +wheels sparkled and whirled, the crackers cracked, and the squibs +banged. That night he went to bed a proud and happy boy, and +dreamed of fame. He stood surrounded by blazing fireworks, and the +vast crowd cheered him. His relations, most of whom, he knew, +regarded him as the coming idiot of the family, were there to +witness his triumph; so too was Dickey Bowles, who laughed at him +because he could not throw straight. The girl at the bun-shop, she +also was there, and saw that he was clever. + +The night of the festival arrived, and with it the guests. They +sat, wrapped up in shawls and cloaks, outside the hall door--uncles, +cousins, aunts, little boys and big boys, little girls and big +girls, with, as the theatre posters say, villagers and retainers, +some forty of them in all, and waited. + +But the fireworks did not go off. Why they did not go off I cannot +explain; nobody ever COULD explain. The laws of nature seemed to be +suspended for that night only. The rockets fell down and died where +they stood. No human agency seemed able to ignite the squibs. The +crackers gave one bang and collapsed. The Roman candles might have +been English rushlights. The Catherine wheels became mere revolving +glow-worms. The fiery serpents could not collect among them the +spirit of a tortoise. The set piece, a ship at sea, showed one mast +and the captain, and then went out. One or two items did their +duty, but this only served to render the foolishness of the whole +more striking. The little girls giggled, the little boys chaffed, +the aunts and cousins said it was beautiful, the uncles inquired if +it was all over, and talked about supper and trains, the "villagers +and retainers" dispersed laughing, the indulgent mother said "never +mind," and explained how well everything had gone off yesterday; the +clever little boy crept upstairs to his room, and blubbered his +heart out in the dark. + +Hours later, when the crowd had forgotten him, he stole out again +into the garden. He sat down amid the ruins of his hope, and +wondered what could have caused the fiasco. Still puzzled, he drew +from his pocket a box of matches, and, lighting one, he held it to +the seared end of a rocket he had tried in vain to light four hours +ago. It smouldered for an instant, then shot with a swish into the +air and broke into a hundred points of fire. He tried another and +another with the same result. He made a fresh attempt to fire the +set piece. Point by point the whole picture--minus the captain and +one mast--came out of the night, and stood revealed in all the +majesty of flame. Its sparks fell upon the piled-up heap of +candles, wheels, and rockets that a little while before had +obstinately refused to burn, and that, one after another, had been +thrown aside as useless. Now with the night frost upon them, they +leaped to light in one grand volcanic eruption. And in front of the +gorgeous spectacle he stood with only one consolation--his mother's +hand in his. + +The whole thing was a mystery to him at the time, but, as he learned +to know life better, he came to understand that it was only one +example of a solid but inexplicable fact, ruling all human +affairs--YOUR FIREWORKS WON'T GO OFF WHILE THE CROWD IS AROUND. + +Our brilliant repartees do not occur to us till the door is closed +upon us and we are alone in the street, or, as the French would say, +are coming down the stairs. Our after-dinner oratory, that sounded +so telling as we delivered it before the looking-glass, falls +strangely flat amidst the clinking of the glasses. The passionate +torrent of words we meant to pour into her ear becomes a halting +rigmarole, at which--small blame to her--she only laughs. + +I would, gentle Reader, you could hear the stories that I meant to +tell you. You judge me, of course, by the stories of mine that you +have read--by this sort of thing, perhaps; but that is not just to +me. The stories I have not told you, that I am going to tell you +one day, I would that you judge me by those. + +They are so beautiful; you will say so; over them, you will laugh +and cry with me. + +They come into my brain unbidden, they clamour to be written, yet +when I take my pen in hand they are gone. It is as though they were +shy of publicity, as though they would say to me--"You alone, you +shall read us, but you must not write us; we are too real, too true. +We are like the thoughts you cannot speak. Perhaps a little later, +when you know more of life, then you shall tell us." + +Next to these in merit I would place, were I writing a critical +essay on myself, the stories I have begun to write and that remain +unfinished, why I cannot explain to myself. They are good stories, +most of them; better far than the stories I have accomplished. +Another time, perhaps, if you care to listen, I will tell you the +beginning of one or two and you shall judge. Strangely enough, for +I have always regarded myself as a practical, commonsensed man, so +many of these still-born children of my mind I find, on looking +through the cupboard where their thin bodies lie, are ghost stories. +I suppose the hope of ghosts is with us all. The world grows +somewhat interesting to us heirs of all the ages. Year by year, +Science with broom and duster tears down the moth-worn tapestry, +forces the doors of the locked chambers, lets light into the secret +stairways, cleans out the dungeons, explores the hidden passages-- +finding everywhere only dust. This echoing old castle, the world, +so full of mystery in the days when we were children, is losing +somewhat its charm for us as we grow older. The king sleeps no +longer in the hollow of the hills. We have tunnelled through his +mountain chamber. We have shivered his beard with our pick. We +have driven the gods from Olympus. No wanderer through the moonlit +groves now fears or hopes the sweet, death-giving gleam of +Aphrodite's face. Thor's hammer echoes not among the peaks--'tis +but the thunder of the excursion train. We have swept the woods of +the fairies. We have filtered the sea of its nymphs. Even the +ghosts are leaving us, chased by the Psychical Research Society. + +Perhaps of all, they are the least, however, to be regretted. They +were dull old fellows, clanking their rusty chains and groaning and +sighing. Let them go. + +And yet how interesting they might be, if only they would. The old +gentleman in the coat of mail, who lived in King John's reign, who +was murdered, so they say, on the outskirts of the very wood I can +see from my window as I write--stabbed in the back, poor gentleman, +as he was riding home, his body flung into the moat that to this day +is called Tor's tomb. Dry enough it is now, and the primroses love +its steep banks; but a gloomy enough place in those days, no doubt, +with its twenty feet of stagnant water. Why does he haunt the +forest paths at night, as they tell me he does, frightening the +children out of their wits, blanching the faces and stilling the +laughter of the peasant lads and lasses, slouching home from the +village dance? Instead, why does he not come up here and talk to +me? He should have my easy-chair and welcome, would he only be +cheerful and companionable. + +What brave tales could he not tell me. He fought in the first +Crusade, heard the clarion voice of Peter, met the great Godfrey +face to face, stood, hand on sword-hilt, at Runny-mede, perhaps. +Better than a whole library of historical novels would an evening's +chat be with such a ghost. What has he done with his eight hundred +years of death? where has he been? what has he seen? Maybe he has +visited Mars; has spoken to the strange spirits who can live in the +liquid fires of Jupiter. What has he learned of the great secret? +Has he found the truth? or is he, even as I, a wanderer still +seeking the unknown? + +You, poor, pale, grey nun--they tell me that of midnights one may +see your white face peering from the ruined belfry window, hear the +clash of sword and shield among the cedar-trees beneath. + +It was very sad, I quite understand, my dear lady. Your lovers both +were killed, and you retired to a convent. Believe me, I am +sincerely sorry for you, but why waste every night renewing the +whole painful experience? Would it not be better forgotten? Good +Heavens, madam, suppose we living folk were to spend our lives +wailing and wringing our hands because of the wrongs done to us when +we were children? It is all over now. Had he lived, and had you +married him, you might not have been happy. I do not wish to say +anything unkind, but marriages founded upon the sincerest mutual +love have sometimes turned out unfortunately, as you must surely +know. + +Do take my advice. Talk the matter over with the young men +themselves. Persuade them to shake hands and be friends. Come in, +all of you, out of the cold, and let us have some reasonable talk. + +Why seek you to trouble us, you poor pale ghosts? Are we not your +children? Be our wise friends. Tell me, how loved the young men in +your young days? how answered the maidens? Has the world changed +much, do you think? Had you not new women even then? girls who +hated the everlasting tapestry frame and spinning-wheel? Your +father's servants, were they so much worse off than the freemen who +live in our East-end slums and sew slippers for fourteen hours a day +at a wage of nine shillings a week? Do you think Society much +improved during the last thousand years? Is it worse? is it better? +or is it, on the whole, about the same, save that we call things by +other names? Tell me, what have YOU learned? + +Yet might not familiarity breed contempt, even for ghosts. + +One has had a tiring day's shooting. One is looking forward to +one's bed. As one opens the door, however, a ghostly laugh comes +from behind the bed-curtains, and one groans inwardly, knowing what +is in store for one: a two or three hours' talk with rowdy old Sir +Lanval--he of the lance. We know all his tales by heart, and he +will shout them. Suppose our aunt, from whom we have expectations, +and who sleeps in the next room, should wake and overhear! They +were fit and proper enough stories, no doubt, for the Round Table, +but we feel sure our aunt would not appreciate them:--that story +about Sir Agravain and the cooper's wife! and he always will tell +that story. + +Or imagine the maid entering after dinner to say-- + +"Oh, if you please, sir, here is the veiled lady." + +"What, again!" says your wife, looking up from her work. + +"Yes, ma'am; shall I show her up into the bedroom?" + +"You had better ask your master," is the reply. The tone is +suggestive of an unpleasant five minutes so soon as the girl shall +have withdrawn, but what are you to do? + +"Yes, yes, show her up," you say, and the girl goes out, closing the +door. + +Your wife gathers her work together, and rises. + +"Where are you going?" you ask. + +"To sleep with the children," is the frigid answer. + +"It will look so rude," you urge. "We must be civil to the poor +thing; and you see it really is her room, as one might say. She has +always haunted it. " + +"It is very curious," returns the wife of your bosom, still more +icily, "that she never haunts it except when you are down here. +Where she goes when you are in town I'm sure I don't know." + +This is unjust. You cannot restrain your indignation. + +"What nonsense you talk, Elizabeth," you reply; "I am only barely +polite to her." + +"Some men have such curious notions of politeness," returns +Elizabeth. "But pray do not let us quarrel. I am only anxious not +to disturb you. Two are company, you know. I don't choose to be +the third, that's all." With which she goes out. + +And the veiled lady is still waiting for you up-stairs. You wonder +how long she will stop, also what will happen after she is gone. + +I fear there is no room for you, ghosts, in this our world. You +remember how they came to Hiawatha--the ghosts of the departed loved +ones. He had prayed to them that they would come back to him to +comfort him, so one day they crept into his wigwam, sat in silence +round his fireside, chilled the air for Hiawatha, froze the smiles +of Laughing Water. + +There is no room for you, oh you poor pale ghosts, in this our +world. Do not trouble us. Let us forget. You, stout elderly +matron, your thin locks turning grey, your eyes grown weak, your +chin more ample, your voice harsh with much scolding and +complaining, needful, alas! to household management, I pray you +leave me. I loved you while you lived. How sweet, how beautiful +you were. I see you now in your white frock among the +apple-blossom. But you are dead, and your ghost disturbs my dreams. +I would it haunted me not. + +You, dull old fellow, looking out at me from the glass at which I +shave, why do you haunt me? You are the ghost of a bright lad I +once knew well. He might have done much, had he lived. I always +had faith in him. Why do you haunt me? I would rather think of him +as I remember him. I never imagined he would make such a poor +ghost. + + + +ON THE PREPARATION AND EMPLOYMENT OF LOVE PHILTRES + +Occasionally a friend will ask me some such question as this, Do you +prefer dark women or fair? Another will say, Do you like tall women +or short? A third, Do you think light-hearted women, or serious, +the more agreeable company? I find myself in the position that, +once upon a time, overtook a certain charming young lady of taste +who was asked by an anxious parent, the years mounting, and the +family expenditure not decreasing, which of the numerous and +eligible young men, then paying court to her, she liked the best. +She replied, that was her difficulty. She could not make up her +mind which she liked the best. They were all so nice. She could +not possibly select one to the exclusion of all the others. What +she would have liked would have been to marry the lot, but that, she +presumed, was impracticable. + +I feel I resemble that young lady, not so much, perhaps, in charm +and beauty as indecision of mind, when questions such as the above +are put to me. It is as if one were asked one's favourite food. +There are times when one fancies an egg with one's tea. On other +occasions one dreams of a kipper. Today one clamours for lobsters. +To-morrow one feels one never wishes to see a lobster again; one +determines to settle down, for a time, to a diet of bread and milk +and rice-pudding. Asked suddenly to say whether I preferred ices to +soup, or beefsteaks to caviare, I should be nonplussed. + +I like tall women and short, dark women and fair, merry women and +grave. + +Do not blame me, Ladies, the fault lies with you. Every +right-thinking man is an universal lover; how could it be otherwise? +You are so diverse, yet each so charming of your kind; and a man's +heart is large. You have no idea, fair Reader, how large a man's +heart is: that is his trouble--sometimes yours. + +May I not admire the daring tulip, because I love also the modest +lily? May I not press a kiss upon the sweet violet, because the +scent of the queenly rose is precious to me? + +"Certainly not," I hear the Rose reply. "If you can see anything in +her, you shall have nothing to do with me." + +"If you care for that bold creature," says the Lily, trembling, "you +are not the man I took you for. Good-bye." + +"Go to your baby-faced Violet," cries the Tulip, with a toss of her +haughty head. "You are just fitted for each other." + +And when I return to the Lily, she tells me that she cannot trust +me. She has watched me with those others. She knows me for a +gad-about. Her gentle face is full of pain. + +So I must live unloved merely because I love too much. + +My wonder is that young men ever marry. The difficulty of selection +must be appalling. I walked the other evening in Hyde Park. The +band of the Life Guards played heart-lifting music, and the vast +crowd were basking in a sweet enjoyment such as rarely woos the +English toiler. I strolled among them, and my attention was chiefly +drawn towards the women. The great majority of them were, I +suppose, shop-girls, milliners, and others belonging to the lower +middle-class. They had put on their best frocks, their bonniest +hats, their newest gloves. They sat or walked in twos and threes, +chattering and preening, as happy as young sparrows on a clothes +line. And what a handsome crowd they made! I have seen German +crowds, I have seen French crowds, I have seen Italian crowds; but +nowhere do you find such a proportion of pretty women as among the +English middle-class. Three women out of every four were worth +looking at, every other woman was pretty, while every fourth, one +might say without exaggeration, was beautiful. As I passed to and +fro the idea occurred to me: suppose I were an unprejudiced young +bachelor, free from predilection, looking for a wife; and let me +suppose--it is only a fancy--that all these girls were ready and +willing to accept me. I have only to choose! I grew bewildered. +There were fair girls, to look at whom was fatal; dark girls that +set one's heart aflame; girls with red gold hair and grave grey +eyes, whom one would follow to the confines of the universe; +baby-faced girls that one longed to love and cherish; girls with +noble faces, whom a man might worship; laughing girls, with whom one +could dance through life gaily; serious girls, with whom life would +be sweet and good, domestic-looking girls--one felt such would make +delightful wives; they would cook, and sew, and make of home a +pleasant, peaceful place. Then wicked-looking girls came by, at the +stab of whose bold eyes all orthodox thoughts were put to a flight, +whose laughter turned the world into a mad carnival; girls one could +mould; girls from whom one could learn; sad girls one wanted to +comfort; merry girls who would cheer one; little girls, big girls, +queenly girls, fairy-like girls. + +Suppose a young man had to select his wife in this fashion from some +twenty or thirty thousand; or that a girl were suddenly confronted +with eighteen thousand eligible young bachelors, and told to take +the one she wanted and be quick about it? Neither boy nor girl +would ever marry. Fate is kinder to us. She understands, and +assists us. In the hall of a Paris hotel I once overheard one lady +asking another to recommend her a milliner's shop. + +"Go to the Maison Nouvelle," advised the questioned lady, with +enthusiasm. "They have the largest selection there of any place in +Paris." + +"I know they have," replied the first lady, "that is just why I +don't mean to go there. It confuses me. If I see six bonnets I can +tell the one I want in five minutes. If I see six hundred I come +away without any bonnet at all. Don't you know a little shop?" + +Fate takes the young man or the young woman aside. + +"Come into this village, my dear," says Fate; "into this by-street +of this salubrious suburb, into this social circle, into this +church, into this chapel. Now, my dear boy, out of these seventeen +young ladies, which will you have?--out of these thirteen young men, +which would you like for your very own, my dear?" + +"No, miss, I am sorry, but I am not able to show you our up-stairs +department to-day, the lift is not working. But I am sure we shall +be able to find something in this room to suit you. Just look +round, my dear, perhaps you will see something." + +"No, sir, I cannot show you the stock in the next room, we never +take that out except for our very special customers. We keep our +most expensive goods in that room. (Draw that curtain, Miss +Circumstance, please. I have told you of that before.) Now, sir, +wouldn't you like this one? This colour is quite the rage this +season; we are getting rid of quite a lot of these." + +"NO, sir! Well, of course, it would not do for every one's taste to +be the same. Perhaps something dark would suit you better. Bring +out those two brunettes, Miss Circumstance. Charming girls both of +them, don't you think so, sir? I should say the taller one for you, +sir. Just one moment, sir, allow me. Now, what do you think of +that, sir? might have been made to fit you, I'm sure. You prefer +the shorter one. Certainly, sir, no difference to us at all. Both +are the same price. There's nothing like having one's own fancy, I +always say. NO, sir, I cannot put her aside for you, we never do +that. Indeed, there's rather a run on brunettes just at present. I +had a gentleman in only this morning, looking at this particular +one, and he is going to call again to-night. Indeed, I am not at +all sure--Oh, of course, sir, if you like to settle on this one now, +that ends the matter. (Put those others away, Miss Circumstance, +please, and mark this one sold.) I feel sure you'll like her, sir, +when you get her home. Thank YOU, sir. Good-morning!" + +"Now, miss, have YOU seen anything you fancy? YES, miss, this is +all we have at anything near your price. (Shut those other +cupboards, Miss Circumstance; never show more stock than you are +obliged to, it only confuses customers. How often am I to tell you +that?) YES, miss, you are quite right, there IS a slight blemish. +They all have some slight flaw. The makers say they can't help it-- +it's in the material. It's not once in a season we get a perfect +specimen; and when we do ladies don't seem to care for it. Most of +our customers prefer a little faultiness. They say it gives +character. Now, look at this, miss. This sort of thing wears very +well, warm and quiet. You'd like one with more colour in it? +Certainly. Miss Circumstance, reach me down the art patterns. NO, +miss, we don't guarantee any of them over the year, so much depends +on how you use them. OH YES, miss, they'll stand a fair amount of +wear. People do tell you the quieter patterns last longer; but my +experience is that one is much the same as another. There's really +no telling any of them until you come to try them. We never +recommend one more than another. There's a lot of chance about +these goods, it's in the nature of them. What I always say to +ladies is--'Please yourself, it's you who have got to wear it; and +it's no good having an article you start by not liking.' YES, miss, +it IS pretty and it looks well against you: it does indeed. Thank +you, miss. Put that one aside, Miss Circumstance, please. See that +it doesn't get mixed up with the unsold stock. " + +It is a useful philtre, the juice of that small western flower, that +Oberon drops upon our eyelids as we sleep. It solves all +difficulties in a trice. Why of course Helena is the fairer. +Compare her with Hermia! Compare the raven with the dove! How +could we ever have doubted for a moment? Bottom is an angel, Bottom +is as wise as he is handsome. Oh, Oberon, we thank you for that +drug. Matilda Jane is a goddess; Matilda Jane is a queen; no woman +ever born of Eve was like Matilda Jane. The little pimple on her +nose--her little, sweet, tip-tilted nose--how beautiful it is. Her +bright eyes flash with temper now and then; how piquant is a temper +in a woman. William is a dear old stupid, how lovable stupid men +can be--especially when wise enough to love us. William does not +shine in conversation; how we hate a magpie of a man. William's +chin is what is called receding, just the sort of chin a beard looks +well on. Bless you, Oberon darling, for that drug; rub it on our +eyelids once again. Better let us have a bottle, Oberon, to keep by +us. + +Oberon, Oberon, what are you thinking of? You have given the bottle +to Puck. Take it away from him, quick. Lord help us all if that +Imp has the bottle. Lord save us from Puck while we sleep. + +Or may we, fairy Oberon, regard your lotion as an eye-opener, rather +than as an eye-closer? You remember the story the storks told the +children, of the little girl who was a toad by day, only her sweet +dark eyes being left to her. But at night, when the Prince clasped +her close to his breast, lo! again she became the king's daughter, +fairest and fondest of women. There be many royal ladies in +Marshland, with bad complexion and thin straight hair, and the silly +princes sneer and ride away to woo some kitchen wench decked out in +queen's apparel. Lucky the prince upon whose eyelids Oberon has +dropped the magic philtre. + +In the gallery of a minor Continental town I have forgotten, hangs a +picture that lives with me. The painting I cannot recall, whether +good or bad; artists must forgive me for remembering only the +subject. It shows a man, crucified by the roadside. No martyr he. +If ever a man deserved hanging it was this one. So much the artist +has made clear. The face, even under its mask of agony, is an evil, +treacherous face. A peasant girl clings to the cross; she stands +tip-toe upon a patient donkey, straining her face upward for the +half-dead man to stoop and kiss her lips. + +Thief, coward, blackguard, they are stamped upon his face, but UNDER +the face, under the evil outside? Is there no remnant of manhood- +-nothing tender, nothing, true? A woman has crept to the cross to +kiss him: no evidence in his favour, my Lord? Love is blind-aye, +to our faults. Heaven help us all; Love's eyes would be sore indeed +if it were not so. But for the good that is in us her eyes are +keen. You, crucified blackguard, stand forth. A hundred witnesses +have given their evidence against you. Are there none to give +evidence for him? A woman, great Judge, who loved him. Let her +speak. + +But I am wandering far from Hyde Park and its show of girls. + +They passed and re-passed me, laughing, smiling, talking. Their +eyes were bright with merry thoughts; their voices soft and musical. +They were pleased, and they wanted to please. Some were married, +some had evidently reasonable expectations of being married; the +rest hoped to be. And we, myself, and some ten thousand other young +men. I repeat it--myself and some ten thousand other young men; for +who among us ever thinks of himself but as a young man? It is the +world that ages, not we. The children cease their playing and grow +grave, the lasses' eyes are dimmer. The hills are a little steeper, +the milestones, surely, further apart. The songs the young men sing +are less merry than the songs we used to sing. The days have grown +a little colder, the wind a little keener. The wine has lost its +flavour somewhat; the new humour is not like the old. The other +boys are becoming dull and prosy; but we are not changed. It is the +world that is growing old. Therefore, I brave your thoughtless +laughter, youthful Reader, and repeat that we, myself and some ten +thousand other young men, walked among these sweet girls; and, using +our boyish eyes, were fascinated, charmed, and captivated. How +delightful to spend our lives with them, to do little services for +them that would call up these bright smiles. How pleasant to jest +with them, and hear their flute-like laughter, to console them and +read their grateful eyes. Really life is a pleasant thing, and the +idea of marriage undoubtedly originated in the brain of a kindly +Providence. + +We smiled back at them, and we made way for them; we rose from our +chairs with a polite, "Allow me, miss," "Don't mention it, I prefer +standing." "It is a delightful evening, is it not?" And perhaps- +-for what harm was there?--we dropped into conversation with these +chance fellow-passengers upon the stream of life. There were those +among us--bold daring spirits--who even went to the length of mild +flirtation. Some of us knew some of them, and in such happy case +there followed interchange of pretty pleasantries. Your English +middle-class young man and woman are not adepts at the game of +flirtation. I will confess that our methods were, perhaps, +elephantine, that we may have grown a trifle noisy as the evening +wore on. But we meant no evil; we did but our best to enjoy +ourselves, to give enjoyment, to make the too brief time, pass +gaily. + +And then my thoughts travelled to small homes in distant suburbs, +and these bright lads and lasses round me came to look older and +more careworn. But what of that? Are not old faces sweet when +looked at by old eyes a little dimmed by love, and are not care and +toil but the parents of peace and joy? + +But as I drew nearer, I saw that many of the faces were seared with +sour and angry looks, and the voices that rose round me sounded +surly and captious. The pretty compliment and praise had changed to +sneers and scoldings. The dimpled smile had wrinkled to a frown. +There seemed so little desire to please, so great a determination +not to be pleased. + +And the flirtations! Ah me, they had forgotten how to flirt! Oh, +the pity of it! All the jests were bitter, all the little services +were given grudgingly. The air seemed to have grown chilly. A +darkness had come over all things. + +And then I awoke to reality, and found I had been sitting in my +chair longer than I had intended. The band-stand was empty, the sun +had set; I rose and made my way home through the scattered crowd. + +Nature is so callous. The Dame irritates one at times by her +devotion to her one idea, the propagation of the species. + +"Multiply and be fruitful; let my world be ever more and more +peopled." + +For this she trains and fashions her young girls, models them with +cunning hand, paints them with her wonderful red and white, crowns +them with her glorious hair, teaches them to smile and laugh, trains +their voices into music, sends them out into the world to captivate, +to enslave us. + +"See how beautiful she is, my lad," says the cunning old woman. +"Take her; build your little nest with her in your pretty suburb; +work for her and live for her; enable her to keep the little ones +that I will send." + +And to her, old hundred-breasted Artemis whispers, "Is he not a +bonny lad? See how he loves you, how devoted he is to you! He will +work for you and make you happy; he will build your home for you. +You will be the mother of his children." + +So we take each other by the hand, full of hope and love, and from +that hour Mother Nature has done with us. Let the wrinkles come; +let our voices grow harsh; let the fire she lighted in our hearts +die out; let the foolish selfishness we both thought we had put +behind us for ever creep back to us, bringing unkindness and +indifference, angry thoughts and cruel words into our lives. What +cares she? She has caught us, and chained us to her work. She is +our universal mother-in-law. She has done the match-making; for the +rest, she leaves it to ourselves. We can love or we can fight; it +is all one to her, confound her. + +I wonder sometimes if good temper might not be taught. In business +we use no harsh language, say no unkind things to one another. The +shopkeeper, leaning across the counter, is all smiles and +affability, he might put up his shutters were he otherwise. The +commercial gent, no doubt, thinks the ponderous shopwalker an ass, +but refrains from telling him so. Hasty tempers are banished from +the City. Can we not see that it is just as much to our interest to +banish them from Tooting and Hampstead? + +The young man who sat in the chair next to me, how carefully he +wrapped the cloak round the shoulders of the little milliner beside +him. And when she said she was tired of sitting still, how readily +he sprang from his chair to walk with her, though it was evident he +was very comfortable where he was. And she! She had laughed at his +jokes; they were not very clever jokes, they were not very new. She +had probably read them herself months before in her own particular +weekly journal. Yet the harmless humbug made him happy. I wonder +if ten years hence she will laugh at such old humour, if ten years +hence he will take such clumsy pains to put her cape about her. +Experience shakes her head, and is amused at my question. + +I would have evening classes for the teaching of temper to married +couples, only I fear the institution would languish for lack of +pupils. The husbands would recommend their wives to attend, +generously offering to pay the fee as a birthday present. The wife +would be indignant at the suggestion of good money being thus +wasted. "No, John, dear," she would unselfishly reply, "you need +the lessons more than I do. It would be a shame for me to take them +away from you," and they would wrangle upon the subject for the rest +of the day. + +Oh! the folly of it. We pack our hamper for life's picnic with such +pains. We spend so much, we work so hard. We make choice pies, we +cook prime joints, we prepare so carefully the mayonnaise, we mix +with loving hands the salad, we cram the basket to the lid with +every delicacy we can think of. Everything to make the picnic a +success is there except the salt. Ah! woe is me, we forget the +salt. We slave at our desks, in our workshops, to make a home for +those we love; we give up our pleasures, we give up our rest. We +toil in our kitchen from morning till night, and we render the whole +feast tasteless for want of a ha'porth of salt--for want of a +soupcon of amiability, for want of a handful of kindly words, a +touch of caress, a pinch of courtesy. + +Who does not know that estimable housewife, working from eight till +twelve to keep the house in what she calls order? She is so good a +woman, so untiring, so unselfish, so conscientious, so irritating. +Her rooms are so clean, her servants so well managed, her children +so well dressed, her dinners so well cooked; the whole house so +uninviting. Everything about her is in apple-pie order, and +everybody wretched. + +My good Madam, you polish your tables, you scour your kettles, but +the most valuable piece of furniture in the whole house you are +letting to rack and ruin for want of a little pains. You will find +it in your own room, my dear Lady, in front of your own mirror. It +is getting shabby and dingy, old-looking before its time; the polish +is rubbed off it, Madam, it is losing its brightness and charm. Do +you remember when he first brought it home, how proud he was of it? +Do you think you have used it well, knowing how he valued it? A +little less care of your pots and your pans, Madam, a little more of +yourself were wiser. Polish yourself up, Madam; you had a pretty +wit once, a pleasant laugh, a conversation that was not confined +exclusively to the short-comings of servants, the wrong-doings of +tradesmen. My dear Madam, we do not live on spotless linen, and +crumbless carpets. Hunt out that bundle of old letters you keep +tied up in faded ribbon at the back of your bureau drawer--a pity +you don't read them oftener. He did not enthuse about your cuffs +and collars, gush over the neatness of your darning. It was your +tangled hair he raved about, your sunny smile (we have not seen it +for some years, Madam--the fault of the Cook and the Butcher, I +presume), your little hands, your rosebud mouth--it has lost its +shape, Madam, of late. Try a little less scolding of Mary Ann, and +practise a laugh once a day: you might get back the dainty curves. +It would be worth trying. It was a pretty mouth once. + +Who invented that mischievous falsehood that the way to a man's +heart was through his stomach? How many a silly woman, taking it +for truth, has let love slip out of the parlour, while she was busy +in the kitchen. Of course, if you were foolish enough to marry a +pig, I suppose you must be content to devote your life to the +preparation of hog's-wash. But are you sure that he IS a pig? If +by any chance he be not?--then, Madam, you are making a grievous +mistake. My dear Lady, you are too modest. If I may say so without +making you unduly conceited, even at the dinner-table itself, you +are of much more importance than the mutton. Courage, Madam, be not +afraid to tilt a lance even with your own cook. You can be more +piquant than the sauce a la Tartare, more soothing surely than the +melted butter. There was a time when he would not have known +whether he was eating beef or pork with you the other side of the +table. Whose fault is it? Don't think so poorly of us. We are not +ascetics, neither are we all gourmets: most of us plain men, fond +of our dinner, as a healthy man should be, but fonder still of our +sweethearts and wives, let us hope. Try us. A moderately-cooked +dinner--let us even say a not-too-well-cooked dinner, with you +looking your best, laughing and talking gaily and cleverly--as you +can, you know--makes a pleasanter meal for us, after the day's work +is done, than that same dinner, cooked to perfection, with you +silent, jaded, and anxious, your pretty hair untidy, your pretty +face wrinkled with care concerning the sole, with anxiety regarding +the omelette. + +My poor Martha, be not troubled about so many things. YOU are the +one thing needful--if the bricks and mortar are to be a home. See +to it that YOU are well served up, that YOU are done to perfection, +that YOU are tender and satisfying, that YOU are worth sitting down +to. We wanted a wife, a comrade, a friend; not a cook and a nurse +on the cheap. + +But of what use is it to talk? the world will ever follow its own +folly. When I think of all the good advice that I have given it, +and of the small result achieved, I confess I grow discouraged. I +was giving good advice to a lady only the other day. I was +instructing her as to the proper treatment of aunts. She was +sucking a lead-pencil, a thing I am always telling her not to do. +She took it out of her mouth to speak. + +"I suppose you know how everybody ought to do everything," she said. + +There are times when it is necessary to sacrifice one's modesty to +one's duty. + +"Of course I do," I replied. + +"And does Mama know how everybody ought to do everything?" was the +second question. + +My conviction on this point was by no means so strong, but for +domestic reasons I again sacrificed myself to expediency. + +"Certainly," I answered; "and take that pencil out of your mouth. +I've told you of that before. You'll swallow it one day, and then +you'll get perichondritis and die." + +She appeared to be solving a problem. + +"All grown-up people seem to know everything," she summarized. + +There are times when I doubt if children are as simple as they look. +If it be sheer stupidity that prompts them to make remarks of this +character, one should pity them, and seek to improve them. But if +it be not stupidity? well then, one should still seek to improve +them, but by a different method. + +The other morning I overheard the nurse talking to this particular +specimen. The woman is a most worthy creature, and she was +imparting to the child some really sound advice. She was in the +middle of an unexceptional exhortation concerning the virtue of +silence, when Dorothea interrupted her with-- + +"Oh, do be quiet, Nurse. I never get a moment's peace from your +chatter." + +Such an interruption discourages a woman who is trying to do her +duty. + +Last Tuesday evening she was unhappy. Myself, I think that rhubarb +should never be eaten before April, and then never with lemonade. +Her mother read her a homily upon the subject of pain. It was +impressed upon her that we must be patient, that we must put up with +the trouble that God sends us. Dorothea would descend to details, +as children will. + +"Must we put up with the cod-liver oil that God sends us?" + +"Yes, decidedly." + +"And with the nurses that God sends us?" + +"Certainly; and be thankful that you've got them, some little girls +haven't any nurse. And don't talk so much." + +On Friday I found the mother in tears. + +"What's the matter?" I asked. + +"Oh, nothing," was the answer; "only Baby. She's such a strange +child. I can't make her out at all. " + +"What has she been up to now?" + +"Oh, she will argue, you know." + +She has that failing. I don't know where she gets it from, but +she's got it. + +"Well?" + +"Well, she made me cross; and, to punish her, I told her she +shouldn't take her doll's perambulator out with her." + +"Yes?" + +"Well, she didn't say anything then, but so soon as I was outside +the door, I heard her talking to herself--you know her way?" + +"Yes?" + +"She said--" + +"Yes, she said?" + +"She said, 'I must be patient. I must put up with the mother God +has sent me.'" + +She lunches down-stairs on Sundays. We have her with us once a week +to give her the opportunity of studying manners and behaviour. +Milson had dropped in, and we were discussing politics. I was +interested, and, pushing my plate aside, leant forward with my +elbows on the table. Dorothea has a habit of talking to herself in +a high-pitched whisper capable of being heard above an Adelphi love +scene. I heard her say-- + +"I must sit up straight. I mustn't sprawl with my elbows on the +table. It is only common, vulgar people behave that way." + +I looked across at her; she was sitting most correctly, and appeared +to be contemplating something a thousand miles away. We had all of +us been lounging! We sat up stiffly, and conversation flagged. + +Of course we made a joke of it after the child was gone. But +somehow it didn't seem to be OUR joke. + +I wish I could recollect my childhood. I should so like to know if +children are as simple as they can look. + + + +ON THE DELIGHTS AND BENEFITS OF SLAVERY + +My study window looks down upon Hyde Park, and often, to quote the +familiar promise of each new magazine, it amuses and instructs me to +watch from my tower the epitome of human life that passes to and fro +beneath. At the opening of the gates, creeps in the woman of the +streets. Her pitiful work for the time being is over. Shivering in +the chill dawn, she passes to her brief rest. Poor Slave! Lured to +the galley's lowest deck, then chained there. Civilization, tricked +fool, they say has need of such. You serve as the dogs of Eastern +towns. But at least, it seems to me, we need not spit on you. Home +to your kennel! Perchance, if the Gods be kind, they may send you +dreams of a cleanly hearth, where you lie with a silver collar round +your neck. + +Next comes the labourer--the hewer of wood, the drawer of water- +-slouching wearily to his toil; sleep clinging still about his +leaden eyes, his pittance of food carried tied up in a dish-clout. +The first stroke of the hour clangs from Big Ben. Haste thee, +fellow-slave, lest the overseer's whip, "Out, we will have no +lie-a-beds here," descend upon thy patient back. + +Later, the artisan, with his bag of tools across his shoulder. He, +too, listens fearfully to the chiming of the bells. For him also +there hangs ready the whip. + +After him, the shop boy and the shop girl, making love as they walk, +not to waste time. And after these the slaves of the desk and of +the warehouse, employers and employed, clerks and tradesmen, office +boys and merchants. To your places, slaves of all ranks. Get you +unto your burdens. + +Now, laughing and shouting as they run, the children, the sons and +daughters of the slaves. Be industrious, little children, and learn +your lessons, that when the time comes you may be ready to take from +our hands the creaking oar, to slip into our seat at the roaring +loom. For we shall not be slaves for ever, little children. It is +the good law of the land. So many years in the galleys, so many +years in the fields; then we can claim our freedom. Then we shall +go, little children, back to the land of our birth. And you we must +leave behind us to take up the tale of our work. So, off to your +schools, little children, and learn to be good little slaves. + +Next, pompous and sleek, come the educated slaves--journalists, +doctors, judges, and poets; the attorney, the artist, the player, +the priest. They likewise scurry across the Park, looking anxiously +from time to time at their watches, lest they be late for their +appointments; thinking of the rates and taxes to be earned, of the +bonnets to be paid for, the bills to be met. The best scourged, +perhaps, of all, these slaves. The cat reserved for them has fifty +tails in place of merely two or three. Work, you higher +middle-class slave, or you shall come down to the smoking of +twopenny cigars; harder yet, or you shall drink shilling claret; +harder, or you shall lose your carriage and ride in a penny bus; +your wife's frocks shall be of last year's fashion; your trousers +shall bag at the knees; from Kensington you shall be banished to +Kilburn, if the tale of your bricks run short. Oh, a many-thonged +whip is yours, my genteel brother. + +The slaves of fashion are the next to pass beneath me in review. +They are dressed and curled with infinite pains. The liveried, +pampered footman these, kept more for show than use; but their +senseless tasks none the less labour to them. Here must they come +every day, merry or sad. By this gravel path and no other must they +walk; these phrases shall they use when they speak to one another. +For an hour they must go slowly up and down upon a bicycle from Hyde +Park Corner to the Magazine and back. And these clothes must they +wear; their gloves of this colour, their neck-ties of this pattern. +In the afternoon they must return again, this time in a carriage, +dressed in another livery, and for an hour they must pass slowly to +and fro in foolish procession. For dinner they must don yet another +livery, and after dinner they must stand about at dreary social +functions till with weariness and boredom their heads feel dropping +from their shoulders. + +With the evening come the slaves back from their work: barristers, +thinking out their eloquent appeals; school-boys, conning their +dog-eared grammars; City men, planning their schemes; the wearers of +motley, cudgelling their poor brains for fresh wit with which to +please their master; shop boys and shop girls, silent now as, +together, they plod homeward; the artisan; the labourer. Two or +three hours you shall have to yourselves, slaves, to think and love +and play, if you be not too tired to think, or love, or play. Then +to your litter, that you may be ready for the morrow's task. + +The twilight deepens into dark; there comes back the woman of the +streets. As the shadows, she rounds the City's day. Work strikes +its tent. Evil creeps from its peering place. + +So we labour, driven by the whip of necessity, an army of slaves. +If we do not our work, the whip descends upon us; only the pain we +feel in our stomach instead of on our back. And because of that, we +call ourselves free men. + +Some few among us bravely struggle to be really free: they are our +tramps and outcasts. We well-behaved slaves shrink from them, for +the wages of freedom in this world are vermin and starvation. We +can live lives worth living only by placing the collar round our +neck. + +There are times when one asks oneself: Why this endless labour? Why +this building of houses, this cooking of food, this making of +clothes? Is the ant so much more to be envied than the grasshopper, +because she spends her life in grubbing and storing, and can spare +no time for singing? Why this complex instinct, driving us to a +thousand labours to satisfy a thousand desires? We have turned the +world into a workshop to provide ourselves with toys. To purchase +luxury we have sold our ease. + +Oh, Children of Israel! why were ye not content in your wilderness? +It seems to have been a pattern wilderness. For you, a simple +wholesome food, ready cooked, was provided. You took no thought for +rent and taxes; you had no poor among you--no poor-rate collectors. +You suffered not from indigestion, nor the hundred ills that follow +over-feeding; an omer for every man was your portion, neither more +nor less. You knew not you had a liver. Doctors wearied you not +with their theories, their physics, and their bills. You were +neither landowners nor leaseholders, neither shareholders nor +debenture holders. The weather and the market reports troubled you +not. The lawyer was unknown to you; you wanted no advice; you had +nought to quarrel about with your neighbour. No riches were yours +for the moth and rust to damage. Your yearly income and expenditure +you knew would balance to a fraction. Your wife and children were +provided for. Your old age caused you no anxiety; you knew you +would always have enough to live upon in comfort. Your funeral, a +simple and tasteful affair, would be furnished by the tribe. And +yet, poor, foolish child, fresh from the Egyptian brickfield, you +could not rest satisfied. You hungered for the fleshpots, knowing +well what flesh-pots entail: the cleaning of the flesh-pots, the +forging of the flesh-pots, the hewing of wood to make the fires for +the boiling of the flesh-pots, the breeding of beasts to fill the +pots, the growing of fodder to feed the beasts to fill the pots. + +All the labour of our life is centred round our flesh-pots. On the +altar of the flesh-pot we sacrifice our leisure, our peace of mind. +For a mess of pottage we sell our birthright. + +Oh! Children of Israel, saw you not the long punishment you were +preparing for yourselves, when in your wilderness you set up the +image of the Calf, and fell before it, crying--"This shall be our +God." + +You would have veal. Thought you never of the price man pays for +Veal? The servants of the Golden Calf! I see them, stretched +before my eyes, a weary, endless throng. I see them toiling in the +mines, the black sweat on their faces. I see them in sunless +cities, silent, and grimy, and bent. I see them, ague-twisted, in +the rain-soaked fields. I see them, panting by the furnace doors. +I see them, in loin-cloth and necklace, the load upon their head. I +see them in blue coats and red coats, marching to pour their blood +as an offering on the altar of the Calf. I see them in homespun and +broadcloth, I see them in smock and gaiters, I see them in cap and +apron, the servants of the Calf. They swarm on the land and they +dot the sea. They are chained to the anvil and counter; they are +chained to the bench and the desk. They make ready the soil, they +till the fields where the Golden Calf is born. They build the ship, +and they sail the ship that carries the Golden Calf. They fashion +the pots, they mould the pans, they carve the tables, they turn the +chairs, they dream of the sauces, they dig for the salt, they weave +the damask, they mould the dish to serve the Golden Calf. + +The work of the world is to this end, that we eat of the Calf. War +and Commerce, Science and Law! what are they but the four pillars +supporting the Golden Calf? He is our God. It is on his back that +we have journeyed from the primeval forest, where our ancestors ate +nuts and fruit. He is our God. His temple is in every street. His +blue-robed priest stands ever at the door, calling to the people to +worship. Hark! his voice rises on the gas-tainted air--"Now's your +time! Now's your time! Buy! Buy! ye people. Bring hither the +sweat of your brow, the sweat of your brain, the ache of your heart, +buy Veal with it. Bring me the best years of your life. Bring me +your thoughts, your hopes, your loves; ye shall have Veal for them. +Now's your time! Now's your time! Buy! Buy!" + +Oh! Children of Israel, was Veal, even with all its trimmings, quite +worth the price? + +And we! what wisdom have we learned, during the centuries? I talked +with a rich man only the other evening. He calls himself a +Financier, whatever that may mean. He leaves his beautiful house, +some twenty miles out of London, at a quarter to eight, summer and +winter, after a hurried breakfast by himself, while his guests still +sleep, and he gets back just in time to dress for an elaborate +dinner he himself is too weary or too preoccupied to more than +touch. If ever he is persuaded to give himself a holiday it is for +a fortnight in Ostend, when it is most crowded and uncomfortable. +He takes his secretary with him, receives and despatches a hundred +telegrams a day, and has a private telephone, through which he can +speak direct to London, brought up into his bedroom. + +I suppose the telephone is really a useful invention. Business men +tell me they wonder how they contrived to conduct their affairs +without it. My own wonder always is, how any human being with the +ordinary passions of his race can conduct his business, or even +himself, creditably, within a hundred yards of the invention. I can +imagine Job, or Griselda, or Socrates liking to have a telephone +about them as exercise. Socrates, in particular, would have made +quite a reputation for himself out of a three months' subscription +to a telephone. Myself, I am, perhaps, too sensitive. I once lived +for a month in an office with a telephone, if one could call it +life. I was told that if I had stuck to the thing for two or three +months longer, I should have got used to it. I know friends of +mine, men once fearless and high-spirited, who now stand in front of +their own telephone for a quarter of an hour at a time, and never so +much as answer it back. They tell me that at first they used to +swear and shout at it as I did; but now their spirit seems crushed. +That is what happens: you either break the telephone, or the +telephone breaks you. You want to see a man two streets off. You +might put on your hat, and be round at his office in five minutes. +You are on the point of starting when the telephone catches your +eye. You think you will ring him up to make sure he is in. You +commence by ringing up some half-dozen times before anybody takes +any notice of you whatever. You are burning with indignation at +this neglect, and have left the instrument to sit down and pen a +stinging letter of complaint to the Company when the ring-back +re-calls you. You seize the ear trumpets, and shout-- + +"How is it that I can never get an answer when I ring? Here have I +been ringing for the last half-hour. I have rung twenty times." +(This is a falsehood. You have rung only six times, and the +"half-hour" is an absurd exaggeration; but you feel the mere truth +would not be adequate to the occasion.) "I think it disgraceful," +you continue, "and I shall complain to the Company. What is the use +of my having a telephone if I can't get any answer when I ring? +Here I pay a large sum for having this thing, and I can't get any +notice taken. I've been ringing all the morning. Why is it?" + +Then you wait for the answer. + +"What--what do you say? I can't hear what you say." + +"I say I've been ringing here for over an hour, and I can't get any +reply," you call back. "I shall complain to the Company." + +"You want what? Don't stand so near the tube. I can't hear what +you say. What number?" + +"Bother the number; I say why is it I don't get an answer when I +ring?" + +"Eight hundred and what?" + +You can't argue any more, after that. The machine would give way +under the language you want to make use of. Half of what you feel +would probably cause an explosion at some point where the wire was +weak. Indeed, mere language of any kind would fall short of the +requirements of the case. A hatchet and a gun are the only +intermediaries through which you could convey your meaning by this +time. So you give up all attempt to answer back, and meekly mention +that you want to be put in communication with four-five-seven-six. + +"Four-nine-seven-six?" says the girl. + +"No; four-five-seven-six." + +"Did you say seven-six or six-seven?" + +"Six-seven--no! I mean seven-six: no--wait a minute. I don't know +what I do mean now." + +"Well, I wish you'd find out," says the young lady severely. "You +are keeping me here all the morning." + +So you look up the number in the book again, and at last she tells +you that you are in connection; and then, ramming the trumpet tight +against your ear, you stand waiting. + +And if there is one thing more than another likely to make a man +feel ridiculous it is standing on tip-toe in a corner, holding a +machine to his head, and listening intently to nothing. Your back +aches and your head aches, your very hair aches. You hear the door +open behind you and somebody enter the room. You can't turn your +head. You swear at them, and hear the door close with a bang. It +immediately occurs to you that in all probability it was Henrietta. +She promised to call for you at half-past twelve: you were to take +her to lunch. It was twelve o'clock when you were fool enough to +mix yourself up with this infernal machine, and it probably is +half-past twelve by now. Your past life rises before you, +accompanied by dim memories of your grandmother. You are wondering +how much longer you can bear the strain of this attitude, and +whether after all you do really want to see the man in the next +street but two, when the girl in the exchange-room calls up to know +if you're done. + +"Done!" you retort bitterly; "why, I haven't begun yet." + +"Well, be quick," she says, "because you're wasting time." + +Thus admonished, you attack the thing again. "ARE you there?" you +cry in tones that ought to move the heart of a Charity Commissioner; +and then, oh joy! oh rapture! you hear a faint human voice replying- +- + +"Yes, what is it?" + +"Oh! Are you four-five-seven-six?" + +"What?" + +"Are you four-five-seven-six, Williamson?" + +"What! who are you?" + +"Eight-one-nine, Jones." + +"Bones?" + +"No, JONES. Are you four-five-seven-six?" + +"Yes; what is it?" + +"Is Mr. Williamson in?" + +"Will I what--who are you?" + +"Jones! Is Mr. Williamson in?" + +"Who?" + +"Williamson. Will-i-am-son!" + +"You're the son of what? I can't hear what you say." + +Then you gather yourself for one final effort, and succeed, by +superhuman patience, in getting the fool to understand that you wish +to know if Mr. Williamson is in, and he says, so it sounds to you, +"Be in all the morning." + +So you snatch up your hat and run round. + +"Oh, I've come to see Mr. Williamson," you say. + +"Very sorry, sir," is the polite reply, "but he's out." + +"Out? Why, you just now told me through the telephone that he'd be +in all the morning." + +"No, I said, he 'WON'T be in all the morning.'" + +You go back to the office, and sit down in front of that telephone +and look at it. There it hangs, calm and imperturbable. Were it an +ordinary instrument, that would be its last hour. You would go +straight down-stairs, get the coal-hammer and the kitchen-poker, and +divide it into sufficient pieces to give a bit to every man in +London. But you feel nervous of these electrical affairs, and there +is a something about that telephone, with its black hole and curly +wires, that cows you. You have a notion that if you don't handle it +properly something may come and shock you, and then there will be an +inquest, and bother of that sort, so you only curse it. + +That is what happens when you want to use the telephone from your +end. But that is not the worst that the telephone can do. A +sensible man, after a little experience, can learn to leave the +thing alone. Your worst troubles are not of your own making. You +are working against time; you have given instructions not to be +disturbed. Perhaps it is after lunch, and you are thinking with +your eyes closed, so that your thoughts shall not be distracted by +the objects about the room. In either case you are anxious not to +leave your chair, when off goes that telephone bell and you spring +from your chair, uncertain, for the moment, whether you have been +shot, or blown up with dynamite. It occurs to you in your weakness +that if you persist in taking no notice, they will get tired, and +leave you alone. But that is not their method. The bell rings +violently at ten-second intervals. You have nothing to wrap your +head up in. You think it will be better to get this business over +and done with. You go to your fate and call back savagely-- + +"What is it? What do you want?" + +No answer, only a confused murmur, prominent out of which come the +voices of two men swearing at one another. The language they are +making use of is disgraceful. The telephone seems peculiarly +adapted for the conveyance of blasphemy. Ordinary language sounds +indistinct through it; but every word those two men are saying can +be heard by all the telephone subscribers in London. + +It is useless attempting to listen till they have done. When they +are exhausted, you apply to the tube again. No answer is +obtainable. You get mad, and become sarcastic; only being sarcastic +when you are not sure that anybody is at the other end to hear you +is unsatisfying. + +At last, after a quarter of an hour or so of saying, "Are you +there?" "Yes, I'm here," "Well?" the young lady at the Exchange +asks what you want. + +"I don't want anything," you reply. + +"Then why do you keep talking?" she retorts; "you mustn't play with +the thing." + +This renders you speechless with indignation for a while, upon +recovering from which you explain that somebody rang you up. + +"WHO rang you up?" she asks. + +"I don't know." + +"I wish you did," she observes. + +Generally disgusted, you slam the trumpet up and return to your +chair. The instant you are seated the bell clangs again; and you +fly up and demand to know what the thunder they want, and who the +thunder they are. + +"Don't speak so loud, we can't hear you. What do you want?" is the +answer. + +"I don't want anything. What do you want? Why do you ring me up, +and then not answer me? Do leave me alone, if you can!" + +"We can't get Hong Kongs at seventy-four." + +"Well, I don't care if you can't." + +"Would you like Zulus?" + +"What are you talking about?" you reply; "I don't know what you +mean." + +"Would you like Zulus--Zulus at seventy-three and a half?" + +"I wouldn't have 'em at six a penny. What are you talking about?" + +"Hong Kongs--we can't get them at seventy-four. Oh, half-a-minute" +(the half-a-minute passes). "Are you there?" + +"Yes, but you are talking to the wrong man." + +"We can get you Hong Kongs at seventy-four and seven-eights." + +"Bother Hong Kongs, and you too. I tell you, you are talking to the +wrong man. I've told you once." + +"Once what?" + +"Why, that I am the wrong man--I mean that you are talking to the +wrong man." + +"Who are you?" + +"Eight-one-nine, Jones." + +"Oh, aren't you one-nine-eight?" + +"No." + +"Oh, good-bye." + +"Good-bye." + +How can a man after that sit down and write pleasantly of the +European crisis? And, if it were needed, herein lies another +indictment against the telephone. I was engaged in an argument, +which, if not in itself serious, was at least concerned with a +serious enough subject, the unsatisfactory nature of human riches; +and from that highly moral discussion have I been lured, by the +accidental sight of the word "telephone," into the writing of matter +which can have the effect only of exciting to frenzy all critics of +the New Humour into whose hands, for their sins, this book may come. +Let me forget my transgression and return to my sermon, or rather to +the sermon of my millionaire acquaintance. + +It was one day after dinner, we sat together in his magnificently +furnished dining-room. We had lighted our cigars at the silver +lamp. The butler had withdrawn. + +"These cigars we are smoking," my friend suddenly remarked, a propos +apparently of nothing, "they cost me five shillings apiece, taking +them by the thousand." + +"I can quite believe it," I answered; "they are worth it." + +"Yes, to you," he replied, almost savagely. "What do you usually +pay for your cigars?" + +We had known each other years ago. When I first met him his offices +consisted of a back room up three flights of stairs in a dingy by- +street off the Strand, which has since disappeared. We occasionally +dined together, in those days, at a restaurant in Great Portland +Street, for one and nine. Our acquaintanceship was of sufficient +standing to allow of such a question. + +"Threepence," I answered. "They work out at about twopence +three-farthings by the box." + +"Just so," he growled; "and your twopenny-three-farthing weed gives +you precisely the same amount of satisfaction that this five +shilling cigar affords me. That means four and ninepence farthing +wasted every time I smoke. I pay my cook two hundred a year. I +don't enjoy my dinner as much as when it cost me four shillings, +including a quarter flask of Chianti. What is the difference, +personally, to me whether I drive to my office in a carriage and +pair, or in an omnibus? I often do ride in a bus: it saves +trouble. It is absurd wasting time looking for one's coachman, when +the conductor of an omnibus that passes one's door is hailing one a +few yards off. Before I could afford even buses--when I used to +walk every morning to the office from Hammersmith--I was healthier. +It irritates me to think how hard I work for no earthly benefit to +myself. My money pleases a lot of people I don't care two straws +about, and who are only my friends in the hope of making something +out of me. If I could eat a hundred-guinea dinner myself every +night, and enjoy it four hundred times as much as I used to enjoy a +five-shilling dinner, there would be some sense in it. Why do I do +it?" + +I had never heard him talk like this before. In his excitement he +rose from the table, and commenced pacing the room. + +"Why don't I invest my money in the two and a half per cents?" he +continued. "At the very worst I should be safe for five thousand a +year. What, in the name of common sense, does a man want with more? +I am always saying to myself, I'll do it; why don't I? + +"Well, why not?" I echoed. + +"That's what I want you to tell me," he returned. "You set up for +understanding human nature, it's a mystery to me. In my place, you +would do as I do; you know that. If somebody left you a hundred +thousand pounds to-morrow, you would start a newspaper, or build a +theatre--some damn-fool trick for getting rid of the money and +giving yourself seventeen hours' anxiety a day; you know you would." + +I hung my head in shame. I felt the justice of the accusation. It +has always been my dream to run a newspaper and own a theatre. + +"If we worked only for what we could spend," he went on, "the City +might put up its shutters to-morrow morning. What I want to get at +the bottom of is this instinct that drives us to work apparently for +work's own sake. What is this strange thing that gets upon our back +and spurs us?" + +A servant entered at that moment with a cablegram from the manager +of one of his Austrian mines, and he had to leave me for his study. +But, walking home, I fell to pondering on his words. WHY this +endless work? Why each morning do we get up and wash and dress +ourselves, to undress ourselves at night and go to bed again? Why +do we work merely to earn money to buy food; and eat food so as to +gain strength that we may work? Why do we live, merely in the end +to say good-bye to one another? Why do we labour to bring children +into the world that they may die and be buried? + +Of what use our mad striving, our passionate desire? Will it matter +to the ages whether, once upon a time, the Union Jack or the +Tricolour floated over the battlements of Badajoz? Yet we poured +our blood into its ditches to decide the question. Will it matter, +in the days when the glacial period shall have come again, to clothe +the earth with silence, whose foot first trod the Pole? Yet, +generation after generation, we mile its roadway with our whitening +bones. So very soon the worms come to us; does it matter whether we +love, or hate? Yet the hot blood rushes through our veins, we wear +out heart and brain for shadowy hopes that ever fade as we press +forward. + +The flower struggles up from seed-pod, draws the sweet sap from the +ground, folds its petals each night, and sleeps. Then love comes to +it in a strange form, and it longs to mingle its pollen with the +pollen of some other flower. So it puts forth its gay blossoms, and +the wandering insect bears the message from seed-pod to seed-pod. +And the seasons pass, bringing with them the sunshine and the rain, +till the flower withers, never having known the real purpose for +which it lived, thinking the garden was made for it, not it for the +garden. The coral insect dreams in its small soul, which is +possibly its small stomach, of home and food. So it works and +strives deep down in the dark waters, never knowing of the +continents it is fashioning. + +But the question still remains: for what purpose is it all? +Science explains it to us. By ages of strife and effort we improve +the race; from ether, through the monkey, man is born. So, through +the labour of the coming ages, he will free himself still further +from the brute. Through sorrow and through struggle, by the sweat +of brain and brow, he will lift himself towards the angels. He will +come into his kingdom. + +But why the building? Why the passing of the countless ages? Why +should he not have been born the god he is to be, imbued at birth +with all the capabilities his ancestors have died acquiring? Why +the Pict and Hun that _I_ may be? Why _I_, that a descendant of my +own, to whom I shall seem a savage, shall come after me? Why, if +the universe be ordered by a Creator to whom all things are +possible, the protoplasmic cell? Why not the man that is to be? +Shall all the generations be so much human waste that he may live? +Am I but another layer of the soil preparing for him? + +Or, if our future be in other spheres, then why the need of this +planet? Are we labouring at some Work too vast for us to perceive? +Are our passions and desires mere whips and traces by the help of +which we are driven? Any theory seems more hopeful than the thought +that all our eager, fretful lives are but the turning of a useless +prison crank. Looking back the little distance that our dim eyes +can penetrate the past, what do we find? Civilizations, built up +with infinite care, swept aside and lost. Beliefs for which men +lived and died, proved to be mockeries. Greek Art crushed to the +dust by Gothic bludgeons. Dreams of fraternity, drowned in blood by +a Napoleon. What is left to us, but the hope that the work itself, +not the result, is the real monument? Maybe, we are as children, +asking, "Of what use are these lessons? What good will they ever be +to us?" But there comes a day when the lad understands why he +learnt grammar and geography, when even dates have a meaning for +him. But this is not until he has left school, and gone out into +the wider world. So, perhaps, when we are a little more grown up, +we too may begin to understand the reason for our living. + + + +ON THE CARE AND MANAGEMENT OF WOMEN + +I talked to a woman once on the subject of honeymoons. I said, +"Would you recommend a long honeymoon, or a Saturday to Monday +somewhere?" A silence fell upon her. I gathered she was looking +back rather than forward to her answer. + +"I would advise a long honeymoon," she replied at length, "the +old-fashioned month." + +"Why," I persisted, "I thought the tendency of the age was to cut +these things shorter and shorter." + +"It is the tendency of the age," she answered, "to seek escape from +many things it would be wiser to face. I think myself that, for +good or evil, the sooner it is over--the sooner both the man and the +woman know--the better." + +"The sooner what is over?" I asked. + +If she had a fault, this woman, about which I am not sure, it was an +inclination towards enigma. + +She crossed to the window and stood there, looking out. + +"Was there not a custom," she said, still gazing down into the wet, +glistening street, "among one of the ancient peoples, I forget +which, ordaining that when a man and woman, loving one another, or +thinking that they loved, had been joined together, they should go +down upon their wedding night to the temple? And into the dark +recesses of the temple, through many winding passages, the priest +led them until they came to the great chamber where dwelt the voice +of their god. There the priest left them, clanging-to the massive +door behind him, and there, alone in silence, they made their +sacrifice; and in the night the Voice spoke to them, showing them +their future life--whether they had chosen well; whether their love +would live or die. And in the morning the priest returned and led +them back into the day; and they dwelt among their fellows. But no +one was permitted to question them, nor they to answer should any do +so. Well, do you know, our nineteenth-century honeymoon at +Brighton, Switzerland, or Ramsgate, as the choice or necessity may +be, always seems to me merely another form of that night spent alone +in the temple before the altar of that forgotten god. Our young men +and women marry, and we kiss them and congratulate them; and, +standing on the doorstep, throw rice and old slippers, and shout +good wishes after them; and he waves his gloved hand to us, and she +flutters her little handkerchief from the carriage window; and we +watch their smiling faces and hear their laughter until the corner +hides them from our view. Then we go about our own business, and a +short time passes by; and one day we meet them again, and their +faces have grown older and graver; and I always wonder what the +Voice has told them during that little while that they have been +absent from our sight. But of course it would not do to ask them. +Nor would they answer truly if we did." + +My friend laughed, and, leaving the window, took her place beside +the tea-things, and other callers dropping in, we fell to talk of +pictures, plays, and people. + +But I felt it would be unwise to act on her sole advice, much as I +have always valued her opinion. + +A woman takes life too seriously. It is a serious affair to most of +us, the Lord knows. That is why it is well not to take it more +seriously than need be. + +Little Jack and little Jill fall down the hill, hurting their little +knees, and their little noses, spilling the hard-earned water. We +are very philosophical. + +"Oh, don't cry!" we tell them, "that is babyish. Little boys and +little girls must learn to bear pain. Up you get, fill the pail +again, and try once more." + +Little Jack and little Jill rub their dirty knuckles into their +little eyes, looking ruefully at their bloody little knees, and trot +back with the pail. We laugh at them, but not ill-naturedly. + +"Poor little souls," we say; "how they did hullabaloo. One might +have thought they were half-killed. And it was only a broken crown, +after all. What a fuss children make!" We bear with much stoicism +the fall of little Jack and little Jill. + +But when WE--grown-up Jack with moustache turning grey; grown-up +Jill with the first faint "crow's feet" showing--when WE tumble down +the hill, and OUR pail is spilt. Ye Heavens! what a tragedy has +happened. Put out the stars, turn off the sun, suspend the laws of +nature. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill, coming down the hill--what they +were doing on the hill we will not inquire--have slipped over a +stone, placed there surely by the evil powers of the universe. Mr. +Jack and Mrs. Jill have bumped their silly heads. Mr. Jack and Mrs. +Jill have hurt their little hearts, and stand marvelling that the +world can go about its business in the face of such disaster. + +Don't take the matter quite so seriously, Jack and Jill. You have +spilled your happiness, you must toil up the hill again and refill +the pail. Carry it more carefully next time. What were you doing? +Playing some fool's trick, I'll be bound. + +A laugh and a sigh, a kiss and good-bye, is our life. Is it worth +so much fretting? It is a merry life on the whole. Courage, +comrade. A campaign cannot be all drum and fife and stirrup-cup. +The marching and the fighting must come into it somewhere. There +are pleasant bivouacs among the vineyards, merry nights around the +camp fires. White hands wave a welcome to us; bright eyes dim at +our going. Would you run from the battle-music? What have you to +complain of? Forward: the medal to some, the surgeon's knife to +others; to all of us, sooner or later, six feet of mother earth. +What are you afraid of? Courage, comrade. + +There is a mean between basking through life with the smiling +contentment of the alligator, and shivering through it with the +aggressive sensibility of the Lama determined to die at every cross +word. To bear it as a man we must also feel it as a man. My +philosophic friend, seek not to comfort a brother standing by the +coffin of his child with the cheery suggestion that it will be all +the same a hundred years hence, because, for one thing, the +observation is not true: the man is changed for all eternity-- +possibly for the better, but don't add that. A soldier with a +bullet in his neck is never quite the man he was. But he can laugh +and he can talk, drink his wine and ride his horse. Now and again, +towards evening, when the weather is trying, the sickness will come +upon him. You will find him on a couch in a dark corner. + +"Hallo! old fellow, anything up?" + +"Oh, just a twinge, the old wound, you know. I will be better in a +little while." + +Shut the door of the dark room quietly. I should not stay even to +sympathize with him if I were you. The men will be coming to screw +the coffin down soon. I think he would like to be alone with it +till then. Let us leave him. He will come back to the club later +on in the season. For a while we may have to give him another ten +points or so, but he will soon get back his old form. Now and +again, when he meets the other fellows' boys shouting on the +towing-path; when Brown rushes up the drive, paper in hand, to tell +him how that young scapegrace Jim has won his Cross; when he is +congratulating Jones's eldest on having passed with honours, the old +wound may give him a nasty twinge. But the pain will pass away. He +will laugh at our stories and tell us his own; eat his dinner, play +his rubber. It is only a wound. + +Tommy can never be ours, Jenny does not love us. We cannot afford +claret, so we will have to drink beer. Well, what would you have us +do? Yes, let us curse Fate by all means--some one to curse is +always useful. Let us cry and wring our hands--for how long? The +dinner-bell will ring soon, and the Smiths are coming. We shall +have to talk about the opera and the picture-galleries. Quick, +where is the eau-de-Cologne? where are the curling-tongs? Or would +you we committed suicide? Is it worth while? Only a few more +years--perhaps to-morrow, by aid of a piece of orange peel or a +broken chimney-pot--and Fate will save us all that trouble. + +Or shall we, as sulky children, mope day after day? We are a +broken-hearted little Jack--little Jill. We will never smile again; +we will pine away and die, and be buried in the spring. The world +is sad, and life so cruel, and heaven so cold. Oh dear! oh dear! we +have hurt ourselves. + +We whimper and whine at every pain. In old strong days men faced +real dangers, real troubles every hour; they had no time to cry. +Death and disaster stood ever at the door. Men were contemptuous of +them. Now in each snug protected villa we set to work to make +wounds out of scratches. Every head-ache becomes an agony, every +heart-ache a tragedy. It took a murdered father, a drowned +sweetheart, a dishonoured mother, a ghost, and a slaughtered Prime +Minister to produce the emotions in Hamlet that a modern minor poet +obtains from a chorus girl's frown, or a temporary slump on the +Stock Exchange. Like Mrs. Gummidge, we feel it more. The lighter +and easier life gets the more seriously we go out to meet it. The +boatmen of Ulysses faced the thunder and the sunshine alike with +frolic welcome. We modern sailors have grown more sensitive. The +sunshine scorches us, the rain chills us. We meet both with loud +self-pity. + +Thinking these thoughts, I sought a second friend--a man whose +breezy common-sense has often helped me, and him likewise I +questioned on this subject of honeymoons. + +"My dear boy," he replied; "take my advice, if ever you get married, +arrange it so that the honeymoon shall only last a week, and let it +be a bustling week into the bargain. Take a Cook's circular tour. +Get married on the Saturday morning, cut the breakfast and all that +foolishness, and catch the eleven-ten from Charing Cross to Paris. +Take her up the Eiffel Tower on Sunday. Lunch at Fontainebleau. +Dine at the Maison Doree, and show her the Moulin Rouge in the +evening. Take the night train for Lucerne. Devote Monday and +Tuesday to doing Switzerland, and get into Rome by Thursday morning, +taking the Italian lakes en route. On Friday cross to Marseilles, +and from there push along to Monte Carlo. Let her have a flutter at +the tables. Start early Saturday morning for Spain, cross the +Pyrenees on mules, and rest at Bordeaux on Sunday. Get back to +Paris on Monday (Monday is always a good day for the opera), and on +Tuesday evening you will be at home, and glad to get there. Don't +give her time to criticize you until she has got used to you. No +man will bear unprotected exposure to a young girl's eyes. The +honeymoon is the matrimonial microscope. Wobble it. Confuse it +with many objects. Cloud it with other interests. Don't sit still +to be examined. Besides, remember that a man always appears at his +best when active, and a woman at her worst. Bustle her, my dear +boy, bustle her: I don't care who she may be. Give her plenty of +luggage to look after; make her catch trains. Let her see the +average husband sprawling comfortably over the railway cushions, +while his wife has to sit bolt upright in the corner left to her. +Let her hear how other men swear. Let her smell other men's +tobacco. Hurry up, and get her accustomed quickly to the sight of +mankind. Then she will be less surprised and shocked as she grows +to know you. One of the best fellows I ever knew spoilt his married +life beyond repair by a long quiet honeymoon. They went off for a +month to a lonely cottage in some heaven-forsaken spot, where never +a soul came near them, and never a thing happened but morning, +afternoon, and night. There for thirty days she overhauled him. +When he yawned--and he yawned pretty often, I guess, during that +month--she thought of the size of his mouth, and when he put his +heels upon the fender she sat and brooded upon the shape of his +feet. At meal-time, not feeling hungry herself, having nothing to +do to make her hungry, she would occupy herself with watching him +eat; and at night, not feeling sleepy for the same reason, she would +lie awake and listen to his snoring. After the first day or two he +grew tired of talking nonsense, and she of listening to it (it +sounded nonsense now they could speak it aloud; they had fancied it +poetry when they had had to whisper it); and having no other +subject, as yet, of common interest, they would sit and stare in +front of them in silence. One day some trifle irritated him and he +swore. On a busy railway platform, or in a crowded hotel, she would +have said, 'Oh!' and they would both have laughed. From that +echoing desert the silly words rose up in widening circles towards +the sky, and that night she cried herself to sleep. Bustle them, my +dear boy, bustle them. We all like each other better the less we +think about one another, and the honeymoon is an exceptionally +critical time. Bustle her, my dear boy, bustle her." + +My very worst honeymoon experience took place in the South of +England in eighteen hundred and--well, never mind the exact date, +let us say a few years ago. I was a shy young man at that time. +Many complain of my reserve to this day, but then some girls expect +too much from a man. We all have our shortcomings. Even then, +however, I was not so shy as she. We had to travel from Lyndhurst +in the New Forest to Ventnor, an awkward bit of cross-country work +in those days. + +"It's so fortunate you are going too," said her aunt to me on the +Tuesday; "Minnie is always nervous travelling alone. You will be +able to look after her, and I shan't be anxious. + +I said it would be a pleasure, and at the time I honestly thought +it. On the Wednesday I went down to the coach office, and booked +two places for Lymington, from where we took the steamer. I had not +a suspicion of trouble. + +The booking-clerk was an elderly man. He said-- + +"I've got the box seat, and the end place on the back bench." + +I said-- + +"Oh, can't I have two together?" + +He was a kindly-looking old fellow. He winked at me. I wondered +all the way home why he had winked at me. He said-- + +"I'll manage it somehow." + +I said-- + +"It's very kind of you, I'm sure. + +He laid his hand on my shoulder. He struck me as familiar, but +well-intentioned. He said-- + +"We have all of us been there." + +I thought he was alluding to the Isle of Wight. I said-- + +"And this is the best time of the year for it, so I'm told." It was +early summer time. + +He said--"It's all right in summer, and it's good enough in winter- +-WHILE IT LASTS. You make the most of it, young 'un;" and he +slapped me on the back and laughed. + +He would have irritated me in another minute. I paid for the seats +and left him. + +At half-past eight the next morning Minnie and I started for the +coach-office. I call her Minnie, not with any wish to be +impertinent, but because I have forgotten her surname. It must be +ten years since I last saw her. She was a pretty girl, too, with +those brown eyes that always cloud before they laugh. Her aunt did +not drive down with us as she had intended, in consequence of a +headache. She was good enough to say she felt every confidence in +me. + +The old booking-clerk caught sight of us when we were about a +quarter of a mile away, and drew to us the attention of the +coachman, who communicated the fact of our approach to the gathered +passengers. Everybody left off talking, and waited for us. The +boots seized his horn, and blew--one could hardly call it a blast; +it would be difficult to say what he blew. He put his heart into +it, but not sufficient wind. I think his intention was to welcome +us, but it suggested rather a feeble curse. We learnt subsequently +that he was a beginner on the instrument. + +In some mysterious way the whole affair appeared to be our party. +The booking-clerk bustled up and helped Minnie from the cart. I +feared, for a moment, he was going to kiss her. The coachman +grinned when I said good-morning to him. The passengers grinned, +the boots grinned. Two chamber-maids and a waiter came out from the +hotel, and they grinned. I drew Minnie aside, and whispered to her. +I said-- + +"There's something funny about us. All these people are grinning." + +She walked round me, and I walked round her, but we could neither of +us discover anything amusing about the other. The booking-clerk +said-- + +"It's all right. I've got you young people two places just behind +the box-seat. We'll have to put five of you on that seat. You +won't mind sitting a bit close, will you?" + +The booking-clerk winked at the coachman, the coachman winked at the +passengers, the passengers winked at one another--those of them who +could wink--and everybody laughed. The two chamber-maids became +hysterical, and had to cling to each other for support. With the +exception of Minnie and myself, it seemed to be the merriest coach +party ever assembled at Lyndhurst. + +We had taken our places, and I was still busy trying to fathom the +joke, when a stout lady appeared on the scene, and demanded to know +her place. + +The clerk explained to her that it was in the middle behind the +driver. + +"We've had to put five of you on that seat," added the clerk. + +The stout lady looked at the seat. + +"Five of us can't squeeze into that," she said. + +Five of her certainly could not. Four ordinary sized people with +her would find it tight. + +"Very well then," said the clerk, "you can have the end place on the +back seat." + +"Nothing of the sort," said the stout lady. "I booked my seat on +Monday, and you told me any of the front places were vacant. + +"I'LL take the back place," I said, "I don't mind it. + +"You stop where you are, young 'un," said the clerk, firmly, "and +don't be a fool. I'll fix HER." + +I objected to his language, but his tone was kindness itself. + +"Oh, let ME have the back seat," said Minnie, rising, "I'd so like +it." + +For answer the coachman put both his hands on her shoulders. He was +a heavy man, and she sat down again. + +"Now then, mum," said the clerk, addressing the stout lady, "are you +going up there in the middle, or are you coming up here at the +back?" + +"But why not let one of them take the back seat?" demanded the stout +lady, pointing her reticule at Minnie and myself; "they say they'd +like it. Let them have it." + +The coachman rose, and addressed his remarks generally. + +"Put her up at the back, or leave her behind," he directed. "Man +and wife have never been separated on this coach since I started +running it fifteen year ago, and they ain't going to be now." + +A general cheer greeted this sentiment. The stout lady, now +regarded as a would-be blighter of love's young dream, was hustled +into the back seat, the whip cracked, and away we rolled. + +So here was the explanation. We were in a honeymoon district, in +June--the most popular month in the whole year for marriage. Every +two out of three couples found wandering about the New Forest in +June are honeymoon couples; the third are going to be. When they +travel anywhere it is to the Isle of Wight. We both had on new +clothes. Our bags happened to be new. By some evil chance our very +umbrellas were new. Our united ages were thirty-seven. The wonder +would have been had we NOT been mistaken for a young married couple. + +A day of greater misery I have rarely passed. To Minnie, so her +aunt informed me afterwards, the journey was the most terrible +experience of her life, but then her experience, up to that time, +had been limited. She was engaged, and devotedly attached, to a +young clergyman; I was madly in love with a somewhat plump girl +named Cecilia who lived with her mother at Hampstead. I am positive +as to her living at Hampstead. I remember so distinctly my weekly +walk down the hill from Church Row to the Swiss Cottage station. +When walking down a steep hill all the weight of the body is forced +into the toe of the boot, and when the boot is two sizes too small +for you, and you have been living in it since the early afternoon, +you remember a thing like that. But all my recollections of Cecilia +are painful, and it is needless to pursue them. + +Our coach-load was a homely party, and some of the jokes were +broad--harmless enough in themselves, had Minnie and I really been +the married couple we were supposed to be, but even in that case +unnecessary. I can only hope that Minnie did not understand them. +Anyhow, she looked as if she didn't. + +I forget where we stopped for lunch, but I remember that lamb and +mint sauce was on the table, and that the circumstance afforded the +greatest delight to all the party, with the exception of the stout +lady, who was still indignant, Minnie and myself. About my +behaviour as a bridegroom opinion appeared to be divided. "He's a +bit standoffish with her," I overheard one lady remark to her +husband; "I like to see 'em a bit kittenish myself." A young +waitress, on the other hand, I am happy to say, showed more sense of +natural reserve. "Well, I respect him for it," she was saying to +the barmaid, as we passed through the hall; "I'd just hate to be +fuzzled over with everybody looking on." Nobody took the trouble to +drop their voices for our benefit. We might have been a pair of +prize love birds on exhibition, the way we were openly discussed. +By the majority we were clearly regarded as a sulky young couple who +would not go through their tricks. + +I have often wondered since how a real married couple would have +faced the situation. Possibly, had we consented to give a short +display of marital affection, "by desire," we might have been left +in peace for the remainder of the journey. + +Our reputation preceded us on to the steamboat. Minnie begged and +prayed me to let it be known we were not married. How I was to let +it be known, except by requesting the captain to summon the whole +ship's company on deck, and then making them a short speech, I could +not think. Minnie said she could not bear it any longer, and +retired to the ladies' cabin. She went off crying. Her trouble was +attributed by crew and passengers to my coldness. One fool planted +himself opposite me with his legs apart, and shook his head at me. + +"Go down and comfort her," he began. "Take an old man's advice. +Put your arms around her. " (He was one of those sentimental +idiots.) "Tell her that you love her." + +I told him to go and hang himself, with so much vigour that he all +but fell overboard. He was saved by a poultry crate: I had no luck +that day. + +At Ryde the guard, by superhuman effort, contrived to keep us a +carriage to ourselves. I gave him a shilling, because I did not +know what else to do. I would have made it half-a-sovereign if he +had put eight other passengers in with us. At every station people +came to the window to look in at us. + +I handed Minnie over to her father on Ventnor platform; and I took +the first train the next morning, to London. I felt I did not want +to see her again for a little while; and I felt convinced she could +do without a visit from me. Our next meeting took place the week +before her marriage. + +"Where are you going to spend your honeymoon?" I asked her; "in the +New Forest?" + +"No," she replied; "nor in the Isle of Wight." + +To enjoy the humour of an incident one must be at some distance from +it either in time or relationship. I remember watching an amusing +scene in Whitefield Street, just off Tottenham Court Road, one +winter's Saturday night. A woman--a rather respectable looking +woman, had her hat only been on straight--had just been shot out of +a public-house. She was very dignified, and very drunk. A +policeman requested her to move on. She called him "Fellow," and +demanded to know of him if he considered that was the proper tone in +which to address a lady. She threatened to report him to her +cousin, the Lord Chancellor. + +"Yes; this way to the Lord Chancellor," retorted the policeman. +"You come along with me; " and he caught hold of her by the arm. + +She gave a lurch, and nearly fell. To save her the man put his arm +round her waist. She clasped him round the neck, and together they +spun round two or three times; while at the very moment a piano- +organ at the opposite corner struck up a waltz. + +"Choose your partners, gentlemen, for the next dance," shouted a +wag, and the crowd roared. + +I was laughing myself, for the situation was undeniably comical, the +constable's expression of disgust being quite Hogarthian, when the +sight of a child's face beneath the gas-lamp stayed me. Her look +was so full of terror that I tried to comfort her. + +"It's only a drunken woman," I said; "he's not going to hurt her." + +"Please, sir," was the answer, "it's my mother." + +Our joke is generally another's pain. The man who sits down on the +tin-tack rarely joins in the laugh + + + +ON THE MINDING OF OTHER PEOPLE'S BUSINESS + +I walked one bright September morning in the Strand. I love London +best in the autumn. Then only can one see the gleam of its white +pavements, the bold, unbroken outline of its streets. I love the +cool vistas one comes across of mornings in the parks, the soft +twilights that linger in the empty bye-streets. In June the +restaurant manager is off-hand with me; I feel I am but in his way. +In August he spreads for me the table by the window, pours out for +me my wine with his own fat hands. I cannot doubt his regard for +me: my foolish jealousies are stilled. Do I care for a drive after +dinner through the caressing night air, I can climb the omnibus +stair without a preliminary fight upon the curb, can sit with easy +conscience and unsquashed body, not feeling I have deprived some +hot, tired woman of a seat. Do I desire the play, no harsh, +forbidding "House full" board repels me from the door. During her +season, London, a harassed hostess, has no time for us, her +intimates. Her rooms are overcrowded, her servants overworked, her +dinners hurriedly cooked, her tone insincere. In the spring, to be +truthful, the great lady condescends to be somewhat vulgar--noisy +and ostentatious. Not till the guests are departed is she herself +again, the London that we, her children, love. + +Have you, gentle Reader, ever seen London--not the London of the +waking day, coated with crawling life, as a blossom with blight, but +the London of the morning, freed from her rags, the patient city, +clad in mists? Get you up with the dawn one Sunday in summer time. +Wake none else, but creep down stealthily into the kitchen, and make +your own tea and toast. + +Be careful you stumble not over the cat. She will worm herself +insidiously between your legs. It is her way; she means it in +friendship. Neither bark your shins against the coal-box. Why the +kitchen coal-box has its fixed place in the direct line between the +kitchen door and the gas-bracket I cannot say. I merely know it as +an universal law; and I would that you escaped that coal-box, lest +the frame of mind I desire for you on this Sabbath morning be +dissipated. + +A spoon to stir your tea, I fear you must dispense with. Knives and +forks you will discover in plenty; blacking brushes you will put +your hand upon in every drawer; of emery paper, did one require it, +there are reams; but it is a point with every housekeeper that the +spoons be hidden in a different place each night. If anybody +excepting herself can find them in the morning, it is a slur upon +her. No matter, a stick of firewood, sharpened at one end, makes an +excellent substitute. + +Your breakfast done, turn out the gas, remount the stairs quietly, +open gently the front door and slip out. You will find yourself in +an unknown land. A strange city grown round you in the night. + +The sweet long streets lie silent in sunlight. Not a living thing +is to be seen save some lean Tom that slinks from his gutter feast +as you approach. From some tree there will sound perhaps a fretful +chirp: but the London sparrow is no early riser; he is but talking +in his sleep. The slow tramp of unseen policeman draws near or dies +away. The clatter of your own footsteps goes with you, troubling +you. You find yourself trying to walk softly, as one does in +echoing cathedrals. A voice is everywhere about you whispering to +you "Hush." Is this million-breasted City then some tender Artemis, +seeking to keep her babes asleep? "Hush, you careless wayfarer; do +not waken them. Walk lighter; they are so tired, these myriad +children of mine, sleeping in my thousand arms. They are +over-worked and over-worried; so many of them are sick, so many +fretful, many of them, alas, so full of naughtiness. But all of +them so tired. Hush! they worry me with their noise and riot when +they are awake. They are so good now they are asleep. Walk +lightly, let them rest." + +Where the ebbing tide flows softly through worn arches to the sea, +you may hear the stone-faced City talking to the restless waters: +"Why will you never stay with me? Why come but to go?" + +"I cannot say, I do not understand. From the deep sea I come, but +only as a bird loosed from a child's hand with a cord. When she +calls I must return." + +"It is so with these children of mine. They come to me, I know not +whence. I nurse them for a little while, till a hand I do not see +plucks them back. And others take their place." + +Through the still air there passes a ripple of sound. The sleeping +City stirs with a faint sigh. A distant milk-cart rattling by +raises a thousand echoes; it is the vanguard of a yoked army. Soon +from every street there rises the soothing cry, +"Mee'hilk--mee'hilk." + +London like some Gargantuan babe, is awake, crying for its milk. +These be the white-smocked nurses hastening with its morning +nourishment. The early church bells ring. "You have had your milk, +little London. Now come and say your prayers. Another week has +just begun, baby London. God knows what will happen, say your +prayers." + +One by one the little creatures creep from behind the blinds into +the streets. The brooding tenderness is vanished from the City's +face. The fretful noises of the day have come again. Silence, her +lover of the night, kisses her stone lips, and steals away. And +you, gentle Reader, return home, garlanded with the self-sufficiency +of the early riser. + +But it was of a certain week-day morning, in the Strand that I was +thinking. I was standing outside Gatti's Restaurant, where I had +just breakfasted, listening leisurely to an argument between an +indignant lady passenger, presumably of Irish extraction, and an +omnibus conductor. + +"For what d'ye want thin to paint Putney on ye'r bus, if ye don't GO +to Putney?" said the, lady. + +"We DO go to Putney," said the conductor. + +"Thin why did ye put me out here?" + +"I didn't put you out, yer got out." + +"Shure, didn't the gintleman in the corner tell me I was comin' +further away from Putney ivery minit?" + +"Wal, and so yer was." + +"Thin whoy didn't you tell me?" + +"How was I to know yer wanted to go to Putney? Yer sings out +Putney, and I stops and in yer jumps." + +"And for what d'ye think I called out Putney thin?" + +"'Cause it's my name, or rayther the bus's name. This 'ere IS a +Putney." + +"How can it be a Putney whin it isn't goin' to Putney, ye +gomerhawk?" + +"Ain't you an Hirishwoman?" retorted the conductor. "Course yer +are. But yer aren't always goin' to Ireland. We're goin' to Putney +in time, only we're a-going to Liverpool Street fust. 'Igher up, +Jim." + +The bus moved on, and I was about cross the road, when a man, +muttering savagely to himself, walked into me. He would have swept +past me had I not, recognizing him, arrested him. It was my friend +B-----, a busy editor of magazines and journals. It was some +seconds before he appeared able to struggle out of his abstraction, +and remember himself. "Halloo," he then said, "who would have +thought of seeing YOU here?" + +"To judge by the way you were walking," I replied, "one would +imagine the Strand the last place in which you expected to see any +human being. Do you ever walk into a short-tempered, muscular man?" + +"Did I walk into you?" he asked surprised. + +"Well, not right in," I answered, "I if we are to be literal. You +walked on to me; if I had not stopped you, I suppose you would have +walked over me." + +"It is this confounded Christmas business," he explained. "It +drives me off my head." + +"I have heard Christmas advanced as an excuse for many things," I +replied, "but not early in September." + +"Oh, you know what I mean," he answered, "we are in the middle of +our Christmas number. I am working day and night upon it. By the +bye," he added, "that puts me in mind. I am arranging a symposium, +and I want you to join. 'Should Christmas,'"--I interrupted him. + +"My dear fellow," I said, "I commenced my journalistic career when I +was eighteen, and I have continued it at intervals ever since. I +have written about Christmas from the sentimental point of view; I +have analyzed it from the philosophical point of view; and I have +scarified it from the sarcastic standpoint. I have treated +Christmas humorously for the Comics, and sympathetically for the +Provincial Weeklies. I have said all that is worth saying on the +subject of Christmas--maybe a trifle more. I have told the +new-fashioned Christmas story--you know the sort of thing: your +heroine tries to understand herself, and, failing, runs off with the +man who began as the hero; your good woman turns out to be really +bad when one comes to know her; while the villain, the only decent +person in the story, dies with an enigmatic sentence on his lips +that looks as if it meant something, but which you yourself would be +sorry to have to explain. I have also written the old-fashioned +Christmas story--you know that also: you begin with a good +old-fashioned snowstorm; you have a good old-fashioned squire, and +he lives in a good old-fashioned Hall; you work in a good +old-fashioned murder; and end up with a good old-fashioned Christmas +dinner. I have gathered Christmas guests together round the +crackling logs to tell ghost stories to each other on Christmas Eve, +while without the wind howled, as it always does on these occasions, +at its proper cue. I have sent children to Heaven on Christmas +Eve--it must be quite a busy time for St. Peter, Christmas morning, +so many good children die on Christmas Eve. It has always been a +popular night with them.--I have revivified dead lovers and brought +them back well and jolly, just in time to sit down to the Christmas +dinner. I am not ashamed of having done these things. At the time +I thought them good. I once loved currant wine and girls with +towzley hair. One's views change as one grows older. I have +discussed Christmas as a religious festival. I have arraigned it as +a social incubus. If there be any joke connected with Christmas +that I have not already made I should be glad to hear it. I have +trotted out the indigestion jokes till the sight of one of them +gives me indigestion myself. I have ridiculed the family gathering. +I have scoffed at the Christmas present. I have made witty use of +paterfamilias and his bills. I have--" + +"Did I ever show you," I broke off to ask as we were crossing the +Haymarket, "that little parody of mine on Poe's poem of 'The Bells'? +It begins--" He interrupted me in his turn-- + +"Bills, bills, bills," he repeated. + +"You are quite right," I admitted. "I forgot I ever showed it to +you." + +"You never did," he replied. + +"Then how do you know how it begins?" I asked. + +"I don't know for certain," he admitted, "but I get, on an average, +sixty-five a year submitted to me, and they all begin that way. I +thought, perhaps, yours did also." + +"I don't see how else it could begin," I retorted. He had rather +annoyed me. "Besides, it doesn't matter how a poem begins, it is +how it goes on that is the important thing and anyhow, I'm not going +to write you anything about Christmas. Ask me to make you a new +joke about a plumber; suggest my inventing something original and +not too shocking for a child to say about heaven; propose my running +you off a dog story that can be believed by a man of average +determination and we may come to terms. But on the subject of +Christmas I am taking a rest." + +By this time we had reached Piccadilly Circus. + +"I don't blame you," he said, "if you are as sick of the subject as +I am. So soon as these Christmas numbers are off my mind, and +Christmas is over till next June at the office, I shall begin it at +home. The housekeeping is gone up a pound a week already. I know +what that means. The dear little woman is saving up to give me an +expensive present that I don't want. I think the presents are the +worst part of Christmas. Emma will give me a water-colour that she +has painted herself. She always does. There would be no harm in +that if she did not expect me to hang it in the drawing room. Have +you ever seen my cousin Emma's water-colours?" he asked. + +"I think I have," I replied. + +"There's no thinking about it," he retorted angrily. "They're not +the sort of water-colours you forget." + +He apostrophized the Circus generally. + +"Why do people do these things?" he demanded. "Even an amateur +artist must have SOME sense. Can't they see what is happening? +There's that thing of hers hanging in the passage. I put it in the +passage because there's not much light in the passage. She's +labelled it Reverie. If she had called it Influenza I could have +understood it. I asked her where she got the idea from, and she +said she saw the sky like that one evening in Norfolk. Great +Heavens! then why didn't she shut her eyes or go home and hide +behind the bed-curtains? If I had seen a sky like that in Norfolk I +should have taken the first train back to London. I suppose the +poor girl can't help seeing these things, but why paint them?" + +I said, "I suppose painting is a necessity to some natures." + +"But why give the things to me?" he pleaded. + +I could offer him no adequate reason. + +"The idiotic presents that people give you!" he continued. "I said +I'd like Tennyson's poems one year. They had worried me to know +what I did want. I didn't want anything really; that was the only +thing I could think of that I wasn't dead sure I didn't want. Well, +they clubbed together, four of them, and gave me Tennyson in twelve +volumes, illustrated with coloured photographs. They meant kindly, +of course. If you suggest a tobacco-pouch they give you a blue +velvet bag capable of holding about a pound, embroidered with +flowers, life-size. The only way one could use it would be to put a +strap to it and wear it as a satchel. Would you believe it, I have +got a velvet smoking-jacket, ornamented with forget-me-nots and +butterflies in coloured silk; I'm not joking. And they ask me why I +never wear it. I'll bring it down to the Club one of these nights +and wake the place up a bit: it needs it." + +We had arrived by this at the steps of the 'Devonshire.' + +"And I'm just as bad," he went on, "when I give presents. I never +give them what they want. I never hit upon anything that is of any +use to anybody. If I give Jane a chinchilla tippet, you may be +certain chinchilla is the most out-of-date fur that any woman could +wear. 'Oh! that is nice of you,' she says; 'now that is just the +very thing I wanted. I will keep it by me till chinchilla comes in +again.' I give the girls watch-chains when nobody is wearing +watch-chains. When watch-chains are all the rage I give them +ear-rings, and they thank me, and suggest my taking them to a +fancy-dress ball, that being their only chance to wear the +confounded things. I waste money on white gloves with black backs, +to find that white gloves with black backs stamp a woman as +suburban. I believe all the shop-keepers in London save their old +stock to palm it off on me at Christmas time. And why does it +always take half-a-dozen people to serve you with a pair of gloves, +I'd like to know? Only last week Jane asked me to get her some +gloves for that last Mansion House affair. I was feeling amiable, +and I thought I would do the thing handsomely. I hate going into a +draper's shop; everybody stares at a man as if he were forcing his +way into the ladies' department of a Turkish bath. One of those +marionette sort of men came up to me and said it was a fine morning. +What the devil did I want to talk about the morning to him for? I +said I wanted some gloves. I described them to the best of my +recollection. I said, 'I want them four buttons, but they are not +to be button-gloves; the buttons are in the middle and they reach up +to the elbow, if you know what I mean.' He bowed, and said he +understood exactly what I meant, which was a damned sight more than +I did. I told him I wanted three pair cream and three pair +fawn-coloured, and the fawn-coloured were to be swedes. He +corrected me. He said I meant 'Suede.' I dare say he was right, +but the interruption put me off, and I had to begin over again. He +listened attentively until I had finished. I guess I was about five +minutes standing with him there close to the door. He said, 'Is +that all you require, sir, this morning?' I said it was. + +"' Thank you, sir,' he replied. 'This way, please, sir.' + +"He took me into another room, and there we met a man named Jansen, +to whom he briefly introduced me as a gentleman who 'desired +gloves.' 'Yes, sir,' said Mr. Jansen; and what sort of gloves do +you desire?' + +"I told him I wanted six pairs altogether--three suede, +fawn-coloured, and three cream-coloured--kids. + +"He said, 'Do you mean kid gloves, sir, or gloves for children?' + +"He made me angry by that. I told him I was not in the habit of +using slang. Nor am I when buying gloves. He said he was sorry. I +explained to him about the buttons, so far as I could understand it +myself, and about the length. I asked him to see to it that the +buttons were sewn on firmly, and that the stitching everywhere was +perfect, adding that the last gloves my wife had had of his firm had +been most unsatisfactory. Jane had impressed upon me to add that. +She said it would make them more careful. + +"He listened to me in rapt ecstacy. I might have been music. + +"'And what size, sir?' he asked. + +"I had forgotten that. 'Oh, sixes,' I answered, 'unless they are +very stretchy indeed, in which case they had better be five and +three-quarter.' + +"'Oh, and the stitching on the cream is to be black,' I added. That +was another thing I had forgotten. + +"'Thank you very much,' said Mr. Jansen; 'is there anything else +that you require this morning?' + +"'No, thank you,' I replied, 'not this morning.' I was beginning to +like the man. + +"He took me for quite a walk, and wherever we went everybody left +off what they were doing to stare at me. I was getting tired when +we reached the glove department. He marched me up to a young man +who was sticking pins into himself. He said 'Gloves,' and +disappeared through a curtain. The young man left off sticking pins +into himself, and leant across the counter. + +"'Ladies' gloves or gentlemen's gloves?' he said. + +"Well, I was pretty mad by this time, as you can guess. It is funny +when you come to think of it afterwards, but the wonder then was +that I didn't punch his head. + +"I said, 'Are you ever busy in this shop? Does there ever come a +time when you feel you would like to get your work done, instead of +lingering over it and spinning it out for pure love of the thing?' + +"He did not appear to understand me. I said, 'I met a man at your +door a quarter of an hour ago, and we talked about these gloves that +I want, and I told him all my ideas on the subject. He took me to +your Mr. Jansen, and Mr. Jansen and I went over the whole business +again. Now Mr. Jansen leaves it with you--you who do not even know +whether I want ladies' or gentlemen's gloves. Before I go over this +story for the third time, I want to know whether you are the man who +is going to serve me, or whether you are merely a listener, because +personally I am tired of the subject?' + +"Well, this was the right man at last, and I got my gloves from him. +But what is the explanation--what is the idea? I was in that shop +from first to last five-and-thirty minutes. And then a fool took me +out the wrong way to show me a special line in sleeping-socks. I +told him I was not requiring any. He said he didn't want me to buy, +he only wanted me to see them. No wonder the drapers have had to +start luncheon and tea-rooms. They'll fix up small furnished flats +soon, where a woman can live for a week." + +I said it was very trying, shopping. I also said, as he invited me, +and as he appeared determined to go on talking, that I would have a +brandy-and-soda. We were in the smoke-room by this time. + +"There ought to be an association," he continued, "a kind of +clearing-house for the collection and distribution of Christmas +presents. One would give them a list of the people from whom to +collect presents, and of the people to whom to send. Suppose they +collected on my account twenty Christmas presents, value, say, ten +pounds, while on the other hand they sent out for me thirty presents +at a cost of fifteen pounds. They would debit me with the balance +of five pounds, together with a small commission. I should pay it +cheerfully, and there would be no further trouble. Perhaps one +might even make a profit. The idea might include birthdays and +weddings. A firm would do the business thoroughly. They would see +that all your friends paid up--I mean sent presents; and they would +not forget to send to your most important relative. There is only +one member of our family capable of leaving a shilling; and of +course if I forget to send to any one it is to him. When I remember +him I generally make a muddle of the business. Two years ago I gave +him a bath--I don't mean I washed him--an india-rubber thing, that +he could pack in his portmanteau. I thought he would find it useful +for travelling. Would you believe it, he took it as a personal +affront, and wouldn't speak to me for a month, the snuffy old +idiot." + +"I suppose the children enjoy it," I said. + +"Enjoy what?" he asked. + +"Why, Christmas," I explained. + +"I don't believe they do," he snapped; "nobody enjoys it. We excite +them for three weeks beforehand, telling them what a good time they +are going to have, over-feed them for two or three days, take them +to something they do not want to see, but which we do, and then +bully them for a fortnight to get them back into their normal +condition. I was always taken to the Crystal Palace and Madame +Tussaud's when I was a child, I remember. How I did hate that +Crystal Palace! Aunt used to superintend. It was always a bitterly +cold day, and we always got into the wrong train, and travelled half +the day before we got there. We never had any dinner. It never +occurs to a woman that anybody can want their meals while away from +home. She seems to think that nature is in suspense from the time +you leave the house till the time you get back to it. A bun and a +glass of milk was her idea of lunch for a school-boy. Half her time +was taken up in losing us, and the other half in slapping us when +she had found us. The only thing we really enjoyed was the row with +the cabman coming home." + +I rose to go. + +"Then you won't join that symposium?" said B-----. "It would be an +easy enough thing to knock off--'Why Christmas should be +abolished.'" + +"It sounds simple," I answered. "But how do you propose to abolish +it?" The lady editor of an "advanced" American magazine once set +the discussion--"Should sex be abolished?" and eleven ladies and +gentlemen seriously argued the question. + +"Leave it to die of inanition," said B-----; "the first step is to +arouse public opinion. Convince the public that it should be +abolished." + +"But why should it be abolished?" I asked. + +"Great Scott! man," he exclaimed; "don't you want it abolished?" + +"I'm not sure that I do," I replied. + +"Not sure," he retorted; "you call yourself a journalist, and admit +there is a subject under Heaven of which you are not sure!" + +"It has come over me of late years," I replied. "It used not to be +my failing, as you know." + +He glanced round to make sure we were out of earshot, then sunk his +voice to a whisper. + +"Between ourselves," he said, "I'm not so sure of everything myself +as I used to be. Why is it?" + +"Perhaps we are getting older," I suggested. + +He said--"I started golf last year, and the first time I took the +club in my hand I sent the ball a furlong. 'It seems an easy game,' +I said to the man who was teaching me. 'Yes, most people find it +easy at the beginning,' he replied dryly. He was an old golfer +himself; I thought he was jealous. I stuck well to the game, and +for about three weeks I was immensely pleased with myself. Then, +gradually, I began to find out the difficulties. I feel I shall +never make a good player. Have you ever gone through that +experience?" + +"Yes," I replied; "I suppose that is the explanation. The game +seems so easy at the beginning. " + +I left him to his lunch, and strolled westward, musing on the time +when I should have answered that question of his about Christmas, or +any other question, off-hand. That good youth time when I knew +everything, when life presented no problems, dangled no doubts +before me! + +In those days, wishful to give the world the benefit of my wisdom, +and seeking for a candle-stick wherefrom my brilliancy might be +visible and helpful unto men, I arrived before a dingy portal in +Chequers Street, St. Luke's, behind which a conclave of young men, +together with a few old enough to have known better, met every +Friday evening for the purpose of discussing and arranging the +affairs of the universe. "Speaking members" were charged +ten-and-sixpence per annum, which must have worked out at an +extremely moderate rate per word; and "gentlemen whose subscriptions +were more than three months in arrear," became, by Rule seven, +powerless for good or evil. We called ourselves "The Stormy +Petrels," and, under the sympathetic shadow of those wings, I +laboured two seasons towards the reformation of the human race; +until, indeed, our treasurer, an earnest young man, and a tireless +foe of all that was conventional, departed for the East, leaving +behind him a balance sheet, showing that the club owed forty-two +pounds fifteen and fourpence, and that the subscriptions for the +current year, amounting to a little over thirty-eight pounds, had +been "carried forward," but as to where, the report afforded no +indication. Whereupon our landlord, a man utterly without ideals, +seized our furniture, offering to sell it back to us for fifteen +pounds. We pointed out to him that this was an extravagant price, +and tendered him five. + +The negotiations terminated with ungentlemanly language on his part, +and "The Stormy Petrels" scattered, never to be foregathered +together again above the troubled waters of humanity. Now-a-days, +listening to the feeble plans of modern reformers, I cannot help but +smile, remembering what was done in Chequers Street, St. Luke's, in +an age when Mrs. Grundy still gave the law to literature, while yet +the British matron was the guide to British art. I am informed that +there is abroad the question of abolishing the House of Lords! Why, +"The Stormy Petrels" abolished the aristocracy and the Crown in one +evening, and then only adjourned for the purpose of appointing a +committee to draw up and have ready a Republican Constitution by the +following Friday evening. They talk of Empire lounges! We closed +the doors of every music-hall in London eighteen years ago by +twenty-nine votes to seventeen. They had a patient hearing, and +were ably defended; but we found that the tendency of such +amusements was anti-progressive, and against the best interests of +an intellectually advancing democracy. I met the mover of the +condemnatory resolution at the old "Pav" the following evening, and +we continued the discussion over a bottle of Bass. He strengthened +his argument by persuading me to sit out the whole of the three +songs sung by the "Lion Comique"; but I subsequently retorted +successfully, by bringing under his notice the dancing of a lady in +blue tights and flaxen hair. I forget her name but never shall I +cease to remember her exquisite charm and beauty. Ah, me! how +charming and how beautiful "artistes" were in those golden days! +Whence have they vanished? Ladies in blue tights and flaxen hair +dance before my eyes to-day, but move me not, unless it be towards +boredom. Where be the tripping witches of twenty years ago, whom to +see once was to dream of for a week, to touch whose white hand would +have been joy, to kiss whose red lips would have been to foretaste +Heaven. I heard only the other day that the son of an old friend of +mine had secretly married a lady from the front row of the ballet, +and involuntarily I exclaimed, "Poor devil!" There was a time when +my first thought would have been, "Lucky beggar! is he worthy of +her?" For then the ladies of the ballet were angels. How could one +gaze at them--from the shilling pit--and doubt it? They danced to +keep a widowed mother in comfort, or to send a younger brother to +school. Then they were glorious creatures a young man did well to +worship; but now-a-days-- + +It is an old jest. The eyes of youth see through rose-tinted +glasses. The eyes of age are dim behind smoke-clouded spectacles. +My flaxen friend, you are not the angel I dreamed you, nor the +exceptional sinner some would paint you; but under your feathers, +just a woman--a bundle of follies and failings, tied up with some +sweetness and strength. You keep a brougham I am sure you cannot +afford on your thirty shillings a week. There are ladies I know, in +Mayfair, who have paid an extravagant price for theirs. You paint +and you dye, I am told: it is even hinted you pad. Don't we all of +us deck ourselves out in virtues that are not our own? When the +paint and the powder, my sister, is stripped both from you and from +me, we shall know which of us is entitled to look down on the other +in scorn. + +Forgive me, gentle Reader, for digressing. The lady led me astray. +I was speaking of "The Stormy Petrels," and of the reforms they +accomplished, which were many. We abolished, I remember, capital +punishment and war; we were excellent young men at heart. Christmas +we reformed altogether, along with Bank Holidays, by a majority of +twelve. I never recollect any proposal to abolish anything ever +being lost when put to the vote. There were few things that we +"Stormy Petrels" did not abolish. We attacked Christmas on grounds +of expediency, and killed it by ridicule. We exposed the hollow +mockery of Christmas sentiment; we abused the indigestible Christmas +dinner, the tiresome Christmas party, the silly Christmas pantomime. +Our funny member was side-splitting on the subject of Christmas +Waits; our social reformer bitter upon Christmas drunkenness; our +economist indignant upon Christmas charities. Only one argument of +any weight with us was advanced in favour of the festival, and that +was our leading cynic's suggestion that it was worth enduring the +miseries of Christmas, to enjoy the soul-satisfying comfort of the +after reflection that it was all over, and could not occur again for +another year. + +But since those days when I was prepared to put this old world of +ours to rights upon all matters, I have seen many sights and heard +many sounds, and I am not quite so sure as I once was that my +particular views are the only possibly correct ones. Christmas +seems to me somewhat meaningless; but I have looked through windows +in poverty-stricken streets, and have seen dingy parlours gay with +many chains of coloured paper. They stretched from corner to corner +of the smoke-grimed ceiling, they fell in clumsy festoons from the +cheap gasalier, they framed the fly-blown mirror and the tawdry +pictures; and I know tired hands and eyes worked many hours to +fashion and fix those foolish chains, saying, "It will please him-- +she will like to see the room look pretty;" and as I have looked at +them they have grown, in some mysterious manner, beautiful to me. +The gaudy-coloured child and dog irritates me, I confess; but I have +watched a grimy, inartistic personage, smoothing it affectionately +with toil-stained hand, while eager faces crowded round to admire +and wonder at its blatant crudity. It hangs to this day in its +cheap frame above the chimney-piece, the one bright spot relieving +those damp-stained walls; dull eyes stare and stare again at it, +catching a vista, through its flashy tints, of the far-off land of +art. Christmas Waits annoy me, and I yearn to throw open the window +and fling coal at them--as once from the window of a high flat in +Chelsea I did. I doubted their being genuine Waits. I was inclined +to the opinion they were young men seeking excuse for making a +noise. One of them appeared to know a hymn with a chorus, another +played the concertina, while a third accompanied with a step dance. +Instinctively I felt no respect for them; they disturbed me in my +work, and the desire grew upon me to injure them. It occurred to me +it would be good sport if I turned out the light, softly opened the +window, and threw coal at them. It would be impossible for them to +tell from which window in the block the coal came, and thus +subsequent unpleasantness would be avoided. They were a compact +little group, and with average luck I was bound to hit one of them. + +I adopted the plan. I could not see them very clearly. I aimed +rather at the noise; and I had thrown about twenty choice lumps +without effect, and was feeling somewhat discouraged, when a yell, +followed by language singularly unappropriate to the season, told me +that Providence had aided my arm. The music ceased suddenly, and +the party dispersed, apparently in high glee--which struck me as +curious. + +One man I noticed remained behind. He stood under the lamp-post, +and shook his fist at the block generally. + +"Who threw that lump of coal?" he demanded in stentorian tones. + +To my horror, it was the voice of the man at Eighty-eight, an Irish +gentleman, a journalist like myself. I saw it all, as the +unfortunate hero always exclaims, too late, in the play. He--number +Eighty-eight--also disturbed by the noise, had evidently gone out to +expostulate with the rioters. Of course my lump of coal had hit +him--him the innocent, the peaceful (up till then), the virtuous. +That is the justice Fate deals out to us mortals here below. There +were ten to fourteen young men in that crowd, each one of whom fully +deserved that lump of coal; he, the one guiltless, got it-- +seemingly, so far as the dim light from the gas lamp enabled me to +judge, full in the eye. + +As the block remained silent in answer to his demand, he crossed the +road and mounted the stairs. On each landing he stopped and +shouted-- + +"Who threw that lump of coal? I want the man who threw that lump of +coal. Out you come." + +Now a good man in my place would have waited till number +Eighty-eight arrived on his landing, and then, throwing open the +door would have said with manly candour-- + +"_I_ threw that lump of coal. I was-," He would not have got +further, because at that point, I feel confident, number Eighty-- +eight would have punched his head. There would have been an +unseemly fracas on the staircase, to the annoyance of all the other +tenants and later, there would have issued a summons and a +cross-summons. Angry passions would have been roused, bitter +feeling engendered which might have lasted for years. + +I do not pretend to be a good man. I doubt if the pretence would be +of any use were I to try: I am not a sufficiently good actor. I +said to myself, as I took off my boots in the study, preparatory to +retiring to my bedroom--"Number Eighty-eight is evidently not in a +frame of mind to listen to my story. It will be better to let him +shout himself cool; after which he will return to his own flat, +bathe his eye, and obtain some refreshing sleep. In the morning, +when we shall probably meet as usual on our way to Fleet Street, I +will refer to the incident casually, and sympathize with him. I +will suggest to him the truth--that in all probability some +fellow-tenant, irritated also by the noise, had aimed coal at the +Waits, hitting him instead by a regrettable but pure accident. With +tact I may even be able to make him see the humour of the incident. +Later on, in March or April, choosing my moment with judgment, I +will, perhaps, confess that I was that fellow-tenant, and over a +friendly brandy-and-soda we will laugh the whole trouble away." + +As a matter of fact, that is what happened. Said number +Eighty-eight--he was a big man, as good a fellow at heart as ever +lived, but impulsive--"Damned lucky for you, old man, you did not +tell me at the time." + +"I felt," I replied, "instinctively that it was a case for delay." + +There are times when one should control one's passion for candour; +and as I was saying, Christmas waits excite no emotion in my breast +save that of irritation. But I have known "Hark, the herald angels +sing," wheezily chanted by fog-filled throats, and accompanied, +hopelessly out of tune, by a cornet and a flute, bring a great look +of gladness to a work-worn face. To her it was a message of hope +and love, making the hard life taste sweet. The mere thought of +family gatherings, so customary at Christmas time, bores us superior +people; but I think of an incident told me by a certain man, a +friend of mine. One Christmas, my friend, visiting in the country, +came face to face with a woman whom in town he had often met amid +very different surroundings. The door of the little farmhouse was +open; she and an older woman were ironing at a table, and as her +soft white hands passed to and fro, folding and smoothing the +rumpled heap, she laughed and talked, concerning simple homely +things. My friend's shadow fell across her work, and she looking +up, their eyes met; but her face said plainly, "I do not know you +here, and here you do not know me. Here I am a woman loved and +respected." My friend passed in and spoke to the older woman, the +wife of one of his host's tenants, and she turned towards, and +introduced the younger--"My daughter, sir. We do not see her very +often. She is in a place in London, and cannot get away. But she +always spends a few days with us at Christmas." + +"It is the season for family re-unions," answered my friend with +just the suggestion of a sneer, for which he hated himself. + +"Yes, sir," said the woman, not noticing; "she has never missed her +Christmas with us, have you, Bess?" + +"No, mother," replied the girl simply, and bent her head again over +her work. + +So for these few days every year this woman left her furs and +jewels, her fine clothes and dainty foods, behind her, and lived for +a little space with what was clean and wholesome. It was the one +anchor holding her to womanhood; and one likes to think that it was, +perhaps, in the end strong enough to save her from the drifting +waters. All which arguments in favour of Christmas and of Christmas +customs are, I admit, purely sentimental ones, but I have lived long +enough to doubt whether sentiment has not its legitimate place in +the economy of life. + + + +ON THE TIME WASTED IN LOOKING BEFORE ONE LEAPS + +Have you ever noticed the going out of a woman? + +When a man goes out, he says--"I'm going out, shan't be long." + +"Oh, George," cries his wife from the other end of the house, "don't +go for a moment. I want you to--" She hears a falling of hats, +followed by the slamming of the front door. + +"Oh, George, you're not gone!" she wails. It is but the voice of +despair. As a matter of fact, she knows he is gone. She reaches +the hall, breathless. + +"He might have waited a minute," she mutters to herself, as she +picks up the hats, "there were so many things I wanted him to do." + +She does not open the door and attempt to stop him, she knows he is +already half-way down the street. It is a mean, paltry way of going +out, she thinks; so like a man. + +When a woman, on the other hand, goes out, people know about it. +She does not sneak out. She says she is going out. She says it, +generally, on the afternoon of the day before; and she repeats it, +at intervals, until tea-time. At tea, she suddenly decides that she +won't, that she will leave it till the day after to-morrow instead. +An hour later she thinks she will go to-morrow, after all, and makes +arrangements to wash her hair overnight. For the next hour or so +she alternates between fits of exaltation, during which she looks +forward to going out, and moments of despondency, when a sense of +foreboding falls upon her. At dinner she persuades some other woman +to go with her; the other woman, once persuaded, is enthusiastic +about going, until she recollects that she cannot. The first woman, +however, convinces her that she can. + +"Yes," replies the second woman, "but then, how about you, dear? +You are forgetting the Joneses." + +"So I was," answers the first woman, completely non-plussed. "How +very awkward, and I can't go on Wednesday. I shall have to leave it +till Thursday, now." + +"But _I_ can't go Thursday," says the second woman. + +"Well, you go without me, dear," says the first woman, in the tone +of one who is sacrificing a life's ambition. + +"Oh no, dear, I should not think of it," nobly exclaims the second +woman. "We will wait and go together, Friday!" + +"I'll tell you what we'll do," says the first woman. "We will start +early" (this is an inspiration), "and be back before the Joneses +arrive." + +They agree to sleep together; there is a lurking suspicion in both +their minds that this may be their last sleep on earth. They retire +early with a can of hot water. At intervals, during the night, one +overhears them splashing water, and talking. + +They come down very late for breakfast, and both very cross. Each +seems to have argued herself into the belief that she has been lured +into this piece of nonsense, against her better judgment, by the +persistent folly of the other one. During the meal each one asks +the other, every five minutes, if she is quite ready. Each one, it +appears, has only her hat to put on. They talk about the weather, +and wonder what it is going to do. They wish it would make up its +mind, one way or the other. They are very bitter on weather that +cannot make up its mind. After breakfast it still looks cloudy, and +they decide to abandon the scheme altogether. The first woman then +remembers that it is absolutely necessary for her, at all events, to +go. + +"But there is no need for you to come, dear," she says. + +Up to that point the second woman was evidently not sure whether she +wished to go or whether she didn't. Now she knows. + +"Oh yes, I'll come," she says, "then it will be over!" + +"I am sure you don't want to go," urges the first woman, "and I +shall be quicker by myself. I am ready to start now." + +The second woman bridles. + +"_I_ shan't be a couple of minutes," she retorts. "You know, dear, +it's generally I who have to wait for you." + +"But you've not got your boots on," the first woman reminds her. + +"Well, they won't take ANY time," is the answer. "But of course, +dear, if you'd really rather I did not come, say so." By this time +she is on the verge of tears. + +"Of course, I would like you to come, dear," explains the first in a +resigned tone. "I thought perhaps you were only coming to please +me." + +"Oh no, I'd LIKE to come," says the second woman. + +"Well, we must hurry up," says the first; "I shan't be more than a +minute myself, I've merely got to change my skirt." + +Half-an-hour later you hear them calling to each other, from +different parts of the house, to know if the other one is ready. It +appears they have both been ready for quite a long while, waiting +only for the other one. + +"I'm afraid," calls out the one whose turn it is to be down-stairs, +"it's going to rain." + +"Oh, don't say that," calls back the other one. + +"Well, it looks very like it." + +"What a nuisance," answers the up-stairs woman; "shall we put it +off?" + +"Well, what do YOU think, dear?" replies the down-stairs. + +They decide they will go, only now they will have to change their +boots, and put on different hats. + +For the next ten minutes they are still shouting and running about. +Then it seems as if they really were ready, nothing remaining but +for them to say "Good-bye," and go. + +They begin by kissing the children. A woman never leaves her house +without secret misgivings that she will never return to it alive. +One child cannot be found. When it is found it wishes it hadn't +been. It has to be washed, preparatory to being kissed. After +that, the dog has to be found and kissed, and final instructions +given to the cook. + +Then they open the front door. + +"Oh, George," calls out the first woman, turning round again. "Are +you there?" + +"Hullo," answers a voice from the distance. "Do you want me?" + +"No, dear, only to say good-bye. I'm going." + +"Oh, good-bye." + +"Good-bye, dear. Do you think it's going to rain?" + +"Oh no, I should not say so." + +"George." + +"Yes." + +"Have you got any money?" + +Five minutes later they come running back; the one has forgotten her +parasol, the other her purse. + +And speaking of purses, reminds one of another essential difference +between the male and female human animal. A man carries his money +in his pocket. When he wants to use it, he takes it out and lays it +down. This is a crude way of doing things, a woman displays more +subtlety. Say she is standing in the street, and wants fourpence to +pay for a bunch of violets she has purchased from a flower-girl. +She has two parcels in one hand, and a parasol in the other. With +the remaining two fingers of the left hand she secures the violets. +The question then arises, how to pay the girl? She flutters for a +few minutes, evidently not quite understanding why it is she cannot +do it. The reason then occurs to her: she has only two hands and +both these are occupied. First she thinks she will put the parcels +and the flowers into her right hand, then she thinks she will put +the parasol into her left. Then she looks round for a table or even +a chair, but there is not such a thing in the whole street. Her +difficulty is solved by her dropping the parcels and the flowers. +The girl picks them up for her and holds them. This enables her to +feel for her pocket with her right hand, while waving her open +parasol about with her left. She knocks an old gentleman's hat off +into the gutter, and nearly blinds the flower-girl before it occurs +to her to close it. This done, she leans it up against the +flower-girl's basket, and sets to work in earnest with both hands. +She seizes herself firmly by the back, and turns the upper part of +her body round till her hair is in front and her eyes behind. Still +holding herself firmly with her left hand--did she let herself go, +goodness knows where she would spin to;--with her right she +prospects herself. The purse is there, she can feel it, the problem +is how to get at it. The quickest way would, of course, be to take +off the skirt, sit down on the kerb, turn it inside out, and work +from the bottom of the pocket upwards. But this simple idea never +seems to occur to her. There are some thirty folds at the back of +the dress, between two of these folds commences the secret passage. +At last, purely by chance, she suddenly discovers it, nearly +upsetting herself in the process, and the purse is brought up to the +surface. The difficulty of opening it still remains. She knows it +opens with a spring, but the secret of that spring she has never +mastered, and she never will. Her plan is to worry it generally +until it does open. Five minutes will always do it, provided she is +not flustered. + +At last it does open. It would be incorrect to say that she opens +it. It opens because it is sick of being mauled about; and, as +likely as not, it opens at the moment when she is holding it upside +down. If you happen to be near enough to look over her shoulder, +you will notice that the gold and silver lies loose within it. In +an inner sanctuary, carefully secured with a second secret spring, +she keeps her coppers, together with a postage-stamp and a draper's +receipt, nine months old, for elevenpence three-farthings. + +I remember the indignation of an old Bus-conductor, once. Inside we +were nine women and two men. I sat next the door, and his remarks +therefore he addressed to me. It was certainly taking him some time +to collect the fares, but I think he would have got on better had he +been less bustling; he worried them, and made them nervous. + +"Look at that," he said, drawing my attention to a poor lady +opposite, who was diving in the customary manner for her purse, +"they sit on their money, women do. Blest if you wouldn't think +they was trying to 'atch it." + +At length the lady drew from underneath herself an exceedingly fat +purse. + +"Fancy riding in a bumpby bus, perched up on that thing," he +continued. "Think what a stamina they must have." He grew +confidential. "I've seen one woman," he said, "pull out from +underneath 'er a street doorkey, a tin box of lozengers, a +pencil-case, a whopping big purse, a packet of hair-pins, and a +smelling-bottle. Why, you or me would be wretched, sitting on a +plain door-knob, and them women goes about like that all day. I +suppose they gets used to it. Drop 'em on an eider-down pillow, and +they'd scream. The time it takes me to get tuppence out of them, +why, it's 'eart-breaking. First they tries one side, then they +tries the other. Then they gets up and shakes theirselves till the +bus jerks them back again, and there they are, a more 'opeless 'eap +than ever. If I 'ad my way I'd make every bus carry a female +searcher as could over'aul 'em one at a time, and take the money +from 'em. Talk about the poor pickpocket. What I say is, that a +man as finds his way into a woman's pocket--well, he deserves what +he gets." + +But it was the thought of more serious matters that lured me into +reflections concerning the over-carefulness of women. It is a +theory of mine--wrong possibly; indeed I have so been informed--that +we pick our way through life with too much care. We are for ever +looking down upon the ground. Maybe, we do avoid a stumble or two +over a stone or a brier, but also we miss the blue of the sky, the +glory of the hills. These books that good men write, telling us +that what they call "success" in life depends on our flinging aside +our youth and wasting our manhood in order that we may have the +means when we are eighty of spending a rollicking old age, annoy me. +We save all our lives to invest in a South Sea Bubble; and in +skimping and scheming, we have grown mean, and narrow, and hard. We +will put off the gathering of the roses till tomorrow, to-day it +shall be all work, all bargain-driving, all plotting. Lo, when to- +morrow comes, the roses are blown; nor do we care for roses, idle +things of small marketable value; cabbages are more to our fancy by +the time to-morrow comes. + +Life is a thing to be lived, not spent, to be faced, not ordered. +Life is not a game of chess, the victory to the most knowing; it is +a game of cards, one's hand by skill to be made the best of. Is it +the wisest who is always the most successful? I think not. The +luckiest whist-player I ever came across was a man who was never +QUITE certain what were trumps, and whose most frequent observation +during the game was "I really beg your pardon," addressed to his +partner; a remark which generally elicited the reply, "Oh, don't +apologize. All's well that ends well." The man I knew who made the +most rapid fortune was a builder in the outskirts of Birmingham, who +could not write his name, and who, for thirty years of his life, +never went to bed sober. I do not say that forgetfulness of trumps +should be cultivated by whist-players. I think my builder friend +might have been even more successful had he learned to write his +name, and had he occasionally--not overdoing it--enjoyed a sober +evening. All I wish to impress is, that virtue is not the road to +success--of the kind we are dealing with. We must find other +reasons for being virtuous; maybe, there are some. The truth is, +life is a gamble pure and simple, and the rules we lay down for +success are akin to the infallible systems with which a certain +class of idiot goes armed each season to Monte Carlo. We can play +the game with coolness and judgment, decide when to plunge and when +to stake small; but to think that wisdom will decide it, is to +imagine that we have discovered the law of chance. Let us play the +game of life as sportsmen, pocketing our winnings with a smile, +leaving our losings with a shrug. Perhaps that is why we have been +summoned to the board and the cards dealt round: that we may learn +some of the virtues of the good gambler; his self-control, his +courage under misfortune, his modesty under the strain of success, +his firmness, his alertness, his general indifference to fate. Good +lessons these, all of them. If by the game we learn some of them +our time on the green earth has not been wasted. If we rise from +the table having learned only fretfulness and self-pity I fear it +has been. + +The grim Hall Porter taps at the door: "Number Five hundred billion +and twenty-eight, your boatman is waiting, sir." + +So! is it time already? We pick up our counters. Of what use are +they? In the country the other side of the river they are no +tender. The blood-red for gold, and the pale-green for love, to +whom shall we fling them? Here is some poor beggar longing to play, +let us give them to him as we pass out. Poor devil! the game will +amuse him--for a while. + +Keep your powder dry, and trust in Providence, is the motto of the +wise. Wet powder could never be of any possible use to you. Dry, +it may be, WITH the help of Providence. We will call it Providence, +it is a prettier name than Chance--perhaps also a truer. + +Another mistake we make when we reason out our lives is this: we +reason as though we were planning for reasonable creatures. It is a +big mistake. Well-meaning ladies and gentlemen make it when they +picture their ideal worlds. When marriage is reformed, and the +social problem solved, when poverty and war have been abolished by +acclamation, and sin and sorrow rescinded by an overwhelming +parliamentary majority! Ah, then the world will be worthy of our +living in it. You need not wait, ladies and gentlemen, so long as +you think for that time. No social revolution is needed, no slow +education of the people is necessary. It would all come about +to-morrow, IF ONLY WE WERE REASONABLE CREATURES. + +Imagine a world of reasonable beings! The Ten Commandments would be +unnecessary: no reasoning being sins, no reasoning creature makes +mistakes. There would be no rich men, for what reasonable man cares +for luxury and ostentation? There would be no poor: that I should +eat enough for two while my brother in the next street, as good a +man as I, starves, is not reasonable. There would be no difference +of opinion on any two points: there is only one reason. You, dear +Reader, would find, that on all subjects you were of the same +opinion as I. No novels would be written, no plays performed; the +lives of reasonable creatures do not afford drama. No mad loves, no +mad laughter, no scalding tears, no fierce unreasoning, brief-lived +joys, no sorrows, no wild dreams--only reason, reason everywhere. + +But for the present we remain unreasonable. If I eat this +mayonnaise, drink this champagne, I shall suffer in my liver. Then, +why do I eat it? Julia is a charming girl, amiable, wise, and +witty; also she has a share in a brewery. Then, why does John marry +Ann? who is short-tempered, to say the least of it, who, he feels, +will not make him so good a house-wife, who has extravagant notions, +who has no little fortune. There is something about Ann's chin that +fascinates him--he could not explain to you what. On the whole, +Julia is the better-looking of the two. But the more he thinks of +Julia, the more he is drawn towards Ann. So Tom marries Julia and +the brewery fails, and Julia, on a holiday, contracts rheumatic +fever, and is a helpless invalid for life; while Ann comes in for +ten thousand pounds left to her by an Australian uncle no one had +ever heard of, + +I have been told of a young man, who chose his wife with excellent +care. Said he to himself, very wisely, "In the selection of a wife +a man cannot be too circumspect." He convinced himself that the +girl was everything a helpmate should be. She had every virtue that +could be expected in a woman, no faults, but such as are inseparable +from a woman. Speaking practically, she was perfection. He married +her, and found she was all he had thought her. Only one thing could +he urge against her--that he did not like her. And that, of course, +was not her fault. + +How easy life would be did we know ourselves. Could we always be +sure that tomorrow we should think as we do today. We fall in love +during a summer holiday; she is fresh, delightful, altogether +charming; the blood rushes to our head every time we think of her. +Our ideal career is one of perpetual service at her feet. It seems +impossible that Fate could bestow upon us any greater happiness than +the privilege of cleaning her boots, and kissing the hem of her +garment--if the hem be a little muddy that will please us the more. +We tell her our ambition, and at that moment every word we utter is +sincere. But the summer holiday passes, and with it the holiday +mood, and winter finds us wondering how we are going to get out of +the difficulty into which we have landed ourselves. Or worse still, +perhaps, the mood lasts longer than is usual. We become formally +engaged. We marry--I wonder how many marriages are the result of a +passion that is burnt out before the altar-rails are reached?--and +three months afterwards the little lass is broken-hearted to find +that we consider the lacing of her boots a bore. Her feet seem to +have grown bigger. There is no excuse for us, save that we are +silly children, never sure of what we are crying for, hurting one +another in our play, crying very loudly when hurt ourselves. + +I knew an American lady once who used to bore me with long accounts +of the brutalities exercised upon her by her husband. She had +instituted divorce proceedings against him. The trial came on, and +she was highly successful. We all congratulated her, and then for +some months she dropped out of my life. But there came a day when +we again found ourselves together. One of the problems of social +life is to know what to say to one another when we meet; every man +and woman's desire is to appear sympathetic and clever, and this +makes conversation difficult, because, taking us all round, we are +neither sympathetic nor clever--but this by the way. + +Of course, I began to talk to her about her former husband. I asked +her how he was getting on. She replied that she thought he was very +comfortable. + +"Married again?" I suggested. + +"Yes," she answered. + +"Serve him right," I exclaimed, "and his wife too." She was a +pretty, bright-eyed little woman, my American friend, and I wished +to ingratiate myself. "A woman who would marry such a man, knowing +what she must have known of him, is sure to make him wretched, and +we may trust him to be a curse to her." + +My friend seemed inclined to defend him. + +"I think he is greatly improved," she argued. + +"Nonsense!" I returned, "a man never improves. Once a villain, +always a villain." + +"Oh, hush!" she pleaded, "you mustn't call him that." + +"Why not?" I answered. "I have heard you call him a villain +yourself." + +"It was wrong of me," she said, flushing. "I'm afraid he was not +the only one to be blamed; we were both foolish in those days, but I +think we have both learned a lesson." + +I remained silent, waiting for the necessary explanation. + +"You had better come and see him for yourself," she added, with a +little laugh; "to tell the truth, I am the woman who has married +him. Tuesday is my day, Number 2, K---- Mansions," and she ran off, +leaving me staring after her. + +I believe an enterprising clergyman who would set up a little church +in the Strand, just outside the Law Courts, might do quite a trade, +re-marrying couples who had just been divorced. A friend of mine, a +respondent, told me he had never loved his wife more than on two +occasions--the first when she refused him, the second when she came +into the witness-box to give evidence against him. + +"You are curious creatures, you men," remarked a lady once to +another man in my presence. "You never seem to know your own mind." + +She was feeling annoyed with men generally. I do not blame her, I +feel annoyed with them myself sometimes. There is one man in +particular I am always feeling intensely irritated against. He says +one thing, and acts another. He will talk like a saint and behave +like a fool, knows what is right and does what is wrong. But we +will not speak further of him. He will be all he should be one day, +and then we will pack him into a nice, comfortably-lined box, and +screw the lid down tight upon him, and put him away in a quiet +little spot near a church I know of, lest he should get up and +misbehave himself again. + +The other man, who is a wise man as men go, looked at his fair +critic with a smile. + +"My dear madam," he replied, "you are blaming the wrong person. I +confess I do not know my mind, and what little I do know of it I do +not like. I did not make it, I did not select it. I am more +dissatisfied with it than you can possibly be. It is a greater +mystery to me than it is to you, and I have to live with it. You +should pity not blame me." + +There are moods in which I fall to envying those old hermits who +frankly, and with courageous cowardice, shirked the problem of life. +There are days when I dream of an existence unfettered by the +thousand petty strings with which our souls lie bound to Lilliputia +land. I picture myself living in some Norwegian sater, high above +the black waters of a rockbound fiord. No other human creature +disputes with me my kingdom. I am alone with the whispering fir +forests and the stars. How I live I am not quite sure. Once a +month I could journey down into the villages and return laden. I +should not need much. For the rest, my gun and fishing-rod would +supply me. I would have with me a couple of big dogs, who would +talk to me with their eyes, so full of dumb thought, and together we +would wander over the uplands, seeking our dinner, after the old +primitive fashion of the men who dreamt not of ten-course dinners +and Savoy suppers. I would cook the food myself, and sit down to +the meal with a bottle of good wine, such as starts a man's thoughts +(for I am inconsistent, as I acknowledge, and that gift of +civilization I would bear with me into my hermitage). Then in the +evening, with pipe in mouth, beside my log-wood fire, I would sit +and think, until new knowledge came to me. Strengthened by those +silent voices that are drowned in the roar of Streetland, I might, +perhaps, grow into something nearer to what it was intended that a +man should be--might catch a glimpse, perhaps, of the meaning of +life. + +No, no, my dear lady, into this life of renunciation I would not +take a companion, certainly not of the sex you are thinking of, even +would she care to come, which I doubt. There are times when a man +is better without the woman, when a woman is better without the man. +Love drags us from the depths, makes men and women of us, but if we +would climb a little nearer to the stars we must say good-bye to it. +We men and women do not show ourselves to each other at our best; +too often, I fear, at our worst. The woman's highest ideal of man +is the lover; to a man the woman is always the possible beloved. We +see each other's hearts, but not each other's souls. In each +other's presence we never shake ourselves free from the earth. +Match-making mother Nature is always at hand to prompt us. A woman +lifts us up into manhood, but there she would have us stay. "Climb +up to me," she cries to the lad, walking with soiled feet in muddy +ways; "be a true man that you may be worthy to walk by my side; be +brave to protect me, kind and tender, and true; but climb no higher, +stay here by my side." The martyr, the prophet, the leader of the +world's forlorn hopes, she would wake from his dream. Her arms she +would fling about his neck holding him down. + +To the woman the man says, "You are my wife. Here is your America, +within these walls, here is your work, your duty." True, in nine +hundred and ninety-nine cases out of every thousand, but men and +women are not made in moulds, and the world's work is various. +Sometimes to her sorrow, a woman's work lies beyond the home. The +duty of Mary was not to Joseph. + +The hero in the popular novel is the young man who says, "I love you +better than my soul." Our favourite heroine in fiction is the woman +who cries to her lover, "I would go down into Hell to be with you." +There are men and women who cannot answer thus--the men who dream +dreams, the women who see visions--impracticable people from the +Bayswater point of view. But Bayswater would not be the abode of +peace it is had it not been for such. + +Have we not placed sexual love on a pedestal higher than it +deserves? It is a noble passion, but it is not the noblest. There +is a wider love by the side of which it is but as the lamp +illumining the cottage, to the moonlight bathing the hills and +valleys. There were two women once. This is a play I saw acted in +the daylight. They had been friends from girlhood, till there came +between them the usual trouble--a man. A weak, pretty creature not +worth a thought from either of them; but women love the unworthy; +there would be no over-population problem did they not; and this +poor specimen, ill-luck had ordained they should contend for. + +Their rivalry brought out all that was worst in both of them. It is +a mistake to suppose love only elevates; it can debase. It was a +mean struggle for what to an onlooker must have appeared a +remarkably unsatisfying prize. The loser might well have left the +conqueror to her poor triumph, even granting it had been gained +unfairly. But the old, ugly, primeval passions had been stirred in +these women, and the wedding-bells closed only the first act. + +The second is not difficult to guess. It would have ended in the +Divorce Court had not the deserted wife felt that a finer revenge +would be secured to her by silence. + +In the third, after an interval of only eighteen months, the man +died--the first piece of good fortune that seems to have occurred to +him personally throughout the play. His position must have been an +exceedingly anxious one from the beginning. Notwithstanding his +flabbiness, one cannot but regard him with a certain amount of pity- +-not unmixed with amusement. Most of life's dramas can be viewed as +either farce or tragedy according to the whim of the spectator. The +actors invariably play them as tragedy; but then that is the essence +of good farce acting. + +Thus was secured the triumph of legal virtue and the punishment of +irregularity, and the play might be dismissed as uninterestingly +orthodox were it not for the fourth act, showing how the wronged +wife came to the woman she had once wronged to ask and grant +forgiveness. Strangely as it may sound, they found their love for +one another unchanged. They had been long parted: it was sweet to +hold each other's hands again. Two lonely women, they agreed to +live together. Those who knew them well in this later time say that +their life was very beautiful, filled with graciousness and +nobility. + +I do not say that such a story could ever be common, but it is more +probable than the world might credit. Sometimes the man is better +without the woman, the woman without the man. + + + +ON THE NOBILITY OF OURSELVES + +AN old Anglicized Frenchman, I used to meet often in my earlier +journalistic days, held a theory, concerning man's future state, +that has since come to afford me more food for reflection than, at +the time, I should have deemed possible. He was a bright-eyed, +eager little man. One felt no Lotus land could be Paradise to him. +We build our heaven of the stones of our desires: to the old, +red-bearded Norseman, a foe to fight and a cup to drain; to the +artistic Greek, a grove of animated statuary; to the Red Indian, his +happy hunting ground; to the Turk, his harem; to the Jew, his New +Jerusalem, paved with gold; to others, according to their taste, +limited by the range of their imagination. + +Few things had more terrors for me, when a child, than Heaven--as +pictured for me by certain of the good folks round about me. I was +told that if I were a good lad, kept my hair tidy, and did not tease +the cat, I would probably, when I died, go to a place where all day +long I would sit still and sing hymns. (Think of it! as reward to a +healthy boy for being good.) There would be no breakfast and no +dinner, no tea and no supper. One old lady cheered me a little with +a hint that the monotony might be broken by a little manna; but the +idea of everlasting manna palled upon me, and my suggestions, +concerning the possibilities of sherbet or jumbles, were scouted as +irreverent. There would be no school, but also there would be no +cricket and no rounders. I should feel no desire, so I was assured, +to do another angel's "dags" by sliding down the heavenly banisters. +My only joy would be to sing. + +"Shall we start singing the moment we get up in the morning?" I +asked. + +"There won't be any morning," was the answer. "There will be no day +and no night. It will all be one long day without end." + +"And shall we always be singing?" I persisted. + +"Yes, you will be so happy, you will always want to sing." + +"Shan't I ever get tired?" + +"No, you will never get tired, and you will never get sleepy or +hungry or thirsty." + +"And does it go on like that for ever?" + +"Yes, for ever and ever." + +"Will it go on for a million years?" + +"Yes, a million years, and then another million years, and then +another million years after that. There will never be any end to +it." + +I can remember to this day the agony of those nights, when I would +lie awake, thinking of this endless heaven, from which there seemed +to be no possible escape. For the other place was equally eternal, +or I might have been tempted to seek refuge there. + +We grown-up folk, our brains dulled by the slowly acquired habit of +not thinking, do wrong to torture children with these awful themes. +Eternity, Heaven, Hell are meaningless words to us. We repeat them, +as we gabble our prayers, telling our smug, self-satisfied selves +that we are miserable sinners. But to the child, the "intelligent +stranger" in the land, seeking to know, they are fearful realities. +If you doubt me, Reader, stand by yourself, beneath the stars, one +night, and SOLVE this thought, Eternity. Your next address shall be +the County Lunatic Asylum. + +My actively inclined French friend held cheerier views than are +common of man's life beyond the grave. His belief was that we were +destined to constant change, to everlasting work. We were to pass +through the older planets, to labour in the greater suns. + +But for such advanced career a more capable being was needed. No +one of us was sufficient, he argued, to be granted a future +existence all to himself. His idea was that two or three or four of +us, according to our intrinsic value, would be combined to make a +new and more important individuality, fitted for a higher existence. +Man, he pointed out, was already a collection of the beasts. "You +and I," he would say, tapping first my chest and then his own, "we +have them all here--the ape, the tiger, the pig, the motherly hen, +the gamecock, the good ant; we are all, rolled into one. So the man +of the future, he will be made up of many men--the courage of one, +the wisdom of another, the kindliness of a third." + +"Take a City man," he would continue, "say the Lord Mayor; add to +him a poet, say Swinburne; mix them with a religious enthusiast, say +General Booth. There you will have the man fit for the higher +life." + +Garibaldi and Bismarck, he held, should make a very fine mixture, +correcting one another; if needful, extract of Ibsen might be added, +as seasoning. He thought that Irish politicians would mix admirably +with Scotch divines; that Oxford Dons would go well with lady +novelists. He was convinced that Count Tolstoi, a few Gaiety +Johnnies (we called them "mashers" in those days), together with a +humourist--he was kind enough to suggest myself--would produce +something very choice. Queen Elizabeth, he fancied, was probably +being reserved to go--let us hope in the long distant future--with +Ouida. It sounds a whimsical theory, set down here in my words, not +his; but the old fellow was so much in earnest that few of us ever +thought to laugh as he talked. Indeed, there were moments on starry +nights, as walking home from the office, we would pause on Waterloo +Bridge to enjoy the witchery of the long line of the Embankment +lights, when I could almost believe, as I listened to him, in the +not impossibility of his dreams. + +Even as regards this world, it would often be a gain, one thinks, +and no loss, if some half-dozen of us were rolled together, or +boiled down, or whatever the process necessary might be, and +something made out of us in that way. + +Have not you, my fair Reader, sometimes thought to yourself what a +delightful husband Tom this, plus Harry that, plus Dick the other, +would make? Tom is always so cheerful and good-tempered, yet you +feel that in the serious moments of life he would be lacking. A +delightful hubby when you felt merry, yes; but you would not go to +him for comfort and strength in your troubles, now would you? No, in +your hour of sorrow, how good it would be to have near you grave, +earnest Harry. He is a "good sort," Harry. Perhaps, after all, he +is the best of the three--solid, staunch, and true. What a pity he +is just a trifle commonplace and unambitious. Your friends, not +knowing his sterling hidden qualities, would hardly envy you; and a +husband that no other girl envies you--well, that would hardly be +satisfactory, would it? Dick, on the other hand, is clever and +brilliant. He will make his way; there will come a day, you are +convinced, when a woman will be proud to bear his name. If only he +were not so self-centred, if only he were more sympathetic. + +But a combination of the three, or rather of the best qualities of +the three--Tom's good temper, Harry's tender strength, Dick's +brilliant masterfulness: that is the man who would be worthy of +you. + +The woman David Copperfield wanted was Agnes and Dora rolled into +one. He had to take them one after the other, which was not so +nice. And did he really love Agnes, Mr. Dickens; or merely feel he +ought to? Forgive me, but I am doubtful concerning that second +marriage of Copperfield's. Come, strictly between ourselves, Mr. +Dickens, was not David, good human soul! now and again a wee bit +bored by the immaculate Agnes? She made him an excellent wife, I am +sure. SHE never ordered oysters by the barrel, unopened. It would, +on any day, have been safe to ask Traddles home to dinner; in fact, +Sophie and the whole rose-garden might have accompanied him, Agnes +would have been equal to the occasion. The dinner would have been +perfectly cooked and served, and Agnes' sweet smile would have +pervaded the meal. But AFTER the dinner, when David and Traddles +sat smoking alone, while from the drawing-room drifted down the +notes of high-class, elevating music, played by the saintly Agnes, +did they never, glancing covertly towards the empty chair between +them, see the laughing, curl-framed face of a very foolish little +woman--one of those foolish little women that a wise man thanks God +for making--and wish, in spite of all, that it were flesh and blood, +not shadow? + +Oh, you foolish wise folk, who would remodel human nature! Cannot +you see how great is the work given unto childish hands? Think you +that in well-ordered housekeeping and high-class conversation lies +the whole making of a man? Foolish Dora, fashioned by clever old +magician Nature, who knows that weakness and helplessness are as a +talisman calling forth strength and tenderness in man, trouble +yourself not unduly about those oysters nor the underdone mutton, +little woman. Good plain cooks at twenty pounds a year will see to +these things for us; and, now and then, when a windfall comes our +way, we will dine together at a moderate-priced restaurant where +these things are managed even better. Your work, Dear, is to teach +us gentleness and kindliness. Lay your curls here, child. It is +from such as you that we learn wisdom. Foolish wise folk sneer at +you; foolish wise folk would pull up the useless lilies, the +needless roses, from the garden, would plant in their places only +serviceable wholesome cabbage. But the Gardener knowing better, +plants the silly short-lived flowers; foolish wise folk, asking for +what purpose. + +As for Agnes, Mr. Dickens, do you know what she always makes me +think of? You will not mind my saying?--the woman one reads about. +Frankly, I don't believe in her. I do not refer to Agnes in +particular, but the woman of whom she is a type, the faultless woman +we read of. Women have many faults, but, thank God, they have one +redeeming virtue--they are none of them faultless. + +But the heroine of fiction! oh, a terrible dragon of virtue is she. +May heaven preserve us poor men, undeserving though we be, from a +life with the heroine of fiction. She is all soul, and heart, and +intellect, with never a bit of human nature to catch hold of her by. +Her beauty, it appals one, it is so painfully indescribable. Whence +comes she, whither goes she, why do we never meet her like? Of +women I know a goodish few, and I look among them for her prototype; +but I find it not. They are charming, they are beautiful, all these +women that I know. It would not be right for me to tell you, +Ladies, the esteem and veneration with which I regard you all. You +yourselves, blushing, would be the first to cheek my ardour. But +yet, dear Ladies, seen even through my eyes, you come not near the +ladies that I read about. You are not--if I may be permitted an +expressive vulgarism--in the same street with them. Your beauty I +can look upon, and retain my reason--for whatever value that may be +to me. Your conversation, I admit, is clever and brilliant in the +extreme; your knowledge vast and various; your culture quite +Bostonian; yet you do not--I hardly know how to express it--you do +not shine with the sixteen full-moon-power of the heroine of +fiction. You do not--and I thank you for it--impress me with the +idea that you are the only women on earth. You, even you, possess +tempers of your own. I am inclined to think you take an interest in +your clothes. I would not be sure, even, that you do not mingle a +little of "your own hair" (you know what I mean) with the hair of +your head. There is in your temperament a vein of vanity, a +suggestion of selfishness, a spice of laziness. I have known you a +trifle unreasonable, a little inconsiderate, slightly exacting. +Unlike the heroine of fiction, you have a certain number of human +appetites and instincts; a few human follies, perhaps, a human +fault, or shall we say two? In short, dear Ladies, you also, even +as we men, are the children of Adam and Eve. Tell me, if you know, +where I may meet with this supernatural sister of yours, this woman +that one reads about. She never keeps any one waiting while she +does her back hair, she is never indignant with everybody else in +the house because she cannot find her own boots, she never scolds +the servants, she is never cross with the children, she never slams +the door, she is never jealous of her younger sister, she never +lingers at the gate with any cousin but the right one. + +Dear me, where DO they keep them, these women that one reads about? +I suppose where they keep the pretty girl of Art. You have seen +her, have you not, Reader, the pretty girl in the picture? She +leaps the six-barred gate with a yard and a half to spare, turning +round in her saddle the while to make some smiling remark to the +comic man behind, who, of course, is standing on his head in the +ditch. She floats gracefully off Dieppe on stormy mornings. Her +baigneuse--generally of chiffon and old point lace--has not lost a +curve. The older ladies, bathing round her, look wet. Their dress +clings damply to their limbs. But the pretty girl of Art dives, and +never a curl of her hair is disarranged. The pretty girl of Art +stands lightly on tip-toe and volleys a tennis-ball six feet above +her head. The pretty girl of Art keeps the head of the punt +straight against a stiff current and a strong wind. SHE never gets +the water up her sleeve, and down her back, and all over the +cushions. HER pole never sticks in the mud, with the steam launch +ten yards off and the man looking the other way. The pretty girl of +Art skates in high-heeled French shoes at an angle of forty-five to +the surface of the ice, both hands in her muff. SHE never sits down +plump, with her feet a yard apart, and says "Ough." The pretty girl +of Art drives tandem down Piccadilly, during the height of the +season, at eighteen miles an hour. It never occurs to HER leader +that the time has now arrived for him to turn round and get into the +cart. The pretty girl of Art rides her bicycle through the town on +market day, carrying a basket of eggs, and smiling right and left. +SHE never throws away both her handles and runs into a cow. The +pretty girl of Art goes trout fishing in open-work stockings, under +a blazing sun, with a bunch of dew-bespangled primroses in her hair; +and every time she gracefully flicks her rod she hauls out a salmon. +SHE never ties herself up to a tree, or hooks the dog. SHE never +comes home, soaked and disagreeable, to tell you that she caught +six, but put them all back again, because they were merely two or +three-pounders, and not worth the trouble of carrying. The pretty +girl of Art plays croquet with one hand, and looks as if she enjoyed +the game. SHE never tries to accidentally kick her ball into +position when nobody is noticing, or stands it out that she is +through a hoop that she knows she isn't. + +She is a good, all-round sportswoman, is the pretty girl in the +picture. The only thing I have to say against her is that she makes +one dissatisfied with the girl out of the picture--the girl who +mistakes a punt for a teetotum, so that you land feeling as if you +had had a day in the Bay of Biscay; and who, every now and again, +stuns you with the thick end of the pole: the girl who does not +skate with her hands in her muff; but who, throwing them up to +heaven, says, "I'm going," and who goes, taking care that you go +with her: the girl who, as you brush her down, and try to comfort +her, explains to you indignantly that the horse took the corner too +sharply and never noticed the mile-stone; the girl whose hair sea +water does NOT improve. + +There can be no doubt about it: that is where they keep the good +woman of Fiction, where they keep the pretty girl of Art. + +Does it not occur to you, Messieurs les Auteurs, that you are sadly +disturbing us? These women that are a combination of Venus, St. +Cecilia, and Elizabeth Fry! you paint them for us in your glowing +pages: it is not kind of you, knowing, as you must, the women we +have to put up with. + +Would we not be happier, we men and women, were we to idealize one +another less? My dear young lady, you have nothing whatever to +complain to Fate about, I assure you. Unclasp those pretty hands of +yours, and come away from the darkening window. Jack is as good a +fellow as you deserve; don't yearn so much. Sir Galahad, my dear-- +Sir Galahad rides and fights in the land that lies beyond the +sunset, far enough away from this noisy little earth where you and I +spend much of our time tittle-tattling, flirting, wearing fine +clothes, and going to shows. And besides, you must remember, Sir +Galahad was a bachelor: as an idealist he was wise. Your Jack is +by no means a bad sort of knight, as knights go nowadays in this un- +idyllic world. There is much solid honesty about him, and he does +not pose. He is not exceptional, I grant you; but, my dear, have +you ever tried the exceptional man? Yes, he is very nice in a +drawing-room, and it is interesting to read about him in the Society +papers: you will find most of his good qualities there: take my +advice, don't look into him too closely. You be content with Jack, +and thank heaven he is no worse. We are not saints, we men--none of +us, and our beautiful thoughts, I fear, we write in poetry not +action. The White Knight, my dear young lady, with his pure soul, +his heroic heart, his life's devotion to a noble endeavour, does not +live down here to any great extent. They have tried it, one or two +of them, and the world--you and I: the world is made up of you and +I--has generally starved, and hooted them. There are not many of +them left now: do you think you would care to be the wife of one, +supposing one were to be found for you? Would you care to live with +him in two furnished rooms in Clerkenwell, die with him on a chair +bedstead? A century hence they will put up a statue to him, and you +may be honoured as the wife who shared with him his sufferings. Do +you think you are woman enough for that? If not, thank your stars +you have secured, for your own exclusive use, one of us +UNexceptional men, who knows no better than to admire you. YOU are +not exceptional. + +And in us ordinary men there is some good. It wants finding, that +is all. We are not so commonplace as you think us. Even your Jack, +fond of his dinner, his conversation four-cornered by the Sporting +Press--yes, I agree he is not interesting, as he sits snoring in the +easy-chair; but, believe it or not, there are the makings of a great +hero in Jack, if Fate would but be kinder to him, and shake him out +of his ease. + +Dr. Jekyll contained beneath his ample waist-coat not two egos, but +three--not only Hyde but another, a greater than Jekyll--a man as +near to the angels as Hyde was to the demons. These well-fed City +men, these Gaiety Johnnies, these plough-boys, apothecaries, +thieves! within each one lies hidden the hero, did Fate, the +sculptor, choose to use his chisel. That little drab we have +noticed now and then, our way taking us often past the end of the +court, there was nothing by which to distinguish her. She was not +over-clean, could use coarse language on occasion--just the spawn of +the streets: take care lest the cloak of our child should brush +her. + +One morning the district Coroner, not, generally speaking, a poet +himself, but an adept at discovering poetry buried under unlikely +rubbish-heaps, tells us more about her. She earned six shillings a +week, and upon it supported a bed-ridden mother and three younger +children. She was housewife, nurse, mother, breadwinner, rolled +into one. Yes, there are heroines OUT of fiction. + +So loutish Tom has won the Victoria Cross--dashed out under a storm +of bullets and rescued the riddled flag. Who would have thought it +of loutish Tom? The village alehouse one always deemed the goal of +his endeavours. Chance comes to Tom and we find him out. To Harry +the Fates were less kind. A ne'er-do-well was Harry--drank, knocked +his wife about, they say. Bury him, we are well rid of him, he was +good for nothing. Are we sure? + +Let us acknowledge we are sinners. We know, those of us who dare to +examine ourselves, that we are capable of every meanness, of every +wrong under the sun. It is by the accident of circumstance, aided +by the helpful watchfulness of the policeman, that our possibilities +of crime are known only to ourselves. But having acknowledged our +evil, let us also acknowledge that we are capable of greatness. The +martyrs who faced death and torture unflinchingly for conscience' +sake, were men and women like ourselves. They had their wrong side. +Before the small trials of daily life they no doubt fell as we fall. +By no means were they the pick of humanity. Thieves many of them +had been, and murderers, evil-livers, and evil-doers. But the +nobility was there also, lying dormant, and their day came. Among +them must have been men who had cheated their neighbours over the +counter; men who had been cruel to their wives and children; +selfish, scandal-mongering women. In easier times their virtue +might never have been known to any but their Maker. + +In every age and in every period, when and where Fate has called +upon men and women to play the man, human nature has not been found +wanting. They were a poor lot, those French aristocrats that the +Terror seized: cowardly, selfish, greedy had been their lives. Yet +there must have been good, even in them. When the little things +that in their little lives they had thought so great were swept away +from them, when they found themselves face to face with the +realities; then even they played the man. Poor shuffling Charles +the First, crusted over with weakness and folly, deep down in him at +last we find the great gentleman. + +I like to hear stories of the littleness of great men. I like to +think that Shakespeare was fond of his glass. I even cling to the +tale of that disgraceful final orgie with friend Ben Jonson. +Possibly the story may not be true, but I hope it was. I like to +think of him as poacher, as village ne'er-do-well, denounced by the +local grammar-school master, preached at by the local J. P. of the +period. I like to reflect that Cromwell had a wart on his nose; the +thought makes me more contented with my own features. I like to +think that he put sweets upon the chairs, to see finely-dressed +ladies spoil their frocks; to tell myself that he roared with +laughter at the silly jest, like any East End 'Arry with his Bank +Holiday squirt of dirty water. I like to read that Carlyle threw +bacon at his wife and occasionally made himself highly ridiculous +over small annoyances, that would have been smiled at by a man of +well-balanced mind. I think of the fifty foolish things a week _I_ +do, and say to myself, "I, too, am a literary man." + +I like to think that even Judas had his moments of nobility, his +good hours when he would willingly have laid down his life for his +Master. Perhaps even to him there came, before the journey's end, +the memory of a voice saying--"Thy sins be forgiven thee." There +must have been good, even in Judas. + +Virtue lies like the gold in quartz, there is not very much of it, +and much pains has to be spent on the extracting of it. But Nature +seems to think it worth her while to fashion these huge useless +stones, if in them she may hide away her precious metals. Perhaps, +also, in human nature, she cares little for the mass of dross, +provided that by crushing and cleansing she can extract from it a +little gold, sufficient to repay her for the labour of the world. +We wonder why she troubles to make the stone. Why cannot the gold +lie in nuggets on the surface? But her methods are secrets to us. +Perchance there is a reason for the quartz. Perchance there is a +reason for the evil and folly, through which run, unseen to the +careless eye, the tiny veins of virtue. + +Aye, the stone predominates, but the gold is there. We claim to +have it valued. The evil that there is in man no tongue can tell. +We are vile among the vile, a little evil people. But we are great. +Pile up the bricks of our sins till the tower knocks at Heaven's +gate, calling for vengeance, yet we are great--with a greatness and +a virtue that the untempted angels may not reach to. The written +history of the human race, it is one long record of cruelty, of +falsehood, of oppression. Think you the world would be spinning +round the sun unto this day, if that written record were all? +Sodom, God would have spared had there been found ten righteous men +within its walls. The world is saved by its just men. History sees +them not; she is but the newspaper, a report of accidents. Judge +you life by that? Then you shall believe that the true Temple of +Hymen is the Divorce Court; that men are of two classes only, the +thief and the policeman; that all noble thought is but a +politician's catchword. History sees only the destroying +conflagrations, she takes no thought of the sweet fire-sides. +History notes the wrong; but the patient suffering, the heroic +endeavour, that, slowly and silently, as the soft processes of +Nature re-clothing with verdure the passion-wasted land, obliterate +that wrong, she has no eyes for. In the days of cruelty and +oppression--not altogether yet of the past, one fears--must have +lived gentle-hearted men and women, healing with their help and +sympathy the wounds that else the world had died of. After the +thief, riding with jingle of sword and spur, comes, mounted on his +ass, the good Samaritan. The pyramid of the world's evil--God help +us! it rises high, shutting out almost the sun. But the record of +man's good deeds, it lies written in the laughter of the children, +in the light of lovers' eyes, in the dreams of the young men; it +shall not be forgotten. The fires of persecution served as torches +to show Heaven the heroism that was in man. From the soil of +tyranny sprang self-sacrifice, and daring for the Right. Cruelty! +what is it but the vile manure, making the ground ready for the +flowers of tenderness and pity? Hate and Anger shriek to one +another across the ages, but the voices of Love and Comfort are none +the less existent that they speak in whispers, lips to ear. + +We have done wrong, oh, ye witnessing Heavens, but we have done +good. We claim justice. We have laid down our lives for our +friends: greater love hath no man than this. We have fought for +the Right. We have died for the Truth--as the Truth seemed to us. +We have done noble deeds; we have lived noble lives; we have +comforted the sorrowful; we have succoured the weak. Failing, +falling, making in our blindness many a false step, yet we have +striven. For the sake of the army of just men and true, for the +sake of the myriads of patient, loving women, for the sake of the +pitiful and helpful, for the sake of the good that lies hidden +within us,--spare us, O Lord. + + + +ON THE MOTHERLINESS OF MAN + +It was only a piece of broken glass. From its shape and colour, I +should say it had, in its happier days, formed portion of a cheap +scent-bottle. Lying isolated on the grass, shone upon by the early +morning sun, it certainly appeared at its best. It attracted him. + +He cocked his head, and looked at it with his right eye. Then he +hopped round to the other side, and looked at it with his left eye. +With either optic it seemed equally desirable. + +That he was an inexperienced young rook goes without saying. An +older bird would not have given a second glance to the thing. +Indeed, one would have thought his own instinct might have told him +that broken glass would be a mistake in a bird's nest. But its +glitter drew him too strongly for resistance. I am inclined to +suspect that at some time, during the growth of his family tree, +there must have occurred a mesalliance, perhaps worse. Possibly a +strain of magpie blood?--one knows the character of magpies, or +rather their lack of character--and such things have happened. But +I will not pursue further so painful a train: I throw out the +suggestion as a possible explanation, that is all. + +He hopped nearer. Was it a sweet illusion, this flashing fragment +of rainbow; a beautiful vision to fade upon approach, typical of so +much that is un-understandable in rook life? He made a dart forward +and tapped it with his beak. No, it was real--as fine a lump of +jagged green glass as any newly-married rook could desire, and to be +had for the taking. SHE would be pleased with it. He was a well- +meaning bird; the mere upward inclination of his tail suggested +earnest though possibly ill-directed endeavour. + +He turned it over. It was an awkward thing to carry; it had so very +many corners. But he succeeded at last in getting it firmly between +his beak, and in haste, lest some other bird should seek to dispute +with him its possession, at once flew off with it. + +A second rook who had been watching the proceedings from the lime +tree, called to a third who was passing. Even with my limited +knowledge of the language I found it easy to follow the +conversation: it was so obvious. + +"Issachar!" + +"Hallo!" + +"What do you think? Zebulan's found a piece of broken bottle. He's +going to line his nest with it." + +"No!" + +"God's truth. Look at him. There he goes, he's got it in his +beak." + +"Well, I'm --!" + +And they both burst into a laugh. + +But Zebulan heeded them not. If he overheard, he probably put down +the whole dialogue to jealousy. He made straight for his tree. By +standing with my left cheek pressed close against the window-pane, I +was able to follow him. He is building in what we call the Paddock +elms--a suburb commenced only last season, but rapidly growing. I +wanted to see what his wife would say. + +At first she said nothing. He laid it carefully down on the branch +near the half-finished nest, and she stretched up her head and +looked at it. + +Then she looked at him. For about a minute neither spoke. I could +see that the situation was becoming strained. When she did open her +beak, it was with a subdued tone, that had a vein of weariness +running through it. + +"What is it?" she asked. + +He was evidently chilled by her manner. As I have explained, he is +an inexperienced young rook. This is clearly his first wife, and he +stands somewhat in awe of her. + +"Well, I don't exactly know what it's CALLED," he answered. + +"Oh." + +"No. But it's pretty, isn't it?" he added. He moved it, trying to +get it where the sun might reach it. It was evident he was +admitting to himself that, seen in the shade, it lost much of its +charm. + +"Oh, yes; very pretty," was the rejoinder; "perhaps you'll tell me +what you're going to do with it." + +The question further discomforted him. It was growing upon him that +this thing was not going to be the success he had anticipated. It +would be necessary to proceed warily. + +"Of course, it's not a twig," he began. + +"I see it isn't." + +"No. You see, the nest is nearly all twigs as it is, and I thought- +-" + +"Oh, you did think." + +"Yes, my dear. I thought--unless you are of opinion that it's too +showy--I thought we might work it in somewhere." + +Then she flared out. + +"Oh, did you? You thought that a good idea. An A1 prize idiot I +seem to have married, I do. You've been gone twenty minutes, and +you bring me back an eight-cornered piece of broken glass, which you +think we might 'work into' the nest. You'd like to see me sitting +on it for a month, you would. You think it would make a nice bed +for the children to lie on. You don't think you could manage to +find a packet of mixed pins if you went down again, I suppose. +They'd look pretty 'worked in' somewhere, don't you think?--Here, +get out of my way. I'll finish this nest by myself." She always +had been short with him. + +She caught up the offending object--it was a fairly heavy lump of +glass--and flung it out of the tree with all her force. I heard it +crash through the cucumber frame. That makes the seventh pane of +glass broken in that cucumber frame this week. The couple in the +branch above are the worst. Their plan of building is the most +extravagant, the most absurd I ever heard of. They hoist up ten +times as much material as they can possibly use; you might think +they were going to build a block, and let it out in flats to the +other rooks. Then what they don't want they fling down again. +Suppose we built on such a principle? Suppose a human husband and +wife were to start erecting their house in Piccadilly Circus, let us +say; and suppose the man spent all the day steadily carrying bricks +up the ladder while his wife laid them, never asking her how many +she wanted, whether she didn't think he had brought up sufficient, +but just accumulating bricks in a senseless fashion, bringing up +every brick he could find. And then suppose, when evening came, and +looking round, they found they had some twenty cart-loads of bricks +lying unused upon the scaffold, they were to commence flinging them +down into Waterloo Place. They would get themselves into trouble; +somebody would be sure to speak to them about it. Yet that is +precisely what those birds do, and nobody says a word to them. They +are supposed to have a President. He lives by himself in the yew +tree outside the morning-room window. What I want to know is what +he is supposed to be good for. This is the sort of thing I want him +to look into. I would like him to be worming underneath one evening +when those two birds are tidying up: perhaps he would do something +then. I have done all I can. I have thrown stones at them, that, +in the course of nature, have returned to earth again, breaking more +glass. I have blazed at them with a revolver; but they have come to +regard this proceeding as a mere expression of light-heartedness on +my part, possibly confusing me with the Arab of the Desert, who, I +am given to understand, expresses himself thus in moments of deep +emotion. They merely retire to a safe distance to watch me; no +doubt regarding me as a poor performer, inasmuch as I do not also +dance and shout between each shot. I have no objection to their +building there, if they only would build sensibly. I want somebody +to speak to them to whom they will pay attention. + +You can hear them in the evening, discussing the matter of this +surplus stock. + +"Don't you work any more," he says, as he comes up with the last +load, "you'll tire yourself." + +"Well, I am feeling a bit done up," she answers, as she hops out of +the nest and straightens her back. + +"You're a bit peckish, too, I expect," he adds sympathetically. "I +know I am. We will have a scratch down, and be off." + +"What about all this stuff?" she asks, while titivating herself; +"we'd better not leave it about, it looks so untidy." + +"Oh, we'll soon get rid of that," he answers. "I'll have that down +in a jiffy." + +To help him, she seizes a stick and is about to drop it. He darts +forward and snatches it from her. + +"Don't you waste that one," he cries, "that's a rare one, that is. +You see me hit the old man with it." + +And he does. What the gardener says, I will leave you to imagine. + +Judged from its structure, the rook family is supposed to come next +in intelligence to man himself. Judging from the intelligence +displayed by members of certain human families with whom I have come +in contact, I can quite believe it. That rooks talk I am positive. +No one can spend half-an-hour watching a rookery without being +convinced of this. Whether the talk be always wise and witty, I am +not prepared to maintain; but that there is a good deal of it is +certain. A young French gentleman of my acquaintance, who visited +England to study the language, told me that the impression made upon +him by his first social evening in London was that of a +parrot-house. Later on, when he came to comprehend, he, of course, +recognized the brilliancy and depth of the average London +drawing-room talk; but that is how, not comprehending, it impressed +him at first. Listening to the riot of a rookery is much the same +experience. The conversation to us sounds meaningless; the rooks +themselves would probably describe it as sparkling. + +There is a Misanthrope I know who hardly ever goes into Society. I +argued the question with him one day. "Why should I?" he replied; +"I know, say, a dozen men and women with whom intercourse is a +pleasure; they have ideas of their own which they are not afraid to +voice. To rub brains with such is a rare and goodly thing, and I +thank Heaven for their friendship; but they are sufficient for my +leisure. What more do I require? What is this 'Society' of which +you all make so much ado? I have sampled it, and I find it +unsatisfying. Analyze it into its elements, what is it? Some +person I know very slightly, who knows me very slightly, asks me to +what you call an 'At Home.' The evening comes, I have done my day's +work and I have dined. I have been to a theatre or concert, or I +have spent a pleasant hour or so with a friend. I am more inclined +for bed than anything else, but I pull myself together, dress, and +drive to the house. While I am taking off my hat and coat in the +hall, a man enters I met a few hours ago at the Club. He is a man I +have very little opinion of, and he, probably, takes a similar view +of me. Our minds have no thought in common, but as it is necessary +to talk, I tell him it is a warm evening. Perhaps it is a warm +evening, perhaps it isn't; in either case he agrees with me. I ask +him if he is going to Ascot. I do not care a straw whether he is +going to Ascot or not. He says he is not quite sure, but asks me +what chance Passion Flower has for the Thousand Guineas. I know he +doesn't value my opinion on the subject at a brass farthing--he +would be a fool if he did, but I cudgel my brains to reply to him, +as though he were going to stake his shirt on my advice. We reach +the first floor, and are mutually glad to get rid of one another. I +catch my hostess' eye. She looks tired and worried; she would be +happier in bed, only she doesn't know it. She smiles sweetly, but +it is clear she has not the slightest idea who I am, and is waiting +to catch my name from the butler. I whisper it to him. Perhaps he +will get it right, perhaps he won't; it is quite immaterial. They +have asked two hundred and forty guests, some seventy-five of whom +they know by sight, for the rest, any chance passer-by, able, as the +theatrical advertisements say, 'to dress and behave as a gentleman,' +would do every bit as well. Indeed, I sometimes wonder why people +go to the trouble and expense of invitation cards at all. A +sandwich-man outside the door would answer the purpose. 'Lady +Tompkins, At Home, this afternoon from three to seven; Tea and +Music. Ladies and Gentlemen admitted on presentation of visiting +card. Afternoon dress indispensable.' The crowd is the thing +wanted; as for the items, well, tell me, what is the difference, +from the Society point of view, between one man in a black +frock-coat and another? + +"I remember being once invited to a party at a house in Lancaster +Gate. I had met the woman at a picnic. In the same green frock and +parasol I might have recognized her the next time I saw her. In any +other clothes I did not expect to. My cabman took me to the house +opposite, where they were also giving a party. It made no +difference to any of us. The hostess--I never learnt her name--said +it was very good of me to come, and then shunted me off on to a +Colonial Premier (I did not catch his name, and he did not catch +mine, which was not extraordinary, seeing that my hostess did not +know it) who, she whispered to me, had come over, from wherever it +was (she did not seem to be very sure) principally to make my +acquaintance. Half through the evening, and by accident, I +discovered my mistake, but judged it too late to say anything then. +I met a couple of people I knew, had a little supper with them, and +came away. The next afternoon I met my right hostess--the lady who +should have been my hostess. She thanked me effusively for having +sacrificed the previous evening to her and her friends; she said she +knew how seldom I went out: that made her feel my kindness all the +more. She told me that the Brazilian Minister's wife had told her +that I was the cleverest man she had ever met. I often think I +should like to meet that man, whoever he may be, and thank him. + +"But perhaps the butler does pronounce my name rightly, and perhaps +my hostess actually does recognize me. She smiles, and says she was +so afraid I was not coming. She implies that all the other guests +are but as a feather in her scales of joy compared with myself. I +smile in return, wondering to myself how I look when I do smile. I +have never had the courage to face my own smile in the +looking-glass. I notice the Society smile of other men, and it is +not reassuring. I murmur something about my not having been likely +to forget this evening; in my turn, seeking to imply that I have +been looking forward to it for weeks. A few men shine at this sort +of thing, but they are a small percentage, and without conceit I +regard myself as no bigger a fool than the average male. Not +knowing what else to say, I tell her also that it is a warm evening. +She smiles archly as though there were some hidden witticism in the +remark, and I drift away, feeling ashamed of myself. To talk as an +idiot when you ARE an idiot brings no discomfort; to behave as an +idiot when you have sufficient sense to know it, is painful. I hide +myself in the crowd, and perhaps I'll meet a woman I was introduced +to three weeks ago at a picture gallery. We don't know each other's +names, but, both of us feeling lonesome, we converse, as it is +called. If she be the ordinary type of woman, she asks me if I am +going on to the Johnsons'. I tell her no. We stand silent for a +moment, both thinking what next to say. She asks me if I was at the +Thompsons' the day before yesterday. I again tell her no. I begin +to feel dissatisfied with myself that I was not at the Thompsons'. +Trying to get even with her, I ask her if she is going to the +Browns' next Monday. (There are no Browns, she will have to say, +No.) She is not, and her tone suggests that a social stigma rests +upon the Browns. I ask her if she has been to Barnum's Circus; she +hasn't, but is going. I give her my impressions of Barnum's Circus, +which are precisely the impressions of everybody else who has seen +the show. + +"Or if luck be against me, she is possibly a smart woman, that is to +say, her conversation is a running fire of spiteful remarks at the +expense of every one she knows, and of sneers at the expense of +every one she doesn't. I always feel I could make a better woman +myself, out of a bottle of vinegar and a penn'orth of mixed pins. +Yet it usually takes one about ten minutes to get away from her. + +"Even when, by chance, one meets a flesh-and-blood man or woman at +such gatherings, it is not the time or place for real conversation; +and as for the shadows, what person in their senses would exhaust a +single brain cell upon such? I remember a discussion once +concerning Tennyson, considered as a social item. The dullest and +most densely-stupid bore I ever came across was telling how he had +sat next to Tennyson at dinner. 'I found him a most uninteresting +man,' so he confided to us; 'he had nothing to say for himself-- +absolutely nothing.' I should like to resuscitate Dr. Samuel +Johnson for an evening, and throw him into one of these 'At Homes' +of yours." + +My friend is an admitted misanthrope, as I have explained; but one +cannot dismiss him as altogether unjust. That there is a certain +mystery about Society's craving for Society must be admitted. I +stood one evening trying to force my way into the supper room of a +house in Berkeley Square. A lady, hot and weary, a few yards in +front of me was struggling to the same goal. + +"Why," remarked she to her companion, "why do we come to these +places, and fight like a Bank Holiday crowd for eighteenpenny-worth +of food?" + +"We come here," replied the man, whom I judged to be a philosopher, +"to say we've been here." + +I met A----- the other evening, and asked him to dine with me on +Monday. I don't know why I ask A----- to dine with me, but about +once a month I do. He is an uninteresting man. + +"I can't," he said, "I've got to go to the B-----s'; confounded +nuisance, it will be infernally dull." + +"Why go?" I asked. + +"I really don't know," he replied. + +A little later B----- met me, and asked me to dine with him on +Monday. + +"I can't," I answered, "some friends are coming to us that evening. +It's a duty dinner, you know the sort of thing." + +"I wish you could have managed it," he said, "I shall have no one to +talk to. The A-----s are coming, and they bore me to death." + +"Why do you ask him?" I suggested. + +"Upon my word, I really don't know," he replied. + +But to return to our rooks. We were speaking of their social +instincts. Some dozen of them--the "scallywags" and bachelors of +the community, I judge them to be--have started a Club. For a month +past I have been trying to understand what the affair was. Now I +know: it is a Club. + +And for their Club House they have chosen, of course, the tree +nearest my bedroom window. I can guess how that came about; it was +my own fault, I never thought of it. About two months ago, a single +rook--suffering from indigestion or an unhappy marriage, I know not- +-chose this tree one night for purposes of reflection. He woke me +up: I felt angry. I opened the window, and threw an empty +soda-water bottle at him. Of course it did not hit him, and finding +nothing else to throw, I shouted at him, thinking to frighten him +away. He took no notice, but went on talking to himself. I shouted +louder, and woke up my own dog. The dog barked furiously, and woke +up most things within a quarter of a mile. I had to go down with a +boot-jack--the only thing I could find handy--to soothe the dog. +Two hours later I fell asleep from exhaustion. I left the rook +still cawing. + +The next night he came again. I should say he was a bird with a +sense of humour. Thinking this might happen, I had, however, taken +the precaution to have a few stones ready. I opened the window +wide, and fired them one after another into the tree. After I had +closed the window, he hopped down nearer, and cawed louder than +ever. I think he wanted me to throw more stones at him: he +appeared to regard the whole proceeding as a game. On the third +night, as I heard nothing of him, I flattered myself that, in spite +of his bravado, I had discouraged him. I might have known rooks +better. + +What happened when the Club was being formed, I take it, was this: + +"Where shall we fix upon for our Club House?" said the secretary, +all other points having been disposed of. One suggested this tree, +another suggested that. Then up spoke this particular rook: + +"I'll tell you where," said he, "in the yew tree opposite the porch. +And I'll tell you for why. Just about an hour before dawn a man +comes to the window over the porch, dressed in the most comical +costume you ever set eyes upon. I'll tell you what he reminds me +of--those little statues that men use for decorating fields. He +opens the window, and throws a lot of things out upon the lawn, and +then he dances and sings. It's awfully interesting, and you can see +it all from the yew tree." + +That, I am convinced, is how the Club came to fix upon the tree next +my window. I have had the satisfaction of denying them the +exhibition they anticipated, and I cheer myself with the hope that +they have visited their disappointment upon their misleader. + +There is a difference between Rook Clubs and ours. In our clubs the +respectable members arrive early, and leave at a reasonable hour; in +Rook Clubs, it would appear, this principle is reversed. The Mad +Hatter would have liked this Club--it would have been a club after +his own heart. It opens at half-past two in the morning, and the +first to arrive are the most disreputable members. In Rook-land the +rowdy-dowdy, randy-dandy, rollicky-ranky boys get up very early in +the morning and go to bed in the afternoon. Towards dawn, the +older, more orderly members drop in for reasonable talk, and the +Club becomes more respectable. The tree closes about six. For the +first two hours, however, the goings-on are disgraceful. The +proceedings, as often as not, open with a fight. If no two +gentlemen can be found to oblige with a fight, the next noisiest +thing to fall back upon is held to be a song. It is no satisfaction +to me to be told that rooks cannot sing. _I_ know that, without the +trouble of referring to the natural history book. It is the rook +who does not know it; HE thinks he can; and as a matter of fact, he +does. You can criticize his singing, you can call it what you like, +but you can't stop it--at least, that is my experience. The song +selected is sure to be one with a chorus. Towards the end it +becomes mainly chorus, unless the soloist be an extra powerful bird, +determined to insist upon his rights. + +The President knows nothing of this Club. He gets up himself about +seven--three hours after all the others have finished breakfast--and +then fusses round under the impression that he is waking up the +colony, the fat-headed old fool. He is the poorest thing in +Presidents I have ever heard of. A South American Republic would +supply a better article. The rooks themselves, the married +majority, fathers of families, respectable nestholders, are as +indignant as I am. I hear complaints from all quarters. + +Reflection comes to one as, towards the close of these chill +afternoons in early spring, one leans upon the paddock gate watching +the noisy bustling in the bare elms. + +So the earth is growing green again, and love is come again unto the +hearts of us old sober-coated fellows. Oh, Madam, your feathers +gleam wondrous black, and your bonnie bright eye stabs deep. Come, +sit by our side, and we'll tell you a tale such as rook never told +before. It's the tale of a nest in a topmost bough, that sways in +the good west wind. It's strong without, but it's soft within, +where the little green eggs lie safe. And there sits in that nest a +lady sweet, and she caws with joy, for, afar, she sees the rook she +loves the best. Oh, he has been east, and he has been west, and his +crop it is full of worms and slugs, and they are all for her. + +We are old, old rooks, so many of us. The white is mingling with +the purple black upon our breasts. We have seen these tall elms +grow from saplings; we have seen the old trees fall and die. Yet +each season come to us again the young thoughts. So we mate and +build and gather that again our old, old hearts may quiver to the +thin cry of our newborn. + +Mother Nature has but one care, the children. We talk of Love as +the Lord of Life: it is but the Minister. Our novels end where +Nature's tale begins. The drama that our curtain falls upon, is but +the prologue to her play. How the ancient Dame must laugh as she +listens to the prattle of her children. "Is Marriage a Failure?" +"Is Life worth Living?" "The New Woman versus the Old." So, +perhaps, the waves of the Atlantic discuss vehemently whether they +shall flow east or west. + +Motherhood is the law of the Universe. The whole duty of man is to +be a mother. We labour: to what end? the children--the woman in +the home, the man in the community. The nation takes thought for +its future: why? In a few years its statesmen, its soldiers, its +merchants, its toilers, will be gathered unto their fathers. Why +trouble we ourselves about the future? The country pours its blood +and treasure into the earth that the children may reap. Foolish +Jacques Bonhomie, his addled brain full of dreams, rushes with +bloody hands to give his blood for Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. +He will not live to see, except in vision, the new world he gives +his bones to build--even his spinning word-whipped head knows that. +But the children! they shall live sweeter lives. The peasant leaves +his fireside to die upon the battle-field. What is it to him, a +grain in the human sand, that Russia should conquer the East, that +Germany should be united, that the English flag should wave above +new lands? the heritage his fathers left him shall be greater for +his sons. Patriotism! what is it but the mother instinct of a +people? + +Take it that the decree has gone forth from Heaven: There shall be +no more generations, with this life the world shall die. Think you +we should move another hand? The ships would rot in the harbours, +the grain would rot in the ground. Should we paint pictures, write +books, make music? hemmed in by that onward creeping sea of silence. +Think you with what eyes husband and wife would look on one another. +Think you of the wooing--the spring of Love dried up; love only a +pool of stagnant water. + +How little we seem to realize this foundation of our life. Herein, +if nowhere else, lies our eternity. This Ego shall never die-- +unless the human race from beginning to end be but a passing jest of +the Gods, to be swept aside when wearied of, leaving room for new +experiments. These features of mine--we will not discuss their +aesthetic value--shall never disappear; modified, varied, but in +essential the same, they shall continue in ever increasing circles +to the end of Time. This temperament of mine--this good and evil +that is in me, it shall grow with every age, spreading ever wider, +combining, amalgamating. I go into my children and my children's +children, I am eternal. I am they, they are I. The tree withers +and you clear the ground, thankful if out of its dead limbs you can +make good firewood; but its spirit, its life, is in fifty saplings. +The tree dies not, it changes. + +These men and women that pass me in the street, this one hurrying to +his office, this one to his club, another to his love, they are the +mothers of the world to come. + +This greedy trickster in stocks and shares, he cheats, he lies, he +wrongs all men--for what? Follow him to his luxurious home in the +suburbs: what do you find? A man with children on his knee, +telling them stories, promising them toys. His anxious, sordid +life, for what object is it lived? That these children may possess +the things that he thinks good for them. Our very vices, side by +side with our virtues, spring from this one root, Motherhood. It is +the one seed of the Universe. The planets are but children of the +sun, the moon but an offspring of the earth, stone of her stone, +iron of her iron. What is the Great Centre of us all, life animate +and inanimate--if any life be inanimate? Is the eternal universe one +dim figure, Motherhood, filling all space? + +This scheming Mother of Mayfair, angling for a rich son-in-law! Not +a pleasing portrait to look upon, from one point of view. Let us +look at it, for a moment, from another. How weary she must be! +This is her third "function" to-night; the paint is running off her +poor face. She has been snubbed a dozen times by her social +superiors, openly insulted by a Duchess; yet she bears it with a +patient smile. It is a pitiful ambition, hers: it is that her +child shall marry money, shall have carriages and many servants, +live in Park Lane, wear diamonds, see her name in the Society +Papers. At whatever cost to herself, her daughter shall, if +possible, enjoy these things. She could so much more comfortably go +to bed, and leave the child to marry some well-to-do commercial +traveller. Justice, Reader, even for such. Her sordid scheming is +but the deformed child of Motherhood. + +Motherhood! it is the gamut of God's orchestra, savageness and +cruelty at the one end, tenderness and self-sacrifice at the other. + +The sparrow-hawk fights the hen: he seeking food for his brood, she +defending hers with her life. The spider sucks the fly to feed its +myriad young; the cat tortures the mouse to give its still throbbing +carcase to her kittens, and man wrongs man for children's sake. +Perhaps when the riot of the world reaches us whole, not broken, we +shall learn it is a harmony, each jangling discord fallen into its +place around the central theme, Motherhood. + + + +ON THE INADVISABILITY OF FOLLOWING ADVICE + +I was pacing the Euston platform late one winter's night, waiting +for the last train to Watford, when I noticed a man cursing an +automatic machine. Twice he shook his fist at it. I expected every +moment to see him strike it. Naturally curious, I drew near softly. +I wanted to catch what he was saying. However, he heard my +approaching footsteps, and turned on me. "Are you the man," said +he, "who was here just now?" + +"Just where?" I replied. I had been pacing up and down the platform +for about five minutes. + +"Why here, where we are standing," he snapped out. "Where do you +think 'here' is--over there?" He seemed irritable. + +"I may have passed this spot in the course of my peregrinations, if +that is what you mean," I replied. I spoke with studied politeness; +my idea was to rebuke his rudeness. + +"I mean," he answered, "are you the man that spoke to me, just a +minute ago?" + +"I am not that man," I said; "good-night." + +"Are you sure?" he persisted. + +"One is not likely to forget talking to you," I retorted. + +His tone had been most offensive. "I beg your pardon," he replied +grudgingly. "I thought you looked like the man who spoke to me a +minute or so ago." + +I felt mollified; he was the only other man on the platform, and I +had a quarter of an hour to wait. "No, it certainly wasn't me," I +returned genially, but ungrammatically. "Why, did you want him?" + +"Yes, I did," he answered. "I put a penny in the slot here," he +continued, feeling apparently the need of unburdening himself: +"wanted a box of matches. I couldn't get anything put, and I was +shaking the machine, and swearing at it, as one does, when there +came along a man, about your size, and--you're SURE it wasn't you?" + +"Positive," I again ungrammatically replied; "I would tell you if it +had been. What did he do?" + +"Well, he saw what had happened, or guessed it. He said, 'They are +troublesome things, those machines; they want understanding.' I +said, 'They want taking up and flinging into the sea, that's what +they want!' I was feeling mad because I hadn't a match about me, +and I use a lot. He said, 'They stick sometimes; the thing to do is +to put another penny in; the weight of the first penny is not always +sufficient. The second penny loosens the drawer and tumbles out +itself; so that you get your purchase together with your first penny +back again. I have often succeeded that way.' Well, it seemed a +silly explanation, but he talked as if he had been weaned by an +automatic machine, and I was sawney enough to listen to him. I +dropped in what I thought was another penny. I have just discovered +it was a two-shilling piece. The fool was right to a certain +extent; I have got something out. I have got this." + +He held it towards me; I looked at it. It was a packet of Everton +toffee. + +"Two and a penny," he remarked, bitterly. "I'll sell it for a third +of what it cost me." + +"You have put your money into the wrong machine," I suggested. + +"Well, I know that!" he answered, a little crossly, as it seemed to +me--he was not a nice man: had there been any one else to talk to I +should have left him. "It isn't losing the money I mind so much; +it's getting this damn thing, that annoys me. If I could find that +idiot Id ram it down his throat." + +We walked to the end of the platform, side by side, in silence. + +"There are people like that," he broke out, as we turned, "people +who will go about, giving advice. I'll be getting six months over +one of them, I'm always afraid. I remember a pony I had once." (I +judged the man to be a small farmer; he talked in a wurzelly tone. +I don't know if you understand what I mean, but an atmosphere of +wurzels was the thing that somehow he suggested.) "It was a +thoroughbred Welsh pony, as sound a little beast as ever stepped. +I'd had him out to grass all the winter, and one day in the early +spring I thought I'd take him for a run. I had to go to Amersham on +business. I put him into the cart, and drove him across; it is just +ten miles from my place. He was a bit uppish, and had lathered +himself pretty freely by the time we reached the town. + +"A man was at the door of the hotel. He says, 'That's a good pony +of yours.' + +"'Pretty middling,' I says. + +"'It doesn't do to over-drive 'em, when they're young,' he says. + +"I says, 'He's done ten miles, and I've done most of the pulling. I +reckon I'm a jolly sight more exhausted than he is. + +"I went inside and did my business, and when I came out the man was +still there. 'Going back up the hill?' he says to me. + +"Somehow, I didn't cotton to him from the beginning. 'Well, I've +got to get the other side of it,' I says, 'and unless you know any +patent way of getting over a hill without going up it, I reckon I +am.' + +"He says, 'You take my advice: give him a pint of old ale before you +start.' + +"'Old ale,' I says; 'why he's a teetotaler.' + +"'Never you mind that,' he answers; 'you give him a pint of old ale. +I know these ponies; he's a good 'un, but he ain't set. A pint of +old ale, and he'll take you up that hill like a cable tramway, and +not hurt himself.' + +"I don't know what it is about this class of man. One asks oneself +afterwards why one didn't knock his hat over his eyes and run his +head into the nearest horse-trough. But at the time one listens to +them. I got a pint of old ale in a hand-bowl, and brought it out. +About half-a-dozen chaps were standing round, and of course there +was a good deal of chaff. + +"'You're starting him on the downward course, Jim,' says one of +them. 'He'll take to gambling, rob a bank, and murder his mother. +That's always the result of a glass of ale, 'cording to the tracts.' + +"'He won't drink it like that,' says another; 'it's as flat as ditch +water. Put a head on it for him.' + +"'Ain't you got a cigar for him?' says a third. + +"'A cup of coffee and a round of buttered toast would do him a sight +more good, a cold day like this,' says a fourth. + +"I'd half a mind then to throw the stuff away, or drink it myself; +it seemed a piece of bally nonsense, giving good ale to a +four-year-old pony; but the moment the beggar smelt the bowl he +reached out his head, and lapped it up as though he'd been a +Christian; and I jumped into the cart and started off, amid cheers. +We got up the hill pretty steady. Then the liquor began to work +into his head. I've taken home a drunken man more than once and +there's pleasanter jobs than that. I've seen a drunken woman, and +they're worse. But a drunken Welsh pony I never want to have +anything more to do with so long as I live. Having four legs he +managed to hold himself up; but as to guiding himself, he couldn't; +and as for letting me do it, he wouldn't. First we were one side of +the road, and then we were the other. When we were not either side, +we were crossways in the middle. I heard a bicycle bell behind me, +but I dared not turn my head. All I could do was to shout to the +fellow to keep where he was. + +"'I want to pass you,' he sang out, so soon as he was near enough. + +"'Well, you can't do it,' I called back. + +"'Why can't I?' he answered. 'How much of the road do YOU want?' + +"'All of it and a bit over,' I answered him, 'for this job, and +nothing in the way.' + +"He followed me for half-a-mile, abusing me; and every time he +thought he saw a chance he tried to pass me. But the pony was +always a bit too smart for him. You might have thought the brute +was doing it on purpose. + +"'You're not fit to be driving,' he shouted. He was quite right; I +wasn't. I was feeling just about dead beat. + +"'What do you think you are?' he continued, 'the charge of the Light +Brigade?' (He was a common sort of fellow.) 'Who sent YOU home with +the washing?' + +"Well, he was making me wild by this time. 'What's the good of +talking to me?' I shouted back. 'Come and blackguard the pony if +you want to blackguard anybody. I've got all I can do without the +help of that alarm clock of yours. Go away, you're only making him +worse.' + +"'What's the matter with the pony?' he called out. + +"'Can't you see?' I answered. 'He's drunk.' + +"Well, of course it sounded foolish; the truth often does. + +"'One of you's drunk,' he retorted; 'for two pins I'd come and haul +you out of the cart.' + +"I wish to goodness he had; I'd have given something to be out of +that cart. But he didn't have the chance. At that moment the pony +gave a sudden swerve; and I take it he must have been a bit too +close. I heard a yell and a curse, and at the same instant I was +splashed from head to foot with ditch water. Then the brute bolted. +A man was coming along, asleep on the top of a cart-load of windsor +chairs. It's disgraceful the way those wagoners go to sleep; I +wonder there are not more accidents. I don't think he ever knew +what had happened to him. I couldn't look round to see what became +of him; I only saw him start. Half-way down the hill a policeman +holla'd to me to stop. I heard him shouting out something about +furious driving. Half-a-mile this side of Chesham we came upon a +girls' school walking two and two--a 'crocodile' they call it, I +think. I bet you those girls are still talking about it. It must +have taken the old woman a good hour to collect them together again. + +"It was market-day in Chesham; and I guess there has not been a +busier market-day in Chesham before or since. We went through the +town at about thirty miles an hour. I've never seen Chesham so +lively--it's a sleepy hole as a rule. A mile outside the town I +sighted the High Wycombe coach. I didn't feel I minded much; I had +got to that pass when it didn't seem to matter to me what happened; +I only felt curious. A dozen yards off the coach the pony stopped +dead; that jerked me off the seat to the bottom of the cart. I +couldn't get up, because the seat was on top of me. I could see +nothing but the sky, and occasionally the head of the pony, when he +stood upon his hind legs. But I could hear what the driver of the +coach said, and I judged he was having trouble also. + +"'Take that damn circus out of the road,' he shouted. If he'd had +any sense he'd have seen how helpless I was. I could hear his +cattle plunging about; they are like that, horses--if they see one +fool, then they all want to be fools. + +"'Take it home, and tie it up to its organ,' shouted the guard. + +"Then an old woman went into hysterics, and began laughing like an +hyena. That started the pony off again, and, as far as I could +calculate by watching the clouds, we did about another four miles at +the gallop. Then he thought he'd try to jump a gate, and finding, I +suppose, that the cart hampered him, he started kicking it to +pieces. I'd never have thought a cart could have been separated +into so many pieces, if I hadn't seen it done. When he had got rid +of everything but half a wheel and the splashboard he bolted again. +I remained behind with the other ruins, and glad I was to get a +little rest. He came back later in the afternoon, and I was pleased +to sell him the next week for a five-pound-note: it cost me about +another ten to repair myself. + +"To this day I am chaffed about that pony, and the local temperance +society made a lecture out of me. That's what comes of following +advice." + +I sympathized with him. I have suffered from advice myself. I have +a friend, a City man, whom I meet occasionally. One of his most +ardent passions in life is to make my fortune. He button-holes me +in Threadneedle Street. "The very man I wanted to see," he says; +"I'm going to let you in for a good thing. We are getting up a +little syndicate." He is for ever "getting up" a little syndicate, +and for every hundred pounds you put into it you take a thousand +out. Had I gone into all his little syndicates, I could have been +worth at the present moment, I reckon, two million five hundred +thousand pounds. But I have not gone into all his little +syndicates. I went into one, years ago, when I was younger. I am +still in it; my friend is confident that my holding, later on, will +yield me thousands. Being, however, hard-up for ready money, I am +willing to part with my share to any deserving person at a genuine +reduction, upon a cash basis. Another friend of mine knows another +man who is "in the know" as regards racing matters. I suppose most +people possess a friend of this type. He is generally very popular +just before a race, and extremely unpopular immediately afterwards. +A third benefactor of mine is an enthusiast upon the subject of +diet. One day he brought me something in a packet, and pressed it +into my hand with the air of a man who is relieving you of all your +troubles. + +"What is it?" I asked. + +"Open it and see," he answered, in the tone of a pantomime fairy. + +I opened it and looked, but I was no wiser. + +"It's tea," he explained. + +"Oh!" I replied; "I was wondering if it could be snuff." + +"Well, it's not exactly tea," he continued, "it's a sort of tea. +You take one cup of that--one cup, and you will never care for any +other kind of tea again." + +He was quite right, I took one cup. After drinking it I felt I +didn't care for any other tea. I felt I didn't care for anything, +except to die quietly and inoffensively. He called on me a week +later. + +"You remember that tea I gave you?" he said. + +"Distinctly," I answered; "I've got the taste of it in my mouth +now." + +"Did it upset you?" he asked. + +"It annoyed me at the time," I answered; "but that's all over now." + +He seemed thoughtful. "You were quite correct," he answered; "it +WAS snuff, a very special snuff, sent me all the way from India." + +"I can't say I liked it," I replied. + +"A stupid mistake of mine," he went on--"I must have mixed up the +packets!" + +"Oh, accidents will happen," I said, "and you won't make another +mistake, I feel sure; so far as I am concerned." + +We can all give advice. I had the honour once of serving an old +gentleman whose profession it was to give legal advice, and +excellent legal advice he always gave. In common with most men who +know the law, he had little respect for it. I have heard him say to +a would-be litigant-- + +"My dear sir, if a villain stopped me in the street and demanded of +me my watch and chain, I should refuse to give it to him. If he +thereupon said, 'Then I shall take it from you by brute force,' I +should, old as I am, I feel convinced, reply to him, 'Come on.' But +if, on the other hand, he were to say to me, 'Very well, then I +shall take proceedings against you in the Court of Queen's Bench to +compel you to give it up to me,' I should at once take it from my +pocket, press it into his hand, and beg of him to say no more about +the matter. And I should consider I was getting off cheaply." + +Yet that same old gentleman went to law himself with his next-door +neighbour over a dead poll parrot that wasn't worth sixpence to +anybody, and spent from first to last a hundred pounds, if he spent +a penny. + +"I know I'm a fool," he confessed. "I have no positive proof that +it WAS his cat; but I'll make him pay for calling me an Old Bailey +Attorney, hanged if I don't!" + +We all know how the pudding OUGHT to be made. We do not profess to +be able to make it: that is not our business. Our business is to +criticize the cook. It seems our business to criticize so many +things that it is not our business to do. We are all critics +nowadays. I have my opinion of you, Reader, and you possibly have +your own opinion of me. I do not seek to know it; personally, I +prefer the man who says what he has to say of me behind my back. I +remember, when on a lecturing tour, the ground-plan of the hall +often necessitated my mingling with the audience as they streamed +out. This never happened but I would overhear somebody in front of +me whisper to his or her companion--"Take care, he's just behind +you." I always felt so grateful to that whisperer. + +At a Bohemian Club, I was once drinking coffee with a Novelist, who +happened to be a broad-shouldered, athletic man. A fellow-member, +joining us, said to the Novelist, "I have just finished that last +book of yours; I'll tell you my candid opinion of it." Promptly +replied the Novelist, "I give you fair warning--if you do, I shall +punch your head." We never heard that candid opinion. + +Most of our leisure time we spend sneering at one another. It is a +wonder, going about as we do with our noses so high in the air, we +do not walk off this little round world into space, all of us. The +Masses sneer at the Classes. The morals of the Classes are +shocking. If only the Classes would consent as a body to be taught +behaviour by a Committee of the Masses, how very much better it +would be for them. If only the Classes would neglect their own +interests and devote themselves to the welfare of the Masses, the +Masses would be more pleased with them. + +The Classes sneer at the Masses. If only the Masses would follow +the advice given them by the Classes; if only they would be thrifty +on their ten shillings a week; if only they would all be +teetotalers, or drink old claret, which is not intoxicating; if only +all the girls would be domestic servants on five pounds a year, and +not waste their money on feathers; if only the men would be content +to work for fourteen hours a day, and to sing in tune, "God bless +the Squire and his relations," and would consent to be kept in their +proper stations, all things would go swimmingly--for the Classes. + +The New Woman pooh-poohs the Old; the Old Woman is indignant with +the New. The Chapel denounces the Stage; the Stage ridicules Little +Bethel; the Minor Poet sneers at the world; the world laughs at the +Minor Poet. + +Man criticizes Woman. We are not altogether pleased with woman. We +discuss her shortcomings, we advise her for her good. If only +English wives would dress as French wives, talk as American wives, +cook as German wives! if only women would be precisely what we want +them to be--patient and hard-working, brilliantly witty and +exhaustively domestic, bewitching, amenable, and less suspicious; +how very much better it would be for them--also for us. We work so +hard to teach them, but they will not listen. Instead of paying +attention to our wise counsel, the tiresome creatures are wasting +their time criticizing us. It is a popular game, this game of +school. All that is needful is a doorstep, a cane, and six other +children. The difficulty is the six other children. Every child +wants to be the schoolmaster; they will keep jumping up, saying it +is their turn. + +Woman wants to take the stick now, and put man on the doorstep. +There are one or two things she has got to say to him. He is not at +all the man she approves of. He must begin by getting rid of all +his natural desires and propensities; that done, she will take him +in hand and make of him--not a man, but something very much +superior. + +It would be the best of all possible worlds if everybody would only +follow our advice. I wonder, would Jerusalem have been the cleanly +city it is reported, if, instead of troubling himself concerning his +own twopenny-halfpenny doorstep, each citizen had gone out into the +road and given eloquent lectures to all the other inhabitants on the +subject of sanitation? + +We have taken to criticizing the Creator Himself of late. The world +is wrong, we are wrong. If only He had taken our advice, during +those first six days! + +Why do I seem to have been scooped out and filled up with lead? Why +do I hate the smell of bacon, and feel that nobody cares for me? It +is because champagne and lobsters have been made wrong. + +Why do Edwin and Angelina quarrel? It is because Edwin has been +given a fine, high-spirited nature that will not brook +contradiction; while Angelina, poor girl, has been cursed with +contradictory instincts. + +Why is excellent Mr. Jones brought down next door to beggary? Mr. +Jones had an income of a thousand a year, secured by the Funds. But +there came along a wicked Company promoter (why are wicked Company +promoters permitted?) with a prospectus, telling good Mr. Jones how +to obtain a hundred per cent. for his money by investing it in some +scheme for the swindling of Mr. Jones's fellow-citizens. + +The scheme does not succeed; the people swindled turn out, contrary +to the promise of the prospectus, to be Mr. Jones and his +fellow-investors. Why does Heaven allow these wrongs? + +Why does Mrs. Brown leave her husband and children, to run off with +the New Doctor? It is because an ill-advised Creator has given Mrs. +Brown and the New Doctor unduly strong emotions. Neither Mrs. Brown +nor the New Doctor are to be blamed. If any human being be +answerable it is, probably, Mrs. Brown's grandfather, or some early +ancestor of the New Doctor's. + +We shall criticize Heaven when we get there. I doubt if any of us +will be pleased with the arrangements; we have grown so exceedingly +critical. + +It was once said of a very superior young man that he seemed to be +under the impression that God Almighty had made the universe chiefly +to hear what he would say about it. Consciously or unconsciously, +most of us are of this way of thinking. It is an age of mutual +improvement societies--a delightful idea, everybody's business being +to improve everybody else; of amateur parliaments, of literary +councils, of playgoers' clubs. + +First Night criticism seems to have died out of late, the Student of +the Drama having come to the conclusion, possibly, that plays are +not worth criticizing. But in my young days we were very earnest at +this work. We went to the play, less with the selfish desire of +enjoying our evening, than with the noble aim of elevating the +Stage. Maybe we did good, maybe we were needed--let us think so. +Certain it is, many of the old absurdities have disappeared from the +Theatre, and our rough-and-ready criticism may have helped the happy +dispatch. A folly is often served by an unwise remedy. + +The dramatist in those days had to reckon with his audience. +Gallery and Pit took an interest in his work such as Galleries and +Pits no longer take. I recollect witnessing the production of a +very blood-curdling melodrama at, I think, the old Queen's Theatre. +The heroine had been given by the author a quite unnecessary amount +of conversation, so we considered. The woman, whenever she appeared +on the stage, talked by the yard; she could not do a simple little +thing like cursing the Villain under about twenty lines. When the +hero asked her if she loved him she stood up and made a speech about +it that lasted three minutes by the watch. One dreaded to see her +open her mouth. In the Third Act, somebody got hold of her and shut +her up in a dungeon. He was not a nice man, speaking generally, but +we felt he was the man for the situation, and the house cheered him +to the echo. We flattered ourselves we had got rid of her for the +rest of the evening. Then some fool of a turnkey came along, and +she appealed to him, through the grating, to let her out for a few +minutes. The turnkey, a good but soft-hearted man, hesitated. + +"Don't you do it," shouted one earnest Student of the Drama, from +the Gallery; "she's all right. Keep her there!" + +The old idiot paid no attention to our advice; he argued the matter +to himself. "'Tis but a trifling request," he remarked; "and it +will make her happy." + +"Yes, but what about us?" replied the same voice from the Gallery. +"You don't know her. You've only just come on; we've been listening +to her all the evening. She's quiet now, you let her be." + +"Oh, let me out, if only for one moment!" shrieked the poor woman. +"I have something that I must say to my child." + +"Write it on a bit of paper, and pass it out," suggested a voice +from the Pit. "We'll see that he gets it." + +"Shall I keep a mother from her dying child?" mused the turnkey. +"No, it would be inhuman." + +"No, it wouldn't," persisted the voice of the Pit; "not in this +instance. It's too much talk that has made the poor child ill." + +The turnkey would not be guided by us. He opened the cell door +amidst the execrations of the whole house. She talked to her child +for about five minutes, at the end of which time it died. + +"Ah, he is dead!" shrieked the distressed parent. + +"Lucky beggar!" was the unsympathetic rejoinder of the house. + +Sometimes the criticism of the audience would take the form of +remarks, addressed by one gentleman to another. We had been +listening one night to a play in which action seemed to be +unnecessarily subordinated to dialogue, and somewhat poor dialogue +at that. Suddenly, across the wearying talk from the stage, came +the stentorian whisper-- + +"Jim!" + +"Hallo!" + +"Wake me up when the play begins." + +This was followed by an ostentatious sound as of snoring. Then the +voice of the second speaker was heard-- + +"Sammy!" + +His friend appeared to awake. + +"Eh? Yes? What's up? Has anything happened?" + +"Wake you up at half-past eleven in any event, I suppose?" + +"Thanks, do, sonny." And the critic slept again. + +Yes, we took an interest in our plays then. I wonder shall I ever +enjoy the British Drama again as I enjoyed it in those days? Shall +I ever enjoy a supper again as I enjoyed the tripe and onions washed +down with bitter beer at the bar of the old Albion? I have tried +many suppers after the theatre since then, and some, when friends +have been in generous mood, have been expensive and elaborate. The +cook may have come from Paris, his portrait may be in the +illustrated papers, his salary may be reckoned by hundreds; but +there is something wrong with his art, for all that, I miss a +flavour in his meats. There is a sauce lacking. + +Nature has her coinage, and demands payment in her own currency. At +Nature's shop it is you yourself must pay. Your unearned increment, +your inherited fortune, your luck, are not legal tenders across her +counter. + +You want a good appetite. Nature is quite willing to supply you. +"Certainly, sir," she replies, "I can do you a very excellent +article indeed. I have here a real genuine hunger and thirst that +will make your meal a delight to you. You shall eat heartily and +with zest, and you shall rise from the table refreshed, invigorated, +and cheerful." + +"Just the very thing I want," exclaims the gourmet delightedly. +"Tell me the price." + +"The price," answers Mrs. Nature, "is one long day's hard work." + +The customer's face falls; he handles nervously his heavy purse. + +"Cannot I pay for it in money?" he asks. "I don't like work, but I +am a rich man, I can afford to keep French cooks, to purchase old +wines." + +Nature shakes her head. + +"I cannot take your cheques, tissue and nerve are my charges. For +these I can give you an appetite that will make a rump-steak and a +tankard of ale more delicious to you than any dinner that the +greatest chef in Europe could put before you. I can even promise +you that a hunk of bread and cheese shall be a banquet to you; but +you must pay my price in my money; I do not deal in yours." + +And next the Dilettante enters, demanding a taste for Art and +Literature, and this also Nature is quite prepared to supply. + +"I can give you true delight in all these things," she answers. +"Music shall be as wings to you, lifting you above the turmoil of +the world. Through Art you shall catch a glimpse of Truth. Along +the pleasant paths of Literature you shall walk as beside still +waters." + +"And your charge?" cries the delighted customer. + +"These things are somewhat expensive," replies Nature. "I want from +you a life lived simply, free from all desire of worldly success, a +life from which passion has been lived out; a life to which appetite +has been subdued." + +"But you mistake, my dear lady," replies the Dilettante; "I have +many friends, possessed of taste, and they are men who do not pay +this price for it. Their houses are full of beautiful pictures, +they rave about 'nocturnes' and 'symphonies,' their shelves are +packed with first editions. Yet they are men of luxury and wealth +and fashion. They trouble much concerning the making of money, and +Society is their heaven. Cannot I be as one of these?" + +"I do not deal in the tricks of apes," answers Nature coldly; "the +culture of these friends of yours is a mere pose, a fashion of the +hour, their talk mere parrot chatter. Yes, you can purchase such +culture as this, and pretty cheaply, but a passion for skittles +would be of more service to you, and bring you more genuine +enjoyment. My goods are of a different class. I fear we waste each +other's time." + +And next comes the boy, asking with a blush for love, and Nature's +motherly old heart goes out to him, for it is an article she loves +to sell, and she loves those who come to purchase it of her. So she +leans across the counter, smiling, and tells him that she has the +very thing he wants, and he, trembling with excitement, likewise +asks the figure. + +"It costs a good deal," explains Nature, but in no discouraging +tone; "it is the most expensive thing in all my shop." + +"I am rich," replies the lad. "My father worked hard and saved, and +he has left me all his wealth. I have stocks and shares, and lands +and factories; and will pay any price in reason for this thing." + +But Nature, looking graver, lays her hand upon his arm. + +"Put by your purse, boy," she says, "my price is not a price in +reason, nor is gold the metal that I deal in. There are many shops +in various streets where your bank-notes will be accepted. But if +you will take an old woman's advice, you will not go to them. The +thing they will sell you will bring sorrow and do evil to you. It +is cheap enough, but, like all things cheap, it is not worth the +buying. No man purchases it, only the fool." + +"And what is the cost of the thing YOU sell then?" asks the lad. + +"Self-forgetfulness, tenderness, strength," answers the old Dame; +"the love of all things that are of good repute, the hate of all +things evil--courage, sympathy, self-respect, these things purchase +love. Put by your purse, lad, it will serve you in other ways, but +it will not buy for you the goods upon my shelves." + +"Then am I no better off than the poor man?" demands the lad. + +"I know not wealth or poverty as you understand it," answers Nature. +"Here I exchange realities only for realities. You ask for my +treasures, I ask for your brain and heart in exchange--yours, boy, +not your father's, not another's." + +"And this price," he argues, "how shall I obtain it?" + +"Go about the world," replies the great Lady. "Labour, suffer, +help. Come back to me when you have earned your wages, and +according to how much you bring me so we will do business." + +Is real wealth so unevenly distributed as we think? Is not Fate the +true Socialist? Who is the rich man, who the poor? Do we know? +Does even the man himself know? Are we not striving for the shadow, +missing the substance? Take life at its highest; which was the +happier man, rich Solomon or poor Socrates? Solomon seems to have +had most things that most men most desire--maybe too much of some +for his own comfort. Socrates had little beyond what he carried +about with him, but that was a good deal. According to our scales, +Solomon should have been one of the happiest men that ever lived, +Socrates one of the most wretched. But was it so? + +Or taking life at its lowest, with pleasure its only goal. Is my +lord Tom Noddy, in the stalls, so very much jollier than 'Arry in +the gallery? Were beer ten shillings the bottle, and champagne +fourpence a quart, which, think you, we should clamour for? If +every West End Club had its skittle alley, and billiards could only +be played in East End pubs, which game, my lord, would you select? +Is the air of Berkeley Square so much more joy-giving than the +atmosphere of Seven Dials? I find myself a piquancy in the air of +Seven Dials, missing from Berkeley Square. Is there so vast a +difference between horse-hair and straw, when you are tired? Is +happiness multiplied by the number of rooms in one's house? Are +Lady Ermintrude's lips so very much sweeter than Sally's of the +Alley? What IS success in life? + + + +ON THE PLAYING OF MARCHES AT THE FUNERALS OF MARIONETTES + +He began the day badly. He took me out and lost me. It would be so +much better, would he consent to the usual arrangement, and allow me +to take him out. I am far the abler leader: I say it without +conceit. I am older than he is, and I am less excitable. I do not +stop and talk with every person I meet, and then forget where I am. +I do less to distract myself: I rarely fight, I never feel I want +to run after cats, I take but little pleasure in frightening +children. I have nothing to think about but the walk, and the +getting home again. If, as I say, he would give up taking me out, +and let me take him out, there would be less trouble all round. But +into this I have never been able to persuade him. + +He had mislaid me once or twice, but in Sloane Square he lost me +entirely. When he loses me, he stands and barks for me. If only he +would remain where he first barked, I might find my way to him; but, +before I can cross the road, he is barking half-way down the next +street. I am not so young as I was and I sometimes think he +exercises me more than is good for me. I could see him from where I +was standing in the King's Road. Evidently he was most indignant. +I was too far off to distinguish the barks, but I could guess what +he was saying-- + +"Damn that man, he's off again." + +He made inquiries of a passing dog-- + +"You haven't smelt my man about anywhere, have you?" + +(A dog, of course, would never speak of SEEING anybody or anything, +smell being his leading sense. Reaching the top of a hill, he would +say to his companion--"Lovely smell from here, I always think; I +could sit and sniff here all the afternoon." Or, proposing a walk, +he would say--"I like the road by the canal, don't you? There's +something interesting to catch your nose at every turn.") + +"No, I haven't smelt any man in particular," answered the other dog. +"What sort of a smelling man is yours?" + +"Oh, an egg-and-bacony sort of a man, with a dash of soap about +him." + +"That's nothing to go by," retorted the other; "most men would +answer to that description, this time of the morning. Where were +you when you last noticed him?" + +At this moment he caught sight of me, and came up, pleased to find +me, but vexed with me for having got lost. + +"Oh, here you are," he barked; "didn't you see me go round the +corner? Do keep closer. Bothered if half my time isn't taken up, +finding you and losing you again." + +The incident appeared to have made him bad-tempered; he was just in +the humour for a row of any sort. At the top of Sloane Street a +stout military-looking gentleman started running after the Chelsea +bus. With a "Hooroo" William Smith was after him. Had the old +gentleman taken no notice, all would have been well. A butcher boy, +driving just behind, would--I could read it in his eye--have caught +Smith a flick as he darted into the road, which would have served +him right; the old gentleman would have captured his bus; and the +affair would have been ended. Unfortunately, he was that type of +retired military man all gout and curry and no sense. He stopped to +swear at the dog. That, of course, was what Smith wanted. It is +not often he gets a scrimmage with a full-grown man. "They're a +poor-spirited lot, most of them," he thinks; "they won't even answer +you back. I like a man who shows a bit of pluck." He was frenzied +with delight at his success. He flew round his victim, weaving +whooping circles and curves that paralyzed the old gentleman as +though they had been the mystic figures of a Merlin. The colonel +clubbed his umbrella, and attempted to defend himself. I called to +the dog, I gave good advice to the colonel (I judged him to be a +colonel; the louder he spoke, the less one could understand him), +but both were too excited to listen to me. A sympathetic bus driver +leaned over, and whispered hoarse counsel. + +"Ketch 'im by the tail, sir," he advised the old gentleman; "don't +you be afraid of him; you ketch 'im firmly by the tail." + +A milkman, on the other hand, sought rather to encourage Smith, +shouting as he passed-- + +"Good dog, kill him!" + +A child, brained within an inch by the old gentleman's umbrella, +began to cry. The nurse told the old gentleman he was a fool--a +remark which struck me as singularly apt The old gentleman gasped +back that perambulators were illegal on the pavement; and, between +his exercises, inquired after myself. A crowd began to collect; and +a policeman strolled up. + +It was not the right thing: I do not defend myself; but, at this +point, the temptation came to me to desert William Smith. He likes +a street row, I don't. These things are matters of temperament. I +have also noticed that he has the happy instinct of knowing when to +disappear from a crisis, and the ability to do so; mysteriously +turning up, quarter of a mile off, clad in a peaceful and +pre-occupied air, and to all appearances another and a better dog. + +Consoling myself with the reflection that I could be of no practical +assistance to him and remembering with some satisfaction that, by a +fortunate accident, he was without his collar, which bears my name +and address, I slipped round the off side of a Vauxhall bus, making +no attempt at ostentation, and worked my way home through Lowndes +Square and the Park. + +Five minutes after I had sat down to lunch, he flung open the +dining-room door, and marched in. It is his customary "entrance." +In a previous state of existence, his soul was probably that of an +Actor-Manager. + +From his exuberant self-satisfaction, I was inclined to think he +must have succeeded in following the milkman's advice; at all +events, I have not seen the colonel since. His bad temper had +disappeared, but his "uppishness" had, if possible, increased. +Previous to his return, I had given The O'Shannon a biscuit. The +O'Shannon had been insulted; he did not want a dog biscuit; if he +could not have a grilled kidney he did not want anything. He had +thrown the biscuit on the floor. Smith saw it and made for it. Now +Smith never eats biscuits. I give him one occasionally, and he at +once proceeds to hide it. He is a thrifty dog; he thinks of the +future. "You never know what may happen," he says; "suppose the +Guv'nor dies, or goes mad, or bankrupt, I may be glad even of this +biscuit; I'll put it under the door-mat--no, I won't, somebody will +find it there. I'll scratch a hole in the tennis lawn, and bury it +there. That's a good idea; perhaps it'll grow!" Once I caught him +hiding it in my study, behind the shelf devoted to my own books. It +offended me, his doing that; the argument was so palpable. +Generally, wherever he hides it somebody finds it. We find it under +our pillows--inside our boots; no place seems safe. This time he +had said to himself--"By Jove! a whole row of the Guv'nor's books. +Nobody will ever want to take these out; I'll hide it here." One +feels a thing like that from one's own dog. + +But The O'Shannon's biscuit was another matter. Honesty is the best +policy; but dishonesty is the better fun. He made a dash for it, +and commenced to devour it greedily; you might have thought he had +not tasted food for a week. + +The indignation of The O'Shannon was a sight for the gods. He has +the good-nature of his race: had Smith asked him for the biscuit he +would probably have given it to him; it was the insult--the +immorality of the proceeding, that maddened The O'Shannon. + +For a moment he was paralyzed. + +"Well, of all the--Did ye see that now?" he said to me with his +eyes. Then he made a rush and snatched the biscuit out of Smith's +very jaws. "Ye onprincipled black Saxon thief," growled The +O'Shannon; "how dare ye take my biscuit?" + +"You miserable Irish cur," growled Smith; "how was I to know it was +your biscuit? Does everything on the floor belong to you? Perhaps +you think I belong to you, I'm on the floor. I don't believe it is +your biscuit, you long-eared, snubbed-nosed bog-trotter; give it me +back." + +"I don't require any of your argument, you flop-eared son of a tramp +with half a tail," replied The O'Shannon. "You come and take it, if +you think you are dog enough." + +He did think he was dog enough. He is half the size of The +O'Shannon, but such considerations weigh not with him. His argument +is, if a dog is too big for you to fight the whole of him, take a +bit of him and fight that. He generally gets licked, but what is +left of him invariably swaggers about afterwards under the +impression it is the victor. When he is dead, he will say to +himself, as he settles himself in his grave--"Well, I flatter myself +I've laid out that old world at last. It won't trouble ME any more, +I'm thinking." + +On this occasion, _I_ took a hand in the fight. It becomes +necessary at intervals to remind Master Smith that the man, as the +useful and faithful friend of dog, has his rights. I deemed such +interval had arrived. He flung himself on to the sofa, muttering. +It sounded like--"Wish I'd never got up this morning. Nobody +understands me." + +Nothing, however, sobers him for long. Half-an-hour later, he was +killing the next-door cat. He will never learn sense; he has been +killing that cat for the last three months. Why the next morning +his nose is invariably twice its natural size, while for the next +week he can see objects on one side of his head only, he never seems +to grasp; I suppose he attributes it to change in the weather. + +He ended up the afternoon with what he no doubt regarded as a +complete and satisfying success. Dorothea had invited a lady to +take tea with her that day. I heard the sound of laughter, and, +being near the nursery, I looked in to see what was the joke. Smith +was worrying a doll. I have rarely seen a more worried-looking +doll. Its head was off, and its sawdust strewed the floor. Both +the children were crowing with delight; Dorothea, in particular, was +in an ecstasy of amusement. + +"Whose doll is it?" I asked. + +"Eva's," answered Dorothea, between her peals of laughter. + +"Oh no, it isn't," explained Eva, in a tone of sweet content; +"here's my doll." She had been sitting on it, and now drew it forth, +warm but whole. "That's Dorry's doll." + +The change from joy to grief on the part of Dorothea was distinctly +dramatic. Even Smith, accustomed to storm, was nonplussed at the +suddenness of the attack upon him. + +Dorothea's sorrow lasted longer than I had expected. I promised her +another doll. But it seemed she did not want another; that was the +only doll she would ever care for so long as life lasted; no other +doll could ever take its place; no other doll would be to her what +that doll had been. These little people are so absurd: as if it +could matter whether you loved one doll or another, when all are so +much alike! They have curly hair, and pink-and-white complexions, +big eyes that open and shut, a little red mouth, two little hands. +Yet these foolish little people! they will love one, while another +they will not look upon. I find the best plan is not to reason with +them, but to sympathize. Later on--but not too soon--introduce to +them another doll. They will not care for it at first, but in time +they will come to take an interest in it. Of course, it cannot make +them forget the first doll; no doll ever born in Lowther Arcadia +could be as that, but still-- It is many weeks before they forget +entirely the first love. + +We buried Dolly in the country under the yew tree. A friend of mine +who plays the fiddle came down on purpose to assist. We buried her +in the hot spring sunshine, while the birds from shady nooks sang +joyously of life and love. And our chief mourner cried real tears, +just for all the world as though it were not the fate of dolls, +sooner or later, to get broken--the little fragile things, made for +an hour, to be dressed and kissed; then, paintless and stript, to be +thrown aside on the nursery floor. Poor little dolls! I wonder do +they take themselves seriously, not knowing the springs that stir +their sawdust bosoms are but clockwork, not seeing the wires to +which they dance? Poor little marionettes! do they talk together, I +wonder, when the lights of the booth are out? + +You, little sister doll, were the heroine. You lived in the +white-washed cottage, all honeysuckle and clematis without--earwiggy +and damp within, maybe. How pretty you always looked in your +simple, neatly-fitting print dress. How good you were! How nobly +you bore your poverty. How patient you were under your many wrongs. +You never harboured an evil thought, a revengeful wish--never, +little doll? Were there never moments when you longed to play the +wicked woman's part, live in a room with many doors, be-clad in furs +and jewels, with lovers galore at your feet? In those long winter +evenings? the household work is done--the greasy dishes washed, the +floor scrubbed; the excellent child is asleep in the corner; the +one-and-elevenpenny lamp sheds its dismal light on the darned +table-cloth; you sit, busy at your coarse sewing, waiting for Hero +Dick, knowing--guessing, at least, where he is--! Yes, dear, I +remember your fine speeches, when you told her, in stirring language +the gallery cheered to the echo, what you thought of her and of such +women as she; when, lifting your hand to heaven, you declared you +were happier in your attic, working your fingers to the bone, than +she in her gilded salon--I think "gilded salon" was the term, was it +not?--furnished by sin. But speaking of yourself, weak little +sister doll, not of your fine speeches, the gallery listening, did +you not, in your secret heart, envy her? Did you never, before +blowing out the one candle, stand for a minute in front of the +cracked glass, and think to yourself that you, too, would look well +in low-cut dresses from Paris, the diamonds flashing on your white +smooth skin? Did you never, toiling home through the mud, bearing +your bundle of needlework, feel bitter with the wages of virtue, as +she splashed you, passing by in her carriage? Alone, over your cup +of weak tea, did you never feel tempted to pay the price for +champagne suppers, and gaiety, and admiration? Ah, yes, it is easy +for folks who have had their good time, to prepare copybooks for +weary little inkstained fingers, longing for play. The fine maxims +sound such cant when we are in that mood, do they not? You, too, +were young and handsome: did the author of the play think you were +never hungry for the good things of life? Did he think that reading +tracts to crotchety old women was joy to a full-blooded girl in her +twenties? Why should SHE have all the love, and all the laughter? +How fortunate that the villain, the Wicked Baronet, never opened the +cottage door at that moment, eh, dear! He always came when you were +strong, when you felt that you could denounce him, and scorn his +temptations. Would that the villain came to all of us at such time; +then we would all, perhaps, be heroes and heroines. + +Ah well, it was only a play: it is over now. You and I, little +tired dolls, lying here side by side, waiting to know our next part, +we can look back and laugh. Where is she, this wicked dolly, that +made such a stir on our tiny stage? Ah, here you are, Madam; I +thought you could not be far; they have thrown us all into this +corner together. But how changed you are, Dolly: your paint rubbed +off, your golden hair worn to a wisp. No wonder; it was a trying +part you had to play. How tired you must have grown of the glare +and the glitter! And even hope was denied you. The peace you so +longed for you knew you had lost the power to enjoy. Like the girl +bewitched in the fairy tale, you knew you must dance ever faster and +faster, with limbs growing palsied, with face growing ashen, and +hair growing grey, till Death should come to release you; and your +only prayer was he might come ere your dancing grew comic. + +Like the smell of the roses to Nancy, hawking them through the hot +streets, must the stifling atmosphere of love have been to you. The +song of passion, how monotonous in your ears, sung now by the young +and now by the old; now shouted, now whined, now shrieked; but ever +the one strident tune. Do you remember when first you heard it? +You dreamt it the morning hymn of Heaven. You came to think it the +dance music of Hell, ground from a cracked hurdy-gurdy, lent out by +the Devil on hire. + +An evil race we must have seemed to you, Dolly Faustine, as to some +Old Bailey lawyer. You saw but one side of us. You lived in a +world upside down, where the leaves and the blossoms were hidden, +and only the roots saw your day. You imagined the worm-beslimed +fibres the plant, and all things beautiful you deemed cant. +Chivalry, love, honour! how you laughed at the lying words. You +knew the truth--as you thought: aye, half the truth. We were swine +while your spell was upon us, Daughter of Circe, and you, not +knowing your island secret, deemed it our natural shape. + +No wonder, Dolly, your battered waxen face is stamped with an angry +sneer. The Hero, who eventually came into his estates amid the +plaudits of the Pit, while you were left to die in the streets! you +remembered, but the house had forgotten those earlier scenes in +always wicked Paris. The good friend of the family, the breezy man +of the world, the Deus ex Machina of the play, who was so good to +everybody, whom everybody loved! aye, YOU loved him once--but that +was in the Prologue. In the Play proper, he was respectable. (How +you loathed that word, that meant to you all you vainly longed for!) +To him the Prologue was a period past and dead; a memory, giving +flavour to his life. To you, it was the First Act of the Play, +shaping all the others. His sins the house had forgotten: at +yours, they held up their hands in horror. No wonder the sneer lies +on your waxen lips. + +Never mind, Dolly; it was a stupid house. Next time, perhaps, you +will play a better part; and then they will cheer, instead of +hissing you. You were wasted, I am inclined to think, on modern +comedy. You should have been cast for the heroine of some old-world +tragedy. The strength of character, the courage, the power of +self-forgetfulness, the enthusiasm were yours: it was the part that +was lacking. You might have worn the mantle of a Judith, a +Boadicea, or a Jeanne d'Arc, had such plays been popular in your +time. Perhaps they, had they played in your day, might have had to +be content with such a part as yours. They could not have played +the meek heroine, and what else would there have been for them in +modern drama? Catherine of Russia! had she been a waiter's daughter +in the days of the Second Empire, should we have called her Great? +The Magdalene! had her lodging in those days been in some bye-street +of Rome instead of in Jerusalem, should we mention her name in our +churches? + +You were necessary, you see, Dolly, to the piece. We cannot all +play heroes and heroines. There must be wicked people in the play, +or it would not interest. Think of it, Dolly, a play where all the +women were virtuous, all the men honest! We might close the booth; +the world would be as dull as an oyster-bed. Without you wicked +folk there would be no good. How should we have known and honoured +the heroine's worth, but by contrast with your worthlessness? Where +would have been her fine speeches, but for you to listen to them? +Where lay the hero's strength, but in resisting temptation of you? +Had not you and the Wicked Baronet between you robbed him of his +estates, falsely accused him of crime, he would have lived to the +end of the play an idle, unheroic, incomplete existence. You +brought him down to poverty; you made him earn his own bread--a most +excellent thing for him; gave him the opportunity to play the man. +But for your conduct in the Prologue, of what value would have been +that fine scene at the end of the Third Act, that stirred the house +to tears and laughter? You and your accomplice, the Wicked Baronet, +made the play possible. How would Pit and Gallery have known they +were virtuous, but for the indignation that came to them, watching +your misdeeds? Pity, sympathy, excitement, all that goes to the +making of a play, you were necessary for. It was ungrateful of the +house to hiss you. + +And you, Mr. Merryman, the painted grin worn from your pale lips, +you too were dissatisfied, if I remember rightly, with your part. +You wanted to make the people cry, not laugh. Was it a higher +ambition? The poor tired people! so much happens in their life to +make them weep, is it not good sport to make them merry for awhile? +Do you remember that old soul in the front row of the Pit? How she +laughed when you sat down on the pie! I thought she would have to +be carried out. I heard her talking to her companion as they passed +the stage-door on their way home. "I have not laughed, my dear, +till to-night," she was saying, the good, gay tears still in her +eyes, "since the day poor Sally died." Was not that alone worth the +old stale tricks you so hated? Aye, they were commonplace and +conventional, those antics of yours that made us laugh; are not the +antics that make us weep commonplace and conventional also? Are not +all the plays, played since the booth was opened, but of one +pattern, the plot old-fashioned now, the scenes now commonplace? +Hero, villain, cynic--are their parts so much the fresher? The love +duets, are they so very new? The death-bed scenes, would you call +them UNcommonplace? Hate, and Evil, and Wrong--are THEIR voices new +to the booth? What are you waiting for, people? a play with a plot +that is novel, with characters that have never strutted before? It +will be ready for you, perhaps, when you are ready for it, with new +tears and new laughter. + +You, Mr. Merryman, were the true philosopher. You saved us from +forgetting the reality when the fiction grew somewhat strenuous. +How we all applauded your gag in answer to the hero, when, bewailing +his sad fate, he demanded of Heaven how much longer he was to suffer +evil fortune. "Well, there cannot be much more of it in store for +you," you answered him; "it's nearly nine o'clock already, and the +show closes at ten." And true to your prophecy the curtain fell at +the time appointed, and his troubles were of the past. You showed +us the truth behind the mask. When pompous Lord Shallow, in ermine +and wig, went to take his seat amid the fawning crowd, you pulled +the chair from under him, and down he sat plump on the floor. His +robe flew open, his wig flew off. No longer he awed us. His aped +dignity fell from him; we saw him a stupid-eyed, bald little man; he +imposed no longer upon us. It is your fool who is the only true +wise man. + +Yours was the best part in the play, Brother Merryman, had you and +the audience but known it. But you dreamt of a showier part, where +you loved and fought. I have heard you now and again, when you did +not know I was near, shouting with sword in hand before your +looking-glass. You had thrown your motley aside to don a dingy red +coat; you were the hero of the play, you performed the gallant +deeds, you made the noble speeches. I wonder what the play would be +like, were we all to write our own parts. There would be no clowns, +no singing chambermaids. We would all be playing lead in the centre +of the stage, with the lime-light exclusively devoted to ourselves. +Would it not be so? + +What grand acting parts they are, these characters we write for +ourselves alone in our dressing-rooms. We are always brave and +noble--wicked sometimes, but if so, in a great, high-minded way; +never in a mean or little way. What wondrous deeds we do, while the +house looks on and marvels. Now we are soldiers, leading armies to +victory. What if we die: it is in the hour of triumph, and a +nation is left to mourn. Not in some forgotten skirmish do we ever +fall; not for some "affair of outposts" do we give our blood, our +very name unmentioned in the dispatches home. Now we are passionate +lovers, well losing a world for love--a very different thing to +being a laughter-provoking co-respondent in a sordid divorce case. + +And the house is always crowded when we play. Our fine speeches +always fall on sympathetic ears, our brave deeds are noted and +applauded. It is so different in the real performance. So often we +play our parts to empty benches, or if a thin house be present, they +misunderstand, and laugh at the pathetic passages. And when our +finest opportunity comes, the royal box, in which HE or SHE should +be present to watch us, is vacant. + +Poor little dolls, how seriously we take ourselves, not knowing the +springs that stir our bosoms are but clockwork, not seeing the wires +to which we dance. Poor little marionettes, shall we talk together, +I wonder, when the lights of the booth are out? + +We are little wax dollies with hearts. We are little tin soldiers +with souls. Oh, King of many toys, are you merely playing with us? +IS it only clockwork within us, this thing that throbs and aches? +Have you wound us up but to let us run down? Will you wind us again +to-morrow, or leave us here to rust? IS it only clockwork to which +we respond and quiver? Now we laugh, now we cry, now we dance; our +little arms go out to clasp one another, our little lips kiss, then +say good-bye. We strive, and we strain, and we struggle. We reach +now for gold, now for laurel. We call it desire and ambition: are +they only wires that you play? Will you throw the clockwork aside, +or use it again, O Master? + +The lights of the booth grow dim. The springs are broken that kept +our eyes awake. The wire that held us erect is snapped, and +helpless we fall in a heap on the stage. Oh, brother and sister +dollies we played beside, where are you? Why is it so dark and +silent? Why are we being put into this black box? And hark! the +little doll orchestra--how far away the music sounds! what is it +they are playing:-- + +[Start of Gounod's Funeral March of a Marionette] + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext The Second Thoughts of An Idle Fellow + diff --git a/old/scthk10.zip b/old/scthk10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0691d57 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/scthk10.zip |
