quarter-deck; but when he gets spinning yarns he ain't the sort of man as
I could advise you to rely upon.  Well, Billy, he's got a dog, and I've
seen him sit and tell yarns before that dog that would make a cat squirm
out of its skin, and that dog's taken 'em in and believed 'em.  One
night, up at his old woman's, Bill told us a yarn by the side of which
salt junk two voyages old would pass for spring chicken.  I watched the
dog, to see how he would take it.  He listened to it from beginning to
end with cocked ears, and never so much as blinked.  Every now and then
he would look round with an expression of astonishment or delight that
seemed to say: "Wonderful, isn't it!"  "Dear me, just think of it!"  "Did
you ever!"  "Well, if that don't beat everything!"  He was a
chuckle-headed dog; you could have told him anything.

"'It irritated me that Bill should have such an animal about him to
encourage him, and when he had finished I said to him, "I wish you'd tell
that yarn round at my quarters one evening."

"'Why?' said Bill.

"'Oh, it's just a fancy of mine,' I says.  I didn't tell him I was
wanting my old cat to hear it.

"'Oh, all right,' says Bill, 'you remind me.'  He loved yarning, Billy
did.

"'Next night but one he slings himself up in my cabin, and I does so.
Nothing loth, off he starts.  There was about half-a-dozen of us
stretched round, and the cat was sitting before the fire fussing itself
up.  Before Bill had got fairly under weigh, she stops washing and looks
up at me, puzzled like, as much as to say, "What have we got here, a
missionary?"  I signalled to her to keep quiet, and Bill went on with his
yarn.  When he got to the part about the sharks, she turned deliberately
round and looked at him.  I tell you there was an expression of disgust
on that cat's face as might have made a travelling Cheap Jack feel
ashamed of himself.  It was that human, I give you my word, sir, I forgot
for the moment as the poor animal couldn't speak.  I could see the words
that were on its lips: "Why don't you tell us you swallowed the anchor?"
and I sat on tenter-hooks, fearing each instant that she would say them
aloud.  It was a relief to me when she turned her back on Bill.

"'For a few minutes she sat very still, and seemed to be wrestling with
herself like.  I never saw a cat more set on controlling its feelings, or
that seemed to suffer more in silence.  It made my heart ache to watch
it.

"'At last Bill came to the point where he and the captain between 'em
hold the shark's mouth open while the cabin-boy dives in head foremost,
and fetches up, undigested, the gold watch and chain as the bo'sun was a-
wearing when he fell overboard; and at that the old cat giv'd a screech,
and rolled over on her side with her legs in the air.

"'I thought at first the poor thing was dead, but she rallied after a
bit, and it seemed as though she had braced herself up to hear the thing
out.

"'But a little further on, Bill got too much for her again, and this time
she owned herself beat.  She rose up and looked round at us: "You'll
excuse me, gentlemen," she said--leastways that is what she said if looks
go for anything--"maybe you're used to this sort of rubbish, and it don't
get on your nerves.  With me it's different.  I guess I've heard as much
of this fool's talk as my constitution will stand, and if it's all the
same to you I'll get outside before I'm sick."

"'With that she walked up to the door, and I opened it for her, and she
went out.

"'You can't fool a cat with talk same as you can a dog.'"




CHAPTER VII


Does man ever reform?  Balzac says he doesn't.  So far as my experience
goes, it agrees with that of Balzac--a fact the admirers of that author
are at liberty to make what use of they please.

When I was young and accustomed to take my views of life from people who
were older than myself, and who knew better, so they said, I used to
believe that he did.  Examples of "reformed characters" were frequently
pointed out to me--indeed, our village, situate a few miles from a small
seaport town, seemed to be peculiarly rich in such.  They were, from all
accounts, including their own, persons who had formerly behaved with
quite unnecessary depravity, and who, at the time I knew them, appeared
to be going to equally objectionable lengths in the opposite direction.
They invariably belonged to one of two classes, the low-spirited or the
aggressively unpleasant.  They said, and I believed, that they were
happy; but I could not help reflecting how very sad they must have been
before they were happy.

One of them, a small, meek-eyed old man with a piping voice, had been
exceptionally wild in his youth.  What had been his special villainy I
could never discover.  People responded to my inquiries by saying that he
had been "Oh, generally bad," and increased my longing for detail by
adding that little boys ought not to want to know about such things.  From
their tone and manner I assumed that he must have been a pirate at the
very least, and regarded him with awe, not unmingled with secret
admiration.

Whatever it was, he had been saved from it by his wife, a bony lady of
unprepossessing appearance, but irreproachable views.

One day he called at our house for some purpose or other, and, being left
alone with him for a few minutes, I took the opportunity of interviewing
him personally on the subject.

"You were very wicked once, weren't you?" I said, seeking by emphasis on
the "once" to mitigate what I felt might be the disagreeable nature of
the question.

To my intense surprise, a gleam of shameful glory lit up his wizened
face, and a sound which I tried to think a sigh, but which sounded like a
chuckle, escaped his lips.

"Ay," he replied; "I've been a bit of a spanker in my time."

The term "spanker" in such connection puzzled me.  I had been hitherto
led to regard a spanker as an eminently conscientious person, especially
where the shortcomings of other people were concerned; a person who
laboured for the good of others.  That the word could also be employed to
designate a sinful party was a revelation to me.

"But you are good now, aren't you?" I continued, dismissing further
reflection upon the etymology of "spanker" to a more fitting occasion.

"Ay, ay," he answered, his countenance resuming its customary aspect of
resigned melancholy.  "I be a brand plucked from the burning, I be.  There
beant much wrong wi' Deacon Sawyers, now."

"And it was your wife that made you good, wasn't it?" I persisted,
determined, now that I had started this investigation, to obtain
confirmation at first hand on all points.

At the mention of his wife his features became suddenly transformed.
Glancing hurriedly round, to make sure, apparently, that no one but
myself was within hearing, he leaned across and hissed these words into
my ear--I have never forgotten them, there was a ring of such evident
sincerity about them--

"I'd like to skin her, I'd like to skin her alive."

It struck me, even in the light of my then limited judgment, as an
unregenerate wish; and thus early my faith in the possibility of man's
reformation received the first of those many blows that have resulted in
shattering it.

Nature, whether human or otherwise, was not made to be reformed.  You can
develop, you can check, but you cannot alter it.

You can take a small tiger and train it to sit on a hearthrug, and to lap
milk, and so long as you provide it with hearthrugs to lie on and
sufficient milk to drink, it will purr and behave like an affectionate
domestic pet.  But it is a tiger, with all a tiger's instincts, and its
progeny to the end of all time will be tigers.

In the same way, you can take an ape and develop it through a few
thousand generations until it loses its tail and becomes an altogether
superior ape.  You can go on developing it through still a few more
thousands of generations until it gathers to itself out of the waste
vapours of eternity an intellect and a soul, by the aid of which it is
enabled to keep the original apish nature more or less under control.

But the ape is still there, and always will be, and every now and again,
when Constable Civilisation turns his back for a moment, as during
"Spanish Furies," or "September massacres," or Western mob rule, it
creeps out and bites and tears at quivering flesh, or plunges its hairy
arms elbow deep in blood, or dances round a burning nigger.

I knew a man once--or, rather, I knew of a man--who was a confirmed
drunkard.  He became and continued a drunkard, not through weakness, but
through will.  When his friends remonstrated with him, he told them to
mind their own business, and to let him mind his.  If he saw any reason
for not getting drunk he would give it up.  Meanwhile he liked getting
drunk, and he meant to get drunk as often as possible.

He went about it deliberately, and did it thoroughly.  For nearly ten
years, so it was reported, he never went to bed sober.  This may be an
exaggeration--it would be a singular report were it not--but it can be
relied upon as sufficiently truthful for all practical purposes.

Then there came a day when he did see a reason for not getting drunk.  He
signed no pledge, he took no oath.  He said, "I will never touch another
drop of drink," and for twenty-six years he kept his word.

At the end of that time a combination of circumstances occurred that made
life troublesome to him, so that he desired to be rid of it altogether.
He was a man accustomed, when he desired a thing within his reach, to
stretch out his hand and take it.  He reviewed the case calmly, and
decided to commit suicide.

If the thing were to be done at all, it would be best, for reasons that
if set forth would make this a long story, that it should be done that
very night, and, if possible, before eleven o'clock, which was the
earliest hour a certain person could arrive from a certain place.

It was then four in the afternoon.  He attended to some necessary
business, and wrote some necessary letters.  This occupied him until
seven.  He then called a cab and drove to a small hotel in the suburbs,
engaged a private room, and ordered up materials for the making of the
particular punch that had been the last beverage he had got drunk on, six-
and-twenty years ago.

For three hours he sat there drinking steadily, with his watch before
him.  At half-past ten he rang the bell, paid his bill, came home, and
cut his throat.

For a quarter of a century people had been calling that man a "reformed
character."  His character had not reformed one jot.  The craving for
drink had never died.  For twenty-six years he had, being a great man,
held it gripped by the throat.  When all things became a matter of
indifference to him, he loosened his grasp, and the evil instinct rose up
within him as strong on the day he died as on the day he forced it down.

That is all a man can do, pray for strength to crush down the evil that
is in him, and to keep it held down day after day.  I never hear washy
talk about "changed characters" and "reformed natures" but I think of a
sermon I once heard at a Wesleyan revivalist meeting in the Black
Country.

"Ah! my friends, we've all of us got the devil inside us.  I've got him,
you've got him," cried the preacher--he was an old man, with long white
hair and beard, and wild, fighting eyes.  Most of the preachers who came
"reviving," as it was called, through that district, had those eyes.  Some
of them needed "reviving" themselves, in quite another sense, before they
got clear out of it.  I am speaking now of more than thirty years ago.

"Ah! so us have--so us have," came the response.

"And you carn't get rid of him," continued the speaker.

"Not of oursel's," ejaculated a fervent voice at the end of the room,
"but the Lord will help us."

The old preacher turned on him almost fiercely:--

"But th' Lord woan't," he shouted; "doan't 'ee reckon on that, lad.  Ye've
got him an' ye've got ta keep him.  Ye carn't get rid of him.  Th' Lord
doan't mean 'ee to."

Here there broke forth murmurs of angry disapproval, but the old fellow
went on, unheeding:--

"It arn't good for 'ee to get rid of him.  Ye've just got to hug him
tight.  Doan't let him go.  Hold him fast, and--LAM INTO HIM.  I tell 'ee
it's good, healthy Christian exercise."

We had been discussing the subject with reference to our hero.  It had
been suggested by Brown as an unhackneyed idea, and one lending itself,
therefore, to comparative freshness of treatment, that our hero should be
a thorough-paced scamp.

Jephson seconded the proposal, for the reason that it would the better
enable us to accomplish artistic work.  He was of opinion that we should
be more sure of our ground in drawing a villain than in attempting to
portray a good man.

MacShaughnassy thirded (if I may coin what has often appeared to me to be
a much-needed word) the motion with ardour.  He was tired, he said, of
the crystal-hearted, noble-thinking young man of fiction.  Besides, it
made bad reading for the "young person."  It gave her false ideas, and
made her dissatisfied with mankind as he really is.

And, thereupon, he launched forth and sketched us his idea of a hero,
with reference to whom I can only say that I should not like to meet him
on a dark night.

Brown, our one earnest member, begged us to be reasonable, and reminded
us, not for the first time, and not, perhaps, altogether unnecessarily,
that these meetings were for the purpose of discussing business, not of
talking nonsense.

Thus adjured, we attacked the subject conscientiously.

Brown's idea was that the man should be an out-and-out blackguard, until
about the middle of the book, when some event should transpire that would
have the effect of completely reforming him.  This naturally brought the
discussion down to the question with which I have commenced this chapter:
Does man ever reform?  I argued in the negative, and gave the reasons for
my disbelief much as I have set them forth here.  MacShaughnassy, on the
other hand, contended that he did, and instanced the case of himself--a
man who, in his early days, so he asserted, had been a scatterbrained,
impracticable person, entirely without stability.

I maintained that this was merely an example of enormous will-power
enabling a man to overcome and rise superior to the defects of character
with which nature had handicapped him.

"My opinion of you," I said, "is that you are naturally a hopelessly
irresponsible, well-meaning ass.  But," I continued quickly, seeing his
hand reaching out towards a complete Shakespeare in one volume that lay
upon the piano, "your mental capabilities are of such extraordinary power
that you can disguise this fact, and make yourself appear a man of sense
and wisdom."

Brown agreed with me that in MacShaughnassy's case traces of the former
disposition were clearly apparent, but pleaded that the illustration was
an unfortunate one, and that it ought not to have weight in the
discussion.

"Seriously speaking," said he, "don't you think that there are some
experiences great enough to break up and re-form a man's nature?"

"To break up," I replied, "yes; but to re-form, no.  Passing through a
great experience may shatter a man, or it may strengthen a man, just as
passing through a furnace may melt or purify metal, but no furnace ever
lit upon this earth can change a bar of gold into a bar of lead, or a bar
of lead into one of gold."

I asked Jephson what he thought.  He did not consider the bar of gold
simile a good one.  He held that a man's character was not an immutable
element.  He likened it to a drug--poison or elixir--compounded by each
man for himself from the pharmacopoeia of all things known to life and
time, and saw no impossibility, though some improbability, in the glass
being flung aside and a fresh draught prepared with pain and labour.

"Well," I said, "let us put the case practically; did you ever know a
man's character to change?"

"Yes," he answered, "I did know a man whose character seemed to me to be
completely changed by an experience that happened to him.  It may, as you
say, only have been that he was shattered, or that the lesson may have
taught him to keep his natural disposition ever under control.  The
result, in any case, was striking."

We asked him to give us the history of the case, and he did so.

"He was a friend of some cousins of mine," Jephson began, "people I used
to see a good deal of in my undergraduate days.  When I met him first he
was a young fellow of twenty-six, strong mentally and physically, and of
a stern and stubborn nature that those who liked him called masterful,
and that those who disliked him--a more numerous body--termed tyrannical.
When I saw him three years later, he was an old man of twenty-nine,
gentle and yielding beyond the border-line of weakness, mistrustful of
himself and considerate of others to a degree that was often unwise.
Formerly, his anger had been a thing very easily and frequently aroused.
Since the change of which I speak, I have never known the shade of anger
to cross his face but once.  In the course of a walk, one day, we came
upon a young rough terrifying a small child by pretending to set a dog at
her.  He seized the boy with a grip that almost choked him, and
administered to him a punishment that seemed to me altogether out of
proportion to the crime, brutal though it was.

"I remonstrated with him when he rejoined me.

"'Yes,' he replied apologetically; 'I suppose I'm a hard judge of some
follies.'  And, knowing what his haunted eyes were looking at, I said no
more.

"He was junior partner in a large firm of tea brokers in the City.  There
was not much for him to do in the London office, and when, therefore, as
the result of some mortgage transactions, a South Indian tea plantation
fell into the hands of the firm, it was suggested that he should go out
and take the management of it.  The plan suited him admirably.  He was a
man in every way qualified to lead a rough life; to face a by no means
contemptible amount of difficulty and danger, to govern a small army of
native workers more amenable to fear than to affection.  Such a life,
demanding thought and action, would afford his strong nature greater
interest and enjoyment than he could ever hope to obtain amid the cramped
surroundings of civilisation.

"Only one thing could in reason have been urged against the arrangement,
that thing was his wife.  She was a fragile, delicate girl, whom he had
married in obedience to that instinct of attraction towards the opposite
which Nature, for the purpose of maintaining her average, has implanted
in our breasts--a timid, meek-eyed creature, one of those women to whom
death is less terrible than danger, and fate easier to face than fear.
Such women have been known to run screaming from a mouse and to meet
martyrdom with heroism.  They can no more keep their nerves from
trembling than an aspen tree can stay the quivering of its leaves.

"That she was totally unfitted for, and would be made wretched by the
life to which his acceptance of the post would condemn her might have
readily occurred to him, had he stopped to consider for a moment her
feelings in the matter.  But to view a question from any other standpoint
than his own was not his habit.  That he loved her passionately, in his
way, as a thing belonging to himself, there can be no doubt, but it was
with the love that such men have for the dog they will thrash, the horse
they will spur to a broken back.  To consult her on the subject never
entered his head.  He informed her one day of his decision and of the
date of their sailing, and, handing her a handsome cheque, told her to
purchase all things necessary to her, and to let him know if she needed
more; and she, loving him with a dog-like devotion that was not good for
him, opened her big eyes a little wider, but said nothing.  She thought
much about the coming change to herself, however, and, when nobody was
by, she would cry softly; then, hearing his footsteps, would hastily wipe
away the traces of her tears, and go to meet him with a smile.

"Now, her timidity and nervousness, which at home had been a butt for
mere chaff, became, under the new circumstances of their life, a serious
annoyance to the man.  A woman who seemed unable to repress a scream
whenever she turned and saw in the gloom a pair of piercing eyes looking
out at her from a dusky face, who was liable to drop off her horse with
fear at the sound of a wild beast's roar a mile off, and who would turn
white and limp with horror at the mere sight of a snake, was not a
companionable person to live with in the neighbourhood of Indian jungles.

"He himself was entirely without fear, and could not understand it.  To
him it was pure affectation.  He had a muddled idea, common to men of his
stamp, that women assume nervousness because they think it pretty and
becoming to them, and that if one could only convince them of the folly
of it they might be induced to lay it aside, in the same way that they
lay aside mincing steps and simpering voices.  A man who prided himself,
as he did, upon his knowledge of horses, might, one would think, have
grasped a truer notion of the nature of nervousness, which is a mere
matter of temperament.  But the man was a fool.

"The thing that vexed him most was her horror of snakes.  He was
unblessed--or uncursed, whichever you may prefer--with imagination of any
kind.  There was no special enmity between him and the seed of the
serpent.  A creature that crawled upon its belly was no more terrible to
him than a creature that walked upon its legs; indeed, less so, for he
knew that, as a rule, there was less danger to be apprehended from them.
A reptile is only too eager at all times to escape from man.  Unless
attacked or frightened, it will make no onset.  Most people are content
to acquire their knowledge of this fact from the natural history books.
He had proved it for himself.  His servant, an old sergeant of dragoons,
has told me that he has seen him stop with his face six inches from the
head of a hooded cobra, and stand watching it through his eye-glass as it
crawled away from him, knowing that one touch of its fangs would mean
death from which there could be no possible escape.  That any reasoning
being should be inspired with terror--sickening, deadly terror--by such
pitifully harmless things, seemed to him monstrous; and he determined to
try and cure her of her fear of them.

"He succeeded in doing this eventually somewhat more thoroughly than he
had anticipated, but it left a terror in his own eyes that has not gone
out of them to this day, and that never will.

"One evening, riding home through a part of the jungle not far from his
bungalow, he heard a soft, low hiss close to his ear, and, looking up,
saw a python swing itself from the branch of a tree and make off through
the long grass.  He had been out antelope-shooting, and his loaded rifle
hung by his stirrup.  Springing from the frightened horse, he was just in
time to get a shot at the creature before it disappeared.  He had hardly
expected, under the circumstances, to even hit it.  By chance the bullet
struck it at the junction of the vertebrae with the head, and killed it
instantly.  It was a well-marked specimen, and, except for the small
wound the bullet had made, quite uninjured.  He picked it up, and hung it
across the saddle, intending to take it home and preserve it.

"Galloping along, glancing down every now and again at the huge, hideous
thing swaying and writhing in front of him almost as if still alive, a
brilliant idea occurred to him.  He would use this dead reptile to cure
his wife of her fear of living ones.  He would fix matters so that she
should see it, and think it was alive, and be terrified by it; then he
would show her that she had been frightened by a mere dead thing, and she
would feel ashamed of herself, and be healed of her folly.  It was the
sort of idea that would occur to a fool.

"When he reached home, he took the dead snake into his smoking-room;
then, locking the door, the idiot set out his prescription.  He arranged
the monster in a very natural and life-like position.  It appeared to be
crawling from the open window across the floor, and any one coming into
the room suddenly could hardly avoid treading on it.  It was very
cleverly done.

"That finished, he picked out a book from the shelves, opened it, and
laid it face downward upon the couch.  When he had completed all things
to his satisfaction he unlocked the door and came out, very pleased with
himself.

"After dinner he lit a cigar and sat smoking a while in silence.

"'Are you feeling tired?' he said to her at length, with a smile.

"She laughed, and, calling him a lazy old thing, asked what it was he
wanted.

"'Only my novel that I was reading.  I left it in my den.  Do you mind?
You will find it open on the couch.'

"She sprang up and ran lightly to the door.

"As she paused there for a moment to look back at him and ask the name of
the book, he thought how pretty and how sweet she was; and for the first
time a faint glimmer of the true nature of the thing he was doing forced
itself into his brain.

"'Never mind,' he said, half rising, 'I'll--'; then, enamoured of the
brilliancy of his plan, checked himself; and she was gone.

"He heard her footsteps passing along the matted passage, and smiled to
himself.  He thought the affair was going to be rather amusing.  One
finds it difficult to pity him even now when one thinks of it.

"The smoking-room door opened and closed, and he still sat gazing
dreamily at the ash of his cigar, and smiling.

"One moment, perhaps two passed, but the time seemed much longer.  The
man blew the gray cloud from before his eyes and waited.  Then he heard
what he had been expecting to hear--a piercing shriek.  Then another,
which, expecting to hear the clanging of the distant door and the
scurrying back of her footsteps along the passage, puzzled him, so that
the smile died away from his lips.

"Then another, and another, and another, shriek after shriek.

"The native servant, gliding noiselessly about the room, laid down the
thing that was in his hand and moved instinctively towards the door.  The
man started up and held him back.

"'Keep where you are,' he said hoarsely.  'It is nothing.  Your mistress
is frightened, that is all.  She must learn to get over this folly.'  Then
he listened again, and the shrieks ended with what sounded curiously like
a smothered laugh; and there came a sudden silence.

"And out of that bottomless silence, Fear for the first time in his life
came to the man, and he and the dusky servant looked at each other with
eyes in which there was a strange likeness; and by a common instinct
moved together towards the place where the silence came from.

"When the man opened the door he saw three things: one was the dead
python, lying where he had left it; the second was a live python, its
comrade apparently, slowly crawling round it; the third a crushed, bloody
heap in the middle of the floor.

"He himself remembered nothing more until, weeks afterwards, he opened
his eyes in a darkened, unfamiliar place, but the native servant, before
he fled screaming from the house, saw his master fling himself upon the
living serpent and grasp it with his hands, and when, later on, others
burst into the room and caught him staggering in their arms, they found
the second python with its head torn off.

"That is the incident that changed the character of my man--if it be
changed," concluded Jephson.  "He told it me one night as we sat on the
deck of the steamer, returning from Bombay.  He did not spare himself.  He
told me the story, much as I have told it to you, but in an even,
monotonous tone, free from emotion of any kind.  I asked him, when he had
finished, how he could bear to recall it.

"'Recall it!' he replied, with a slight accent of surprise; 'it is always
with me.'"




CHAPTER VIII


One day we spoke of crime and criminals.  We had discussed the
possibility of a novel without a villain, but had decided that it would
be uninteresting.

"It is a terribly sad reflection," remarked MacShaughnassy, musingly;
"but what a desperately dull place this earth would be if it were not for
our friends the bad people.  Do you know," he continued, "when I hear of
folks going about the world trying to reform everybody and make them
good, I get positively nervous.  Once do away with sin, and literature
will become a thing of the past.  Without the criminal classes we authors
would starve."

"I shouldn't worry," replied Jephson, drily; "one half mankind has been
'reforming' the other half pretty steadily ever since the Creation, yet
there appears to be a fairly appreciable amount of human nature left in
it, notwithstanding.  Suppressing sin is much the same sort of task that
suppressing a volcano would be--plugging one vent merely opens another.
Evil will last our time."

"I cannot take your optimistic view of the case," answered
MacShaughnassy.  "It seems to me that crime--at all events, interesting
crime--is being slowly driven out of our existence.  Pirates and
highwaymen have been practically abolished.  Dear old 'Smuggler Bill' has
melted down his cutlass into a pint-can with a false bottom.  The
pressgang that was always so ready to rescue our hero from his
approaching marriage has been disbanded.  There's not a lugger fit for
the purposes of abduction left upon the coast.  Men settle their 'affairs
of honour' in the law courts, and return home wounded only in the pocket.
Assaults on unprotected females are confined to the slums, where heroes
do not dwell, and are avenged by the nearest magistrate.  Your modern
burglar is generally an out-of-work green-grocer.  His 'swag' usually
consists of an overcoat and a pair of boots, in attempting to make off
with which he is captured by the servant-girl.  Suicides and murders are
getting scarcer every season.  At the present rate of decrease, deaths by
violence will be unheard of in another decade, and a murder story will be
laughed at as too improbable to be interesting.  A certain section of
busybodies are even crying out for the enforcement of the seventh
commandment.  If they succeed authors will have to follow the advice
generally given to them by the critics, and retire from business
altogether.  I tell you our means of livelihood are being filched from us
one by one.  Authors ought to form themselves into a society for the
support and encouragement of crime."

MacShaughnassy's leading intention in making these remarks was to shock
and grieve Brown, and in this object he succeeded.  Brown is--or was, in
those days--an earnest young man with an exalted--some were inclined to
say an exaggerated--view of the importance and dignity of the literary
profession.  Brown's notion of the scheme of Creation was that God made
the universe so as to give the literary man something to write about.  I
used at one time to credit Brown with originality for this idea; but as I
have grown older I have learned that the theory is a very common and
popular one in cultured circles.

Brown expostulated with MacShaughnassy.  "You speak," he said, "as though
literature were the parasite of evil."

"And what else is she?" replied the MacShaughnassy, with enthusiasm.
"What would become of literature without folly and sin?  What is the work
of the literary man but raking a living for himself out of the dust-heap
of human woe?  Imagine, if you can, a perfect world--a world where men
and women never said foolish things and never did unwise ones; where
small boys were never mischievous and children never made awkward
remarks; where dogs never fought and cats never screeched; where wives
never henpecked their husbands and mothers-in-law never nagged; where men
never went to bed in their boots and sea-captains never swore; where
plumbers understood their work and old maids never dressed as girls;
where niggers never stole chickens and proud men were never sea-sick!
where would be your humour and your wit?  Imagine a world where hearts
were never bruised; where lips were never pressed with pain; where eyes
were never dim; where feet were never weary; where stomachs were never
empty! where would be your pathos?  Imagine a world where husbands never
loved more wives than one, and that the right one; where wives were never
kissed but by their husbands; where men's hearts were never black and
women's thoughts never impure; where there was no hating and no envying;
no desiring; no despairing! where would be your scenes of passion, your
interesting complications, your subtle psychological analyses?  My dear
Brown, we writers--novelists, dramatists, poets--we fatten on the misery
of our fellow-creatures.  God created man and woman, and the woman
created the literary man when she put her teeth into the apple.  We came
into the world under the shadow of the serpent.  We are special
correspondents with the Devil's army.  We report his victories in our
three-volume novels, his occasional defeats in our five-act melodramas."

"All of which is very true," remarked Jephson; "but you must remember it
is not only the literary man who traffics in misfortune.  The doctor, the
lawyer, the preacher, the newspaper proprietor, the weather prophet, will
hardly, I should say, welcome the millennium.  I shall never forget an
anecdote my uncle used to relate, dealing with the period when he was
chaplain of the Lincolnshire county jail.  One morning there was to be a
hanging; and the usual little crowd of witnesses, consisting of the
sheriff, the governor, three or four reporters, a magistrate, and a
couple of warders, was assembled in the prison.  The condemned man, a
brutal ruffian who had been found guilty of murdering a young girl under
exceptionally revolting circumstances, was being pinioned by the hangman
and his assistant; and my uncle was employing the last few moments at his
disposal in trying to break down the sullen indifference the fellow had
throughout manifested towards both his crime and his fate.

"My uncle failing to make any impression upon him, the governor ventured
to add a few words of exhortation, upon which the man turned fiercely on
the whole of them.

"'Go to hell,' he cried, 'with your snivelling jaw.  Who are you, to
preach at me?  _You're_ glad enough I'm here--all of you.  Why, I'm the
only one of you as ain't going to make a bit over this job.  Where would
you all be, I should like to know, you canting swine, if it wasn't for me
and my sort?  Why, it's the likes of me as _keeps_ the likes of you,'
with which he walked straight to the gallows and told the hangman to
'hurry up' and not keep the gentlemen waiting."

"There was some 'grit' in that man," said MacShaughnassy.

"Yes," added Jephson, "and wholesome wit also."

MacShaughnassy puffed a mouthful of smoke over a spider which was just
about to kill a fly.  This caused the spider to fall into the river, from
where a supper-hunting swallow quickly rescued him.

"You remind me," he said, "of a scene I once witnessed in the office of
_The Daily_--well, in the office of a certain daily newspaper.  It was
the dead season, and things were somewhat slow.  An endeavour had been
made to launch a discussion on the question 'Are Babies a Blessing?'  The
youngest reporter on the staff, writing over the simple but touching
signature of 'Mother of Six,' had led off with a scathing, though
somewhat irrelevant, attack upon husbands, as a class; the Sporting
Editor, signing himself 'Working Man,' and garnishing his contribution
with painfully elaborated orthographical lapses, arranged to give an air
of verisimilitude to the correspondence, while, at the same time, not to
offend the susceptibilities of the democracy (from whom the paper derived
its chief support), had replied, vindicating the British father, and
giving what purported to be stirring midnight experiences of his own.  The
Gallery Man, calling himself, with a burst of imagination, 'Gentleman and
Christian,' wrote indignantly that he considered the agitation of the
subject to be both impious and indelicate, and added he was surprised
that a paper holding the exalted, and deservedly popular, position of
_The_ --- should have opened its columns to the brainless vapourings of
'Mother of Six' and 'Working Man.'

"The topic had, however, fallen flat.  With the exception of one man who
had invented a new feeding-bottle, and thought he was going to advertise