When I compare them
with the bold sportsmen, I feel something like disgust. The real
high-hearted heroes do not crave rewards--if they did, they would reap
very little. The bold man who risked everything to save the _Calliope_
will never earn as much in a year as a horse-riding manikin can in two
months. That is the way we encourage our finest merit. And meantime at
the "Isthmian games" the hordes of scoundreldom who dwell at ease can
enjoy themselves to their hearts' content in their own dreadful way;
they break out in their usual riot of foulness; they degrade the shape
of man; and the burly moralists look on robustly, and say that it is
good.
I never think of the great British carnival without feeling that the
dregs of that ugly crowd will one day make history in a fashion which
will set the world shuddering. I have no pity for ruined gamblers; but I
am indignant when we see the worst of human kind luxuriating in
abominable idleness and luxury on the foul fringe of the hateful
racecourse. No sumptuary law will ever make any inroad on the cruel
evil; and my feeling is one of sombre hopelessness.
_July, 1889._
_SEASONABLE NONSENSE_.
The most hard-hearted of cynics must pity the poor daily journalist who
is calmly requested nowadays to produce a Christmas article.
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