4. On the preparation and employment of love filters. 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 in decision 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. Tomorrow 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 beef steaks to caviar I should be nonplussed.   Every right-thinking man is a universal lover. How could it be otherwise?  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. Goodbye.  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 gadabout.  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 heartlifting music, and the vast crowd were basking in a sweet enjoyment, such as rarely woos the English toilet. 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 clothesline. 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.  Suppose a young man had to select his wife in this fashion from some twenty or thirty thousand. All 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.  Fate takes the young man or 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 those 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 upstairs department today. 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 everyone'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'm 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.  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 fault in us. 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 filter, 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 pequant is a temper in a woman.   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 atowed 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 filter. 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 matter, 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.  Thief, coward, blaggard, 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 blaggard, 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 repast 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 lass's eyes are dimmer. The hills are a little steeper. The milestone 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 they're followed into change 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 two 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 care-worn. 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 bandstand 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 peopleed. 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.  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.   What cares she? She has caught us and chained us to her work. She is our universal mother-in-law. She has done the matchmaking. 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 shop-walker 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 hamstered? 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 haipath of salt. For want of a soup-son of amiability. For want of a handful of kindly words. A touch of caress. 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.    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 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 shortcomings of servants, the wrongdoings 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 rosebud mouth. It has lost its shape, madam, of late.  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 hogs-wash.  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 were 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 frequent 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 fond still of our sweet hearts and wives, let us hope. Try us.  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.  She appeared to be solving a problem. All grown-up people seem to know everything, she summarised. 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 dolls per ambulator 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 downstairs on Sundays. We have her withers 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, lent 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. 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. Civilisation, 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 the fellow-slave, lest the overseers whip, out we will have no liar-beds here. Descend upon thy patient back.  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 reserve 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 tupony 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 footmen, these, kept more for show than use, but their senseless tasks nonetheless 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 neckties 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, schoolboys conning their dog-eared grammars, citymen planning their schemes, the wearers of motley, cuddling 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 aunt 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 patterned 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 overfeeding. An oma 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 not 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 brick-field, you could not rest satisfied. You hungered for the flesh-pots, knowing well what flesh-pots entail. The cleaning of the flesh-pots, the forging of the flesh-pots, the hewing of wood to make 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 pot-age, 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 loincloth and necklace, the load upon their head. 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 gators. 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 saucers. 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 Osten, when it is most crowded and uncomfortable. He takes his secretary with him, receives and dispatches 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. Businessmen tell me they wonder how they contrive 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-month 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 recalls 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 have 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.  No, 4576. Did you say 76 or 67? 67. No, I mean 76. 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 tiptoe in a corner, holding a machine to his head, and listening intently to nothing.  Your very hair aches. You hear the door open behind you and somebody enter the room.  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 full 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. Williamson.  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.  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.  There it hangs, calm, and imperturbable. Would it an ordinary instrument? That would be its last hour. You would go straight downstairs, 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.  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.  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, sherry-torts? You mustn't play with the thing. This renders you speechless with indignation for a while.  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.  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 Kong's at seventy-four. Well, I don't care if you can't. Would you like Zulu's? What are you talking about? you reply. I don't know what you mean. Would you like Zulu's? Zulu's at seventy-three and a half. I wouldn't have them at six o' penny. What are you talking about? Hong Kong's. We can't get them at seventy-four. Oh, half a minute. The half a minute passes. Are you there? Yes, but you're talking to the wrong man. We can get you Hong Kong's at seventy-four and seven-eighths. Bother Hong Kong's 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, goodbye. Goodbye. 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, apropos 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 officers 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 acquaintance-ship was of sufficient standing to allow of such a question. Threpence, I answered. They work out at about Tuppan's three farthings by the box. Just so, he growled, and your Tuppan's 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 too straws about, and are only my friends in the hope of making something out of me.  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 percents? 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'm 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 tomorrow, you would start a newspaper, or build a theatre.  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 tomorrow 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 cable-gram from the manager of one of his Austrian mines, and he had to leave me for his study. But walking home I felt a 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 goodbye 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 Tricolor floated over the battlements of Badder Hose? 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 see my 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 laboring 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 bloodjuns. 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. End of Chapter 5 I talked to a woman once on the subject of honeymoon. 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 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 soul-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.  We are very philosophical. Oh, don't cry, we tell them, that is babyish.  Up you get, fill the pail again, and try once more.  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.   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.  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 campfires, white hands waver 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. Hello, old fellow, anything up? Oh, just a twinge, the old wound, you know. I will be better in a little while.  I should not stay even to sympathise 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 fellow's boys shouting on the towing-path, when Brown rushes up the drive, paper in hand, to tell him how that young scape-grace 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, someone to curse is always useful. Let us cry and ring 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 odour-colon? Where are the curling-tongs? Or would you be 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, our sulky children, mope day after day?  We will never smile again.  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 headache becomes an agony. Every heartache 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 face 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 honeymoon. 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 d'Orée 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 Marseille, and from there push along to Monte Carlo. Let her have her 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'll be at home and glad to get there. Don't give her time to criticise 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.  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 spoiled 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 mealtime, 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.  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 word 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 1800 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 Lindhurst 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 Lamington, 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 White. 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've 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 clout 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-clark caught sight of us when we were about a quarter of a mile away, and drew us to 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-clark 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-clark 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-clark 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 Lindhurst. 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'll take the back-place, I said. I don't mind it.  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 15 years 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 wondering 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 many, 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 Road 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 could 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 him 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 prized lovebirds 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 lady's cabin. She went off crying. Her trouble was attributed by crew and passengers to my coldness.  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 vigor that he all but fell overboard. He was saved by a poultry crate. I had no luck that day. At ride, 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 vent nor 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 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 partner's gentleman 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.  It's only a drunken woman, I said. He's not going to hurt her. Police, 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.


Hello supply chain designers and welcome to our first announced session. I'm Sergio Caballero, the core fleet And I'm very pleased to have Dr. Chris Cappi here with me. Welcome Chris Dr. Chris Capplis is the executive director at the MIT Center for the Center for Transportation and Logistics and he's also the instructor of our cars Okay, before getting started. Let me give you some statistics about the cars We have more than 20,300 students already enrolled in this class The median age of our students is 30 years Wow, that's older than normal, isn't it? Yeah, I think so. I think so. 24 percent of our students are women and our students represent more than 180 countries all over the world The total country with most students are the US with 19 percent, India 11 percent and Brazil with 3 percent Okay, this is the third time that we are running SC2x and the course has been redesigned So now the course we have eight weeks of content Two of weeks one meter and one final nothing new for those who have already taken SC0 and SC1 1x Yeah, so it's following the identical pattern of SC1x, which the majority of you probably already taken And then we have what the problem was before they were never originally designed to have a mid-term or a final And we didn't want to have a homework great assignment overlapping with a final That's why we put in that breather week and week five and then also be week 11 And so we always have a week before the test for you to catch up And I think the structure works well, but we'd love to get your feedback Excellent, so let me address the agenda for the for the for this session I'm going to start asking you some some questions and general questions about the about the course Then I will read some of your questions guys. So please now at the time Write your any question that you that you might have I'm going to read later Then we'll have a breakout session And we already posted the infractions in the In the week with two material And you will have between 10 to 15 minutes to come up with some some solution to that a particular problem posted Great after that we will get we'll read your answer and if time allows We'll again have some a Q&A session. Okay, so let it get started So, uh, Chris this first time now it's open to all the students So let me ask you this question What an audience student that is taking a c2x should start thinking to become a 35 students Yeah, so there's uh So the underlying or the overarching reason why we created these courses Mainly pushed by president Raphael Reif and the director of the digital learning center, which is at Professor Sanjay Sarma is to educate the world for free So everything will always be there for free the videos the practice problems the quick questions And some assessment graded questions as well as a mid-term and the final So it'll always be there for free to educate However, the credentialization is something different that takes more work And that's if you're verified you'll get credentialization. So if you just want to Educate yourself pick something up then fine. The audit is fine and it'll always be there for you However, we found that in addition to being credentialized there are other benefits when you become a verified student And becoming verified requires two things one There's a charge of $150 per course and two you have to have the id verified You have to show id and have a picture taking themselves so we can validate that you're the person actually doing the work So other benefits from this besides having a credential that you can use on linkedin your resume and elsewhere It's also being accepted by other universities to include mit and other universities around the world Um, also we found that if you're a verified student you tend to do better. You tend to stay more engaged There's a phrase if you have skin in the game So it seems like if you pay a little bit of money, you're more engaged Verified students typically do much better than audit students. They stay longer. They do more of the work Also, what we try to do to encourage verified students We have a section each week that's called the supplemental materials for micro master students because if you're verified We assume you're on the path for the micro masters credential. And so what we put in this Separate area that's only accessible by people who are verified are supplemental materials Now these aren't things that uh, you have to do in order to pass the course Because all that's free for the audit students as well These are supplemental things like feces that have been done up here that are relevant to that week's topics additional problems Sometimes we'll have interviews or videos But there are things to kind of round out and give some a little extra value to those students who are actually Supporting the efforts as well So you get the credentialization you get access to additional materials You also get access to hangouts like this after this hangout Only the verified students will be allowed to come in and again We're just trying to incentivize people to become more verified for a couple reasons One is we want to become sustainable financially so we can keep doing this because someone has to pay our salaries But the second is it makes you a better student if you're verified you'll do better And so that's why we're trying to encourage people to become verified Whether you whether you want to go through the whole micro masters credential and come here for a master's degree or just want this one course It's a better way to take the course Excellent. Thank you. So I'm nearly a micro master, but something that Surprised me was the results that we get from x1x 80 percent of the students that have completely Completed the course are verified students I think this is the data that supports what you were your claim. Yeah, okay. So we have the liberal ready two weeks of content All of it was was about the labor design, right? But what should the students expect for the rest of the course? Yeah, so because of the redesign we didn't have an overarching Video to show you where it's going you can actually look at the syllabus and get that But let me give you a rough idea Everything with a supply chain design fc2x is all about the design of the three major flows Right, there's the physical flow the information flow on the financial flow We start with the physical flow and for the physical flow We our primary tool is mix-injured linear programming for supply chain network design It's the standard approach used by every company every consultancy out there What we've done in the last part I think we do less than two we talk about some advanced topics Right covered those and so different ways that you can also use that tool for other other purposes or how to enhance that Because as we all know mix-injured linear programs are deterministic Right, and so you can't handle uncertainty very well, although we give you some workarounds how to do robust optimization and do different runs But that's the physical flow Next we'll move in to some of the information flow and we're going to start from the production information Going to the customer and that's because the tools you use to plan your production schedule Are the same exact tools that you use to your supply chain network design In fact, the only difference is you add a time element remember for a strategic network design It's usually a single period and it's fixed if I do multiple periods Where inventory I need to know the inventory position at each point in time I'm a Essentially creating a production planning schedule which we'll talk about and that's what we talk about in weeks Three you can continue this on further to understand the information flow from your company To your customers by doing aggregate planning and aggregate planning is something we'll cover on week four again using A mix-in-jured linear program to see what's the effect of running a promotion where it changes the demand What's the effect of changing my capacity at my plant or my labor hours? so the same Methodology mix-in-jured linear program large-scale optimization is used to map and coordinate the information flow For manufacturing to distribution to your customers So we do the physical flow Then we start doing the information flow And we're going to have a midterm after that we continue the information flow And we actually go backwards a little bit we talk about how you can interact with your supplier and the reason why we shifted that is because at um in sc2x In week six when you take your midterm you're at the exact midpoint of the entire program You've taken zero sc1x and half of sc2x and up to that point everything's been very quantitative and mathematical everything's a model Starting with the second half of sc2x into sc3x and forex It gets a little more qualitative and so there's a lot more Softer things that are being considered the models are still there, but there are other things that are being considered So what we start afterwards after the midterm is how do you deal with your suppliers? Sourcing those kind of things and then we'll go into a two and a half to three week segment on finance specifically looking how supply chain ties in to financial decisions will because when you work in supply chain You're talking about physical metrics when you talk in the language of the cfo the chief financial officer You need to talk in terms of dollars And so we'll talk about that translation You kind of a mini course on supply chain finance and then we'll finish off with organizational design So essentially what we're doing is physical flow design of physical flow design of information flow Design of the financial flow and then we finish with organizational design How should you structure your supply chain organization? And we'll capstone that with a case study which is one of probably one of the first ones That we've done here in this course so far, but that kind of gives you the big picture everything's about the design of the three flows Okay, thank you So many of our students please have already taken sc0 and sc1 and us and most of them are familiar with sass or ample So my question to you Chris is why is this cool stuff using primarily the three sheets? Yeah, so Um We did sc2x This is its third run and we did this prior to doing sc0x when we decided to offer more software solutions There's no easy way to do this and so originally when we did these courses sc1 Zero two and three We assumed we're going to stay in excel because the nice thing about spread sheets excel Libre offers google sheets is it can do a little bit of everything pretty well But as we all know it doesn't do certain things larger scale very well It has it has issues and limitations And so when we redid sc0x for the first time in the fall and have run again Now in the middle of running it again We gave the option to students to use a wide range of software packages And you can still use all of those packages if you have to do a linear program And I show how to do it in excel you can do it in ample You can do it in r if you want you can do it in cplex if you want the answer for any of the problems will be the same If you no matter what package you use assume it's an okay package But I kept the spreadsheet stuff in there Just because it's simple it's another way to look at it because we didn't show you how to do it in excel or Libre office prior to this we took that out of zero So I assume it's just a compliment and the thing that I like about doing in a spreadsheet that you don't have in sass Or an ample you don't see the constraint matrix. I love seeing the constraint matrix And so to me whenever I think of a problem I think of it visually As a constraint matrix and so you can think of it where you're going to have an identity matrix What your binary variables look like to me it makes total sense when I can have the columns and so I'm very comfortable seeing it in that view because that's how I grew up not doing it in excel But being able to map out the the matrices However, if you can use any tool you want so don't think that you have to use Excel for this you can use sass or ample for any of these and you've already done all of these in sc0x You've done transportation problems. You've done trans shipment problems. You've done mix-ins or linear programs So it's all the same you can you reuse some of those models or those approaches to solve every one of these problems Okay, thank you and what do you prefer increase? What do you usually so what do you say to solve the practical parts? Yeah, I haven't if it's something small. I'll slap it in excel In 30 seconds, I'll do that really quick. I've done that for a bunch of things I I created a little quick optimization to assign students to something and I did it in like 20 minutes excel Because it was easy for something larger scale like we have a project We tend to use cplex, which is something a little more It has a huge license fate and also it solves bigger problems It's more production level and so for larger projects We'll use cplex for me just messing around with something. I'll just use excel But we've used other things you can also have add-ins for excel that can make it much bigger There's an add-in called Am I what's it called open source? What's the new? Yeah for solver. What was it called? Yeah, but it doesn't work on the Mac So there you have to look around but there are some open source ones. Sadly nothing works on a Mac That's one of the biggest problems we've had. I love max, but they have issues But there are other solvers out there So I I don't do a ton of coding myself these days anymore But you should answer that question. What's your favorite optimization tool? So in my case, I use a lot of python for all the modeling Okay, and to solve the problem the solver that I tend to use is is groovy But again, you will have you'll need the license to that to that. Yeah, okay So but the important thing is to do that You're python surrounding it. So if you're going to do this in production You're not going to enter the things in by hand like we typically do for these kind of simple problems You'll have code surrounding it that will take an input matrix and output a matrix Okay, okay, so we have a some questions from the students. All right, so let me read the first one So how to balance the science and art effort a model can be built to very complex and require many hours to be to be built Okay, so how do you balance these science and art about the yes, they would sign Yes, you need to balance it. Yeah, I mean, it's it's an open-ended question So I think one of the challenges that you face when you have an optimization It's easier now than it used to be when I was doing a lot of this work encoding myself in The late 80s It was hard to do a lot of this now. It is so easy to have an optimization model. It's massive. So You have this yearning to try to create these really complex Detailed strategic models. The problem is you can't execute them And we'll talk more about that when we talk about combinatorial options in a week Seven and eight I think with procurement where you can have this really intricate solution But it can't be executed. So it's a judgment call The art the science can be taught very quickly. We can teach you the science And we'll talk about that during your question the art of how to when is too much too much and how to apply that That's a challenge and that usually requires judgment for the context To know to understand when you're going too far similar when you guys did like regression You don't always try to go for that highest r squared value Right, you want to find something that gives you a reasonable answer and unfortunately when students are doing this for the first time They have zero context. So they don't know how to have that That's why it's helpful to have people who've been seasoned and they can start tempering when the judgment comes I can't teach you art. Um, you'd have to experience that in my opinion Okay, excellent. I think it's now time to go through the breakout rooms. Okay. Can I can I read the question then? Okay, I want to put my glasses on because I'm getting old okay, so What we asked and they have this already Yes, okay So the big thing I wanted to do for this is At this question that was just asked is a perfect example Balancing this art in science because we know the math works But the math works under a lot of assumptions that don't always apply So the question I wanted to ask you guys is take a look at the real world now and over the last 12 months We've seen a lot of surprising political events election results. Um, you know brexit They voted voted to leave the eu in uh, june of last year Uh, donald trump was elected president that was totally unexpected. He went on a platform building a wall and um trying to reduce the amount of global trade and uh, to be honest his opponent Hilary clinton was also Leaning against global trade too. So it was another interesting twist and france the second round presidential elections in two weeks And you couldn't ask for more polar Candidates you also have uncertainty happening in turkey. You have uncertainty happening in china right now There's a lot of political uncertainty So the question is if I give you a hypothetical company that's operating in europe And you currently have manufacturing in a handful of countries and you distribute throughout And you're being asked to come up with a potential supply chain design plan for the next 10 years What would you do to try to Represent or capture some of this uncertainty or to guard against it because you don't know what's going to happen in 10 years Or over the course of 10 years But companies have to make decisions that they can't change quickly And so what I want you guys to do is in your groups come up with like three things no more than three Bullet point them so we can read it. Don't write essays. Just make it short. Think think like you're using twitter think like the president Right come up with something uh short. But what would you do for the network design problem? Okay, and what are the three things you would do differently and let's talk about it because this is a real problem And I'll talk about a real case that's happening now So what do they have 10 minutes? So they will have a 15 minutes 15 minutes. Well, well 15 minutes There we go 10 and 5 All right, see you 15 see you never be