ies, and who grows wealthy on the spoil
of fools--he is an idler. The silly beings who crowd into the
betting-shops and lounge till morning in the hot air; the stout florid
person who passes from bar to bar in a commercial town; the greasy
scoundrel who congregates with his mates at street corners; the
unspeakable dogs who prowl at night in London and snatch their prey in
lonely thoroughfares; the "jolly" gangs of young men who play cards till
dawn in provincial club-rooms; even the slouching poacher who passes his
afternoons in humorous converse at the ale-house--they are all idlers,
and they all form bad company for anybody who comes within range of
their influences. We are nearing the point of our demonstration. The
youth is at first attracted by the charm of mere laziness, but he does
not quite know it. Look at the case of the lad who goes fresh from
school to the city, and starts life at seventeen years of age. We will
say that he lives in a suburb of some great town. At first he returns
home at night full of quite admirable resolves; he intends to improve
himself and advance himself in the world. But on one fine evening a
companion suggests a stroll, and it happens that billiards are
suggested. Away goes the youngster into that flash atmosphere through
which sharp, prematurely-aged features loom so curiously; he hears the
low hum, he sees the intense eagerness and suspense of the strikers, and
he learns to like the place. After a while he is found there nightly;
his general style is low, his talk is that of the music-hall--the
ineffable flash air has taken the place of his natural repose. He ought
to be studying as many languages as possible, he ought to be watching
the markets abroad, or he should be reading the latest science if he is
engaged in practical work. But no--he is in bad company, and we find him
at eight-and-twenty a disappointed, semi-competent man who grumbles
very much about the Germans.

If we go to the lower classes, we observe the same set of phenomena. A
young workman is chatting with his friends in a public-house on Saturday
night; he rises to go at half-past nine, but his comrades pull him down.
"Make it eleven o'clock," they say. He drinks fast in the last hour, and
is then so exhilarated that he probably conveys a supply of beer home.
On Sunday morning he feels muddled, heavy, a little troubled with
nausea; his mates hail him joyously, and then the company wait with
anxiety until the public