or this idea; but as I
have grown older I have learned that the theory is a very common and
popular one in cultured circles.

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

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

"All of which is very true," remarked Jephson; "but you must remember it
is not only the literary man who traffics in misfortune. The doctor, the
lawyer, the preacher, the newspaper proprietor, the weather prophet, will
hardly, I should say, welcome the millennium. I shall never forget an
anecdote my uncle used to relate, dealing with the period when he was
chaplain of the