aerial
fancies of poets, who are, after all, the only true sages--childhood, I
say, is being gradually stamped out under the cruel iron heel of the
Period--a period not of wisdom, health, or beauty, but one of drunken
delirium, in which the world rushes feverishly along, its eyes fixed on
one hard, glittering, stony-featured idol--Gold. Education! Is it
education to teach the young that their chances of happiness depend on
being richer than their neighbours? Yet that is what it all tends to.
Get on!--be successful! Trample on others, but push forward yourself!
Money, money!--let its chink be your music; let its yellow shine be
fairer than the eyes of love or friendship! Let its piles accumulate
and ever accumulate! There are beggars in the streets, but they are
impostors! There is poverty in many places, but why seek to relieve it?
Why lessen the sparkling heaps of gold by so much as a coin? Accumulate
and ever accumulate! Live so, and then--die! And then--who knows what
then?"

His voice had been full of ringing eloquence as he spoke, but at these
last words it sank into a low, thrilling tone of solemnity and
earnestness. We all looked at him, fascinated by his manner, and were
silent.

Mr. Challoner was the first to break the impressive pause.

"I'm not a speaker, sir," he observed slowly, "but I've got a good deal
of feeling somewheres; and you'll allow me to say that I feel your
words--I think they're right true. I've often wanted to say what you've
said, but haven't seen my way clear to it. Anyhow, I've had a very
general impression about me that what we call Society has of late years
been going, per express service, direct to the devil--if the ladies
will excuse me for plain speaking. And as the journey is being taken by
choice and free-will, I suppose there's no hindrance or stoppage
possible. Besides, it's a downward line, and curiously free from
obstructions."

"Bravo, John!" exclaimed Mrs. Challoner. "You are actually corning out!
I never heard you indulge in similes before."

"Well, my dear," returned her husband, somewhat gratified, "better late
than never. A simile is a good thing if it isn't overcrowded. For
instance, Mr. Swinburne's similes are laid on too thick sometimes.
There is a verse of his, which, with all my admiration for him, I never
could quite fathom. It is where he earnestly desires to be as 'Any leaf
of any tree;' or, failing that, he wouldn't mind becoming 'As bones
under the deep,