And then men pray for rain:
My boy, did you ever hear the old Eastern legend about the Gipsies? How
they were such good musicians, that some great Indian Sultan sent for the
whole tribe, and planted them near his palace, and gave them land, and
ploughs to break it up, and seed to sow it, that they might dwell there,
and play and sing to him.
But when the winter arrived, the Gipsies all came to the Sultan, and
cried that they were starving. "But what have you done with the seed-
corn which I gave you?" "O Light of the Age, we ate it in the summer."
"And what have you done with the ploughs which I gave you?" "O Glory of
the Universe, we burnt them to bake the corn withal."
Then said that great Sultan--"Like the butterflies you have lived; and
like the butterflies you shall wander." So he drove them out. And that
is how the Gipsies came hither from the East.
Now suppose that the Sultan of all Sultans, who sends the rain, should
make a like answer to us foolish human beings, when we prayed for rain:
"But what have you done with the rain which I gave you six months since?"
"We have let it run into the sea." "Then, ere you ask for more rain,
make places wherein you can keep it when you have it." "But that would
be, in most cases, too expensive. We can employ our capital more
profitably in other directions."
It is not for me to say what answer might be made to such an excuse. I
think a child's still unsophisticated sense of right and wrong would soon
supply one; and probably one--considering the complexity, and difficulty,
and novelty, of the whole question--somewhat too harsh; as children's
judgments are wont to be.
But would it not be well if our children, without being taught to blame
anyone for what is past, were taught something about what ought to be
done now, what must be done soon, with the rainfall of these islands; and
about other and kindred health-questions, on the solution of which
depends, and will depend more and more, the life of millions? One would
have thought that those public schools and colleges which desire to
monopolise the education of the owners of the soil; of the great
employers of labour; of the clergy; and of all, indeed, who ought to be
acquainted with the duties of property, the conditions of public health,
and, in a word, with the general laws of what is now called Social
Science--one would have thought, I say, that these public schools and
colleges would have taught their scholars somewhat at least about such
matters, that they might go forth into life with at least some rough
notions of the causes which make people healthy or unhealthy, rich or
poor, comfortable or wretched, useful or dangerous to the State. But as
long as our great educational institutions, safe, or fancying themselves
safe, in some enchanted castle, shut out by ancient magic from the living
world, put a premium on Latin and Greek verses: a wise father will,
during the holidays, talk now and then, I hope, somewhat after this
fashion:--
You must understand, my boy, that all the water in the country comes out
of the sky, and from nowhere else; and that, therefore, to save and store
the water when it falls is a question of life and death to crops, and
man, and beast; for with or without water is life or death. If I took,
for instance, the water from the moors above and turned it over yonder
field, I could double, and more than double, the crops in that field
henceforth.
Then why do I not do it?
Only because the field lies higher than the house; and if--now here is
one thing which you and every civilised man should know--if you have
water-meadows, or any "irrigated" land, as it is called, above a house,
or even on a level with it, it is certain to breed not merely cold and
damp, but fever or ague. Our forefathers did not understand this; and
they built their houses, as this is built, in the lowest places they
could find: sometimes because they wished to be near ponds, from whence
they could get fish in Lent; but more often, I think, because they wanted
to be sheltered from the wind. They had no glass, as we have, in their
windows; or, at least, only latticed casements, which let in the wind and
cold; and they shrank from high and exposed, and therefore really
healthy, spots. But now that we have good glass, and sash windows, and
doors that will shut tight, we can build warm houses where we like. And
if you ever have to do with the building of cottages, remember that it is
your duty to the people who will live in them, and therefore to the
State, to see that they stand high and dry, where no water can drain down
into their foundations, and where fog, and the poisonous gases which are
given out by rotting vegetables, cannot drain down either. You will
learn more about all that when you learn, as every civilised lad should
in these days, something about chemistry, and the laws of fluids and
gases. But you know already that flowers are cut off by frost in the low
grounds sooner than in the high; and that the fog at night always lies
along the brooks; and that the sour moor-smell which warns us to shut our
windows at sunset, comes down from the hill, and not up from the valley.
Now all these things are caused by one and the same law; that cold air is
heavier than warm; and, therefore, like so much water, must run down
hill.
But what about the rainfall?
Well, I have wandered a little from the rainfall: though not as far as
you fancy; for fever and ague and rheumatism usually mean--rain in the
wrong place. But if you knew how much illness, and torturing pain, and
death, and sorrow arise, even to this very day, from ignorance of these
simple laws, then you would bear them carefully in mind, and wish to know
more about them. But now for water being life to the beasts. Do you
remember--though you are hardly old enough--the cattle-plague? How the
beasts died, or had to be killed and buried, by tens of thousands; and
how misery and ruin fell on hundreds of honest men and women over many of
the richest counties of England: but how we in this vale had no cattle-
plague; and how there was none--as far as I recollect--in the uplands of
Devon and Cornwall, nor of Wales, nor of the Scotch Highlands? Now, do
you know why that was? Simply because we here, like those other
uplanders, are in such a country as Palestine was before the foolish Jews
cut down all their timber, and so destroyed their own rainfall--a "land
of brooks of water, of fountains and depths that spring out of valleys
and hills." There is hardly a field here that has not, thank God, its
running brook, or its sweet spring, from which our cattle were drinking
their health and life, while in the clay-lands of Cheshire, and in the
Cambridgeshire fens--which were drained utterly dry--the poor things
drank no water, too often, save that of the very same putrid ponds in
which they had been standing all day long, to cool themselves, and to
keep off the flies. I do not say, of course, that bad water caused the
cattle-plague. It came by infection from the East of Europe. But I say
that bad water made the cattle ready to take it, and made it spread over
the country; and when you are old enough I will give you plenty of
proof--some from the herds of your own kinsmen--that what I say is true.
And as for pure water being life to human beings: why have we never fever
here, and scarcely ever diseases like fever--zymotics, as the doctors
call them? Or, if a case comes into our parish from outside, why does
the fever never spread? For the very same reason that we had no cattle-
plague. Because we have more pure water close to every cottage than we
need. And this I tell you: that the only two outbreaks of deadly disease
which we have had here for thirty years, were both of them, as far as I
could see, to be traced to filthy water having got into the poor folk's
wells. Water, you must remember, just as it is life when pure, is death
when foul. For it can carry, unseen to the eye, and even when it looks
clear and sparkling, and tastes soft and sweet, poisons which have
perhaps killed more human beings than ever were killed in battle. You
have read, perhaps, how the Athenians, when they were dying of the
plague, accused the Lacedaemonians outside the walls of poisoning their
wells; or how, in some of the pestilences of the middle ages, the common
people used to accuse the poor harmless Jews of poisoning the wells, and
set upon them and murdered them horribly. They were right, I do not
doubt, in their notion that the well-water was giving them the
pestilence: but they had not sense to see that they were poisoning the
wells themselves by their dirt and carelessness; or, in the case of poor
besieged Athens, probably by mere overcrowding, which has cost many a
life ere now, and will cost more. And I am sorry to tell you, my little
man, that even now too many people have no more sense than they had, and
die in consequence. If you could see a battle-field, and men shot down,
writhing and dying in hundreds by shell and bullet, would not that seem
to you a horrid sight? Then--I do not wish to make you sad too early,
but this is a fact which everyone should know--that more people, and not
strong men only, but women and little children too, are killed and
wounded in Great Britain every year by bad water and want of water
together, than were killed and wounded in any battle which has been
fought since you were born. Medical men know this well. And when you
are older, you may see it for yourself in the Registrar-General's
reports, blue-books, pamphlets, and so on, without end.
But why do not people stop such a horrible loss of life?
Well, my dear boy, the true causes of it have only been known for the
last thirty or forty years; and we English are, as good King Alfred found
us to his sorrow a thousand years ago, very slow to move, even when we
see a thing ought to be done. Let us hope that in this matter--we have
been so in most matters as yet--we shall be like the tortoise in the
fable, and not the hare; and by moving slowly, but surely, win the race
at last. But now think for yourself: and see what you would do to save
these people from being poisoned by bad water. Remember that the plain
question is this--The rainwater comes down from heaven as water, and
nothing but water. Rainwater is the only pure water, after all. How
would you save that for the poor people who have none? There; run away
and hunt rabbits on the moor: but look, meanwhile, how you would save
some of this beautiful and precious water which is roaring away into the
sea.
* * * * *
Well? What would you do? Make ponds, you say, like the old monks'
ponds, now all broken down. Dam all the glens across their mouths, and
turn them into reservoirs.
"Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings"--Well, that will have to be
done. That is being done more and more, more or less well. The good
people of Glasgow did it first, I think; and now the good people of
Manchester, and of other northern towns, have done it, and have saved
many a human life thereby already. But it must be done, some day, all
over England and Wales, and great part of Scotland. For the mountain
tops and moors, my boy, by a beautiful law of nature, compensate for
their own poverty by yielding a wealth which the rich lowlands cannot
yield. You do not understand? Then see. Yon moor above can grow
neither corn nor grass. But one thing it can grow, and does grow,
without which we should have no corn nor grass, and that is--water. Not
only does far more rain fall up there than falls here down below, but
even in drought the high moors condense the moisture into dew, and so
yield some water, even when the lowlands are burnt up with drought. The
reason of that you must learn hereafter. That it is so, you should know
yourself. For on the high chalk downs, you know, where farmers make a
sheep-pond, they never, if they are wise, make it in a valley or on a
hill-side, but on the bleakest top of the very highest down; and there,
if they can once get it filled with snow and rain in winter, the blessed
dews of night will keep some water in it all the summer through, while
the ponds below are utterly dried up. And even so it is, as I know, with
this very moor. Corn and grass it will not grow, because there is too
little "staple," that is, soluble minerals, in the sandy soil. But how
much water it might grow, you may judge roughly for yourself, by
remembering how many brooks like this are running off it now to carry
mere dirt into the river, and then into the sea.
But why should we not make dams at once; and save the water?
Because we cannot afford it. No one would buy the water when we had
stored it. The rich in town and country will always take care--and quite
right they are--to have water enough for themselves, and for their
servants too, whatever it may cost them. But the poorer people are--and
therefore usually, alas! the more ignorant--the less water they get; and
the less they care to have water; and the less they are inclined to pay
for it; and the more, I am sorry to say, they waste what little they do
get; and I am still more sorry to say, spoil, and even steal and sell--in
London at least--the stop-cocks and lead-pipes which bring the water into
their houses. So that keeping a water-shop is a very troublesome and
uncertain business; and one which is not likely to pay us or any one
round here.
But why not let some company manage it, as they manage railways, and gas,
and other things?
Ah--you have been overhearing a good deal about companies of late, I see.
But this I will tell you; that when you grow up, and have a vote and
influence, it will be your duty, if you intend to be a good citizen, not
only not to put the water-supply of England into the hands of fresh
companies, but to help to take out of their hands what water-supply they
manage already, especially in London; and likewise the gas-supply; and
the railroads; and everything else, in a word, which everybody uses, and
must use. For you must understand--at least as soon as you can--that
though the men who make up companies are no worse than other men, and
some of them, as you ought to know, very good men; yet what they have to
look to is their profits; and the less water they supply, and the worse
it is, the more profit they make. For most water, I am sorry to say, is
fouled before the water companies can get to it, as this water which runs
past us will be, and as the Thames water above London is. Therefore it
has to be cleansed, or partly cleansed, at a very great expense. So
water companies have to be inspected--in plain English, watched--at a
very heavy expense to the nation, by government officers; and compelled
to do their best, and take their utmost care. And so it has come to pass
that the London water is not now nearly as bad as some of it was thirty
years ago, when it was no more fit to drink than that in the cattle yard
tank. But still we must have more water, and better, in London; for it
is growing year by year. There are more than three millions of people
already in what we call London; and ere you are an old man there may be
between four and five millions. Now to supply all these people with
water is a duty which we must not leave to any private companies. It
must be done by a public authority, as is fit and proper in a free self-
governing country. In this matter, as in all others, we will try to do
what the Royal Commission told us four years ago we ought to do. I hope
that you will see, though I may not, the day when what we call London,
but which is really, nine-tenths of it, only a great nest of separate
villages huddled together, will be divided into three great
self-governing cities, London, Westminster, and Southwark; each with its
own corporation, like that of the venerable and well-governed City of
London; each managing its own water-supply, gas-supply, and sewage, and
other matters besides; and managing them, like Dublin, Glasgow,
Manchester, Liverpool, and other great northern towns, far more cheaply
and far better than any companies can do it for them.
But where shall we get water enough for all these millions of people?
There are no mountains near London. But we might give them the water off
our moors.
No, no, my boy.
"He that will not when he may,
When he will, he shall have nay."
Some fifteen years ago the Londoners might have had water from us; and I
was one of those who did my best to get it for them: but the water
companies did not choose to take it; and now this part of England is
growing so populous and so valuable that it wants all its little rainfall
for itself. So there is another leaf torn out of the Sibylline books for
the poor old water companies. You do not understand: you will some day.
But you may comfort yourself about London. For it happens to be, I
think, the luckiest city in the world; and if it had not been, we should
have had pestilence on pestilence in it, as terrible as the great plague
of Charles II.'s time. The old Britons, without knowing in the least
what they were doing, settled old London city in the very centre of the
most wonderful natural reservoir in this island, or perhaps in all
Europe; which reaches from Kent into Wiltshire, and round again into
Suffolk; and that is, the dear old chalk downs.
Why, they are always dry.
Yes. But the turf on them never burns up, and the streams which flow
through them never run dry, and seldom or never flood either. Do you not
know, from Winchester, that that is true? Then where is all the rain and
snow gone, which falls on them year by year, but into the chalk itself,
and into the greensands, too, below the chalk? There it is, soaked up as
by a sponge, in quantity incalculable; enough, some think, to supply
London, let it grow as huge as it may. I wish I too were sure of that.
But the Commission has shown itself so wise and fair, and brave
likewise--too brave, I am sorry to say, for some who might have supported
them--that it is not for me to gainsay their opinion.
But if there was not water enough in the chalk, are not the Londoners
rich enough to bring it from any distance?
My boy, in this also we will agree with the Commission--that we ought not
to rob Peter to pay Paul, and take water to a distance which other people
close at hand may want. Look at the map of England and southern
Scotland; and see for yourself what is just, according to geography and
nature. There are four mountain-ranges; four great water-fields. First,
the hills of the Border. Their rainfall ought to be stored for the
Lothians and the extreme north of England. Then the Yorkshire and
Derbyshire hills--the central chine of England. Their rainfall is being
stored already, to the honour of the shrewd northern men, for the
manufacturing counties east and west of the hills. Then come the lake
mountains--the finest water-field of all, because more rain by far falls
there than in any place in England. But they will be wanted to supply
Lancashire, and some day Liverpool itself; for Liverpool is now using
rain which belongs more justly to other towns; and besides, there are
plenty of counties and towns, down into Cheshire, which would be glad of
what water Lancashire does not want. And last come the Snowdon
mountains, a noble water-field, which I know well; for an old dream of
mine has been, that ere I died I should see all the rain of the Carnedds,
and the Glyders, and Siabod, and Snowdon itself, carried across the
Conway river to feed the mining districts of North Wales, where the
streams are now all foul with oil and lead; and then on into the western
coal and iron fields, to Wolverhampton and Birmingham itself: and if I
were the engineer who got that done, I should be happier--prouder I dare
not say--than if I had painted nobler pictures than Raffaelle, or written
nobler plays than Shakespeare. I say that, boy, in most deliberate
earnest. But meanwhile, do you not see that in districts where coal and
iron may be found, and fresh manufactures may spring up any day in any
place, each district has a right to claim the nearest rainfall for
itself? And now, when we have got the water into its proper place, let
us see what we shall do with it.
But why do you say we? Can you and I do all this?
My boy, are not you and I free citizens; part of the people, the
Commons--as the good old word runs--of this country? And are we not--or
ought we not to be in time--beside that, educated men? By the people,
remember, I mean, not only the hand-working man who has just got a vote;
I mean the clergy of all denominations; and the gentlemen of the press;
and last, but not least, the scientific men. If those four classes
together were to tell every government--"Free water we will have, and as
much as we reasonably choose;" and tell every candidate for the House of
Commons,--"Unless you promise to get us as much free water as we
reasonably choose, we will not return you to Parliament:" then, I think,
we four should put such a "pressure" on government as no water companies,
or other vested interests, could long resist. And if any of those four
classes should hang back, and waste their time and influence over matters
far less important and less pressing, the other three must laugh at them,
and more than laugh at them; and ask them--"Why have you education, why
have you influence, why have you votes, why are you freemen and not
slaves, if not to preserve the comfort, the decency, the health, the
lives of men, women, and children--most of those latter your own wives
and your own children?"
But what shall we do with the water?
Well, after all, that is a more practical matter than speculations
grounded on the supposition that all classes will do their duty. But the
first thing we will do will be to give to the very poorest houses a
constant supply, at high pressure; so that everybody may take as much
water as he likes, instead of having to keep the water in little
cisterns, where it gets foul and putrid only too often.
But will they not waste it then?
So far from it, wherever the water has been laid on at high pressure, the
waste, which is terrible now--some say that in London one-third of the
water is wasted--begins to lessen; and both water and expense are saved.
If you will only think, you will see one reason why. If a woman leaves a
high-pressure tap running, she will flood her place and her neighbour's
too. She will be like the magician's servant, who called up the demon to
draw water for him; and so he did: but when he had begun he would not
stop, and if the magician had not come home, man and house would have
been washed away.
But if it saves money, why do not the water companies do it?
Because--and really here there are many excuses for the poor old water
companies, when so many of them swerve and gib at the very mention of
constant water-supply, like a poor horse set to draw a load which he
feels is too heavy for him--because, to keep everything in order among
dirty, careless, and often drunken people, there must be officers with
lawful authority--water-policemen we will call them--who can enter
people's houses when they will, and if they find anything wrong with the
water, set it to rights with a high hand, and even summon the people who
have set it wrong. And that is a power which, in a free country, must
never be given to the servants of any private company, but only to the
officers of a corporation or of the government.
And what shall we do with the rest of the water?
Well, we shall have, I believe, so much to spare that we may at least do
this--In each district of each city, and the centre of each town, we may
build public baths and lavatories, where poor men and women may get their
warm baths when they will; for now they usually never bathe at all,
because they will not--and ought not, if they be hard-worked folk--bathe
in cold water during nine months of the year. And there they shall wash
their clothes, and dry them by steam; instead of washing them as now, at
home, either under back sheds, where they catch cold and rheumatism, or
too often, alas! in their own living rooms, in an atmosphere of foul
vapour, which drives the father to the public-house and the children into
the streets; and which not only prevents the clothes from being
thoroughly dried again, but is, my dear boy, as you will know when you
are older, a very hot-bed of disease. And they shall have other
comforts, and even luxuries, these public lavatories; and be made, in
time, graceful and refining, as well as merely useful. Nay, we will
even, I think, have in front of each of them a real fountain; not like
the drinking-fountains--though they are great and needful boons--which
you see here and there about the streets, with a tiny dribble of water to
a great deal of expensive stone: but real fountains, which shall leap,
and sparkle, and plash, and gurgle; and fill the place with life, and
light, and coolness; and sing in the people's ears the sweetest of all
earthly songs--save the song of a mother over her child--the song of "The
Laughing Water."
But will not that be a waste?
Yes, my boy. And for that very reason, I think we, the people, will have
our fountains; if it be but to make our governments, and corporations,
and all public bodies and officers, remember that they all--save Her
Majesty the Queen--are our servants; and not we theirs; and that we
choose to have water, not only to wash with, but to play with, if we
like. And I believe--for the world, as you will find, is full not only
of just but of generous souls--that if the water-supply were set really
right, there would be found, in many a city, many a generous man who,
over and above his compulsory water-rate, would give his poor
fellow-townsmen such a real fountain as those which ennoble the great
square at Carcasonne and the great square at Nismes; to be "a thing of
beauty and a joy for ever."
And now, if you want to go back to your Latin and Greek, you shall
translate for me into Latin--I do not expect you to do it into Greek,
though it would turn very well into Greek, for the Greeks knew all about
the matter long before the Romans--what follows here; and you shall
verify the facts and the names, &c., in it from your dictionaries of
antiquity and biography, that you may remember all the better what it
says. And by that time, I think, you will have learnt something more
useful to yourself, and, I hope, to your country hereafter, than if you
had learnt to patch together the neatest Greek and Latin verses which
have appeared since the days of Mr. Canning.
* * * * *
I have often amused myself, by fancying one question which an old Roman
emperor would ask, were he to rise from his grave and visit the sights of
London under the guidance of some minister of state. The august shade
would, doubtless, admire, our railroads and bridges, our cathedrals and
our public parks, and much more of which we need not be ashamed. But
after a while, I think, he would look round, whether in London or in most
of our great cities, inquiringly and in vain, for one class of buildings,
which in his empire were wont to be almost as conspicuous and as
splendid, because, in public opinion, almost as necessary, as the
basilicas and temples--"And where," he would ask, "are your public
baths?" And if the minister of state who was his guide should answer--"O
great Caesar, I really do not know. I believe there are some somewhere
at the back of that ugly building which we call the National Gallery; and
I think there have been some meetings lately in the East End, and an
amateur concert at the Albert Hall, for restoring, by private
subscriptions, some baths and wash-houses in Bethnal Green, which had
fallen to decay. And there may be two or three more about the
metropolis; for parish vestries have powers by Act of Parliament to
establish such places, if they think fit, and choose to pay for them out
of the rates:"--Then, I think, the august shade might well make
answer--"We used to call you, in old Rome, northern barbarians. It seems
that you have not lost all your barbarian habits. Are you aware that, in
every city in the Roman empire, there were, as a matter of course, public
baths open, not only to the poorest freeman, but to the slave, usually
for the payment of the smallest current coin, and often gratuitously? Are
you aware that in Rome itself, millionaire after millionaire, emperor
after emperor, from Menenius Agrippa and Nero down to Diocletian and
Constantine, built baths, and yet more baths; and connected with them
gymnasia for exercise, lecture-rooms, libraries, and porticos, wherein
the people might have shade and shelter, and rest?--I remark, by-the-by,
that I have not seen in all your London a single covered place in which
the people may take shelter during a shower--Are you aware that these
baths were of the most magnificent architecture, decorated with marbles,
paintings, sculptures, fountains, what not? And yet I had heard, in
Hades down below, that you prided yourselves here on the study of the
learned languages; and, indeed, taught little but Greek and Latin at your
public schools?"
Then, if the minister should make reply--"Oh yes, we know all this. Even
since the revival of letters in the end of the fifteenth century a whole
literature has been written--a great deal of it, I fear, by pedants who
seldom washed even their hands and faces--about your Greek and Roman
baths. We visit their colossal ruins in Italy and elsewhere with awe and
admiration; and the discovery of a new Roman bath in any old city of our
isles sets all our antiquaries buzzing with interest."
"Then why," the shade might ask, "do you not copy an example which you so
much admire? Surely England must be much in want, either of water, or of
fuel to heat it with?"
"On the contrary, our rainfall is almost too great; our soil so damp that
we have had to invent a whole art of subsoil drainage unknown to you;
while, as for fuel, our coal-mines make us the great fuel-exporting
people of the world."
What a quiet sneer might curl the lip of a Constantine as he replied--"Not
in vain, as I said, did we call you, some fifteen hundred years ago, the
barbarians of the north. But tell me, good barbarian, whom I know to be
both brave and wise--for the fame of your young British empire has
reached us even in the realms below, and we recognise in you, with all
respect, a people more like us Romans than any which has appeared on
earth for many centuries--how is it you have forgotten that sacred duty
of keeping the people clean, which you surely at one time learnt from us?
When your ancestors entered our armies, and rose, some of them, to be
great generals, and even emperors, like those two Teuton peasants, Justin
and Justinian, who, long after my days, reigned in my own Constantinople:
then, at least, you saw baths, and used them; and felt, after the bath,
that you were civilised men, and not 'sordidi ac foetentes,' as we used
to call you when fresh out of your bullock-waggons and cattle-pens. How
is it that you have forgotten that lesson?"
The minister, I fear, would have to answer that our ancestors were
barbarous enough, not only to destroy the Roman cities, and temples, and
basilicas, and statues, but the Roman baths likewise; and then retired,
each man to his own freehold in the country, to live a life not much more
cleanly or more graceful than that of the swine which were his favourite
food. But he would have a right to plead, as an excuse, that not only in
England, but throughout the whole of the conquered Latin empire, the
Latin priesthood, who, in some respects, were--to their honour--the
representatives of Roman civilisation and the protectors of its remnants,
were the determined enemies of its cleanliness; that they looked on
personal dirt--like the old hermits of the Thebaid--as a sign of
sanctity; and discouraged--as they are said to do still in some of the
Romance countries of Europe--the use of the bath, as not only luxurious,
but also indecent.
At which answer, it seems to me, another sneer might curl the lip of the
august shade, as he said to himself--"This, at least, I did not expect,
when I made Christianity the state religion of my empire. But you, good
barbarian, look clean enough. You do not look on dirt as a sign of
sanctity?"
"On the contrary, sire, the upper classes of our empire boast of being
the cleanliest--perhaps the only perfectly cleanly--people in the world:
except, of course, the savages of the South Seas. And dirt is so far
from being a thing which we admire, that our scientific men--than whom
the world has never seen wiser--have proved to us, for a whole generation
past, that dirt is the fertile cause of disease and drunkenness, misery
and recklessness."
"And, therefore," replies the shade, ere he disappears, "of discontent
and revolution; followed by a tyranny endured, as in Rome and many
another place, by men once free; because tyranny will at least do for
them what they are too lazy, and cowardly, and greedy to do for
themselves. Farewell, and prosper; as you seem likely to prosper, on the
whole. But if you wish me to consider you a civilised nation: let me
hear that you have brought a great river from the depths of the earth, be
they a thousand fathoms deep, or from your nearest mountains, be they
five hundred miles away; and have washed out London's dirt--and your own
shame. Till then, abstain from judging too harshly a Constantine, or
even a Caracalla; for they, whatever were their sins, built baths, and
kept their people clean. But do your gymnasia--your schools and
universities, teach your youth nought about all this?"