that in any great emergency they would rise and prove themselves true
and gallant of soul; but we happen for the time to have amongst us a
very large class of idlers, and these idlers are steadily introducing
habits and customs which no wise observer can regard without solemn
apprehensions. The simple Southampton poet has told us what "idle hands"
are apt to do under certain guidance, and his saying--truism as it
appears--should be studied with more regard to its vital meaning. The
idlers crave for novelties; they seek for new forms of distraction; they
seem really to live only when they are in the midst of delirious
excitement. Unhappily their feverish unrest is apt to communicate itself
to men who are not naturally idlers, and thus their influence moves
outwards like some vast hurtful wind blown from a pestilent region.
During the past few years the idlers have invented a form of amusement
which for sheer atrocity and wanton cruelty is unparalleled in the
history of England. I shall say some words about this remarkable
amusement, and I trust that gentle women who have in them the heart of
compassion, mothers who have sons to be ruined, fathers who have purses
to bleed, may aid in putting down an evil that gathers strength every
day.
Most of my readers know what the "sport" of coursing is; but, for the
benefit of strictly town-bred folk, I may roughly indicate the nature of
the pursuit as it was practised in bygone times. A brace of greyhounds
were placed together in the slips--that is, in collars which fly open
when the man who holds the dogs releases a knot; and then a line of men
moved slowly over the fields. When a hare rose and ran for her life, the
slipper allowed her a fair start, and then he released the dogs. The
mode of reckoning the merits of the hounds is perhaps a little too
complicated for the understanding of non-"sporting" people; but I may
broadly put it that the dog which gives the hare most trouble, the dog
that causes her to dodge and turn the oftenest in order to save her
life, is reckoned the winner. Thus the greyhound which reaches the hare
first receives two points; poor pussy then makes an agonized rush to
right or left, and, if the second dog succeeds in passing his opponent
and turning the hare again, he receives a point, and so on. The
old-fashioned open-air sport was cruel enough, for it often happened
that the hare ran for two or three miles with her ferocious pursuers
hard on her track, and every muscle of her body was strained with
poignant agony; but there is this to be said--the men had healthy,
matchless exercise on breezy plains and joyous uplands, they tramped all
day until their limbs were thoroughly exercised, and they earned sound
repose by their wholesome exertions. Moreover, the element of fair-play
enters into coursing when pursued in the open spaces. Pussy knows every
foot of the ground; nightly she steals gently to the fields where her
succulent food is found, and in the morning she steals back again to her
tiny nest, or form, amid the soft grass. All day she lies chewing the
cud in her fashion, and moving her delicate ears hither and thither,
lest fox or stoat or dog should come upon her unawares; and at nightfall
she steals away once more. Every run, every tuft of grass, every rising
of the ground is known to her; and, when at last the tramp of the
approaching beaters rouses her, she rushes away with a distinct
advantage over the dogs. She knows exactly whither to go; the other
animals do not, and usually, on open ground, the quarry escapes. I do
not think that any greyhound living could catch one of the hares now
left on the Suffolk marshes; and there are many on the great Wiltshire
plains which are quite capable of rushing at top speed for three miles
and more. The chase in the open is cruel--there is no denying it--for
poor puss dies many deaths ere she bids her enemies good-bye; but still
she has a chance for life, and thus the sport, inhuman as it is, has a
praiseworthy element of fairness in it.
But the betting-man, the foul product of civilization's depravity, cast
his eye on the old-fashioned sport and invaded the field. He found the
process of walking up the game not much to his taste, for he cares only
to exercise his leathern lungs; moreover, the courses were few and far
between and the chances of making wagers were scanty. He set himself to
meditate, and it struck him that, if a good big collection of hares
could be got together, it would be possible to turn them out one by one,
so that betting might go on as fast and as merrily on the
coursing-ground as at the roulette-table. Thus arose a "sport" which is
educating many, many thousands in callousness and brutality. Here and
there over England are dotted great enclosed parks, and the visitor is
shown wide and mazy coverts where hares swarm. Plenty of food is strewn
over the grass, and in the wildest of winters pussy has nothing to
fear--until the date of her execution arrives. The animals are not
natives of those enclosures; they are netted in droves on the Wiltshire
plains or on the Lancashire moors, and packed off like poultry to the
coursing-ground. There their life is calm for a long time; no poachers
or lurchers or vermin molest them; stillness is maintained, and the
hares live in peace. But one day there comes a roaring crowd to the
park, and, though pussy does not know it, her good days are passed. Look
at the mob that surges and bellows on the stands and in the enclosures.
They are well dressed and comfortable, but a more unpleasant gang could
not be seen. Try to distinguish a single face that shows kindness or
goodness--you fail; this rank roaring crowd is made up of betting-men
and dupes, and it is hard to say which are the worse. There is no
horse-racing in the winter, and so these people have come out to see a
succession of innocent creatures die, and to bet on the event. The slow
coursing of the old style would not do for the fiery betting-man; but we
shall have fun fast and furious presently. The assembly seems frantic;
flashy men with eccentric coats and gaudy hats of various patterns stand
about and bellow their offers to bet; feverish dupes move hither and
thither, waiting for chances; the rustle of notes, the chink of money,
sound here and there, and the immense clamour swells and swells, till a
stunning roar dulls the senses, and to an imaginative gazer it seems as
though a horde of fiends had been let loose to make day hideous. A
broad smooth stretch of grass lies opposite to the stands, and at one
end of this half-mile stretch there runs a barrier, the bottom of which
is fringed with straw and furze. If you examined that barrier, you would
find that it really opens into a wide dense copse, and that a hare or
rabbit which whisks under it is safe on the far side. At the other side
of this field a long fenced lane opens, and seems to be closed at the
blind end by a wide door. To the right of the blind lane is a tiny hut
surrounded by bushes, and by the side of the hut a few scattered men
loaf in a purposeless way. Presently a red-coated man canters across the
smooth green, and then the diabolical tumult of the stands reaches
ear-splitting intensity. Your betting-man is cool enough in reality; but
he likes to simulate mad eagerness until it appears as though the
swollen veins of face or throat would burst. And what is going on at the
closed end of that blind lane? On the strip of turf around the wide
field the demure trainers lead their melancholy-looking dogs. Each
greyhound is swathed in warm clothing, but they all look wretched; and,
as they pick their way along with dainty steps, no one would guess that
the sight of a certain poor little animal would convert each doleful
hound into an incarnate fury. Two dogs are led across to the little
hut--the bellow of the Ring sounds hoarsely on--and the chosen pair of
dogs disappear behind the shrubs. And now what is passing on the farther
side of that door which closes the lane? A hare is comfortably nestling
under a clump of furze when a soft step sounds near her. A man! Pussy
would like to move to right or left; but, lo, here are other men!
Decidedly she must move forward. Oh, joy! A swinging door rises softly,
and shows her a delightful long lane that seems to open on to a pleasant
open country. She hops gaily onward, and then a little uneasiness
overtakes her; she looks back, but that treacherous door has swung down
again, and there is only one road for her now. Softly she steals onward
to the mouth of the lane, and then she finds a slanting line of men who
wave their arms at her when she tries to shoot aside. A loud roar bursts
from the human animals on the stand, and then a hush falls. Now or
never, pussy! The far-off barrier must be gained, or all is over. The
hare lowers her ears and dashes off; then from the hut comes a
staggering man, who hangs back with all his strength as a pair of
ferocious dogs writhe and strain in the leash; the hounds rise on their
haunches, and paw wildly with their fore-feet, and they struggle forward
until puss has gone a fair distance, while the slipper encourages them
with low guttural sounds. Crack! The tense collars fly, and the arrowy
rush of the snaky dogs follows. Puss flicks her ears--she hears a thud,
thud, wallop, wallop; and she knows the supreme moment has come. Her
sinews tighten like bowstrings, and she darts on with the lightning
speed of despair. The grim pursuers near her; she almost feels the
breath of the foremost. Twitch!--and with a quick convulsive effort she
sheers aside, and her enemy sprawls on. But the second dog is ready to
meet her, and she must swirl round again. The two serpentine savages
gather themselves together and launch out in wild efforts to reach her;
they are upon her--she must dart round again, and does so under the very
feet of the baffled dogs. Her eyes are starting with overmastering
terror; again and again she sweeps from right to left, and again and
again the staunch hounds dash along in her track. Pussy fails fast; one
dog reaches her, and she shrieks as she feels his ferocious jaws touch
her; but he snatches only a mouthful of fur, and there is another
respite. Then at last one of the pursuers balances himself carefully,
his wicked head is raised, he strikes, and the long tremulous shriek of
despair is drowned in the hoarse crash of cheering from the mob. Brave
sport, my masters! Gallant Britons ye are! Ah, how I should like to let
one of you career over that field of death with a brace of business-like
boarhounds behind you!
There is no slackening of the fun, for the betting-men must be kept
busy. Men grow frantic with excitement; young fools who should be at
their business risk their money heedlessly, and generally go wrong. If
the hares could only know, they might derive some consolation from the
certainty that, if they are going to death, scores of their gallant
sporting persecutors are going to ruin. Time after time, in monotonous
succession, the same thing goes on through the day--the agonized hares
twirl and strain; the fierce dogs employ their superb speed and
strength; the unmanly gang of men howl like beasts of prey; and the
sweet sun looks upon all!
Women, what do you think of that for Englishmen's pastime? Recollect
that the mania for this form of excitement is growing more intense
daily; as much as one hundred thousand pounds may depend on a single
course--for not only the mob in the stands are betting, but thousands
are awaiting each result that is flashed off over the wires; and,
although you may be far away in remote country towns, your sons, your
husbands, your brothers, may be watching the clicking machine that
records the results in club and hotel--they may be risking their
substance in a lottery which is at once childish and cruel.
There is not one word to be said in favour of this vile game. The
old-fashioned courser at least got exercise and air; but the modern
betting-man wants neither; he wants only to make wagers and add to his
pile of money. For him the coursing meetings cannot come too often; the
swarming gudgeons flock to his net; he arranges the odds almost as he
chooses--with the help of his friends; and simpletons who do not know a
greyhound from a deerhound bet wildly--not on dogs, but on names. The
"sport" has all the uncertainty of roulette, and it is villainously
cruel into the bargain. Amid all those thousands you never hear one word
of pity for the stricken little creature that is driven out, as I have
said, for execution; they watch her agonies, and calculate the chances
of pouching their sovereigns. That is all.
Here then is another vast engine of demoralization set going, just as if
the Turf were not a blight of sufficient intensity! A young man ventures
into one of those cruel rings, buys a card, and resolves to risk pounds
or shillings. If he is unfortunate, he may be saved; but, curiously
enough, it often happens that a greenhorn who does not know one
greyhound from another blunders into a series of winning bets. If he
wins, he is lost, for the fever seizes him; he does not know what odds
are against him, and he goes on from deep to deep of failure and
disaster. Well for him if he escapes entire ruin! I have drawn attention
to this new evil because I have peculiar opportunities of studying the
inner life of our society, and I find that the gambling epidemic is
spreading among the middle-classes. To my mind these coursing massacres
should be made every whit as illegal as dog-fighting or bull-baiting,
for I can assure our legislators that the temptation offered by the
chances of rapid gambling is eating like a corrosive poison into the
young generation. Surely Englishmen, even if they want to bet, need not
invent a medium for betting which combines every description of noxious
cruelty! I ask the aid of women. Let them set their faces against tin's
horrid sport, and it will soon be known no more.
If the silly bettors themselves could only understand their own
position, they might be rescued. Let it be distinctly understood that
the bookmaker cannot lose, no matter how events may go. On the other
hand, the man who makes wagers on what he is pleased to term his
"fancies" has everything against him. The chances of his choosing a
winner in the odious new sport are hardly to be mathematically stated,
and it may be mathematically proved that he must lose. Then, apart from
the money loss, what an utterly ignoble and unholy pursuit this
trapped-hare coursing is for a manly man! Surely the heart of compassion
in any one not wholly brutalized should be moved at the thought of those
cabined, cribbed, confined little creatures that yield up their innocent
lives amid the remorseless cries of a callous multitude. Poor innocents!
Is it not possible to gamble without making God's creatures undergo
torture? If a man were to turn a cat into a close yard and set dogs upon
it, he would be imprisoned, and his name would be held up to scorn. What
is the difference between cat and hare?
_March, 1887._
_LIBERTY_.
"What things are done in thy name!" The lady who spoke thus of Liberty
had lived a high and pure life; all good souls were attracted to her;
and it seems strange that so sweet and pure and beautiful a creature
could have grown up in the vile France of the days before the
Revolution. She kept up the traditions of gentle and seemly courtesy
even at times when Sardanapalus Danton was perforce admitted to her
_salon_; and in an age of suspicion and vile scandal she kept a
stainless name, for even the most degraded pamphleteer in Paris dared do
no more than hint a fault and hesitate dislike. But this lady went to
the scaffold with many and many of the young, the beautiful, the brave;
and her sombre satire, "What things are done in thy name!" was
remembered long afterwards when the despots and the invading alien had
in turn placed their feet on the neck of devoted France. "What things
are done in thy name!" Yes; and we, in this modern world, might vary the
saying a little and exclaim, "What things are said in thy name!"--for we
have indeed arrived at the era of liberty, and the gospel of Rousseau is
being preached with fantastic variations by people who think that any
speech which apes the forms of logic is reasonable and that any desire
which is expressed in a sufficiently loud howl should be at once
gratified. We pride ourselves on our knowledge and our reasoning power;
but to judicious observers it often seems that those who talk loudest
have a very thin vein of knowledge, and no reasoning faculty that is not
imitative.
By all means let us have "freedom," but let us also consider our terms,
and fix the meaning of the things that we say. Perhaps I should write
"the things that we think we say," because so many of those who make
themselves heard do not weigh words at all, and they imagine themselves
to be uttering cogent truths when they are really giving us the babble
of Bedlam. If ladies and gentlemen who rant about freedom would try to
emancipate themselves from the dominion of meaningless words, we should
all fare better; but we find a large number of public personages using
perfectly grammatical series of phrases without dreaming for a moment
that their grave sentences are pure gibberish. A few simple questions
addressed in the Socratic manner to certain lights of thought might do
much good. For instance, we might say, "Do you ever speak of being free
from good health, or free from a good character, or free from
prosperity?" I fancy not; and yet copiously talkative individuals employ
terms quite as hazy and silly as those which I have indicated.
We have gone very far in the direction of scientific discovery, and we
have a large number of facts at our disposal; but some of us have quite
forgotten that true liberty comes only from submitting to wise guidance.
Old Sandy Mackay, in Alton Locke, declared that he would never bow down
to a bit of brains: and this highly-independent attitude is copied by
persons who fail to see that bowing to the bit of brains is the only
mode of securing genuine freedom. If our daring logicians would grant
that every man should have liberty to lead his life as he chooses, so
long as he hurts neither himself nor any other individual nor the State,
then one might follow their argument; but a plain homespun proposal like
that of mine is not enough for your advanced thinker. In England he
says, "Let us have deliverance from all restrictions;" in Russia he
says, "Anarchy is the only cure for existing evils." For centuries past
the earth has been deluged with blood and the children of men have been
scourged by miseries unspeakable, merely because powerful men and
powerful bodies of men have not chosen to learn the meaning of the word
"liberty." "How miserable you make the world for one another, O feeble
race of men!" So said our own melancholy English cynic; and he had
singularly good reason for his plaint. Rapid generalization is nearly
always mischievous; unless we learn to form correct and swift judgments
on every faculty of life as it comes before us, we merely stumble from
error to error. No cut-and-dried maxim ever yet was fit to guide men
through their mysterious existence; the formalist always ends by
becoming a bungler, and the most highly-developed man, if he is content
to be no more than a thinking-machine, is harmful to himself and harmful
to the community which has the ill-luck to harbour him. If we take cases
from history, we ought to find it easy enough to distinguish between the
men who sought liberty wisely and those who were restive and turbulent.
A wise man or a wise nation knows the kind of restraint which is good;
the fool, with his feather-brained theories, never knows what is good
for him--he mistakes eternal justice for tyranny, he rebels against
facts that are too solid for him--and we know what kind of an end he
meets. Some peculiarly daring personages carry their spirit of
resistance beyond the bounds of our poor little earth. Only lately many
of us read with a shock of surprise the passionate asseveration of a
gifted woman who declared that it was a monstrous wrong and wickedness
that ever she had been born. Job said much the same thing in his
delirium; but our great novelist put forth her complaint as the net
outcome of all her thought and culture. We only need to open an ordinary
newspaper to find that the famous writer's folly is shared by many
weaker souls; and the effect on the mind of a shrewd and contented man
is so startling that it resembles the emotion roused by grotesque wit.
The whole story of the ages tells us dismally what happens when unwise
people choose to claim the measure of liberty which they think good; but
somehow, though knowledge has come, wisdom lingers, and the grim old
follies rear themselves rankly among us in the age of reason.
When we remember the Swiss mountaineers who took their deaths joyously
in defence of their homes, when we read of the devoted brave one who
received the sheaf of spears in his breast and broke the oppressor's
array, none of us can think of mere vulgar rebellion. The Swiss were
fighting to free themselves from wrongs untold; and we should hold them
less than men if they had tamely submitted to be caged like poultry.
Again, we feel a thrill when we read the epitaph which says, "Gladly we
would have rested had we won freedom. We have lost, and very gladly
rest." The very air of bravery, of steady self-abnegation seems to
exhale from the sombre, triumphant words. Russia is the chosen home of
tyranny now, but her day of brightness will come again. It is safe to
prophesy so much, for I remember what happened at one time of supreme
peril. Prussia and Austria and Italy lay crushed and bleeding under the
awful power of Napoleon, and it seemed as though Russia must be wiped
out from the list of nations when the great army of invaders poured in
relentless multitudes over the stricken land. The conqueror appeared to
have the very forces of nature in his favour, and his hosts moved on
without a check and without a failure of organization. So perfectly had
he planned the minutest details that, although his stations were
scattered from the Beresina to the Seine, not so much as a letter was
lost during the onward movement. How could the doomed country resist? So
thought all Europe. But the splendid old Russian, the immortal
Koutousoff, had felt the pulse of his nation, and he was confident,
while all the other chiefs felt as though the earth were rocking under
them. The time for the extinction of Russia had not come; a throb of
fierce emotion passed over the country; the people rose like one man,
and the despot found himself held in check by rude masses of men for
whom death had scant terrors. Koutousoff had a mighty people to support
him, and he would have swept back the horde of spoilers, even if the
winter had not come to his aid. Russia was but a dark country then, as
now, but the conduct of the myriads who dared to die gave a bright
presage for the future. Who can blame the multitudes of Muscovites who
sealed their wild protest with their blood? The common soldiers were
but slaves, yet they would have suffered a degradation worse than
slavery had they succumbed, while, as to the immense body of
people--that nation within a nation--which answered to our upper and
middle classes, they would have tasted the same woes which at length
drove Germany to frenzy and made simple burghers prefer bitter death to
the tyranny of the French. The rulers of Russia have stained her records
foully since the days of 1812, but their worst sins cannot blot out the
memory of the national uprising. Years are but trivial; seventy-six of
them seem a long time; but those who study history broadly know that the
dawn of a better future for Russia showed its first gleam when the
aroused and indignant race rose and went forward to die before the
French cannon. When next Russia rises, it will be against a tyranny only
second to Napoleon's in virulence--it will be against the terror that
rules her now from within; and her success will be applauded by the
world.