good-natured friends; the sword of Damocles, the thin edge of the
wedge, the long arm of coincidence, and the soul of goodness in things
evil; Hobson's choice, Frankenstein's monster, Macaulay's schoolboy,
Lord Burleigh's nod, Sir Boyle Roche's bird, Mahomed's coffin, and
Davy Jones's locker.

A melancholy catalogue, is it not? But it is less melancholy for you
who read it here, than for them whose existence depends on it, who
draw from it a desperate means of seeming to accomplish what is
impossible. And yet these are the men who shrank in horror from Lord
Rosebery's merciful idea. They ought to be saved despite themselves.
Might not a short Act of Parliament be passed, making all comment in
daily newspapers illegal? In a way, of course, it would be hard on the
commentators. Having lost the power of independent thought, having
sunk into a state of chronic dulness, apathy and insincerity, they
could hardly, be expected to succeed in any of the ordinary ways of
life. They could not compete with their fellow-creatures; no door but
would be bolted if they knocked on it. What would become of them?
Probably they would have to perish in what they would call `what the
late Lord Goschen would have called "splendid isolation."' But such an
end were sweeter, I suggest to them, than the life they are leading.


THE DECLINE OF THE GRACES

Have you read The Young Lady's Book? You have had plenty of time to do
so, for it was published in 1829. It was described by the two
anonymous Gentlewomen who compiled it as `A Manual for Elegant
Recreations, Exercises, and Pursuits.' You wonder they had nothing
better to think of? You suspect them of having been triflers? They