Not exactly the sort of thing for an idle fellow to think about,is it?But outsiders,you know,often see most of the game;and sitting in my arbor by the wayside,smoking my hookah of contentment and eating the sweet lotus-leaves of indolence,I can look out musingly upon the whirling throng that rolls and tumbles past me on the great high-road of life.
Never-ending is the wild procession.Day and night you can hear the quick tramp of the myriad feet--some running,some walking,some halting and lame;but all hastening,all eager in the feverish race,all straining life and limb and heart and soul to reach the ever-receding horizon of success.
Mark them as they surge along--men and women,old and young,gentle and simple,fair and foul,rich and poor,merry and sad--all hurrying,bustling,scrambling.The strong pushing aside the weak,the cunning creeping past the foolish;those behind elbowing those before;those in front kicking,as they run,at those behind.Look close and see the flitting show.Here is an old man panting for breath,and there a timid maiden driven by a hard and sharp-faced matron;here is a studious youth,reading "How to Get On in the World"and letting everybody pass him as he stumbles along with his eyes on his book;here is a bored-looking man,with a fashionably dressed woman jogging his elbow;here a boy gazing wistfully back at the sunny village that he never again will see;here,with a firm and easy step,strides a broad-shouldered man;and here,with stealthy tread,a thin-faced,stooping fellow dodges and shuffles upon his way;here,with gaze fixed always on the ground,an artful rogue carefully works his way from side to side of the road and thinks he is going forward;and here a youth with a noble face stands,hesitating as he looks from the distant goal to the mud beneath his feet.
And now into sight comes a fair girl,with her dainty face growing more wrinkled at every step,and now a care-worn man,and now a hopeful lad.
A motley throng--a motley throng!Prince and beggar,sinner and saint,butcher and baker and candlestick maker,tinkers and tailors,and plowboys and sailors--all jostling along together.Here the counsel in his wig and gown,and here the old Jew clothes-man under his dingy tiara;here the soldier in his scarlet,and here the undertaker's mute in streaming hat-band and worn cotton gloves;here the musty scholar fumbling his faded leaves,and here the scented actor dangling his showy seals.Here the glib politician crying his legislative panaceas,and here the peripatetic Cheap-Jack holding aloft his quack cures for human ills.Here the sleek capitalist and there the sinewy laborer;here the man of science and here the shoe-back;here the poet and here the water-rate collector;here the cabinet minister and there the ballet-dancer.Here a red-nosed publican shouting the praises of his vats and there a temperance lecturer at 50pounds a night;here a judge and there a swindler;here a priest and there a gambler.Here a jeweled duchess,smiling and gracious;here a thin lodging-house keeper,irritable with cooking;and here a wabbling,strutting thing,tawdry in paint and finery.
Cheek by cheek they struggle onward.Screaming,cursing,and praying,laughing,singing,and moaning,they rush past side by side.Their speed never slackens,the race never ends.There is no wayside rest for them,no halt by cooling fountains,no pause beneath green shades.
On,on,on--on through the heat and the crowd and the dust--on,or they will be trampled down and lost--on,with throbbing brain and tottering limbs--on,till the heart grows sick,and the eyes grow blurred,and a gurgling groan tells those behind they may close up another space.
And yet,in spite of the killing pace and the stony track,who but the sluggard or the dolt can hold aloof from the course?Who--like the belated traveler that stands watching fairy revels till he snatches and drains the goblin cup and springs into the whirling circle--can view the mad tumult and not be drawn into its midst?Not I,for one.
I confess to the wayside arbor,the pipe of contentment,and the lotus-leaves being altogether unsuitable metaphors.They sounded very nice and philosophical,but I'm afraid I am not the sort of person to sit in arbors smoking pipes when there is any fun going on outside.Ithink I more resemble the Irishman who,seeing a crowd collecting,sent his little girl out to ask if there was going to be a row --"'Cos,if so,father would like to be in it."I love the fierce strife.I like to watch it.I like to hear of people getting on in it--battling their way bravely and fairly--that is,not slipping through by luck or trickery.It stirs one's old Saxon fighting blood like the tales of "knights who fought 'gainst fearful odds"that thrilled us in our school-boy days.
And fighting the battle of life is fighting against fearful odds,too.
There are giants and dragons in this nineteenth century,and the golden casket that they guard is not so easy to win as it appears in the story-books.There,Algernon takes one long,last look at the ancestral hall,dashes the tear-drop from his eye,and goes off--to return in three years'time,rolling in riches.The authors do not tell us "how it's done,"which is a pity,for it would surely prove exciting.
