Part 8

DEAR SIR: It is with alarm that I observe the increasing activity of our charitable organizations and the consequent disappearance of beggars from our city streets. I, who was formerly constantly importuned for alms whenever I stirred abroad, have not now been approached by one of those needy tatterdemalions for a period of six months or more. This fact has, for me, a deep significance. It means nothing less than that the ancient fraternity of street beggars is rapidly dying out. Surely you must have noticed that yourself. Where are the old blue-spectacled men one used to see standing upon the corners, bearing the once-familiar placard, “I am Blind”? Where are the legless men who used to wring discords from little squatty hand-organs? Where are the street-singers, the match venders, the orphans, the lost children, the paralytics? Where, even, is the Italian organ-grinder with his begging monkey? These charitable organizations, Sir, have spirited them away, and now instead of being approached by the beggars themselves, we are visited by the agents of the societies.

Now, Sir, my regret at the passing of the beggar is not altogether sentimental, like Charles Lamb’s complaint in _The Decay of Beggars in the Metropolis_. There may be a certain amount of sentiment in it, for certainly in the loss of beggars we not only lose a picturesque class of people, but we also suffer a spiritual loss. The spiritual glow which came of personal giving is entirely, or almost entirely, absent in making checks for these beggars by proxy. But, Sir, I am a practical man and I can plainly see that the beggar, so far from being a mere nuisance and eyesore, as charity-workers would have you believe, is a very useful and necessary member of the social order.

Beggars, Mr. _Idler_, are the natural scavengers of the human race. They live upon the scraps we throw from our tables; they dress in our cast-off garments. In short, Sir, they make to serve a useful purpose, that which would otherwise be sheer waste. These humble people are the economists of humanity. They save what we squander. Every time one of them goes without a meal, there is that much more food left in the world for the rest of us. James Howell wrote of the Spaniard in 1623, “He hath another commendable quality, that when he giveth alms he pulls off his hat and puts it in the beggar’s hand with a great deal of humility.” Let us say, rather, with a great deal of respect and gratitude. Truly the Spanish grandee had reason to be grateful and respectful to the beggar who made possible his own magnificence.

Now, Sir, what are these charitable organizations trying to do? I will tell you--they are trying to teach the beggar that he wants the comforts of life. They are trying to teach him to desire good clothes and good food. They are trying to awaken in him that selfish desire to appear better than his fellows, which we call “self-respect”. _They are even trying to teach him to work!_ What folly!

“But,” you say, “it would be an excellent thing if all of these vagabonds could be induced to work, for heretofore they have been mere idlers and parasites.” To which I answer, “You are wrong, it would _not_ be a good thing.” Is it not perfectly clear that, once these beggars become workers, they will immediately demand the means to enable them to maintain a higher standard of living? Which do you think costs you the more, the beggar who begs perhaps a dollar a week, which he has not earned, or the bricklayer who charges you six dollars a day, of which he has earned only a part? It has been some years now since the notorious Coxey led his army of unemployed to Washington, and since that time the number of unemployed workers has been steadily increasing. Do you think, then, that we need more laborers? Have we so much wealth that we must force it on those who were content to be without it?

Why, Sir, I tell you this corruption of beggars should be put down with a firm hand. These charitable organizations should be legislated out of existence before they do an irreparable mischief.

I am, Sir, HENRY HARDHEAD.

THE ABUSES OF ADVERSITY

_To the Editor of The Idler._

DEAR SIR: In the course of a long and not uneventful life, I have, upon more than one occasion, looked upon adversity in its various forms, and I have, therefore, given the subject some attention, both in the light of my own experience and in the light of the opinions of others. I have heard a great deal of the “uses of adversity”; that adversity is like a great training-school for character which brings out whatever strength and resolution there may be in a man, and much talk of a like character. But I must confess that I have not often seen adversity, nor its lessons, put to any good use whatever, while I have often seen it abused most shamefully.

So far from learning useful lessons from ill-fortune, it seems to me that most men are inclined to turn misfortune to the basest of uses, making it serve as an excuse for shirking, for moral lapses, for dishonesty and for an utter lack of charity toward others. I find that many people boast of their misfortunes as if they were actually entitled to some credit because they have befallen them, wearing woe like a feather in the cap and holding themselves somewhat better than their fellows because they appear to have excited the wrath of the Goddess of Fortune. It is as if they said: “See, we are the Unfortunate Ones who are of sufficient importance to be singled out from among men to receive Sorrows which you are unfit to bear. Look upon our afflictions and reflect upon the happiness of your own lot, and do not forget to do us honor for the fortitude with which we bear our miseries.”

I count among my friends and acquaintances a number of these habitual boasters of misfortune, who are always ready, day or night, to relate their trials and tribulations with a conscious air of distinction and superiority.

There is an old fellow of my acquaintance who suffers, or so he declares, the torments of the damned, by reason of his gout, a disease which has held him in its grip for the last twenty years. There is no manner of doubt that he has himself to blame for this painful malady, which is, without question, the result of his injudicious and riotous manner of life in his youth. Yet this old man is as proud of his infirmity as many another man is of physical soundness, and he relates his pangs and twinges with the greatest relish in the world. Nor does the fact that he has suffered from the disease for nearly a quarter of a century have any effect upon the eagerness with which he always turns the conversation upon his favorite topic. Despite the fact that he has told and retold his pains and symptoms ten thousand times, the subject never seems to lose its novelty for him, and to-day he discusses his infirmity with as much gusto as he did when I first met him ten years or more ago. It makes no difference what may be the subject of the company’s discourse, this man can not bear to go twenty minutes without intruding the matter of his lame foot.

Politics, business, history, music, literature, art or the drama--all these are but verbal stepping-stones to his one supreme subject. Does some one speak of Napoleon at the foot of the great Pyramids, the mere mention of the word “foot” is enough to set him discoursing of the inflammation in his great toe. Does some one call attention to the flaming crimson of the sunset, he swears that it is not so red as his own instep. He never enters a conversation, in short, but to put his foot in it, and so persistently does he dwell upon this malformed pedal extremity as to render him fit company for none but chiropodists. He has no interest in life but his gout, and he is forever talking of the pain it causes him, though I dare say it has never caused him a tenth part of the misery that it has caused his friends and acquaintances.

Another person whom I have the misfortune to know is a widow lady of some nine years’ standing, who has never put off her weeds and who never tires of bewailing the loss of the dear departed. The bare mention of death is a sufficient warrant for a flood of tears, and the sight of a hearse sends her into hysterics which abate only at the prospect of a sympathetic audience for the old story of her bereavement. She goes about the neighborhood casting the shadow of death upon all our innocent pleasures and brings with her into our happy homes the gloom of the mortuary chamber. Her long-continued mourning and complaint are the less deserving of patience and sympathy when we reflect that her husband was already past the age of seventy-five when he died, so that nobody but the most infatuated mourner could speak, as she does, of his having been “cut off in his prime.” One would think, to hear her speak of him, that other men were in the habit of living to the age of Methuselah and that no other woman in the world had cause to mourn her spouse. For my part, I think the old man had small reason to complain of premature demise, and I know that were I her husband I would ask nothing better. To cast the slightest suspicion upon the genuineness of her grief or the sufficiency of the cause thereof would be to lay one’s self open to a tongue which can be most bitter when it chooses; so I fear we shall have to bear her complaints and her mourning until she dissolves in tears like Niobe, or until Death gives ear to her publicly expressed desire to join her mate beyond the grave.

My cousin, Robert Wasrich, is forever telling of the wealth and luxury which were his in his younger days and complaining of the lowly estate into which he is fallen in his middle age. The quarters in which he now resides are of the humblest, but he speaks of them most ostentatiously to all who have not visited them, referring to them as “chambers” and adding that, while they are far above the average, they are not at all what he has been used to in other years. When we have him for our guest, which we do out of pity at Christmas and such seasons when it seems shameful to neglect one’s own kin, he upsets our whole household with his constant complaints and exactions.

So, far from trying to make himself as little a nuisance as possible, he must needs take his breakfast in bed because that was his custom in the days of his prosperity, and he must be supplied with all sorts of dainties and extra dishes because his stomach, so he says, craves them, having become accustomed to them when he was wealthy. He finds fault with the cooking, saying that it probably seems well enough to us, who have never been used to anything better, but that it is death to the palate of one who has been in the habit of eating and drinking of the best. He picks flaws in our pictures and decries our taste in furnishings, and so sends my wife off to her chamber in a fit of indignant weeping. And not content with all this, he is forever borrowing of me small sums of money which he declares he stands in need of to pay off certain obligations to friends whom he has known in his better days and who have seen fit to ask him to dinner or to the play. To allow such obligations to go unpaid would be most offensive to his acute sense of honor and would cast discredit upon his honored name. In fact, Mr. _Idler_, he is twice as arrogant and proud in his poverty as he was when he was well-off. And more than once I have wished with all my heart that he might be rich again, and so take himself off and leave us in peace.

To come nearer home, my wife is the victim of a nervous disorder which totally incapacitates her from doing our housework, though we can ill afford a servant, but which, oddly enough, does not interfere with her attendance at matinées or card-parties given by her women friends. This is doubtless due, as she says, to the fact that exertion which is in the nature of a diversion takes her mind from her trouble and so mends her condition for the time being. Though this disorder is not in the least dangerous, it is most obstinate and causes her, so she assures me, the most acute mental anguish and the most terrible physical suffering. It is of such a peculiar nature that any mention of the amount of the month’s bills sets it instantly in motion, and disappointment in the matter of getting a new hat is enough to cause her to take to her bed for a week. But though, as you can readily see, this indisposition puts her to a great deal of trouble and annoyance, she will not consent to enter a sanatorium where she might be cured of it, nor will she follow the advice of the doctor whom she calls in from one to three times a month; so that I am forced to conclude that she is actually proud of being an invalid. And I am the more of this opinion, since when I complain of feeling ill or indisposed, she always assures me that I do not know what suffering is and that I never can know because I was not born a woman.

These and other cases which have come under my observation have convinced me that people are more proud of their afflictions than of their blessings, and that the most common use of adversity is to make life miserable for others.

I am, Sir, EDWARD EASYMAN.

THE SCIENCE OF MAKING ENEMIES

_To the Editor of The Idler._

DEAR SIR: As I am about to open a school of an unusual nature, I have determined not only to secure for the same as much publicity as possible, but also to explain to the public the nature of the instruction which will be furnished in my new academy. My course of study is, I think, unique; and I fear that without explanation it would probably prove quite incomprehensible to the public at large and to those who may chance to hear of the school through friends or to read my advertisements in the press.

In this connection, it seems to me not out of place to acquaint you, in some sort, with the reasons which led me to settle upon the plan of my proposed course of instruction, and this I shall accordingly do to the best of my ability.

I entered at an early age upon my present profession, which is, as you may have surmised, that of an educator. I became, in turn, an instructor, a tutor and a professor of sociology. I have ever been of an independent character of mind, and in the course of my work I have been prone to draw my own conclusions without, I confess, much consideration of, or regard for, the opinions of others who assume, or have assumed, to be authorities upon the subject. Society, I believe, is a subject which must be studied at first hand. Text-books and treatises may be well enough as stimulants to study, but the real essential is a knowledge of people. I, therefore, devoted myself to the study of mankind, and I studied the students of my classes with more enthusiasm and with more application, I dare say, than my students studied their text-books. But I did not stop with the study of others, I also studied myself. I studied myself as an isolated individual, and I studied myself in relation to others, and it was as a result of this study that I finally made a most disconcerting discovery--a discovery which was not made until I had entered upon my professorship, and which shocked me inexpressibly and bade fair, for a time, to put an end to my career as a teacher.

Though at first it was only a suspicion, it soon became a conviction. I discovered that I was _unpopular_. Not unpopular with a few only, for all of us are that, but generally and hopelessly unpopular; a man without any friends and with a great many enemies. I do not now recall what first called my attention to this matter, but I do remember that I gave it a great deal of thought and attention and I studied the case in the same impartial manner that I would study any other case of social phenomena. I took careful note of the demeanor and behavior of my students and my fellow members of the faculty, and I soon settled beyond any reasonable doubt all question as to my popularity. I had never established myself upon a footing of familiarity or friendship with my students and I now came to see the reason why this was so. My students did not like me and they would have nothing more to do with me than was absolutely necessary. It was the same with the members of the faculty. I was retained in my position because I was an able instructor and an indefatigable worker. There was no sort of favoritism in my case and I knew that my colleagues as well as my students would have been glad to see me guilty of some blunder which would justify my removal.

As you may suppose, this was not only a hard blow to my vanity, but a very painful thing to think upon. Like most men, I had always assumed that people were glad to know me and to have me about, and it distressed me exceedingly to learn that this assumption was without foundation or justification. It is one of the enigmas of human nature--this conviction of personal popularity. No man can conceive of himself as a pariah, nor even as a very unpopular person, until he actually finds himself in that situation. Even the greatest bores seldom realize that they _are_ bores. But most bores are not sociologists.

Now, when I had become fully convinced that my unpopularity was a fact and not a figment of my imagination, I began to turn the matter over in my mind and to direct my attention to the study of popularity and unpopularity both as to cause and effect. My study led me to several discoveries. The first was this: that some people are born with the attribute of popularity and possess the faculty of making friends without any conscious effort on their part, while others have a trick of making enemies without actually being guilty of any offense. This is not what is called positive and negative “magnetism,” but it is something like that. When a man possesses this faculty for making friends he will make them whether or no, even though he be lacking in all the qualities which men find admirable. He may be selfish, cold, over-ambitious and ruthless of the rights of others, and yet exercise a fascination upon other men. Such a man was Napoleon Bonaparte, who called forth the greatest personal devotion and enthusiasm in the men whom he destroyed for his own ends. Contrariwise, a man may be noble, generous, affable and everything that a popular man should be, and yet be practically without friends.

But I made another and greater discovery which reconciled me to my unpopularity and which, indeed, completely revolutionized my views upon the subject--_I discovered that the greatest men in the world have been the ones who had the most enemies!_

And it was upon making this discovery, Sir--the most important, in my opinion, that has been made by any sociologist of our time--that I determined to set up my school for the exposition of the science of making enemies. All men, said I to myself, are naturally ambitious; they desire fame, honor and riches. They have but to be shown the way and they will enter eagerly upon it.

Elated as I was at my great discovery, I could not but wonder that men had not discovered this secret long ago. How could such men as Spencer, Lecky, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche and the others have overlooked a thing so _simple_ and so obviously true?

Here, I rejoiced, I have a discovery--not a theory, not an hypothesis--but a fact! A fact which may be tested and proven in any field of human activity--in government, in commerce, in religion, in literature, in art--in everything! No religion can live without first enduring persecution; no government can survive without the patriotism bred of the fear of enemies and the hatred of foes; no general can become great without war; no author becomes a classic without criticism; no prophet can conquer without opposition. Nothing great can be done without enemies.

For generations, for ages, men have been proceeding upon an entirely erroneous theory that friends are more necessary to success than enemies. Such stupidity! Such utter disregard of the evidence to the contrary which confronts us upon every hand! Our park benches are lined with men who had too many friends, our charitable institutions are overflowing with them. Think of the most popular man you know and then of the most successful! Are they the same? Of course not. Once you stop to think of it, the truth of my discovery is self-evident. No matter where you go you will find that the greatest man is the one who has the most enemies.

Friends are not only not necessary to a man’s success, but they are often a positive detriment. A man surrounded by friends is like a man blindfolded--he can not see where he is going. How do you improve? By correcting your faults. And who points out your faults, your friends or your enemies? An enemy is a spur. An enemy is an inspiration. Your friends sympathize with you, commiserate with you, agree with you and flatter you; but your enemies _advertise you_.

Whistler once wrote a book called _The Gentle Art of Making Enemies_, and I suspect that Whistler had caught an inkling of the truth of my great discovery, but his title was a misnomer. The making of enemies is not an art, but a science. Some people have a special gift for it, as I have, but almost any one can learn how. By observing a few simple rules in this connection, any man should be able to acquire all the enemies he may desire. But any man may save himself a great deal of time and trouble by taking my course of instruction. When he receives his diploma from the Sourface Training School he will be so well versed in this science that he will thereafter follow the principles of the school without any thought whatever, but purely from force of habit.

Judging from the number of people I see about me who are trying in an amateurish way to acquire enemies, the academy should have a large attendance from the start, and since I have never met a more unpopular man than myself, I know of no one more eminently qualified to conduct such a school. I can not afford to make public my method of instruction because such an action would open the field to a host of imitators, but I can assure you that the course is most effective.

There is only one doubt in my mind about the success of the school, and that is this: I fear that when the public realizes the tremendous import of my discovery and appreciates the great work which I am doing for humanity, I shall become so popular that I will be in great danger of losing the success which I have labored so hard to attain and which I so richly deserve.

Truly yours, SAMUEL SOURFACE,

Headmaster, Sourface Training School. CRANKTOWN, NEW JERSEY.

THE FATE OF FALSTAFF

_To the Editor of The Idler._