Mind you, I'm not speakin' particular of the public men in
this country--or any other country; I'm speakin' of the lot of 'em in
every country. They're a sort of secret society, brought up on gas.
And every now and then someone sets a match to it, and we get it in
the neck. Look 'ere, sir. Dahn squats one on his backside an' writes
something in 'igh words. Up pops another and says something in 'igher;
an' so they go on poppin' up an' squattin' dahn till you get an
atmosphere where you can't breathe; and all the time all we want is to
be let alone, and 'uman kindness do the rest. All these fellers 'ave
got two weaknesses--one's ideas, and the other's their own importance.
They've got to be conspicuous, and without ideas they can't, so it's a
vicious circle. When I see a man bein' conspicuous, I says to meself:
'Gawd 'elp us, we shall want it!' And sooner or later we always do. I'll
tell you what's the curse of the world, sir; it's the gift of expressin'
what ain't your real feeling. And--Lord! what a lot of us 'ave got it!"
"Joe," said Mr. Lavender, whose eyes were almost starting from his head,
"your words are the knell of poetry, philosophy, and prose--especially
of prose. They are the grave of history, which, as you know, is made up
of the wars and intrigues which have originated in the brains of public
men.
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