ing graceful gestures, and hence they can wring from the rest of the world a corresponding degree of liberty. Society may be right, or it may be wrong in the position which women hold. It may, and also it may not, be true that we should all be happier and better if women ceased to stand in that dependent relation to men which they occupy at present in all parts of the world; but so long as they do stand in that position, the world will be consistent in enforcing by inexorable sanctions a severe moral discipline upon them, and not upon men.

The result of the whole is that those general social rules, compliance with which constitutes respectability, and which are so much complained of by writers like Mrs. Norton, cannot fairly be represented as grievances, except by persons who are prepared to go much further, and to apply the same name to one at least of the fundamental institutions of society itself, as it is constituted here, and in most other parts of the world. Beatrice Brook was wronged by the comparative social impunity extended to Treherne only upon the supposition that women in general are wronged by being treated on the assumption that men ought to do the work of the world, and women ought to keep house for them. Once admit this maxim as the general rule of life, subject to a very few exceptions of little importance, and the rest follows of course.

The general question raised by Lost and Saved suggests two or three minor questions which are by no means without interest. In the first place, although we may not think that the authoress any more than her predecessors has convicted the world of absurdity or inconsistency, or that she has made the least step towards anything approaching to a suggestion of any sounder rules or principles than those which in fact prevail amongst us, it may be said, not quite without plausibility, that she, like many other writers, has put a momentary gloss on a very old, well-known, and important truth, which is not unfrequently forgotten -the truth, namely, that the opinion which other people have either of a man or woman is a very poor test indeed of the real worth of that man

or woman.

It is no difficult matter to put cases of people worthy of every kind of respect and admiration, who are nevertheless under circumstances in which the world at large will infallibly condemn, sometimes even punish, them. Overlook Miss Brook's faults, and suppose that she had been brought to the position in which she was placed quite innocently-as no doubt she might have been, for instance by a real marriage disavowed by Treherne and incapable of being proved by her, and contracted under circumstances which threw no discredit upon her-and there can be no doubt that her reputation would have suffered whilst his would have been but slightly affected. It is impossible to deny such a state of things might exist, and such stories as Lost and Saved no doubt set that admitted fact in a somewhat striking light; but what is the inference from this? That it is very cruel to form such opinions as are formed on such occasions, say, or rather insinuate, the authors of such tales. The reasons already

assigned show that the insinuation is not true. The true inference is that the opinions which society at large forms of its individual members are of necessity formed upon scanty and insufficient materials, and would properly be described as very unjust if the justice of an opinion implied its truth. They are in fact no more than guesses, which people are obliged to make for their own protection as well as they can, but which the subjects of them ought to disregard, or, at all events, to view with something very like indifference. Justice, in fact, is a quality not to be expected from society. It is not a judge and is not bound to be just, and it is therefore foolish to reproach it with injustice. The true inference from the sufferings of Miss Brook is, that a wise man or woman will do his or her best to cultivate a certain degree of thickness of skin, and to be as independent of their neighbours' opinions as they can manage to be. No doubt the existing state of things makes it extremely hard for a woman to do this, and the effort to do it, especially if it is successful, will deprive her of some attractions, but this is an inevitable evil. The world is not so constituted that everybody can be happy under all circumstances; and almost all the nonsense that is talked proceeds from a tacit assumption that it is. A beautiful and attractive woman is perhaps the most attractive object in nature. She meets with a degree of attention, deference, flattery, and even of sincere and genuine homage, which to male observers seems enough to turn the strongest head, and to constitute the most intoxicating draught which can be offered to he lips of any human creature. This is very like investing one's money in limited liability companies. You may and perhaps do get 20 per cent. for it, but you may wake up one morning and find yourself destitute. High interest, in enjoyment as well as in trade, means bad security, and Miss Brook, and other young women like her, hold their pleasure by the tenure of being at the mercy of the society which worships them. If the bargain suits both parties, there is no particular harm done. Miss Brook gets her incense, the world at large judges her conduct by a practical rule which gives a right result-say five times in seven-one of the unlucky chances falls to her. It is very proper that the rules of the game should be known, but the players must not want to draw stakes if the luck goes against them, and the bystanders, when asked to pity the losers, may be excused for saying that nobody forced them to try their luck. Those who associate with a small number of intimate friends will for the most part have their conduct fairly judged. If they allow their happiness to depend on the opinion of a large number, they allow it to depend on an opinion which must of necessity be formed on very imperfect materials.

Another observation which such stories as Lost and Saved suggest arises from the common criticisms upon them. They are always attacked by the same thrust and defended by the same parry. What an immoral book this is, says the critic. I must paint the world as I find it, says the author. Yes, but you should not be prurient, says the critic. No mor I am, replies the author. The last issue-prurient or not prurient

involves a different question in respect to every book concerning which it is raised, and need not be further noticed here. The other-the general question whether such books as Lost and Saved are in their own nature objectionable, however well they may be executed, is one of wider interest, and calls for one or two observations which are frequently omitted in discussing it. In the first place it is perfectly clear that nothing but the most wretched prudery would describe as necessarily immoral a work of great genius-the Edipus Rex, for instance-because it turned upon a revolting incident; but it is equally clear that the ordinary run of novels with a moral purpose have no claim at all to be judged on the principles which are proper in discussing the moral value of books of that order. They are almost universally pamphlets conceived from a sentimental instead of a dogmatic point of view. Such being their position, the true objection to them is not that the doctrine which their author means to insinuate would be immoral if it were advocated in express words, but that by addressing the imagination instead of the reason they tend to set the mind as it were on a wrong scent-to draw it away from the broader and weightier matters of the moral law to dwell upon byways and exceptional cases, which to the great mass of mankind are not only not instructive, but positively injurious. Probably there are cases in which falsehood is justifiable, but if a man were to write a novel the point of which was to show what the cases are in which a good man or lovely woman was wrongfully punished for a laudable lie, it would be a very bad service to morality. The mind had much better be led into other paths. In the same way there may be cases in which the common rules as to the relations of the sexes do not apply, but it is not a wholesome thing to seek them out and dwell upon them. The objections, indeed, are stronger in this than in other cases of immorality, for reasons too obvious to mention. If such matters are to be discussed, they should be discussed in the most direct and abstract manner. A novelist, who is not a person of the highest genius, writing a work to last for all ages, should never forget the old motto-Virginibus puerisque.

295

"GOING to the opera

The Opera in 1833-1863.

is

a very

different thing now-a-days from what it was thirty years ago; and the season which has just closed suggests strange comparisons to those whose memories carry them back a little. It has seen two houses open four, and sometimes five, nights a week. This, of itself, plainly marks the fact that the opera has ceased to be an aristocratic luxury, and has become a public entertainment.

The change

implies both gain and loss. The enormous diffusion of wealth, bringing with it not only an universal increase in expenditure, but also a more strenuous ambition in all classes to emulate the style of living and share the enjoyments of the Upper Ten, has crowded the stalls and boxes of the opera, and scattered tweed suits and wide-awakes over the Continent, in the persons of pleasure-seekers, who, in my young days, would have been seen in the gallery (if seen at the opera at all, which was rare), or on the sands of Margate and the shingles of Brighton.

Something of this change is due to a more diffused love of music and a more developed culture. There are still numbers who go to the opera because "society" goes there, rather than because music has any charms for them. It is not every tweed suit which moves across the Prado, the Campagna, or the Graben, or languishes in picture-galleries and cathedrals, from any genuine impulse deeper than that of "following the fashion." It was always so; it will be always so. Pleasure-seeking is a grim business to many; and of all pleasures that of Art is the most commonly undertaken from a sense of duty. But although the opera is to a large class merely a place of parade, and would be deserted if music were its attraction, there is also a large and growing class to whom music is one of the highest enjoyments; together, these classes make up a public, which can by no means be satisfied with a single theatre, open two or three nights a week. The aristocratic prestige has gone. The public insists on its amusement. It is as with the Grand Tour formerly performed by a few of the wealthy, now the holiday of professional men, Government clerks, and shopkeepers, great and small. In the old days there was a certain distinction attained by a visit to Paris or Florence, which is now secured only by an exploration of the Nile, or a flirtation with the Amazons of Dahomey. The Continent has become our watering-place; the opera our amusement. There are those who deplore this change. People prone to exclusiveness (and it is whispered that the English are not always free from this tendency) regret the universal presence of Murray and the wide diffusion of the British accent; while those who are but moderately pleased at meeting their countrymen abroad (and I

have known it maintained that "the English one meets abroad" are not always fascinating) protest that the Continent is spoiled. Probably they think the opera ruined, now it is no longer exclusive.

Ruined or not, it is certainly changed. I recall the days when it was almost a private affair, supported almost exclusively by subscription, and visited night after night by the same sets. In those glorious days (think of it, reader!) we could know the aristocracy (by sight and name), and impress country cousins with our terrible familiarity, as the occupants of box after box and stall after stall were glibly named. There were but two performances in each week-Tuesdays and Saturdays. A short opera and a long ballet formed the regular bill of fare. Those were the days of ballet (which I am happy to say is, at least for the present, dwindled to a divertissement, very little diverting), and a new dancer was as much canvassed as a new singer. And ye later glories, Taglioni, Ellsler, Cerito, ye were indeed worth talking about!

How modestly the bill of the day peeped forth under the piazza (and only there), challenging small attention from the passers-by, though it bore the names of Pasta, Ronzi di Begnis, Caradori, Blasis, Curioni, Donzelli, and others; names of magic power to me who used to pause before the dark and silent house, with curious glances at the groups of sallow foreigners lounging about, smoking cigarettes, impressing me with something of the mysterious charm felt in a half-empty theatre before the green curtain was raised, which was to open worlds of splendour to ravished eyes. I had occasionally tasted of operatic joys, and I read. every bill with unspeakable longings, till I became as learned in musical celebrities as a reader of catalogues becomes in literature.

Shall I ever again enjoy the opera as I enjoyed it then? My place was habitually in the gallery, which in those days was rarely filled. The servants of the nobility, a few foreigners (with an aroma of garlic), and a few lovers of music, were to be seen there; but the public never presented itself; the public never thought of the opera. Years rolled on, and the public began to overflow the gallery. To meet the increasing demand for places in all parts of the house "extra nights" were occasionally given on Thursdays. In time Thursdays became regular extra nights; then subscription nights; till now we have Mondays and Fridays added as extras; and this not in one house, but, since 1847, in two houses.

Naturally, while such changes were in progress my beloved gallery could not remain unchanged. Instead of the cheap and certain seat, we had soon to struggle for a place at all, after waiting outside, under the piazza, for half an hour or more, and after a rush upstairs little less violent than the rush at the pit on Lind nights; only, as the gallery visitors were mostly men, the vehemence of the struggle was mitigatedfor in screaming and crushing, women are terrible. The first innovation of gallery stalls, depriving us of the two front rows for which we had gallantly waited and pushed, was received with grim disgust. Now there