Cashel Byron's Profession

Next evening, Lydia and Alice reached Mrs. Hoskyn's house in Campden

Hill Road a few minutes before ten o'clock. They found Lord

Worthington in the front garden, smoking and chatting with Mr.

Hoskyn. He threw away his cigar and returned to the house with the

two ladies, who observed that he was somewhat flushed with wine.

They went into a parlor to take off their wraps, leaving him at the

foot of the stairs. Presently they heard some one come down and

address him excitedly thus, "Worthington. Worthington. He has begun making a speech before the

whole room. He got up the moment old Abendgasse sat down. Why the

deuce did you give him that glass of champagne?"

"Sh-sh-sh! You don't say so! Come with me; and let us try to get him

away quietly."

"Did you hear that?" said Alice. "Something must have happened."

"I hope so," said Lydia. "Ordinarily, the fault in these receptions

is that nothing happens. Do not announce us, if you please," she

added to the servant, as they ascended the stairs. "Since we have

come late, let us spare the feelings of Herr Abendgasse by going in

as quietly as possible."

They had no difficulty in entering unnoticed, for Mrs. Hoskyn

considered obscurity beautiful; and her rooms were but dimly lighted

by two curious lanterns of pink glass, within which were vaporous

flames. In the middle of the larger apartment was a small table

covered with garnet-colored plush, with a reading-desk upon it, and

two candles in silver candlesticks, the light of which, being

brighter than the lanterns, cast strong double shadows from a group

of standing figures about the table. The surrounding space was

crowded with chairs, occupied chiefly by ladies. Behind them, along

the wall, stood a row of men, among whom was Lucian Webber. All were

staring at Cashel Byron, who was making a speech to some bearded and

spectacled gentlemen at the table. Lydia, who had never before seen

him either in evening dress or quite at his ease, was astonished at

his bearing. His eyes were sparkling, his confidence overbore the

company, and his rough voice created the silence it broke. He was in

high good-humor, and marked his periods by the swing of his extended

left arm, while he held his right hand close to his body and

occasionally pointed his remarks by slyly wagging his forefinger.

"--executive power," he was saying as Lydia entered. "That's a very

good expression, gentlemen, and one that I can tell you a lot about.

We have been told that if we want to civilize our neighbors we must

do it mainly by the example of our own lives, by each becoming a

living illustration of the highest culture we know. But what I ask

is, how is anybody to know that you're an illustration of culture.

You can't go about like a sandwich man with a label on your back to

tell all the fine notions you have in your head; and you may be sure

no person will consider your mere appearance preferable to his own.

You want an executive power; that's what you want. Suppose you

walked along the street and saw a man beating a woman, and setting a

bad example to the roughs. Well, you would be bound to set a good

example to them; and, if you're men, you'd like to save the woman;

but you couldn't do it by merely living; for that would be setting

the bad example of passing on and leaving the poor creature to be

beaten. What is it that you need to know then, in order to act up to

your fine ideas? Why, you want to know how to hit him, when to hit

him, and where to hit him; and then you want the nerve to go in and

do it. That's executive power; and that's what's wanted worse than

sitting down and thinking how good you are, which is what this

gentleman's teaching comes to after all. Don't you see? You want

executive power to set an example. If you leave all that to the

roughs, it's their example that will spread, and not yours. And look

at the politics of it. We've heard a good deal about the French

to-night. Well, they've got executive power. They know how to make a

barricade, and how to fight behind it when they've made it. What's

the result? Why, the French, if they only knew what they wanted,

could have it to-morrow for the asking--more's the pity that they

don't know. In this country we can do nothing; and if the lords and

the landlords, or any other collection of nobs, were to drive us

into the sea, what could we do but go? There's a gentleman laughing

at me for saying that; but I ask him what would he do if the police

or the soldiers came this evening and told him to turn out of his

comfortable house into the Thames? Tell 'em he wouldn't vote for

their employers at the next election, perhaps? Or, if that didn't

stop them, tell 'em that he'd ask his friends to do the same? That's

a pretty executive power! No, gentlemen. Don't let yourself be

deceived by people that have staked their money against you. The

first thing to learn is how to fight. There's no use in buying books

and pictures unless you know how to keep them and your own head as

well. If that gentleman that laughed know how to fight, and his

neighbors all knew how to fight too, he wouldn't need to fear

police, nor soldiers, nor Russians, nor Prussians, nor any of the

millions of men that may be let loose on him any day of the week,

safe though he thinks himself. But, says you, let's have a division

of labor. Let's not fight for ourselves, but pay other men to fight

for us. That shows how some people, when they get hold of an idea,

will work it to that foolish length that it's wearisome to listen to

them. Fighting is the power of self-preservation; another man can't

do it for you. You might as well divide the labor of eating your

dinner, and pay one fellow to take the beef, another the beer, and a

third the potatoes. But let us put it for the sake of argument that

you do pay others to fight for you. Suppose some one else pays them

higher, and they fight a cross, or turn openly against you! You'd

have only yourself to blame for giving the executive power to money.

And so long as the executive power is money the poor will be kept

out of their corner and fouled against the ropes; whereas, by what I

understand, the German professor wants them to have their rights.

Therefore I say that a man's first duty is to learn to fight. If he

can't do that he can't set an example; he can't stand up for his own

rights or his neighbors'; he can't keep himself in bodily health;

and if he sees the weak ill-used by the strong, the most he can do

is to sneak away and tell the nearest policeman, who most likely

won't turn up until the worst of the mischief is done. Coming to

this lady's drawing-room, and making an illustration of himself,

won't make him feel like a man after that. Let me be understood,

though, gentlemen: I don't intend that you should take everything I

say too exactly--too literally, as it were. If you see a man beating

a woman, I think you should interfere on principle. But don't expect

to be thanked by her for it; and keep your eye on her; don't let her

get behind you. As for him, just give him a good one and go away.

Never stay to get yourself into a street fight; for it's low, and

generally turns out badly for all parties. However, that's only a

bit of practical advice. It doesn't alter the great principle that

you should get an executive power. When you get that, you'll have

courage in you; and, what's more, your courage will be of some use

to you. For though you may have courage by nature, still, if you

haven't executive power as well, your courage will only lead you to

stand up to be beaten by men that have both courage and executive

power; and what good does that do you? People say that you're a game

fellow; but they won't find the stakes for you unless you can win

them. You'd far better put your game in your pocket, and throw up

the sponge while you can see to do it.