Cashel Byron's Profession

Lydia made no further effort to enlighten him. She looked at him

thoughtfully, and said, slowly, "I begin to hold the clew to your

idiosyncrasy. You have attached yourself to the modern doctrine of a

struggle for existence, and look on life as a perpetual combat."

"A fight? Just so. What is life but a fight? The curs forfeit or get

beaten; the rogues sell the fight and lose the confidence of their

backers; the game ones and the clever ones win the stakes, and have

to hand over the lion's share of them to the loafers; and luck plays

the devil with them all in turn. That's not the way they describe

life in books; but that's what it is."

"Oddly put, but perhaps true. Still, is there any need of a

struggle? Is not the world large enough for us all to live

peacefully in?"

"YOU may think so, because you were born with a silver spoon in your

mouth. But if you hadn't to fight for that silver spoon, some one

else had; and no doubt he thought it hard that it should be taken

away from him and given to you. I was a snob myself once, and

thought the world was made for me to enjoy myself and order about

the poor fellows whose bread I was eating. But I was left one day

where I couldn't grab any more of their bread, and had to make some

for myself--ay, and some extra for loafers that had the power to

make me pay for what they didn't own. That took the conceit out of

me fast enough. But what do you know about such things?"

"More than you think, perhaps. These are dangerous ideas to take

with you into English society."

"Hmf!" growled Cashel. "They'd be more dangerous if I could give

every man that is robbed of half what he earns twelve lessons--in

science."

"So you can. Publish your lessons. 'Twelve lectures on political

economy, by Cashel Byron.' I will help you to publish them, if you

wish."

"Bless your innocence!" said Cashel: "the sort of political economy

I teach can't be learned from a book."

"You have become an enigma again. But yours is not the creed of a

simpleton. You are playing with me--revealing your wisdom from

beneath a veil of infantile guilelessness. I have no more to say."

"May I be shot if I understand you! I never pretended to be

guileless. Come: is it because I raised a laugh against your cousin

that you're so spiteful?"