Now let me put a question or two in the name of common sense.  We must balance good and evil; and, granting that the theatre has a tendency to make children light-minded, is it worse than the horror of the slums and the stench and darkness of the single room where a family herd together?  The youngster who is engaged at the theatre can set off home at the very latest as soon as the harlequinade is over.  Very well; suppose it is late.  Would he or she be early if the night were spent in the alley?  Not at all!  Then the child from the theatre is bathed, fed, taught, clothed nicely, and it gives its parents a little money which procures food.  Some say the extra money goes for extra gin—­and that may happen in some cases; but, at any rate, the child’s earnings usually purchase a share of food as well as of drink; for the worst blackguard in the world dares not send a starveling to meet the stage-manager.  In sum, then, making every possible allowance for the good intentions of those who wish to rescue children from the theatre, I am inclined to fear that they have been hasty.  I am not without some knowledge of the various details of the subject; and I have tried to give my judgment as fairly as I could—­for I also pity and love the children.

XV.

PUBLIC AND PRIVATE MORALITY:  PAST AND PRESENT.

Certain enterprising persons have contributed of late years to make English newspapers somewhat unpleasant reading, and mournful men are given to moaning over the growth of national corruption.  So persistent have the mournful folk been, that many good simple people are in a state of grievous alarm, for they are persuaded that the nation is bound towards the pit of Doom.  When doleful men and women cry out concerning abstract evils, it is always best to meet them with hard facts, and I therefore propose to show that we ought really to be very grateful for the undoubted advance of the nation toward righteousness.  Hideous blots there are—­ugly cankers amid our civilisation—­but we grow better year by year, and the general movement is towards honesty, helpfulness, goodness, purity.  Whenever any croaker begins speaking about the golden age that is gone, I advise my readers to try a system of cross-examination.  Ask the sorrowful man to fix the precise period of the golden age, and pin him to direct and definite statements.  Was it when labourers in East Anglia lived like hogs around the houses of their lords?  Was it when the starving and utterly wretched thousands marched on London under Tyler and John Ball?  Was it when the press-gangs kidnapped good citizens in broad daylight?  Was it when a score of burning ricks might be seen in a night by one observer?  Was it when imbecile rulers had set all the world against us—­when the French threatened Ireland, and the maddened, hunger-bitten sailors were in wild rebellion, and the Funds were not considered as safe for investors?  The croaker is always securely indefinite, and a strict, vigorous series of questions reduces him to rage and impotence.