If ever that abrupt appeal is made to us we may fail.
A man can get use to getting up at five o’clock
in the morning. A man cannot very well get used
to being burnt for his opinions; the first experiment
is commonly fatal. Let us pay a little more
attention to these possibilities of the heroic and
unexpected. I dare say that when I get out of
this bed I shall do some deed of an almost terrible
virtue.
For those who study the great art of lying in bed
there is one emphatic caution to be added. Even
for those who can do their work in bed (like journalists),
still more for those whose work cannot be done in
bed (as, for example, the professional harpooners of
whales), it is obvious that the indulgence must be
very occasional. But that is not the caution
I mean. The caution is this: if you do
lie in bed, be sure you do it without any reason or
justification at all. I do not speak, of course,
of the seriously sick. But if a healthy man lies
in bed, let him do it without a rag of excuse; then
he will get up a healthy man. If he does it for
some secondary hygienic reason, if he has some scientific
explanation, he may get up a hypochondriac.
The Twelve Men
The other day, while I was meditating on morality
and Mr. H. Pitt, I was, so to speak, snatched up and
put into a jury box to try people. The snatching
took some weeks, but to me it seemed something sudden
and arbitrary. I was put into this box because
I lived in Battersea, and my name began with a C.
Looking round me, I saw that there were also summoned
and in attendance in the court whole crowds and processions
of men, all of whom lived in Battersea, and all of
whose names began with a C.
It seems that they always summon jurymen in this sweeping
alphabetical way. At one official blow, so to
speak, Battersea is denuded of all its C’s,
and left to get on as best it can with the rest of
the alphabet. A Cumberpatch is missing from
one street—a Chizzolpop from another—
three Chucksterfields from Chucksterfield House; the
children are crying out for an absent Cadgerboy; the
woman at the street corner is weeping for her Coffintop,
and will not be comforted. We settle down with
a rollicking ease into our seats (for we are a bold,
devil-may-care race, the C’s of Battersea),
and an oath is administered to us in a totally inaudible
manner by an individual resembling an Army surgeon
in his second childhood. We understand, however,
that we are to well and truly try the case between
our sovereign lord the King and the prisoner at the
bar, neither of whom has put in an appearance as yet.
. . . . .
Just when I was wondering whether the King and the
prisoner were, perhaps, coming to an amicable understanding
in some adjoining public house, the prisoner’s
head appears above the barrier of the dock; he is
accused of stealing bicycles, and he is the living
image of a great friend of mine. We go into the
