at street corners; the unspeakable dogs who prowl at night in London and snatch their prey in lonely thoroughfares; the “jolly” gangs of young men who play cards till dawn in provincial club-rooms; even the slouching poacher who passes his afternoons in humorous converse at the ale-house—­they are all idlers, and they all form bad company for anybody who comes within range of their influences.  We are nearing the point of our demonstration.  The youth is at first attracted by the charm of mere laziness, but he does not quite know it.  Look at the case of the lad who goes fresh from school to the city, and starts life at seventeen years of age.  We will say that he lives in a suburb of some great town.  At first he returns home at night full of quite admirable resolves; he intends to improve himself and advance himself in the world.  But on one fine evening a companion suggests a stroll, and it happens that billiards are suggested.  Away goes the youngster into that flash atmosphere through which sharp, prematurely-aged features loom so curiously; he hears the low hum, he sees the intense eagerness and suspense of the strikers, and he learns to like the place.  After a while he is found there nightly; his general style is low, his talk is that of the music-hall—­the ineffable flash air has taken the place of his natural repose.  He ought to be studying as many languages as possible, he ought to be watching the markets abroad, or he should be reading the latest science if he is engaged in practical work.  But no—­he is in bad company, and we find him at eight-and-twenty a disappointed, semi-competent man who grumbles very much about the Germans.

If we go to the lower classes, we observe the same set of phenomena.  A young workman is chatting with his friends in a public-house on Saturday night; he rises to go at half-past nine, but his comrades pull him down.  “Make it eleven o’clock,” they say.  He drinks fast in the last hour, and is then so exhilarated that he probably conveys a supply of beer home.  On Sunday morning he feels muddled, heavy, a little troubled with nausea; his mates hail him joyously, and then the company wait with anxiety until the public-houses are open; then the dry throats are eased and the low spirits raised, and the game goes on till three.  In the afternoon the young workman sleeps, and when he wakes up he is so depressed that he goes out and meets his mates again.  Once more he is persuaded to exceed, but he reckons on having a good long sleep.  With aching head and fevered hands he makes a wild rush next morning, and arrives at the shop only to find himself shut out.  He is horrified and doleful, when up come a few of his friends.  They laugh the matter off.  “It’s only a quarter lost!  There’s time for a pint before we go in.”  So the drinking is begun again, and the men have none of the delicacy and steadiness of hand that are needed.  Is it not an old story?  The loss of “quarters,” half-days, and days goes on; then Saint Monday comes