The man who makes a vow makes an appointment with himself at some distant time or place.  The danger of it is that himself should not keep the appointment.  And in modern times this terror of one’s self, of the weakness and mutability of one’s self, has perilously increased, and is the real basis of the objection to vows of any kind.  A modern man refrains from swearing to count the leaves on every third tree in Holland Walk, not because it is silly to do so (he does many sillier things), but because he has a profound conviction that before he had got to the three hundred and seventy-ninth leaf on the first tree he would be excessively tired of the subject and want to go home to tea.  In other words, we fear that by that time he will be, in the common but hideously significant phrase, another man.  Now, it is this horrible fairy tale of a man constantly changing into other men that is the soul of the Decadence.  That John Paterson should, with apparent calm, look forward to being a certain General Barker on Monday, Dr. Macgregor on Tuesday, Sir Walter Carstairs on Wednesday, and Sam Slugg on Thursday, may seem a nightmare; but to that nightmare we give the name of modern culture.  One great decadent, who is now dead, published a poem some time ago, in which he powerfully summed up the whole spirit of the movement by declaring that he could stand in the prison yard and entirely comprehend the feelings of a man about to be hanged: 

  ’For he that lives more lives than one
  More deaths than one must die.’

And the end of all this is that maddening horror of unreality which descends upon the decadents, and compared with which physical pain itself would have the freshness of a youthful thing.  The one hell which imagination must conceive as most hellish is to be eternally acting a play without even the narrowest and dirtiest greenroom in which to be human.  And this is the condition of the decadent, of the aesthete, of the free-lover.  To be everlastingly passing through dangers which we know cannot scathe us, to be taking oaths which we know cannot bind us, to be defying enemies who we know cannot conquer us—­this is the grinning tyranny of decadence which is called freedom.

Let us turn, on the other hand, to the maker of vows.  The man who made a vow, however wild, gave a healthy and natural expression to the greatness of a great moment.  He vowed, for example, to chain two mountains together, perhaps a symbol of some great relief, or love, or aspiration.  Short as the moment of his resolve might be, it was, like all great moments, a moment of immortality, and the desire to say of it exegi monumentum oere perennius was the only sentiment that would satisfy his mind.  The modern aesthetic man would, of course, easily see the emotional opportunity; he would vow to chain two mountains together.  But, then, he would quite as cheerfully vow to chain the earth to the moon.  And the withering consciousness that he did not mean what he said, that he was, in truth, saying nothing of any great import, would take from him exactly that sense of daring actuality which is the excitement of a vow.  For what could be more maddening than an existence in which our mother or aunt received the information that we were going to assassinate the King or build a temple on Ben Nevis with the genial composure of custom?