the life of the infusoria to a man without a microscope.  He rises always through desolate eternities.  He may find new systems, and forget them; he may discover fresh universes, and learn to despise them.  But the towering and tropical vision of things as they really are—­the gigantic daisies, the heaven-consuming dandelions, the great Odyssey of strange-coloured oceans and strange-shaped trees, of dust like the wreck of temples, and thistledown like the ruin of stars—­all this colossal vision shall perish with the last of the humble.

* * * * *

A DEFENCE OF SLANG

The aristocrats of the nineteenth century have destroyed entirely their one solitary utility.  It is their business to be flaunting and arrogant; but they flaunt unobtrusively, and their attempts at arrogance are depressing.  Their chief duty hitherto has been the development of variety, vivacity, and fulness of life; oligarchy was the world’s first experiment in liberty.  But now they have adopted the opposite ideal of ‘good form,’ which may be defined as Puritanism without religion.  Good form has sent them all into black like the stroke of a funeral bell.  They engage, like Mr. Gilbert’s curates, in a war of mildness, a positive competition of obscurity.  In old times the lords of the earth sought above all things to be distinguished from each other; with that object they erected outrageous images on their helmets and painted preposterous colours on their shields.  They wished to make it entirely clear that a Norfolk was as different, say, from an Argyll as a white lion from a black pig.  But to-day their ideal is precisely the opposite one, and if a Norfolk and an Argyll were dressed so much alike that they were mistaken for each other they would both go home dancing with joy.

The consequences of this are inevitable.  The aristocracy must lose their function of standing to the world for the idea of variety, experiment, and colour, and we must find these things in some other class.  To ask whether we shall find them in the middle class would be to jest upon sacred matters.  The only conclusion, therefore, is that it is to certain sections of the lower class, chiefly, for example, to omnibus-conductors, with their rich and rococo mode of thought, that we must look for guidance towards liberty and light.

The one stream of poetry which is continually flowing is slang.  Every day a nameless poet weaves some fairy tracery of popular language.  It may be said that the fashionable world talks slang as much as the democratic; this is true, and it strongly supports the view under consideration.  Nothing is more startling than the contrast between the heavy, formal, lifeless slang of the man-about-town and the light, living, and flexible slang of the coster.  The talk of the upper strata of the educated classes is about the most shapeless, aimless, and hopeless literary product that the world has ever seen.  Clearly in this, again, the upper classes have degenerated.  We have ample evidence that the old leaders of feudal war could speak on occasion with a certain natural symbolism and eloquence that they had not gained from books.  When Cyrano de Bergerac, in Rostand’s play, throws doubts on the reality of Christian’s dulness and lack of culture, the latter replies: