If we all lived in the country, the advent of boys would not be a thing to contemplate with secret dread.  It is rather a terrible thing, a houseful of boys in a town, or in a pretty thickly populated district.  Boys, it is true, are always a source of pleasure to the humorist and the scientific observer of mankind.  They are scarcely our fellow-creatures, so to speak; they live in a world of their own, ruled by eccentric traditional laws.  They have their own heroes, and are much more interested in Mr. Alan Steel or Lohmann than in persons like Mr. Arthur Balfour, whose cricket is only middling.  They have rules of conduct which cannot be called immoral, but which are certainly relics of a very ancient state of tribal morality.  The humour of it is that the modern boy is so grave, so self-assured, and has such abundance of aplomb.  He has acquired an air of mysterious sagacity, and occasionally seems to smile at the petty interests with which men divert themselves.  In a suburban or city home, he can find very little that he thinks worth doing, and then he becomes discontented and disagreeable.  It is better that he should do that, perhaps, than that he should aim at being a dandy.  The boy-dandy is an odd, and at bottom a slovenly, creature.  He is fond of varnished boots, of pink neckties, of lavender-coloured gloves, and, above all, of scent.  The quantity of scent that a lad of sixteen will pour on his handkerchief is something perfectly astounding.  In this stage of his development he is addicted to falling into love, or rather into flirtation.  He keeps up a correspondence with a young lady in Miss Pinkerton’s establishment.  They see each other in church, when he looks unutterable things from the gallery.  This kind of boy is not unlikely to interest himself, speculatively, in horse-races.  He has communications with a bookmaker who finds Boulogne a salubrious residence.  He would like to know the officers, if his home is in a garrison town, and he humbly imitates these warriors at an immense distance.  He passes much time in trying to colour a pipe.  This is not a nice sort of boy to have at home for the holidays, nor is it likely that he does much good when he is at school.  It is pleasanter to think of the countless jolly little fellows of twelve, who are happily busy all day with lawn-tennis, cricket, and general diversion in the open air.  Their appearance, their manly frankness, their modesty and good temper, make their homes happier in the holidays than in the quieter nine months of the year.  Let us hope that they will not put off their holiday tasks to be learned in the train on their way back to school.  This, alas, is the manner of boyhood.

ON SHAVING.