them that the film is only a film. The
dramas, the dances, and the dresses of the period fortify my
contention. The cry is for onions, and the stronger the better. It is
not a healthy sign. Mr. H. G. Wells, in his graphic description of the
changes that overcame Bromstead, and turned it from green fields into
filthy slums, says that he noticed that 'there seemed to be more boards
by the railway every time I passed, advertising pills and pickles,
tonics and condiments, and such-like solicitudes of a people with no
natural health or appetite left in them.' The pills, that is to say,
kept pace with the pickles. The more pickles Bromstead ate, the more
pills Bromstead wanted. That is the worst of the passion for piquancy.
The soul grows sick if fed on sensations. Onions are splendid things,
but you cannot live upon onions. Pickles inevitably lead to pills.

But that is not all. For the trouble is that, if I develop an
inordinate appetite for onions, I lose all relish for more delicately
flavoured foods. The most impressive instance of such a dietary
tragedy is recorded in my Bible. 'The children of Israel wept and
said, "We remember the _onions_, but now there is nothing except _this
manna_ before our eyes!"' Onions seem to have a special connexion with
Egypt. Herodotus tells us that the men who built the Pyramids fed upon
onions, although the priests were forbidden to touch them. 'We
remember the onions!' cried the children of Israel, looking wistfully
back at Egypt, 'but now we have nothing but this manna!' The onions
actually destroyed their appetite for angels' food! That, I repeat, is
the most mournful aspect of our modern and insatiable passion for
piquancy. If I let my soul absorb itself in the sensational novel, the
hair-raising drama, and the blood-curdling film, I find myself losing
appreciation for the finer and gentler things in life. I no longer
glory, as I used to do, in the sweetness of the morning air and the
glitter of the dew-drenched grass; in the purling stream and the
fern-draped hills; in the curling waves and the twinkling stars. The
bound of the hare and the flight of the sea-bird lose their charm for
me. The world is robbed of its wonder and its witchery when my eyes
grow accustomed to the gaudy blinding glare. Jenny Lind was asked why
she renounced the stage. She was sitting at the moment on the sands by
the seaside, with her Bible on her knee. She pointed her questioner to