last appeal with tears in their eyes, and he had refused to
give the promise they asked. The poor woman was greatly distressed. This
young fellow, I thought, favours his mother in features, but mentally he
is perhaps more like his father. Being a smoker myself I ventured to
put in a word for him. They were distressing themselves too much, I told
her; smoking in moderation was not only harmless, especially to those
who worked out of doors, but it was a well-nigh universal habit, and
many leading men in the religious world, both churchmen and dissenters,
were known to be smokers.

Her answer, which came quickly enough, was that they did not regard
the practice of smoking as in itself bad, but they knew that in some
circumstances it was inexpedient; and in the case of her son they
were troubled at the thought of what smoking would ultimately lead to.
People, she continued, did not care to smoke, any more than they did to
eat and drink, in solitude. It was a social habit, and it was inevitable
that her boy should look for others to keep him company in smoking.
There would be no harm in that in the summer-time when young people like
to keep out of doors until bedtime; but during the long winter
evenings he would have to look for his companions in the parlour of the
public-house. And it would not be easy, scarcely possible, to sit long
among the others without drinking a little beer. It is really no more
wrong to drink a little beer than to smoke, he would say; and it would
be true. One pipe would lead to another and one glass of beer to
another. The habit would be formed and at last all his evenings and all
his earnings would be spent in the public-house.

She was right, and I had nothing more to say except to wish her success
in her efforts.

It is curious that the strongest protests against the evils of the
village pubic, which one hears from village women, come from those who
are not themselves sufferers. Perhaps it is not curious. Instinctively
we hide our sores, bodily and mental, from the public gaze.

Not long ago I was in a small rustic village in Wiltshire, perhaps the
most charming village I have seen in that country. There was no inn
or ale-house, and feeling very thirsty after my long walk I went to a
cottage and asked the woman I saw there for a drink of milk. She invited
me in, and spreading a clean cloth on the table, placed a jug of new
milk, a loaf, and butter before me. For these good things she proudly