le, so minded, can go for an evening's dancing, unless they are
prepared to journey as far as North Woolwich. Not one. Ought it not to
be felt and resented as an intolerable grievance that grandmotherly
legislation actually forbids the people to dance? That the working men
themselves do not seem to feel and resent it is really a mournful
thing. Then, they cannot paint, draw, model, or carve. They cannot
act, and seemingly do not care greatly about seeing others act; and,
as already stated, they never read books. Think what it must be to be
shut out entirely from the world of history, philosophy, poetry,
fiction, essays, and travels! Yet our working classes are thus
practically excluded. Partly they have done this for themselves,
because they have never felt the desire to read books; partly, as I
said above, we have done it for them, because we have never taken any
steps to create the demand. Now, as regards these arts and
accomplishments, the public schoolman and the better class City clerk
have the chance of learning some of them at least, and of practising
them, both before and after they have left school. What a poor
creature would that young man seem who could do none of these things!
Yet the working man has no chance of learning any. There are no
teachers for him; the schools for the small arts, the accomplishments,
and the graces of life are not open to him; one never hears, for
instance, of a working man learning to waltz or dance, unless it is in
imitation of a music-hall performer. In other words, the public
schoolman has gone through a mill of discipline out of school as well
as in. Law reigns in his sports as in his studies. Whether he sits
over his books or plays in the fields, he learns to be obedient to
law, order, and rule: he obeys, and expects to be obeyed; it is not
himself whom he must study to please: it is the whole body of his
fellows. And this discipline of self, much more useful than the
discipline of books, the young workman knows not. Worse than this, and
worst of all, not only is he unable to do any of these things, but he
is even ignorant of their uses and their pleasures, and has no desire
to learn any of them, and does not suspect at all that the possession
of these accomplishments would multiply the joys of life. He is
content to go on without them. Now contentment is the most mischievous
of all the virtues; if anything is to be done, and any improvement is
to be effected, the wickedness of