this nation you must actually live among the forlorn folk who drink
Circe's draught, and you must live as their equal, their friend, their
confidant. I am a Loafer, and not one of the gang at The Chequers would
ever dream of regarding me as anything but an equal. My friend Donkey
Perkins, the fighting man, curses me with perfect affability and I am on
easy terms with about one hundred costermongers. If a "gentleman" went
among them he could learn nothing. Observe the hush that falls on the
babble of a tap-room if any well-dressed person goes in; listen to the
hum of warning, and then notice the laboured hypocrisy of the talk that
goes on so long as the stranger is there. I have seen that odd change
scores of times, and I know that nothing can be more curious than the
contrast between the scrappy, harmless chat that goes on while the
representative of respectability is there, and the stupid, frank
brutalities which the advent of the visitor silenced.

At nights I go home with one after another of my set, and at merry
seasons we stay together till early morning. They throw off all disguise
before me, and even the thieves are not afraid. When once you are on
level terms with the community you begin to see what is the true result
of drink. The clergyman, the district visitor, the professional
slummer--all the people who "patronise"--never learn the truth, and they
positively invite the wastrel classes to lie.

Some time ago I read some "revelations" which made a great stir in the
country. The writer was accused of publishing obscenities, but what
struck me most in his work was its absolute display of ignorance. The
poor, innocent man had listened to stories which were told in the
dialect that is used to impress outsiders, and I laughed as I seemed to
hear the very tones of some shady gentry of my own acquaintance. The
unhappy vendor of revelations went among his subjects of study for six