Possibly also--let me think it--the conviction may have been within
me that Vice, even at its daintiest, is but an ugly, sordid thing,
repulsive in the sunlight; that though--as rags and dirt to art--it
may afford picturesque material to Literature, it is an
evil-smelling garment to the wearer; one that a good man, by reason
of poverty of will, may come down to, but one to be avoided with all
one's effort, discarded with returning mental prosperity.
Be this as it may, I grew weary of training for a saturnine young
man; and, in the midst of my doubt, I chanced upon a book the hero
of which was a debonnaire young buck, own cousin to Tom and Jerry.
He attended fights, both of cocks and men, flirted with actresses,
wrenched off door-knockers, extinguished street lamps, played many a
merry jest upon many an unappreciative night watch-man. For all the
which he was much beloved by the women of the book. Why should not
I flirt with actresses, put out street lamps, play pranks on
policemen, and be beloved? London life was changed since the days
of my hero, but much remained, and the heart of woman is eternal.
If no longer prizefighting was to be had, at least there were boxing
competitions, so called, in dingy back parlours out Whitechapel way.
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