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1
Copyright (c) 2011 Pearson Education, Inc.
Test Bank for Modern Database Management 10th
Edition by Hoffer
Full download link at: https://testbankbell.com/product/test-bank-for-modern-
database-management-10th-edition-by-hoffer/
Modern Database Management, 10e (Hoffer/Ramesh/Topi)
Chapter 1 The Database Environment and Development Process
1) One application of data warehouses is:
A) shipping of information.
B) order processing.
C) decision support.
D) file updating.
Answer: C
Diff: 3 Page Ref:4
Topic: Introduction
AACSB: Use of Information Technology
2) Older systems that often contain data of poor quality are called ________ systems.
A) controlled
B) legacy
C) database
D) mainframe
Answer: B
Diff: 3 Page Ref:4
Topic: Introduction
Subtopic: Conversion Costs
3) A database is an organized collection of ________ related data.
A) logically
B) physically
C) loosely
D) badly
Answer: A
Diff: 1 Page Ref:5
Topic: Basic Concepts and Definitions
4) Which of the following types of data can be stored in a database?
A) Voice
B) Letters
C) Numbers
D) All of the above
Answer: D
Diff: 1 Page Ref:5

2
AACSB: Analytic Skills, Use of Information Technology
Subtopic: Data

3
5) Data processed in a way that increases a user's knowledge is:
A) text.
B) graphics
C) information.
D) hyperlink.
Answer: C
Diff: 1 Page Ref:6
Subtopic: Data Versus Information
6) Data that describe the properties of other data are:
A) relationships.
B) logical.
C) physical.
D) none of the above.
Answer: D
Diff: 2 Page Ref:7
Subtopic: Metadata
7) All of the following are properties of metadata EXCEPT:
A) data definitions.
B) processing logic.
C) rules or constraints.
D) data structures.
Answer: B
Diff: 2 Page Ref:7
Subtopic: Metadata
8) One disadvantage of file processing systems is:
A) reduced data duplication.
B) program-data independence.
C) limited data sharing.
D) enforcement of integrity constraints.
Answer: C
Diff: 2 Page Ref:7
Topic: Traditional File Processing Systems
Subtopic: Disadvantages of File Processing Systems

4
9) Program-data dependence is caused by:
A) file descriptors being stored in each application.
B) data descriptions being stored on a server.
C) data descriptions being written into programming code.
D) data cohabiting with programs.
Answer: A
Diff: 2 Page Ref:9
Topic: Disadvantages of File Processing Systems
Subtopic: Program-Data Dependence
10) Loss of metadata integrity is often a result of:
A) poor design.
B) unplanned and uncontrolled duplication of data.
C) decreased programmer productivity.
D) a large volume of file i/o.
Answer: B
Diff: 2 Page Ref:9
Subtopic: Duplication of Data
11) Organizations that utilize the file processing approach spend as much as ________ of their IS
development budget on maintenance.
A) 40 percent
B) 25 percent
C) 60 percent
D) 80 percent
Answer: D
Diff: 1 Page Ref:9
Subtopic: Excessive Program Maintenance
12) A graphical system used to capture the nature and relationships among data is called a(n):
A) logical data model.
B) hypertext graphic.
C) ERD.
D) data model.
Answer: D
Diff: 1 Page Ref:10
Topic: The Database Approach
Subtopic: Data Models

5
13) A person, place, an object , an event or concept about which the organization wishes to
maintain data is called a(n):
A) relationship.
B) object.
C) attribute.
D) entity.
Answer: D
Diff: 2 Page Ref:10
14) ________ are established between entities in a well-structured database so that the desired
information can be retrieved.
A) Entities
B) Relationships
C) Lines
D) Ties
Answer: B
Diff: 2 Page Ref:10
15) Relational databases establish the relationships between entities by means of common fields
included in a file called a(n) ________.
A) entity
B) relationship
C) relation
D) association
Answer: C
Diff: 3 Page Ref:10
AACSB: Reflective Thinking
Subtopic: Relational Databases
16) All of the following are primary purposes of a database management system (DBMS)
EXCEPT:
A) creating data.
B) updating data.
C) storing data.
D) providing an integrated development environment.
Answer: D
Diff: 3 Page Ref:11
AACSB: Analytic Skills, Reflective Thinking
Subtopic: Database Management Systems

6
17) A(n) ________ is often developed by identifying a form or report that a user needs on a
regular basis.
A) enterprise view
B) reporting document
C) user view
D) user snapshot
Answer: C
Diff: 1 Page Ref:13
Topic: Advantages of the Database Approach
Subtopic: Improved Data Sharing
18) ________ is a tool even non-programmers can use to access information from a database.
A) ODBC
B) Structured query language
C) ASP
D) Data manipulation query language
Answer: B
Diff: 1 Page Ref:14
Subtopic: Improved Data Accessibility and Responsiveness
19) With the database approach, data descriptions are stored in a central location known as a(n):
A) server.
B) mainframe.
C) PC.
D) repository.
Answer: D
Diff: 1 Page Ref:13
Subtopic: Program-Data Independence
20) Which of the following is NOT an advantage of database systems?
A) Redundant data
B) Program-data independence
C) Better data quality
D) Reduced program maintenance
Answer: A
Diff: 1 Page Ref:13-14
Subtopic: Advantages of the Database Approach

7
21) A user view is:
A) what a user sees when he or she looks out the window.
B) a table or set of tables.
C) a logical description of some portion of the database.
D) a procedure stored on the server.
Answer: C
Diff: 1 Page Ref:13
Subtopic: Improved Data Sharing
22) Which organizational function should set database standards?
A) Management
B) Application development
C) Technical services
D) None of the above
Answer: D
Diff: 2 Page Ref:13
Subtopic: Enforcement of Standards
23) The most common source of database failures in organizations is:
A) lack of planning.
B) inadequate budget.
C) inadequate hardware.
D) failure to implement a strong database administration function.
Answer: D
AACSB: Use of Information Technology, Analytic Skills, Communication
Subtopic: Enforcement of Standards
24) A rule that CANNOT be violated by database users is called a:
A) password.
B) constraint.
C) program.
D) view.
Answer: B
Diff: 1 Page Ref:14
Subtopic: Improved Data Quality

8
25) In a file processing environment, descriptions for data and the logic for accessing the data is
built into:
A) application programs.
B) database descriptors.
C) fields.
D) records.
Answer: A
Diff: 1 Page Ref:14
Subtopic: Reduced Program Maintenance
26) Databases may be more expensive to maintain than files because of:
A) the need for specialized personnel.
B) the complexity of the database environment.
C) backup and recovery needs.
D) all of the above.
Answer: D
Topic: Costs and Risks of the Database Approach
27) Which of the following is NOT a cost and/or risk of the database approach?
A) Specialized personnel
B) Cost of conversion
C) Improved responsiveness
D) Organizational conflict
Answer: C
Diff: 2 Page Ref:15,16
28) The need for consensus on data definitions is an example of which type of risk in the
database environment?
A) Specialized personnel needs
B) Organizational conflict
C) Conversion costs
D) Legacy systems
Answer: B
Diff: 2 Page Ref:16
AACSB: Communication, Ethical Reasoning
Subtopic: Organizational Conflict

9
29) A knowledge base of information on facts about an enterprise is called a(n):
A) enterprise information system.
B) repository.
C) systems information unit.
D) database process.
Answer: B
Diff: 1 Page Ref:16
Topic: Components of the Database Environment
30) Which of the following is software used to create, maintain, and provide controlled access to
databases?
A) Network operating system
B) User view
C) Database management system
D) Attribute
Answer: C
Diff: 1 Page Ref:17
31) A centralized knowledge base of all data definitions, data relationships, screen and report
formats, and other system components is called a(n):
A) index.
B) data warehouse.
C) repository.
D) database management system.
Answer: C
Diff: 1 Page Ref:16
32) CASE is a class of tools that:
A) assists the database administrator in maintaining a database.
B) provides guidelines for the physical design of a database.
C) provides management reporting tools.
D) automates the design of databases and application programs.
Answer: D
Diff: 2 Page Ref:16

10
33) Languages, menus, and other facilities by which users interact with the database are
collectively called a(n):
A) client.
B) user interface.
C) icon.
D) development environment.
Answer: B
Diff: 1 Page Ref:17
34) A relatively small team of people who collaborate on the same project is called a(n):
A) server group.
B) workgroup.
C) data collaborative.
D) typical arrangement.
Answer: B
Diff: 1 Page Ref:18
Topic: The Range of Database Applications
Subtopic: Two-Tier Client/Server Databases
35) A workgroup database is stored on a central device called a(n):
A) client.
B) server.
C) remote PC.
D) network.
Answer: B
Diff: 2 Page Ref:19
Subtopic: Two-Tier Client/Server Databases
36) Which of the following is an integrated decision support database with content derived from
various operational databases?
A) Corporate data structure
B) Relational DBMS
C) Data warehouse
D) Client-server system
Answer: C
Diff: 1 Page Ref:20
Subtopic: Enterprise Applications

11
37) A data warehouse derives its data from:
A) on-line transactions.
B) various operational data sources.
C) reports.
D) a datamart.
Answer: B
Diff: 2 Page Ref:20
Subtopic: Enterprise Applications
38) E. F. Codd developed the relational model in the:
A) 1960s.
B) 1970s.
C) 1980s.
D) 1990s.
Answer: B
Diff: 1 Page Ref:21
Topic: Evolution of Database Systems
39) Which of the following is NOT an objective that drove the development and evolution of
database technology?
A) The need to provide greater independence between programs and data
B) The desire to manage increasing complex data types and structures
C) The desire to require programmers to write all file handling functionality
D) The need to provide ever more powerful platforms for decision support applications
Answer: C
Diff: 3 Page Ref:21
40) The period that can be considered a "proof of concept" time was the:
A) 1950s.
B) 1960s.
C) 1970s.
D) 1990s.
Answer: B
Diff: 2 Page Ref:23
AACSB: Reflective Thinking, Use of Information Technology

12
41) Database development begins with ________, which establishes the range and general
contents of organizational databases.
A) database design
B) cross-functional analysis
C) departmental data modeling
D) enterprise data modeling
Answer: D
Diff: 1 Page Ref:24
Topic: Database Development Process
AACSB: Analytic Skills
42) The traditional methodology used to develop, maintain and replace information systems is
called the:
A) Enterprise Resource Model
B) Systems Development Life Cycle
C) Unified Model
D) Systems Deployment Life Cycle
Answer: B
Diff: 2 Page Ref:25
AACSB: Analytic Skills
Subtopic: Systems Development Life Cycle
43) The SDLC phase in which every data attribute is defined, every category of data are listed
and every business relationship between data entities is defined is called the ________ phase.
A) planning
B) design
C) analysis
D) implementation
Answer: C
Diff: 1 Page Ref:26
44) The SDLC phase in which database processing programs are created is the ________ phase.
A) planning
B) design
C) analysis
D) implementation
Answer: D
Diff: 1 Page Ref:27

Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content

T
On the Rights of Property
HERE is in the dark heart of Soho, not far from a large stable
where Zebras, Elephants, and trained Ponies await their turn for
the footlights and the inebriation of public applause, a little tavern,
divided, as are even the meanest of our taverns, into numerous
compartments, each corresponding to some grade in the hierarchy
of our ancient and orderly society.
For many years the highest of these had been called “the Private
Bar,” and was distinguished from its next fellow by this, that the
cushions upon its little bench were covered with sodden velvet, not
with oilcloth. Here, also, the drink provided by the politician who
owned this and many other public-houses was served in glasses of
uncertain size and not by imperial measure. This, I say, had been
the chief or summit of the place for many years; from the year of
the great Exhibition, in fact until that great change in London life
which took place towards the end of the eighties and brought us,
among other things, a new art and a new conception of world-wide
power. In those years, as the mind of London changed so did this
little public-house (which was called “the Lord Benthorpe”), and it
added yet another step to its hierarchy of pens. This new place was
called “the Saloon Bar.” It was larger and better padded, and there
was a tiny table in it. Then the years went on and wars were fought
and the modern grip of man over natural forces marvellously
extended, and the wealth of a world’s Metropolis greatly swelled,
and “The Lord Benthorpe” found room for yet another and final
reserve wherein it might receive the very highest of its clients. This
was built upon what had been the backyard, it had several tables,
and it was called “the Lounge.”

So far so good. Here late one evening when the music-halls had just
discharged their thousands, and when the Elephants, the Zebras,
and the Ponies near by were retiring to rest, sat two men, both
authors; the one was an author who had written for now many years
upon social subjects, and notably upon the statistics of our industrial
conditions. He had come nearer than any other to the determination
of the Incidence of Economic Rent upon Retail Exchange and had
been the first to show (in an essay, now famous) that the Ricardian
Theory of Surplus did not apply in the anarchic competition of Retail
Dealing, at least in our main thoroughfares.
His companion wielded the pen in another manner. It was his to
analyse into its last threads of substance the human mind. Rare
books proceeded from him at irregular and lengthy intervals packed
with a close observation of the ultimate motives of men and an
exact portrayal of their labyrinth of deed; nor could he achieve his
ideal in this province of letters save by the use of words so unusual
and, above all, arranged in an order so peculiar to himself, as to
bring upon his few readers often perplexity and always awe.
Neither of these two men was wealthy. Such incomes as they gained
had not even that quality of regular flow which, more than mere
volume, impresses the years with security. Each was driven to
continual expedients, and each had lost such careful habits as only a
regular supply can perpetuate. The consequence of this impediment
was apparent in the clothing of both men and in the grooming of
each; for the Economist, who was the elder, wore a frock-coat
unsuited to the occasion, marked in many places with lighter
patches against its original black, and he had upon his head a top
hat of no great age and yet too familiar and rough, and dusty at the
brim. The Psychologist, upon the other hand, sprawled in a suit of
wool, grey and in places green, which was most slipshod and looked
as though at times he slept in it, which indeed at times he did.
Unlike his elder companion he wore no stiff collar round his throat, a
negligence which saved him from the reproach of frayed linen worn
through too many days; his shirt was a grey woollen shirt with a

grey woollen collar of such a sort as scientific men assure us
invigorates the natural functions and prolongs the life of man.
These two fell at once to a discussion upon that matter which
absorbs the best of modern minds. I mean the organisation of
Production in the modern world. It was their favourite theme. Their
drink was Port, which, carelessly enough, they continued to order in
small glasses instead of beginning boldly with the bottle. The Port
was bad, or rather it was not Port, yet had they bought one bottle of
it they would have saved the earnings of many days.
It was their favourite theme.... Each was possessed of an intellectual
scorn for the mere ritual of an older time; neither descended to an
affirmation nor even condescended to a denial of private property.
Both clearly saw that no organised scheme of production could exist
under modern conditions unless its organisation were to be
controlled by the community. Yet the two friends differed in one
most material point, which was the possibility, men being what they
were, of settling thus the control of machinery. Upon land they were
agreed. The land must necessarily be made a national thing, and the
conception of ownership in it, however limited, was, as a man whom
they both revered had put it, “unthinkable.” Indeed, they recognised
that the first steps towards so obvious a reform were now actually
taken, and they confidently expected the final processes in it to be
the work of quite the next few years; but whereas the Economist,
with his profound knowledge of external detail, could see no
obstacle to the collective control of capital as well, the Psychologist,
ever dwelling upon the inner springs of action, saw no hope, no, not
even for so evident and necessary a scheme, save in some ideal
despotism of which he despaired. In vain did the Economist point
out that our great railways, our mines, the main part of our shipping,
and even half our textile industry had now no personal element in
their direction save that of the salaried management; the
Psychologist met him at every move with the effect produced upon
man by the mere illusion of a personal element in all these things.
The Economist, not a little inspired as the evening deepened,
remembered and even invented names, figures, cases that showed

the growing unity of the industrial world; the Psychologist equally
inspired, and with an equal increase of fervour, drew picture after
picture, each more vivid and convincing than the last, of man caught
in the tangle of imaginary motive and unobedient to any industrial
control, unless that control could by some miracle be given the
quality of universal tyranny.
Music was added to their debate, and subtly changed, as it must
always change, the colour of thought. In the street without a man
with a fine baritone voice, which evidently he had failed through vice
or carelessness to exploit with success, sang songs of love and war,
and at his side there accompanied him a little organ upon wheels
which a weary woman played. The rich notes of his voice filled “The
Lord Benthorpe” through the opened windows of that hot night, and
drowned or modified the differences of cabmen and others in the
Public Bar; as he sang the two disputants rose almost to the lyric in
their enthusiasm, the one for the new world that was so soon to be,
the other for that gloomy art of his by which he read the hearts of
men and saw their doom.
It has been remarked by many that we mortals are surrounded by
coincidence, and least observe Fate at its nearest approach, so that
friends meet or leave us unexpectedly, and that the accidents of our
lives make part of a continual play. So it was with these two. For as
they warmly debated, and one of them had upset and broken his
glass while the other lay back repeating again and again some
favourite phrase, a third was on his way to meet them. A man much
older than either, a man who did nothing at all and lived when his
sister remembered him, was in that neighbourhood, vaguely
wandering and feeling in every pocket for a coin. His hand trembled
with age, and also a little with anxiety, but to his great joy he felt at
last through the lining of his coat a large round hardness, and very
carefully searching through a tear, and aided by the light that shone
from the windows of “The Lord Benthorpe,” he discovered and

possessed half a crown. With that he entered in, for he knew that
his friends were there. In what respect he held them, their
accomplishments, and their public fame, I need not say, for that
respect is always paid by the simple to the learned. He sat by them
at the little table, drinking also, and for some minutes listened to
their stream of affirmation and of vision, but soon he shook his head
in a quavering senile way, as he very vaguely caught the drift of
their contention. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick,” he said....
“You’ve got the wrong end of the stick!... Can’t take away what a
man’s got ... ’tis wrawng!... ’Vide it up, all the same next week....
Same hands! Same hands!” he went on foolishly wagging his head,
and still smiling almost like an imbecile. “All in the same hands again
in a week!... ’Vide it up ever so much.” They neglected him and
continued their ardent debate, and as they flung repeated bolts of
theory he, their new companion, still murmured to himself the
security of established things and the ancient doctrine of ownership
and of law.
But now the night and the stars had come to their appointed hour,
and the ending which is decreed of all things had come also to their
carousal. A young man of energy stood before them in his shirt
sleeves, crying, “Time, Time!” as a voice might cry “Doom!” and, by
force of crying and of orders, “The Lord Benthorpe” was emptied,
and there was silence at last behind its shutters and its bolted doors.
These three, not yet in a mood for sleep, sauntered together
westward through the vast landed estates of London, westward, to
their distant homes.

A
The Economist
GENTLEMAN possessing some three thousand acres of land, the
most of it contiguous, one field with another, or, as he himself,
his agent, his bailiff, his wife, his moneylender, and others called it,
“in a ring fence,” was in the habit of asking down to the country at
Christmas time some friend or friends, though more usually a friend
than friends, because the income he received from the three
thousand acres of land had become extremely small.
He was especially proud of those of his friends who lived neither by
rent from land nor from the proceeds of their business, but by
mental activity in some profession, and of none was he prouder than
of an Economist whom he had known for more than forty years; for
they had been at school together and later at college. Now this
Economist was a very hearty, large sort of a man, and he made an
amply sufficient income by writing about economics and by giving
economic advice in the abstract to politicians, and economic lectures
and expert economic evidence; in fact, there was no limit to his
earnings except that imposed by time and the necessity for sleep.
He was not married and could spend all his earnings upon himself—
which he did. He was tall, lean, and active, with bright vivacious
eyes and an upstanding manner. He had two sharp and healthy grey
whiskers upon either side of his face; his hair was also grey but
curly; and altogether he was a vigorous fellow. There was nothing in
economic science hidden from him.
This Economist, therefore, and his friend the Squire (who was a
short, fat, and rather doleful man) were walking over the wet clay
land which one of them owned and on which the other talked. There
was a clinging mist of a very light sort, so that you could not see
more than about a mile. The trees upon that clay were small and
round, and from their bare branches and twigs the mist clung in

drops; where the bushes were thick and wherever evergreens
afforded leaves, these drops fell with a patter that sounded almost
like rain. There were no hills in the landscape and the only thing that
broke the roll of the clay of the park land was the house, which was
called a castle; and even this they could not see without turning
round, for they were walking away from it. But even to look at this
house did not raise the heart, for it was very hideous and had been
much neglected on account of the lessening revenue from the three
thousand acres of land. Great pieces of plaster had fallen off, nor
had anything been continually repaired except the windows.
The Economist strode and the Squire plodded on over the wet grass,
and it gave the Squire pleasure to listen to the things which the
Economist said, though these were quite incomprehensible to him.
They came to a place where, after one had pushed through a tall
bramble hedge and stuck in a very muddy hidden ditch, one saw
before one on the farther side, screened in everywhere and
surrounded by a belt or frame of low, scraggy trees and stunted
bushes, a large deserted field. In colour it was very pale green and
brown; myriads of dead thistles stood in it; there were nettles, and,
in the damper hollows, rushes growing. The Economist took this field
and turned his voluble talk upon it. He appreciated that much he
said during their walk, being sometimes of an abstract and always of
a technical nature, had missed the mind of his friend; he therefore
determined upon a concrete instance and waved his vigorous long
arm towards the field and said:
“Now, take this field, for instance.”
“Yes,” said the Squire humbly.
“Now, this field,” said the Economist, “of itself has no value at all.”
“No,” said the Squire.
“That,” said the Economist with increasing earnestness, tapping one
hand with two fingers of the other, “that’s what the layman must
seize first ... every error in economics comes from not appreciating
that things in themselves have no value. For instance,” he went on,

“you would say that a diamond had value, wouldn’t you ... a large
diamond?”
The Squire, hoping to say the right thing, said: “I suppose not.”
This annoyed the Economist, who answered a little testily: “I don’t
know what you mean. What I mean is that the diamond has no
value in itself....”
“I see,” broke in the Squire, with an intelligent look, but the
Economist went on rapidly as though he had not spoken:
“It only has a value because it has been transposed in some way
from the position where man could not use it to a position where he
can. Now, you would say that land could not be transposed, but it
can be made from less useful to man, more useful to man.”
The Squire admitted this, and breathed a deep breath.
“Now,” said the Economist, waving his arm again at the field, “take
this field, for instance.”
There it lay, silent and sullen under the mist. There was no noise of
animals in the brakes, the dirty boundary stream lay sluggish and
dead, and the rank weeds had lost all colour. One could note the
parallel belts of rounded earth where once—long, long ago—this
field had been ploughed. No other evidence was there of any activity
at all, and it looked as though man had not seen it for a hundred
years.
“Now,” said the Economist, “what is the value of this field?”
The Squire had begun his answer, when his friend interrupted him
testily. “No, no, no; I don’t want to ask about your private affairs;
what I mean is, what is it builds up the economic value of this field?
It is not the earth itself; it is the use to which man puts it. It is the
crops and the produce which he makes it bear and the advantage
which it has over other neighbouring fields. It is the surplus value
which makes it give you a rent. What gives this field its value is the
competition among the farmers to get it.”

“But——” began the Squire.
The Economist with increasing irritation waved him down. “Now,
listen,” he said; “the worst land has only what is called prairie value.”
The Squire would eagerly have asked the meaning of this, for it
suggested coin, but he thought he was bound to listen to the
remainder of the story.
“That is only true,” said the Economist, “of the worst land. There is
land on which no profit could be made; it neither makes nor loses. It
is on what we call the margin of production.”
“What about rates?” said the Squire, looking at that mournful
stretch, all closed in and framed with desolation, and suggesting a
thousand such others stretching on to the boundaries of a deserted
world.
How various are the minds of men! That little word “rates”—it has
but five letters; take away the “e” and it would have but four—and
what different things does it not mean to different men! To one man
the pushing on of his shop just past the edge of bankruptcy; to
another the bother of writing a silly little cheque; to another the
brand of the Accursed Race of our time—the pariahs, the very poor.
To this Squire it meant the dreadful business of paying a great large
sum out of an income that never sufficed for the bare needs of his
life ... to tell the truth, he always borrowed money for the rates and
paid it back out of the next half year ... he had such a lot of land in
hand. Years ago, when farms were falling in, in the eighties, a friend
of his, a practical man, who went in for silos and had been in the
Guards and knew a lot about French agriculture, had told him it
would pay him to have his land in hand, so when the farms fell in he
consoled himself by what the friend had said; but all these years had
passed and it had not paid him.
Now to the Economist this little word “rates” suggested the hardest
problem—the perhaps insoluble problem—of applied economics in
our present society. He turned his vivacious eyes sharply on to the
Squire and stepped out back for home, for the Castle. For a little

time he said nothing, and the Squire, honestly desiring to continue
the conversation, said again as he plodded by his friend’s side,
“What about rates?”
“Oh, they’ve nothing to do with it!” said the Economist, a little
snappishly. “The proportionate amount of surplus produce
demanded by the community does not affect the basic process of
production. Of course,” he added, in a rather more conciliatory tone,
“it would if the community demanded the total unearned increment
and then proposed taxes beyond that limit. That, I have always said,
would affect the whole nature of production.”
“Oh!” said the Squire.
By this time they were nearing the Castle, and it was already dusk;
they were silent during the last hundred yards as the great house
showed more definitely through the mist, and the Economist could
note upon the face of it the coat-of-arms with which he was familiar.
They had been those of his host’s great-grandfather, a solicitor who
had foreclosed. These arms were of stucco. Age and the tempest
had made them green, and the head of that animal which
represented the family had fallen off.
They went into the house, they drank tea with the rather worried
but well-bred hostess of it, and all evening the Squire’s thoughts
were of his two daughters, who dressed exactly alike in the local
town, and whose dresses were not yet paid for, and of his son,
whose schooling was paid for, but whose next term was ahead: the
Squire was wondering about the extras. Then he remembered
suddenly, and as suddenly put out of his mind by an effort of
surprising energy in such a man, the date February 3rd, on which he
must get a renewal or pay a certain claim.
They sat at table; they drank white fizzy wine by way of ritual, but it
was bad. The Economist could not distinguish between good wine
and bad, and all the while his mind was full of a very bothersome
journey to the North, where he was to read a paper to an institute
upon “The Reaction of Agricultural Prosperity upon Industrial

Demand.” He was wondering whether he could get them to change
the hour so that he could get back by a train that would put him into
London before midnight. And all this cogitation which lay behind the
general talk during dinner and after it led him at last to say: “Have
you a ‘Bradshaw’?”
But the Squire’s wife had no “Bradshaw.” She did not think they
could afford it. However, the eldest daughter remembered an old
“Bradshaw” of last August, and brought it, but it was no use to the
Economist.
How various is man! How multiplied his experience, his outlook, his
conclusions!

H
A Little Conversation in Carthage
ANNO: Waiter! Get me a copy of The Times. [Mutters to himself.
The waiter brings the copy of The Times. As he gives it to Hanno
he collides with another member of the Club, and that member,
already advanced in years, treads upon Hanno’s foot.]
Hanno: Ah! Ah! Ah!... Oh! [with a grunt]. Bethaal, it’s you, is it?
Bethaal: Gouty?
Hanno [after saying nothing for some time]: ’Xtraordinary thing....
Nothing in the papers.
Bethaal: Nothing odd about that! [He laughs rather loudly, and
Hanno, who wishes he had said the witty thing, smirks gently
without enthusiasm. Then he proceeds on another track.] I find
plenty in the papers! [He puffs like a grampus.]
Hanno: Plenty about yourself!... That’s the only good of politics, and
precious little good either.... What I can’t conceive—as you do
happen to be the in’s and not the out’s—is why you don’t send more
men from somewhere; he has asked for them often enough.
Bethaal [wisely]: They’re all against it; couldn’t get anyone to agree
but little Schem [laughs loudly]; he’d agree to anything.
Hanno [wagging his head sagely]: He’ll be Suffete, my boy! He’ll be a
Sephad all right! He’s my sister’s own boy.
Bethaal [surlily]: Shouldn’t wonder! All you Hannos get the pickings.
Hanno: You talk like a book.... Anyhow, what about the
reinforcements?—that does interest me.

Bethaal [wearily]: Oh, really. I’ve heard about it until I’m tired. It isn’t
the reinforcements that are wanted really; it’s money, and plenty of
it. That’s what it is. [He looks about the room in search for a word.]
That’s what it is. [He continues to look about the room.] That’s what
it is ... er ... really. [Having found the word Bethaal is content, and
Hanno remains silent for a few minutes, then:]
Hanno: He doesn’t seem to be doing much.
Bethaal [jumping up suddenly with surprising vigour for a man of
close on seventy, and sticking his hands into his pockets, if
Carthaginians had pockets]: That’s it! That’s exactly it! That’s what I
say, What Hannibal really wants is money. He’s got the men right
enough. The men are splendid, but all those putrid little Italian
towns are asking to be bribed, and I can’t get the money out of
Mohesh.
Hanno [really interested]: Yes, now? Mohesh has got the old
tradition, and I do believe it’s the sound one. Our money is as
important to us as our Fleet, I mean our credit’s as important to us
as our Fleet, and he’s perfectly right is Mohesh.... [Firmly] I wouldn’t
let you have a penny if I were at the Treasury.
Bethaal [surlily]: Well, he’s bound to take Rome at last anyway, so I
don’t suppose it matters whether he has the money or not; but it
makes me look like a fool. When everything was going well I didn’t
care, but I do care now. [He holds up in succession three fat
fingers]. First there was Drephia——
Hanno [interrupting]: Trebbia.
Bethaal: Oh, well, I don’t care.... Then there was Trasimene; then
there was that other place which wasn’t marked on the map, and
little Schem found for me in the very week in which I got him on to
the Front Bench. You remember his speech?
[Hanno shakes his head.]
Bethaal [impatiently]: Oh well, anyhow you remember Cannae, don’t
you?

Hanno: Oh yes, I remember Cannae.
Bethaal: Well, he’s bound to win. He’s bound to take the place, and
then [wearily], then, as poor old Hashuah said at the Guildhall,
“Annexation will be inevitable.”
Hanno: Now, look here, may I put it to you shortly?
Bethaal [in great dread]: All right.
Hanno [leaning forward in an earnest way, and emphasising what he
says]: All you men who get at the head of a Department only think
of the work of that Department. That’s why you talk about
Hannibal’s being bound to win. Of course he’s bound to win; but
Carthage all hangs together, and if he wins at too great a price in
money you’re weakened, and your son is weakened, and all of us
are weakened. We shall be paying five per cent where we used to
pay four. Things don’t go in big jumps; they go in gradations, and I
do assure you that if you don’t send more men——
Bethaal [interrupting impatiently]: Oh, curse all that! One can easily
see where you were brought up; you smell of Athens like a Don, and
you make it worse by living out in the country, reading books and
publishing pamphlets and putting people’s backs up for nothing. If
you’d ever been in politics—I mean, if you hadn’t got pilled by three
thousand at....
[At this moment an obese and exceedingly stupid Carthaginian of
the name of Matho strolls into the smoking-room of the club, sees
the two great men, becomes radiant with a mixture of reverence,
admiration, and pride of acquaintance, and makes straight for
them.]
Hanno: Who on earth’s that? Know him?
Bethaal [in a whisper astonishingly vivacious and angry for so old a
man]: Shut your mouth, can’t you? He’s the head of my association!
He’s the Mayor of the town!
Matho: Room for little un? [He laughs genially and sits down,
obviously wanting an introduction to Hanno.]

Bethaal [nervously]: I haven’t seen you for ages, my dear fellow! I
hope Lady Matho’s better? [Turning to Hanno] Do you know Lady
Matho?
Hanno [gruffly]: Lady Who?
Bethaal [really angry, and savage on that half of his face which is
turned towards Hanno]: This gentleman’s wife!
Matho [showing great tact and speaking very rapidly in order to
bridge over an unpleasant situation]: Wonderful chap this Hannibal!
Dogged does it! No turning back! Once that man puts his hand to
the plough he won’t take it off till he’s [tries hard, and fails to
remember what a plough does—then suddenly remembering] till
he’s finished his furrow. That’s where blood tells! Same thing in Tyre,
same thing in Sidon, same thing in Tarshish; I don’t care who it is,
whether it’s poor Barca, or that splendid old chap Mohesh, whom
they call “Sterling Dick.” They’ve all got the blood in them, and they
don’t know when they’re beaten. Now [as though he had something
important to say which had cost him years of thought], shall I tell
you what I think produces men like Hannibal? I don’t think it’s the
climate, though there’s a lot to be said for that. And I don’t think it’s
the sea, though there’s a lot to be said for that. I think it’s our old
Carthaginian home-life [triumphantly]. That’s what it is! It isn’t even
hunting, though there’s a lot to be said for that. It’s the old——
[Hanno suddenly gets up and begins walking away.]
Bethaal [leaning forwards to Matho]: Please don’t mind my cousin.
You know he’s a little odd when he meets anyone for the first time;
but he’s a really good fellow at heart, and he’ll help anyone. But, of
course [smiling gently], he doesn’t understand politics any more
than—— [Matho waves his hand to show that he understands.] But
such a good fellow! Do you know Lady Hanno? [They continue
talking, chiefly upon the merits of Hannibal, but also upon their
own.]

I
The Strange Companion
T was in Lichfield, now some months ago, that I stood by a wall
that flanks the main road there and overlooks a fine wide pond, in
which you may see the three spires of the Cathedral mirrored.
As I so gazed into the water and noted the clear reflection of the
stonework a man came up beside me and talked in a very cheery
way. He accosted me with such freedom that he was very evidently
not from Europe, and as there was no insolence in his freedom he
was not a forward Asiatic either; besides which, his face was that of
our own race, for his nose was short and simple and his lips
reasonably thin. His eyes were full of astonishment and vitality. He
was seeing the world. He was perhaps thirty-five years old.
I would not say that he was a Colonial, because that word means so
little; but he talked English in that accent commonly called American,
yet he said he was a Brittishur, so what he was remains concealed;
but surely he was not of this land, for, as you shall presently see,
England was more of a marvel to him than it commonly is to the
English.
He asked me, to begin with, the name of the building upon our left,
and I told him it was the Cathedral, to which his immediate answer
was, was I sure? How could there be a cathedral in such a little
town?
I said that it just was so, and I remembered the difficulty of the
explanation and said no more. Then he looked up at the three spires
and said: “Wondurful; isn’t it?” And I said: “Yes.”
Then I said to him that we would go in, and he seemed very willing;
so we went towards the Close, and as we went he talked to me

about the religion of those who served the Cathedral, and asked if
they were Episcopalian, or what. So this also I told him. And when
he learnt that what I told him was true of all the other cathedrals, he
said heartily: “Is thet so?” And he was silent for half a minute or
more.
We came and stood by the west front, and looked up at the height
of it, and he was impressed.
He wagged his head at it and said: “Wondurful, isn’t it?” And then he
added: “Marvlurs how they did things in those old days!” but I told
him that much of what he was looking at was new.
In answer to this (for I fear that his honest mind was beginning to
be disturbed by doubt), he pointed to the sculptured figures and said
that they were old, as one could see by their costumes. And as I
thought there might be a quarrel about it, I did not contradict; but I
let him go wandering round to the south of it until he came to the
figure of a knight with a moustache, gooseberry eyes, and in general
a face so astoundingly modern that one did not know what to say or
do when one looked at it. It was expressionless.
My companion, who had not told me his name, looked long and
thoughtfully at this figure, and then came back, more full of time
and of the past of our race than ever; he insisted upon my coming
round with him and looking at the image. He told me that we could
not do better than that nowadays with all our machinery, and he
asked me whether a photograph could be got of it. I told him yes,
without doubt, and what was better, perhaps the sculptor had a
duplicate, and that we would go and find if this were so, but he paid
no attention to these words.
The amount of work in the building profoundly moved this man, and
he asked me why there was so much ornament, for he could clearly
estimate the vast additional expense of working so much stone that
might have been left plain; though I am certain, from what I
gathered of his character, he would not have left any building wholly
plain, not even a railway station, still less a town hall, but would

have had here and there an allegorical figure as of Peace or of
Commerce—the figure of an Abstract Idea. Still he was moved by
such an excess of useless labour as stood before him. Not that it did
not give him pleasure—it gave him great pleasure—but that he
thought it enough and more than enough.
We went inside. I saw that he took off his hat, a custom doubtless
universal, and, what struck me much more, he adopted within the
Cathedral a tone of whisper, not only much lower than his ordinary
voice, but of quite a different quality, and I noticed that he was less
erect as he walked, although his head was craned upward to look
towards the roof. The stained glass especially pleased him, but there
was much about it he did not understand. I told him that there could
be seen there a copy of the Gospels of great antiquity which had
belonged to St. Chad; but when I said this he smiled pleasantly, as
though I had offered to show him the saddle of a Unicorn or the
tanned skin of a Hippogriff. Had we not been in so sacred a place I
believe he would have dug me in the ribs. “St. Who?” he whispered,
looking slily sideways at me as he said it. “St. Chad,” I said. “He was
the Apostle to Mercia.” But after that I could do no more with him.
For the word “Saint” had put him into fairyland, and he was not such
a fool as to mix up a name like Chad with one of the Apostles; and
Mercia is of little use to men.
However, there was no quarrelsomeness about him, and he peered
at the writing curiously, pointing out to me that the letters were
quite legible, though he could not make out the words which they
spelled, and very rightly supposed it was a foreign language. He
asked a little suspiciously whether it was the Gospel, and accepted
the assurance that it was; so that his mind, sceptical to excess in
some matters, found its balance by a ready credence in others and
remained sane and whole. He was again touched by the glass in the
Lady Chapel, and noted that it was of a different colour to the other
and paler, so that he liked it less. I told him it was Spanish, and this
apparently explained the matter to him, for he changed his face at
once and began to give me the reason of its inferiority.

He had not been in Spain, but he had evidently read much about the
country, which was moribund. He pointed out to me the unnatural
attitude of the figures in this glass, and contrasted its half-tones with
the full-blooded colours of the modern work behind us, and he was
particularly careful to note the irregularity of the lettering and the
dates in this glass compared with the other which had so greatly
struck him. I was interested in his fixed convictions relative to the
Spaniards, but just as I was about to question him further upon that
race I began to have my doubts whether the glass were not French.
It was plainly later than the Reformation, and I should have guessed
the end of the sixteenth or beginning of the seventeenth century.
But I hid the misgiving in my heart, lest the little trust in me which
my companion still had should vanish altogether.
We went out of the great building slowly, and he repeatedly turned
to look back up it, and to admire the proportions. He asked me the
exact height of the central spire, and as I could not tell him this I felt
ashamed, but he told me he would find it in a book, and I assured
him this could be done with ease. The visit had impressed him
deeply; it may be he had not seen such things before, or it may be
that he was more at leisure to attend to the details which had been
presented to him. This last I gathered on his telling me, as we
walked towards the Inn, that he had had no work to do for two
days, but that same evening he was to meet a man in Birmingham,
by whom, he earnestly assured me, he was offered opportunities of
wealth in return for so small an investment of capital as was
negligible, and here he would have permitted me also to share in
this distant venture, had I not, at some great risk to that human
esteem without which we none of us can live, given him clearly to
understand that his generosity was waste of time, and that for the
reason that there was no money to invest. It impressed him much
more sharply than any plea of judgment or of other investments
could have done.
Though I had lost very heavily by permitting myself such a
confession to him, he was ready to dine with me at the Inn before
taking his train, and as he dined he told me at some length the

name of his native place, which was, oddly enough, that of a great
German statesman, whether Bismarck or another I cannot now
remember; its habits and its character he also told me, but as I
forgot to press him as to its latitude or longitude to this day I am
totally ignorant of the quarter of the globe in which it may lie.
During our meal it disturbed him to see a bottle of wine upon the
table, but he was careful to assure me that when he was travelling
he did not object to the habits of others, and that he would not for
one moment forbid the use in his presence of a beverage which in
his native place (he did not omit to repeat) would be as little
tolerated as any other open temptation to crime. It was a wine
called St. Emilion, but it no more came from that Sub-Prefecture
than it did from the hot fields of Barsac; it was common Algerian
wine, watered down, and—if you believe me—three shillings a
bottle.
I lost my companion at nine, and I have never seen him since, but
he is surely still alive somewhere, ready, and happy, and hearty, and
noting all the things of this multiple world, and judging them with a
hearty common sense, which for so many well fills the place of mere
learning.

A
The Visitor
S I was going across Waterloo Bridge the other day, and when I
had got to the other side of it, there appeared quite suddenly, I
cannot say whence, a most extraordinary man.
He was dressed in black silk, he had a sort of coat, or rather shirt, of
black silk, with ample sleeves which were tied at either wrist tightly
with brilliant golden threads. This shirt, or coat, came down to his
knees, and appeared to be seamless. His trousers, which were very
full and baggy, were caught at his ankles by similar golden threads.
His feet were bare save for a pair of sandals. He had nothing upon
his head, which was close cropped. His face was clean shaven. The
only thing approaching an ornament, besides the golden threads of
which I have spoken, was an enormous many-coloured and
complicated coat-of-arms embroidered upon his breast, and showing
up magnificently against the black.
He had appeared so suddenly that I almost ran into him, and he said
to me breathlessly, and with a very strong nasal twang, “Can you talk
English?”
I said that I could do so with fluency, and he appeared greatly
relieved. Then he added, with that violent nasal twang again, “You
take me out of this!”
There was a shut taxi-cab passing and we got into it, and when he
had got out of the crush, where several people had already stopped
to stare at him, he lay back, panting a little, as though he had been
running. The taxi-man looked in suddenly through the window, and
asked, in the tone of voice of a man much insulted, where he was to
drive to, adding that he didn’t want to go far.
I suggested the “Angel” at Islington, which I had never seen. The
machine began to buzz, and we shot northward.

The stranger pulled himself together, and said in that irritating accent
of his which I have already mentioned twice, “Now say, you, what
year’s this anyway?”
I said it was 1909 (for it happened this year), to which he answered
thoughtfully, “Well, I have missed it!”
“Missed what?” said I.
“Why, 1903,” said he.
And thereupon he told me a very extraordinary but very interesting
tale.
It seems (according to him) that his name was Baron Hogg; that his
place of living is (or rather will be) on Harting Hill, above Petersfield,
where he has (or rather will have) a large house. But the really
interesting thing in all that he told me was this: that he was born in
the year 2183, “which,” he added lucidly enough, “would be your
2187.”
“Why?” said I, bewildered, when he told me this.
“Good Lord!” he answered, quite frankly astonished, “you must
know, even in 1909, that the calendar is four years out?”
I answered that a little handful of learned men knew this, but that
we had not changed our reckoning for various practical reasons. To
which he replied, leaning forward with a learned, interested look:
“Well, I came to learn things, and I lay I’m learning.”
He next went on to tell me that he had laid a bet with another man
that he would “hit” 1903, on the 15th of June, and that the other
man had laid a bet that he would get nearer. They were to meet at
the Savoy Hotel at noon on the 30th, and to compare notes; and
whichever had won was to pay the other a set of Records, for it
seems they were both Antiquarians.
All this was Greek to me (as I daresay it is to you) until he pulled out
of his pocket a thing like a watch, and noted that the dial was set at

1909. Whereupon he began tapping it and cursing in the name of a
number of Saints familiar to us all.
It seems that to go backwards in time, according to him, was an art
easily achieved towards the middle of the Twenty-second Century,
and it was worked by the simplest of instruments. I asked him if he
had read “The Time Machine.” He said impatiently, “You have,” and
went on to explain the little dial.
“They cost a deal of money, but then,” he added, with beautiful
simplicity, “I have told you that I am Baron Hogg.”
Rich people played at it apparently as ours do at ballooning, and with
the same uncertainty.
I asked him whether he could get forward into the future. He simply
said: “What do you mean?”
“Why,” said I, “according to St. Thomas, time is a dimension, just like
space.”
When I said the words “St. Thomas” he made a curious sign, like a
man saluting. “Yes,” he said, gravely and reverently, “but you know
well the future is forbidden to men.” He then made a digression to
ask if St. Thomas was read in 1909. I told him to what extent, and
by whom. He got intensely interested. He looked right up into my
face, and began making gestures with his hands.
“Now that really is interesting,” he said.
I asked him “Why?”
“Well, you see,” he said in an off-hand way, “there’s the usual historic
quarrel. On the face of it one would say he wasn’t read at all, looking
up the old Records, and so on. Then some Specialist gets hold of all
the mentions of him in the early Twentieth Century, and writes a
book to show that even the politicians had heard of him. Then there
is a discussion, and nothing comes of it. That’s where the fun of
Travelling Back comes in. You find out.”

I asked him if he had ever gone to the other centuries. He said, “No,
but Pop did.” I learned later that “Pop” was his father.
“You see,” he added respectfully, “Pop’s only just dead, and, of
course, I couldn’t afford it on my allowance. Pop,” he went on, rather
proudly, “got himself back into the Thirteenth Century during a walk
in Kent with a friend, and found himself in the middle of a horrible
great river. He was saved just before the time was up.”
“How do you mean ‘the time was up’?” said I.
“Why,” he answered me, “you don’t suppose Pop could afford more
than one hour, do you? Why, the Pope couldn’t afford more than six
hours, even after they voted him a subsidy from Africa, and Pop was
rich enough, Lord knows! Richer’n I am, coz of the gurls.... I told you
I was Baron Hogg,” he went on, without affectation.
“Yes” said I, “you did.”
“Well, now, to go back to St. Thomas,” he began——
“Why on earth——?” said I.
He interrupted me. “Now that is interesting,” he said. “You know
about St. Thomas, and you can tell me about the people who know
about him, but it does show that he had gone out in the Twentieth
Century, for you to talk like that! Why, I got full marks in St. Thomas.
Only thing I did get full marks in,” he said gloomily, looking out of the
window. “That’s what counts,” he added: “none of yer high-falutin’
dodgy fellows. When the Colonel said, ‘Who’s got the most stuff in
him?’ (not because of the rocks nor because I’m Baron Hogg), they
all said, ‘That’s him.’ And that was because I got first in St. Thomas.”
To say that I simply could not make head or tail of this would be to
say too little: and my muddlement got worse when he added, “That’s
why the Colonel made me Alderman, and now I go to Paris by right.”
Just at that moment the taxi-man put in his head at the window and
said, with an aggrieved look:
“Why didn’t you tell me where I was going?”

I looked out, and saw that I was in a desolate place near the River
Lea, among marshes and chimneys and the poor. There was a
rotten-looking shed close by, and a policeman, uncommonly
suspicious. My friend got quite excited. He pointed to the policeman
and said:
“Oh, how like the pictures! Is it true that they are the Secret Power
in England? Now do——”
The taxi-man got quite angry, and pointed out to me that his cab
was not a caravan. He further informed me that it had been my
business to tell him the way to the “Angel.” His asset was that if he
dropped me there I would be in a bad way; mine was that if I paid
him off there he would be in a worse one. We bargained and
quarrelled, and as we did so the policeman majestically moved up,
estimated the comparative wealth of the three people concerned,
and falsely imagining my friend to be an actor in broad daylight, he
took the taxi-man’s part, and ordered us off back to the “Angel,”
telling us we ought to be thankful to be let off so lightly. He further
gave the taxi-man elaborate instructions for reaching the place.
As I had no desire to get to the “Angel” really, I implored the taxi-
man to take me back to Westminster, which he was willing to do, and
on the way the Man from the Future was most entertaining. He
spotted the public-houses as we passed, and asked me, as a piece of
solid, practical information, whether wine, beer, and spirits were sold
in them. I said, “Of course,” but he told me that there was a great
controversy in his generation, some people maintaining that the
number of them was, in fiction, drawn by enemies; others said that
they were, as a fact, quite few and unimportant in London, and
others again that they simply did not exist but were the creations of
social satire. He asked me to point him out the houses of Brill and
Ferguson, who, it seems, were in the eyes of the Twenty-second
Century the principal authors of our time. When I answered that I
had never heard of them he said, “That is interesting.” I was a little
annoyed and asked him whether he had ever heard of Kipling, Miss
Fowler, or Swinburne.

He said of course he had read Kipling and Swinburne, and though he
had not read Miss Fowler’s works he had been advised to. But he
said that Brill for wit and Ferguson for economic analysis were surely
the glories of our England. Then he suddenly added, “Well, I’m not
sure about 1909. The first Collected Brill is always thought to be
1911. But Ferguson! Why he knew a lot of people as early as 1907!
He did the essay on Mediæval Economics which is the appendix to
our school text of St. Thomas.”
At this moment we were going down Whitehall. He jumped up
excitedly, pointed at the Duke of Cambridge’s statue and said, “That’s
Charles I.” Then he pointed to the left and said, “That’s the Duke of
Buccleuigh’s house.” And then as he saw the Victoria Tower he
shouted, “Oh, that’s Big Ben, I know it. And oh, I say,” he went on,
“just look at the Abbey!” “Now,” he said, with genuine bonhomie as
the taxi drew up with a jerk, “are those statues symbolic?”
“No,” I said, “they are real people.”
At this he was immensely pleased, and said that he had always said
so.
The taxi-man looked in again and asked with genuine pathos where
we really wanted to go to.
But just as I was about to answer him two powerful men in billycock
hats took my friend quietly but firmly out of the cab, linked their
arms in his, and begged me to follow them. I paid the taxi and did
so.
The strange man did not resist. He smiled rather foolishly. They
hailed a four-wheeler, and we all got in together. We drove about half
a mile to the south of Westminster Bridge, stopped at a large
Georgian house, and there we all got out. I noticed that the two men
treated the stranger with immense respect, but with considerable
authority. He, poor fellow, waved his hand at me, and said with a
faint smile as he went through the door, arm in arm with his captors:
“Sorry you had to pay. Came away without my salary ticket. Very
silly.” And he disappeared.

The other man remaining behind said to me very seriously, “I hope
his Lordship didn’t trouble you, sir?”
I said that on the contrary he had behaved like an English
gentleman, all except the clothes.
“Well,” said the keeper, “he’s not properly a Lord as you may say;
he’s an Australian gent. But he’s a Lord in a manner of speaking,
because Parliament did make him one. As for the clothes—ah! you
may well ask! But we durstn’t say anything: the doctor and the nurse
says it soothes him since his money trouble. But I say, make ’em act
sensible and they will be sensible.”
He then watched to see whether I would give him money for no
particular reason, and as I made no gestures to that effect I went
away, and thus avoided what politicians call “studied insolence.”

“I
A Reconstruction of the Past
T has been said with some justice that we know more about the
Victorian Period in England than we do of any one of the
intervening nine centuries, even of those which lie closest to our
own time, and even of such events as have taken place upon our
own soil in the Malay Peninsula. I will attempt to put before you very
briefly, as a sort of introduction to the series of lectures which I am
to deliver, a picture of what one glimpse of life in London towards
the end of the Nineteenth Century must have resembled.
“It is a sound rule in history to accept none but positive evidence
and to depend especially upon the evidence of documents. I will not
debate how far tradition should be admitted into the reconstruction
of the past. It may contain elements of truth; it must contain
elements of falsehood, and on that account I propose neither to
deny nor to admit this species of information, but merely to ignore
it; and I think the student will see before I have done with my
subject that, using only the positive information before us, a picture
may be drawn so fully detailed as almost to rival our experience of
contemporary events.
“We will imagine ourselves,” continued the professor, with baleful
smile of playful pedantry, “in Piccadilly, the fashionable promenade
of the city, at nine o’clock in the morning, the hour when the
greatest energies of this imperial people were apparent in their
outdoor life; for, as we know from the famous passage which we
owe to the pen of the pseudo-Kingsley, the English people, as
befitted their position, were the earliest risers of their time. We will
further imagine (to give verisimilitude to the scene) the presence of
a north-east wind, in which these hardy Northerners took

exceptional delight, and to which the anonymous author above
alluded to has preserved a famous hymn.
“Piccadilly is thronged with the three classes into which we know the
population to have been divided—the upper class, the middle, and
the lower, to use the very simple analytical terms which were most
common in that lucid and strenuous period. The lower class are to
be seen hurrying eastward in their cloth caps and ‘fustian,’ a textile
fabric the exact nature of which is under dispute, but which we can
guess, from the relics of contemporary evidence in France, to have
been of a vivid blue, highly glazed, and worn as a sort of sleeved
tunic reaching to the knees. The headgear these myriads are
wearing is uniform: it is a brown skull cap with a leather peak
projecting over the eyes, the conjectural ‘cricket cap,’ of which
several examples are preserved. It has been argued by more than
one authority that the article in question was not a headgear. It
appears in none of the statuary of the period. No mention of it is
made in any of the vast compilations of legal matter which have
come down to us, and attempts have been made to explain in an
allegorical sense the very definite allusions to it with which English
letters of that time abound. I am content to accept the documentary
evidence in the plain meaning of the words used, and to portray to
you these ‘toiling millions’ (to use the phrase of the great classic
poet) hurrying eastward upon this delightful morning in March of the
year 1899. Each is carrying the implement of his trade (possession in
which was secured to him by law). The one holds a pickaxe, another
balances upon his head a ladder, a third is rolling before him a large
square box or ‘trunk’—a word of Oriental origin—upon a ‘trolley’ or
small two-wheeled vehicle dedicated to some one of the five
combinations of letters which had a connection not hitherto
established with the system of roads and railways in the country. Yet
another drags after him a small dynamo mounted on wheels, such
as may be seen in the frieze illustrating the Paris Exhibition of ten
years before.
“Interspersed with this crowd may be seen the soldiery, clad entirely
in bright red. But these, by a custom which has already the force of

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