"THEY."
" THEY say ; what say they? Let them say," said Bishop Berkeley. Who are the " they " thus so boldly apostrophised ? We may say with one of the Fathers : "I know when you do not ask me " ; but how difficult it is to get nearer. We all have these mysterious " they " on our lips, and yet we cannot define them. Yet though we can- not define "they," partly because there are so many of them, and partly because none of the great elemental things like time, love, death, and sleep are capable of definition, we can still know and say a great deal about "they." " They " in Dolly Winthrop's mouth meant Provi- dence. "I wouldn't speak ill o' this world," she was accustomed to say, "seeing them as put us in it knows best." In her sense it is, of course, rarely used, though the slang expres- sion, "as good as they make 'em," recalls it. Still, " they " has generally a slightly mysterious significance. When we say it, we allude to some power we cannot define, or to the incomprehensible element in some set of people. " They " often signifies the opposite sex,—when to the speaker the peculiarities of that sex seem least understandable. When men speak contemptuously of what " they " do, men often mean women ; and when women stand aghast before some strange peculiarity of men, they generally talk about "they." Again, " they " may mean all subordinates or all superiors, or rather the unaccountable element which must yet be counted with in these great divisions of people. If the mistress says of her maid that "they" are all the same, she means that there are qualities in the poorer class which are not understood by the richer ; and if the maid says it of her mistress, she means the same thing vice versa.
One of their chief functions is to make laws, laws more inexorable than any which are supported by the penal code, whose long arms reach every class of the community. " They " tell us what to wear and how to behave, and " they " change their minds and we have to change ours. If we do not copy them from when we get up in the morning till when we go to bed at night, the chances are ninety-nine in a hundred that we shall suffer for our rebellion. Metaphorically speaking, we shall have to live alone. If we belong to the richer classes, we shall be called eccentric and have to breathe an atmosphere which savours more or lees of ridicule. When we are happy "they" will laugh, and when we are sad " they " will smile. When we die " they " will not much mind, because we were peculiar. No one can have everything in this world, and if we will have our own way, then we cannot have anything else. Suppose, however, that we are intellectual, very superior people both in mind and culti- vation, and we determine to throw off their yoke. Well then there is about one chance in a million that we shall turn out to be men of genius, and in that case " they " will bow clown to us. So ironical, however, is fate that men of real genius are but little impressed by what " they " say, and cast off their homage as lightly as their tyranny. Perhaps it is among the middle class that " they " bear the strictest rule. If from among that huge respectable mass we determine to be independent of their rule, what will happen? In that ease, if we want any society we mast seek it on the rung of the social ladder next below us. " They " who are obeyed in that sphere will not trouble themselves about us. We are outlaws, superficially courted perhaps, but inwardly suspected. It is probably dull to have no superiors; it is certainly dull to have no equals. The game is not worth the candle. If we have any sense, we shall hasten to repent our moment of mutiny, and go back into the network of unwritten laws wherein we were born. Of course we know there is such a place as Bohemia, but " they " rule there also. The laws there may not be quite so many, but they are more arbitrary. In the labouring class a man who will not acknowledge that what " they " do is right, and will not try to do likewise, generally becomes a tramp like Matthew Arnold's hero, who
"Roamed the world with that wild brotherhood,
And came, as most men deem'd, to little good."
No doubt there are delights to be experienced in that free life without monotony or responsibility, but it has terrible disadvantages. It must be disagreeable to be dirty, and have nowhere to wash; tired, and have nowhere to rest. It is
hateful, one would think, to be looked down on by all the world,—a terror to wandering children, a prey to home-keeping dogs, a scapegoat to bear the blame of all unaccountable mis- chief. It is not natural to any man to belong nowhere, and be intimately known to no one ; to lead a nameless life, and look forward to a nameless death bereft of its tragic poetry by the sordid actuality of a pauper funeral. In short, wherever we live, and whoever we are, " they " will find us out sooner or later if we will not obey them, and that in small matters or great, without wrath or reservation. On the whole, no doubt, their rule is healthy and right. They generally uphold the Ten Commandments, if they enforce a hundred and one lesser laws of their own making; and as we go on in life we see that those who wantonly break the hundred and one seldom keep the Ten whole. Generally speaking, the strongest men give in with the best grace. The restrictions of convention develop their moral muscle just as the burden of the clothes we carry is said by constant training to augment our physical strength and make the civilised man a finer animal than the savage. "Nothing," writes Goethe, "tends more to pervert one's natural character than the wish to be unlike other people, and nothing tends more to maintain the sanity of our minds than to live the everyday life of those around us." Originality cannot be killed and cannot be fostered. It flourishes very well in a conventional atmosphere, and needs no curious garments to enhance its essential charm. A man should not divide himself from his • neighbours if he can help it. The desire to be conspicuous and the desire to be solitary are both alike weaknesses, though they are, no doubt, often allied with the great qualities of ambition and modesty. All the same, they are parasitic growths which attach themselves to this great virtue and this noble infirmity. Emulation supplies to many men a necessary stimulant. Like all stimulants, when abused it becomes an intoxicant, on which a man may get so drunk that he cannot tell fame from notoriety. It is also true that without some solitude no one can do his best. No bard-and-fast rule can be laid down as to how much solitude a given man needs, any more than how much sleep. He is wrong if he takes more than just enough to restore his fitness for fellowship.
To the Celtic imagination the whole world is peopled with imaginary shapes who must be feared and con- ciliated. Children talk of "they,"—creatures of pure fancy conjured up to pass the time. Sometimes their own creations turn on them and they are terrified. It is the same with the Celt, who is incurably—or should we say sub- limely ?—childish. He clings to the playthings that other races have put away. "When 'thoe' are spoken of "—so Lady Gregory tells us in her Irish book called "Poets and Dreamers "—" the fallen angels are understood, the cloud of witnesses, the whirling invisible host." The earth and the sky and the sea are full of them. They appear some- times flying by in a gust of wind and dust Some of the dead seem to join their company, for it is customary, we are told, to bless them as they pass, leSt "one of our own" should be among them. For our part, we think the Celt will be happier when he emerges from the " twilight " in which his worshippers love to keep him, when he will see things as they are, and "they" shall have ceased to whisper to him of passed- away wrongs in a passed-away tongue. Superstition militates against civilisation and against sympathy, prosperity, and mutual understanding. "Out of error nothing is evolved ; it does but involve." A sense of safety is productive of many good qualities, among them contentment, and amidst his supernatural terrors the Celt will never be content. But if the Irishman is a slave to fancy, he is no slave of fashion. The conventions which " they " make for the Englishman he knows nothing about. Conse- quently he is much less self-conscious than the Saxon, and much more attractive in manner. When the lower Irish come here our high standard of comfort, our heavy ideals of work and duty, throw them completely off their balance. In despair of keeping so many rules they determine to have none.
"Here's hands so full of money, and hearts so full of care, For luck o' love I'd still go light for all I did go bare,"
explains Moira O'Neill's haymaker, horrified by the ways of the " workin' hive" in which be finds himself. It has been said of the Irishman that "his dream has never been entangled by reality." Does the thraldom of fancy release to some extent from the thraldom of public opinion ? We are inclined to think it does. All the same, we believe the latter to be the better master. Much is said against conventionality, but what is it after all but the debent order of duty which has become perhaps a little formal and mechanical by reason of time and custom ?
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