impeded, yet in writing a paper to be laid before a learned and fastidious society one is bound to let one’s hearers a little into the secret, and to state fairly what the subject of the essay really is.  I suppose we shall all admit that bad luxury is bad, and good luxury is good, unless the phrase good luxury is a contradiction in terms.  We must try to avoid disputing about words.  The word luxury, according to its derivation, signifies an extravagant and outrageous indulgence of the appetites or desires.  If we take this as the meaning of the word, we shall agree that luxury is bad; but if we take luxury to be only another name for the refinements of civilization, we shall all approve of it.  But the real and substantial question is not what the word means, but, what is that thing which we all agree is bad or good; where does the bad begin and the good end; how are we to discern the difference; and how are we to avoid the one and embrace the other.  In this essay, therefore, I intend to use the word luxury to denote that indulgence

which interferes with the full and proper exercise of all the faculties, powers, tastes, and whatever is good and worthy in a man.  Enjoyments, relaxations, delights, indulgences which are beneficial, I do not denominate “luxury.”  All indulgences which fit us for our duties are good; all which tend to unfit us for them are bad; and these latter I call luxuries.  Some one will say, perhaps, that some indulgences are merely indifferent, and produce no appreciable effect upon body or mind; and it might be enough to dismiss such things with the maxim, “de minimis non curat lex.”  But the doctrine is dangerous, and I doubt if anything in this world is absolutely immaterial.  De Quincey mentions the case of a man who committed a murder, which at the time he thought little about, but he was led on from that to gambling and Sabbath breaking.  Probably in this weary world any indulgence or pleasure which is not bad is not indifferent, but absolutely good.  The world is not so bright, so comfortable, so pleasant, that we can afford to scorn the good the gods provide us.  In Mr. Reade’s book on Study and Stimulants, Matthew Arnold says, a moderate use of wine adds to the agreeableness of life, and whatever adds to the agreeableness of life, adds to its resources and powers.  There cannot be a doubt that the bodily frame is capable of being wearied, and that it needs repose and refreshment, and this is a law which a man trifles with at his peril.  The same is true of the intellectual and moral faculties.  They claim rest and refreshment; they must have comfort and pleasure or they will begin to flag.  It must also be always remembered that in the every-day work of this world the body and the mind have to go through a great deal which is

depressing and taxing to the energy, and a certain amount of “set off” is required to keep the balance even.  We must remember this especially with respect to the poor.  Pipes and cigars may be a luxury to the idle and rich, but we ought not to grudge a pipe to a poor man who is overworked and miserable.  Some degree of comfort we all feel to be at times essential when we have a comfortless task to perform.  With good food and sleep, for instance, we can get through the roughest work; with the relaxation of pleasant society we can do the most tedious daily work.  If, on the other hand, we are worried and uncomfortable, we become unfitted for our business.  We all have our troubles to contend against, and we require comfort, relaxation, stimulation of some sort to help us in the battle.  There are certain duties which most of us have to perform, and which, to use a common expression, “take it out of us.”  Thus most of us are compelled to travel more or less.  An old gentleman travelling by coach on a long journey wished to sleep off the tediousness of the night, but his travelling companion woke him up every ten minutes with the inquiry, “Well, sir, how are you by this.”  At last the old gentleman’s patience was fairly tired out.  “I was very well when I got into the coach, and I’m very well now, and if any change takes place I’ll let you know.”  I was coming from London to Beckenham, and in the carriage with me was a gentleman quietly and attentively reading the newspaper.  A lady opposite to him, whenever we came to a station, cried out, “Oh, what station’s this, what station’s this?”  Being told, she subsided, more or less, till the next station.  The gentleman’s patience was at last exhausted.  “If there is any

particular station at which you wish to alight I will inform you when we arrive.”

Such are some of the annoying circumstances of travel.  Then, at the end of the journey, are we sure of a comfortable night’s rest?  It was a rule upon circuit that the barristers arriving at an inn had the choice of bedrooms according to seniority, and woe betide the junior who dared to infringe the rule and endeavour to secure by force or fraud the best bedroom.  The leaders, who had the hardest work to do, required the best night’s rest.  A party of barristers arrived late one night at their accustomed inn, a half-way house to the next assize town, and found one of the best bedrooms already occupied.  They were told by some wag that it was occupied by a young man just joined the circuit.  There was a rush to the bedroom.  The culprit was dragged out of bed and deposited on the floor.  A venerable old gentleman in a nightcap and gown addressed the ringleader of his assailants, Serjeant Golbourne, “Brother Golbourne, brother Golbourne, is this the way to treat a Christian judge?”  I should not have liked to have been one of those who had to conduct a cause before him next day.  Who can be generous, benevolent, kindly, and even-tempered if one is to be subjected to such harassing details as I have above narrated? and I have no doubt that a fair amount of comfort is necessary to the exercise of the Christian virtues.  I am not at all sure that pilgrims prayed any better because they had peas in their shoes, and it is well known that soldiers fight best when they are well fed.  A certain amount of comfort and pleasure is good for us, and is refreshing to body and spirit.  Such things, for instance, as the bath

in the morning; the cup of warm tea or coffee for breakfast; the glass of beer or wine and variety of food at dinner; the rest or nap in the arm-chair or sofa; an occasional novel; the pipe before going to bed; the change of dress; music or light reading in the evening; even the night-cap recommended by Mr. Banting; games of chance or skill; dancing;—surely such things may renovate, soothe, and render more elastic and vigorous both body and mind.

While, therefore, I have admitted fully that we all require “sweetness and light,” that some indulgence is necessary for the renovation of our wearied souls and bodies; yet it very often will happen that the thing in which we desire to indulge does not tend at all in this direction, or it may be that, although a moderate indulgence does so tend, an immoderate use has precisely the reverse effect.  My subject, therefore, divides itself, firstly, into a consideration of those luxuries which are per se deleterious, and those which are so only by excessive use.

I suppose you will not be surprised to hear that I think we are in danger, in the upper and middle classes at all events, of going far beyond the point where pleasures and indulgences tend to the improvement of body and mind.  Surely there are many of us who can remember when the habits of our fathers were less luxurious than they are now.  In a leading article in a newspaper not long ago the writer said, “All classes