watering-place, always set you against the
establishments they represent. The fly-men, who are
so obliging as to accompany you down the pier
at Ryde, putting in a remark every now and
then as to the excellency of their vehicles and
the vigour of their horses; the cabman, who
keeps along by the kerb-stone soliciting your
attention every moment vith the handle of his
whip; the young man who inquires whether
you will take a bottle of the renovating hairwash,
or a pot of the Andalusian cream, when
you simply want your hair cut; all these touts,
and many more of the same class, play the very
deuce with the interests of the concern they
endeavour to serve.

But all this is professional touting. We have
now to do with amateur touters: persons who,
with nothing to gain by it, are continually cramming
those whose interests they gratuitously
serve, down the reluctant throats of their
friends.

The recommending of clergymen is one of
the commonest forms of touting. You sit
under a certain preacher, and have sat under
him for years, deriving a vast deal of edification.
But this does not satisfy you. There
is room in your pew for Somebody Else, and
you are always trying to get Somebody Else to
come and sit there. Occasionally you succeed,
but somehow it happens that this Somebody
Else is never satisfied, and leaves the sacred
edifice in a critical, not to say vituperative,
frame of mind. Sometimes Somebody Else
begins at once:—" Well, I must say that,
after all you said, and all you had prepared
me to expect, I am a little bit disappointed."
Choking with indignation, you inquire with
enforced calmness, "Why Somebody Else is
displeased; what was the matter with the
sermon?" "Oh, there was nothing the matter
—far from it— it was all sound enough, but
then it was so very common-place."

Or, there is another kind of Somebody Else
who will maintain a profound and aggravating
silence as you walk away from church, until at
last you are forced, as it were, to learn the
worst, and break out with the momentous question:
"Well, what did you think of it?" "Oh,"
answers your friend, quietly, "I've nothing to say
against the sermon, except that it wasn't Christianity."
"What! Not Christianity?" "No,
certainly not. As the discourse of a heathen
philosopher to his disciples, it would have been
excellent, but coming from the mouth of an
ordained clergyman, in a Christian church, it was
almost shocking." In this case Somebody Else
is what is called strictly Evangelical, and so is
your favourite preacher: only it wonderfully
happens that on this particular occasion, as he
is addressing people who are supposed to be
already Christians, he does not go back to expound
the first principles of their creed to them,
but ventures to touch for a short time on the
kind of life which it behoves them, being Christians
already, to lead.

Or suppose, on the other hand, that the first
sermon is a success, and that your friend—
though it is almost too much to suppose is
satified He is resolved to attend this church himself,
and takes a pew to accommodate his family.
On the very first Sunday that the family attends
this new place of worship, the preacher comes
out in a new light, your friend's wife avows her
belief that he is an Arian at heart, a universalist,
a sceptic, a Jesuit in disguise, or a Calvinist.
It would be wicked to let the children listen to
such doctrines; they might receive impressions
which they would never be able to shake off.
What could you—the original touter for this
disguised Jesuit, Calviuist, sceptic, Arian,
universalist, or what not—what could you mean
by inducing this orthodox family to attend
the ministrations of this enemy to true religion?
And so, you get into a scrape. Your
friend informs you, on the occasion of your next
meeting, that he has been at the expense of
hiring a large family-pew in which neither he
nor any member of his family will ever set foot
again, and that it is all attributable to your
influence. The loss of lucre, however, he continues,
is in such a case only a very small
matter; he only hopes that no member of his
domestic circle may have already imbibed
dangerous views; his eldest daughter has recently
given utterance to certain sentiments of a
dangerous description on the subject of
playgoing; and Tommy has on two occasions
over-eaten himself—and no wonder, for it had
in the course of one sermon been remarked by
the Reverend Mr. Broadhead—whom you had
spoken so highly of—that good might be, and
doubtless had been done, by plays, and that the
good things of this life were not put in the
world to be rejected by the creatures for whose
benefit they were intended.

And so, you see, you have not only touted
for the Reverend Broadhead in vain, but you
have actually brought discredit upon that really
excellent man, and you have caused your friend,
who had previously had considerable confidence
in your opinion, to regard your principles with
mistrust and suspicion. So you had better have
let it alone.

As to the passion for recommending doctors,
it is a psychological phenomenon of the most
wonderful sort. It really seems as if people
had their own interests and those of their families,
very much less at heart than the advancement
of their medical man. You happen to
mention in the presence of Mrs. Creakingate
and her eldest and invalided daughter, that
your wife is not quite the thing, is troubled
with nervous headache at times, is suffering
from neuralgia in the left temple. As you
speak, Mrs and Miss Creakingate look at each
other, and exchange a smile of enlightenment,
and as soon as you pause in your remarks, they
address each other, not you. "Oh, but this is a
case for Dr. Flook, if ever there was a case for
Dr. Flook!" Or, "My dear Julia, do you hear?
Just the very kind of case which Dr. Flook
excels in treating. Now, my dear Mr. Spooner,
you must promise me that Mrs. Spooner will see
Dr. Flook. He is at this moment attending dear