concert pitch for a brief while, and until an
inevitable reaction sets in.

Men suffer more—infinitely more—the doctors
say, in consequence of the present late hours,
than women do. Not having business to attend
to in the afternoon, our ladies can, and it is
whispered do, make a heavy meal in the middle
of the day. The results are not ruinous to
their interests. A little trifling, a certain amount
of absence of mind, of sleepiness, even of
humming, are not fatal in their case as they would
be with the lords of the creation. They can
partake, then, of the hot joint and other substantial
delicacies of the luncheon-table with impunity,
and having then to all intents and purposes
dined, and having, moreover, in the course of
the afternoon, indulged in tea and concomitants,
they are in a position to be abstemious at
dinner-time, and thus they get on pretty well on
the whole, and prosper. Not so their husbands
and fathers. These, by the time that dinner
is at length on table, are in a condition of
such extreme weariness and exhaustion, that
they are ready to lay violent hands on every
eatable thing that comes in their way. With
digestive powers and vitality at a low ebb, they
feed largely, perhaps greedily, eat anything and
everything that comes to table.

And then, this great meal disposed of, it is
not unlikely that a drowsiness, very hard to be
resisted, sets in immediately, and our friend on
the "road to" digestive "ruin" either goes to
bed early—supposing that he can get the chance
—with that "rudis indigestaque moles" which
he has swallowed lying heavy on his chest; or
he tumbles asleep in his chair, and so becomes
a diligent cultivator of plethoric disease in all
its worst forms.

There is another noteworthy effect of our late
hours. Our evenings are so shortened that we
do not think it worth while to undertake any
evening occupation or engage in any evening
amusement. No doubt the theatres suffer by
this to a considerable extent, and it is even
possible that the general decline in dramatic
matters may have been brought about by this
among other causes; it being well-nigh impossible
to get together an audience of enlightened
people, ready to devote a whole evening
to the consideration of a carefully elaborated
work of art. After a modern dinner it is too
late to think of going to the play. It is hardly
worth while to take a hand at whist, or to play
a game at billiards. Yet these are good things
to do; they keep a man awake, they give him
occupation, lay hold of his attention, and compel
him to think of something which is not really
important—all highly desirable objects to
accomplish, and especially when bedtime draws
near; that season of compelled inaction when
the mind should have some unimportant matters
to dwell upon, since he who concerns himself at
that time with his business, twisting and turning
it in busy impotence, wears himself out, mind
and body, to no purpose.

So much for the late dinners, regarded from
a sanitary point of view. Looking at them in
a pecuniary light, we shall find that they are
expensive as well. Except in households where
money is no object, the providing of this second
dinner daily is a very serious addition to the
expenses of housekeeping. The luncheon
required in these days, is a formidable meal. It
is a first dinner, and requires thought as well
as expenditure. It must not clash with the
second dinner. The two must be composed,
each with an eye to the other. Hard work this
for whoever does the housekeeping. Hard work
especially, when you have a house full of visitors
to provide for.

But there are other things connected with
the habits of the time, which probably have even
a larger share in generating the functional
derangements which are so much complained of
just now. Surely it is not too much to say that
the two conditions of hurrying and waiting may
have their share in throwing our nervous
machinery out of gear.

Consider for a moment the harassment which
belongs to railway travelling at home or abroad.
To begin with, a punctuality which is a thing of
half seconds is indispensable. You cannot hail
a train which has just started, as you could a
coach. Yon cannot run after it, or overtake it
in a swifter vehicle. A difference in clocks, a
block-up in the City, a slippery roadway in winter,
a refractory or incompetent cab-horse—and you
are lost. You sit on thorns; you refer to your
watch incessantly; you compare the public
clocks that lie along your line of route; your
heart is in your mouth every time that a
Pickford or a Chaplain and Horne gets in your
way. You are on tenter-hooks, sanguine for a
moment, then desperate. You gallop up to the
terminus—the doors are just closing—a porter
rushes at you, tears you out of your cab, flings
himself upon your luggage—what are you to
give the driver? no change—you are whirled to
the ticket-office, more difficulties about change—
you have things to carry, your hands are full—
there are whistlings, screamings, bells—where is
the luggage? who knows?—a door bangs, and
you are off. What sort of work for the nerves
is this! And it follows a morning spent in
hurrying hither and thither, in order that you
may be able to get off on your journey at all.

Or, perhaps, when at last you drive up to
those terminus doors, you find that all your
hurrying has been in vain, and that they are
closed. Behold now you find yourself involved
in that other necessity which belongs to our
present-day life, the necessity of waiting.
Waiting and hurrying go together. You have
to wait two hours now for a train. How valuable
would an eighth of that time have been a little
while since. Now you have nothing to do. You
kick your heels, you loiter, you read the backs
of the books on the stall, you try to understand
the principle of the locomotive, you are unable
to do it. You reflect that this spare time
would have been invaluable to you at the other
end of your journey. You consult and re-consult
time-tables, and hold conferences with
iron-witted porters. You fret and fume, and make