The Happy Warrior

This life we stumble through, or strut through, or through which we creep and whine, or through which we dance and whistle, is built upon hazard—and that is why it is such a very wobbling affair, made up of tricks and chances; hence its miseries, but hence also its spice; hence its tragedies, and hence also its romance. A dog I know—illustrating the point—passed from its gate into the village street one morning, and merely to ease the itch of a momentary fit of temper, or merely to indulge a prankish whim, put a firm bite into a plump leg. Mark, now, the hazard foundation of this chancey life. A dozen commonplace legs were offered the dog; it might have tasted the lot and procured no more pother than the passing of a few shillings, the solatium of a pair of trousers or so. One leg was as good as another to the dog; yet it chanced upon the vicar's (whose back was turned), enjoyed its bite, jerked from the devout but startled man an amazingly coarse expression, and hence arose alarums and excursions, a village set by the ears, family feuds, a budding betrothal crushed by parental strife (one party owning the dog and the other calling the vicar Father) and the genesis of a dead set against the vicar's curate (who hit at the dog and struck the priest) that ended in the unfortunate young man having to leave the village.