I do not like Them. It is no good asking me why, though I have plenty of reasons. I do not like Them. There would be no particular point in saying I do not like Them if it were not that so many people doted on Them, and when one hears Them praised, it goads one to expressing one's hatred and fear of Them.
       I know very well that They can do one harm, and that They have occult powers. All the world has known that for a hundred thousand years, more or less, and every attempt has been made to propitiate Them. James I. would drown Their mistress or burn her, but _They_ were spared. Men would mummify Them in Egypt, and worship the mummies; men would carve Them in stone in Cyprus, and Crete and Asia Minor, or (more remarkable still) artists, especially in the Western Empire, would leave Them out altogether; so much was Their influence dreaded. Well, I yield so far as not to print Their name, and only to call Them "They", but I hate Them, and I'm not afraid to say so.
       If you will take a little list of the chief crimes that living beings can commit you will find that They commit them all. And They are cruel; cruelty is even in Their tread and expression. They are hatefully cruel. I saw one of Them catch a mouse the other day (the cat is now out of the bag), and it was a very much more sickening sight, I fancy, than ordinary murder. You may imagine that They catch mice to eat them. It is not so. They catch mice to torture them. And what is worse, They will teach this to Their children--Their children who are naturally innocent and fat, and full of goodness, are deliberately and systematically corrupted by Them; there is diabolism in it.
       Other beings (I include mankind) will be gluttonous, but gluttonous spasmodically, or with a method, or shamefacedly, or, in some way or another that qualifies the vice; not so They. They are gluttonous always and upon all occasions, and in every place and for ever. It was only last Vigil of All Fools' Day when, myself fasting, I filled up the saucer seven times with milk and seven times it was emptied, and there went up the most peevish, querulous, vicious complaint and demand for an eighth. They will eat some part of the food of all that are in the house. Now even a child, the most gluttonous one would think of all living creatures, would not do that. It makes a selection, _They_ do not. _They_ will drink beer. This is not a theory; I know it; I have seen it with my own eyes. They will eat special foods; They will even eat dry bread. Here again I have personal evidence of the fact; They will eat the dog's biscuits, but never upon any occasion will They eat anything that has been poisoned, so utterly lacking are They in simplicity and humility, and so abominably well filled with cunning by whatever demon first brought their race into existence.
       They also, alone of all creation, love hateful noises. Some beings indeed (and I count Man among them) cannot help the voice with which they have been endowed, but they know that it is offensive, and are at pains to make it better; others (such as the peacock or the elephant) also know that their cry is unpleasant. They therefore use it sparingly. Others again, the dove, the nightingale, the thrush, know that their voices are very pleasant, and entertain us with them all day and all night long; but They know that Their voices are the most hideous of all the sounds in the world, and, knowing this, They perpetually insist upon thrusting those voices upon us, saying, as it were, "I am giving myself pain, but I am giving you more pain, and therefore I shall go on." And They choose for the place where this pain shall be given, exact and elevated situations, very close to our ears. Is there any need for me to point out that in every city they will begin their wicked jar just at the time when its inhabitants must sleep? In London you will not hear it till after midnight; in the county towns it begins at ten; in remote villages as early as nine.
       Their Master also protects them. They have a charmed life. I have seen one thrown from a great height into a London street, which when It reached it It walked quietly away with the dignity of the Lost World to which It belonged.
       If one had the time one could watch Them day after day, and never see Them do a single kind or good thing, or be moved by a single virtuous impulse. They have no gesture for the expression of admiration, love, reverence or ecstasy. They have but one method of expressing content, and They reserve that for moments of physical repletion. The tail, which is in all other animals the signal for joy or for defence, or for mere usefulness, or for a noble anger, is with Them agitated only to express a sullen discontent.
       All that They do is venomous, and all that They think is evil, and when I take mine away (as I mean to do next week--in a basket), I shall first read in a book of statistics what is the wickedest part of London, and I shall leave It there, for I know of no one even among my neighbours quite so vile as to deserve such a gift.
       [The end]
       Hilaire Belloc's essay: On Them

"King Lear"
The Absence Of The Past
The Arena
Arles (city)
At The Sign Of The Lion
The Autumn And The Fall Of Leaves
The Battle Of Hastings
A Blue Book
Caedwalla
The Canigou
The Captain Of Industry
Carcassonne
The Cerdagne
The Channel
Charles Of Orleans
Clement Marot
Companions Of Travel
The Coronation
The Death Of Wandering Peter
The Decline Of A State
Delft (town)
The Departure
The Election
The Empire Builder
The End Of The World
The Excursion
The Eye-Openers
A Family Of The Fens
The First Day's March
A Force In Gaul
The Free Press
The Game Of Cards
The Good Woman
The Great Sight
The Griffin (Inn)
The Guns
The Harbour In The North
His Character
Home
The Idea Of A Pilgrimage
In Patria
The Inheritance Of Humour
The Inn Of The Margeride
The Inventor
The Ironmonger
Joachim Du Bellay
Jose Maria De Heredia
The Letter
Letter Of Advice And Apology To A Young Burglar
The Looe Stream
The Lost Things
The Lunatic
Lynn (Town)
Malherbe
The Man And His Wood
The Man Of The Desert
The Monkey Question: An Appeal To Common Sense
The Mowing Of A Field
Mr. The Duke: The Man Of Malplaquet
A Norfolk Man
Normandy And The Normans
The North Sea
The Odd People
The Old Gentleman's Opinions
The Old Things
On "Mails"
On A Child Who Died
On A Dog And A Man Also
On A Faery Castle
On A Fisherman And The Quest Of Peace
On A Great Wind
On A Hermit Whom I Knew
On A House
On A Lost Manuscript
On A Man And His Burden
On A Man Who Was Protected By Another Man
On A Notebook
On A Rich Man Who Suffered
On A Southern Harbour
On A Van Tromp
On A Winged Horse And The Exile Who Rode Him
On A Young Man And An Older Man
On Advertisement
On An Unknown Country
On Bridges
On Cheeses
On Coming To An End
On Conversations In Trains
On Death
On Ely (isle)
On Entries
On Error
On Experience
On Getting Respected In Inns And Hotels
On Historical Evidence
On Ignorance
On Immortality
On Jingoes: In The Shape Of A Warning
On Lords
On National Debts
On Past Greatness
On Railways And Things
On Sacramental Things
On Tea
On The Approach Of An Awful Doom
On The Decline Of The Book
On The Departure Of A Guest
On The Hotel At Palma And A Proposed Guide-Book
On The Illness Of My Muse
On The Pleasure Of Taking Up One's Pen
On The Reading Of History
On The Return Of The Dead
On The Sources Of Rivers
On Them
On Thruppenny Bits
On Unknown People
On Weighing Anchor
The Onion-Eater
Perigeux Of The Perigord
A Plea For The Simpler Drama
The Portrait Of A Child
The Position
The Public
The Pyrenean Hive
Reality
The Regret
The Relic
The Return To England
The Reveillon
The Reward Of Letters
The Roman Road
The Roman Roads In Picardy
Roncesvalles
Ronsard
The Sea-Wall Of The Wash
The Singer
The Slant Off The Land
St. Patrick
The Tide
The Tree Of Knowledge
A Unit Of England
The Valley Of The Rother
The Victory
The Views Of England
Villon
The Way To Fairyland
The Wing Of Dalua