diff options
Diffstat (limited to '13410-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 13410-0.txt | 5816 |
1 files changed, 5816 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/13410-0.txt b/13410-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a515361 --- /dev/null +++ b/13410-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5816 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13410 *** + +Some Private Views + +by JAMES PAYN + +AUTHOR OF 'HIGH SPIRITS,' 'A CONFIDENTIAL AGENT,' ETC. + +A NEW EDITION + +1881 + +London + +CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY + + +TO + +HORACE N. PYM + +THIS + +_Book is Dedicated_ + +BY HIS FRIEND + +THE AUTHOR + +Contents + + FROM 'THE NINETEENTH CENTURY' REVIEW. + THE MIDWAY INN + THE CRITIC ON THE HEARTH + SHAM ADMIRATION IN LITERATURE + THE PINCH OF POVERTY + THE LITERARY CALLING AND ITS FUTURE + STORY-TELLING + PENNY FICTION + + FROM 'THE TIMES.' + HOTELS + MAID-SERVANTS + MEN-SERVANTS + WHIST-PLAYERS + RELATIONS + INVALID LITERATURE + WET HOLIDAYS + TRAVELLING COMPANIONS + + + + +THE MIDWAY INN. + + +'The hidden but the common thought of all.' + +The thoughts I am about to set down are not _my_ thoughts, for, as my +friends say, I have given up the practice of thinking, or it may be, as +my enemies say, I never had it. They are the thoughts of an +acquaintance who thinks for me. I call him an acquaintance, though I +pass as much of my time with him as with my nearest and dearest; +perhaps at the club, perhaps at the office, perhaps in metaphysical +discussion, perhaps at billiards—what does it matter? Thousands of men +in town have such acquaintances, in whose company they spend, by +necessity or custom, half the sum of their lives. It is not rational, +doubtless; but then 'Consider, sir,' said the great talking +philosopher, 'should we become purely rational, how our friendships +would be cut off. We form many such with bad men because they have +agreeable qualities, or may be useful to us. We form many such by +mistake, imagining people to be different from what they really are.' +And he goes on complacently to observe that we shall either have the +satisfaction of meeting these gentlemen in a future state, or be +satisfied without meeting them. + +For my part, I do not feel that the scheme of future happiness, which +ought by rights to be in preparation for me, will be at all interfered +with by my not meeting again the man I have in my. mind. To have seen +him in the flesh is sufficient for me. In the spirit I cannot imagine +him; the consideration is too subtle; for, unlike the little man who +had (for certain) a little soul,' I don't believe he has a soul at all. + +He is middle-aged, rich, lethargic, sententious, dogmatic, and, in +short, the quintessence of the commonplace. I need not say, therefore, +that he is credited by the world with unlimited common-sense. And for +once the world is right. He has nothing-original about him, save so +much of sin as he may have inherited from our first parents; there is +no more at the back of him than at the back of a looking-glass—indeed +less, for he has not a grain of quicksilver; but, like the +looking-glass, he reflects. Having nothing else to do, he hangs, as it +were, on the wall of the world, and mirrors it for me as it +unconsciously passes by him—not, however, as in a glass darkly, but +with singular clearness. His vision is never disturbed by passion or +prejudice; he has no enthusiasm and no illusions. Nor do I believe he +has ever had any. If the noblest study of mankind is man, my friend has +devoted himself to a high calling; the living page of human life has +been his favourite and indeed, for these many years, his only reading. +And for this he has had exceptional opportunities. Always a man of +wealth and leisure, he has never wasted himself in that superficial +observation which is often the only harvest of foreign travel. He +despises it, and in relation to travellers, is wont to quote the famous +parallel of the copper wire, 'which grows the narrower by going +further.' A confirmed stay-at-home, he has mingled much in society of +all sorts, and exercised a keen but quite unsympathetic observation. +His very reserve in company (though, when he catches you alone, he is a +button-holder of great tenacity) encourages free speech in others; they +have no more reticence in his presence than if he were the butler. He +has belonged to no cliques, and thereby escaped the greatest peril +which can beset the student of human nature. A man of genius, indeed, +in these days is almost certain, sooner or later, to become the centre +of a mutual admiration society; but the person I have in my mind is no +genius, nor anything like one, and he thanks Heaven for it. To an +opinion of his own he does not pretend, but his views upon the opinions +of other people he believes to be infallible. I have called him +dogmatic, but that does not at all express the absolute certainty with +which he delivers judgment. 'I know no more,' he says, 'about the +problems of human life than you do' (taking me as an illustration of +the lowest prevailing ignorance), 'but I know what everybody is +thinking about them.' He is didactic, and therefore often dull, and +will eventually, no doubt, become one of the greatest bores in Great +Britain. At present, however, he is worth knowing; and I propose to +myself to be his Boswell, and to introduce him—or, at least, his +views—to other people. I have entitled them the Midway Inn, partly from +my own inveterate habit of story-telling, but chiefly from an image of +his own, by which he once described to me, in his fine egotistic +rolling style, the position he seemed to himself to occupy in the +world. + +When I was a boy, he said (which I don't believe he ever was), I had a +long journey to take between home and school. Exactly midway there was +a hill with an Inn upon it, at which we changed horses. It was a point +to which I looked forward with very different feelings when going and +returning. In the one case—for I hated school—it seemed to frown darkly +on me, and from that spot the remainder of the way was dull and gloomy; +in the other case, the sun seemed always glinting on it, and the rest +of the road was as a fair avenue that leads to Paradise. The innkeeper +received us with equal hospitality on both occasions, and it was quite +evident did not care one farthing in which direction we were tending. +He would stand in front of his house, jingling his money—_our_ money—in +his pockets, and watch us depart with the greatest serenity, whether we +went east or west. I thought him at one time the most genial of +Bonifaces (for it was his profession to wear a smile), and at another a +mere mocker of human woe. When I grew up, I perceived that he was a +philosopher. + +And now I keep the Midway Inn myself, and watch from the hill-top the +passengers come and go—some loth, some willing, like myself of old—and +listen to their talk in the coffee-room; or sometimes in a private +parlour, where, though they speak low and gravely, their converse is +still unrestrained, because, you see, I am the landlord. + +Sometimes they speak of Death and the Hereafter, of which the child +they buried yesterday knows more than the wisest of them, and more than +Shakespeare knew. The being totally ignorant of the subject does not +indeed (as you may perhaps have observed in other matters) deter some +of them from speaking of it with great confidence; but the views of a +minority would quite surprise you, and this minority is growing—coming +to a majority. Every day I see an increase of the doubters. It is not a +question of the Orthodox and the Infidel, you must understand, at all, +though _that_ is assuming great proportions; but there is every day +more uncertainty among them, and, what is much more noteworthy, more +dissatisfaction. + +Years ago, when a hardy Cambridge scholar dared to publish his doubts +of an eternal punishment overtaking the wicked, an orthodox professor +of the same college took him (theologically) by the throat. 'You are +destroying,' he cried, 'the hope of the Christian.' But this is not the +hope I speak of, as loosing, and losing, its hold upon men's minds; I +mean the real hope, the hope of heaven. + +When I used to go to church—for my inn is too far removed from it to +admit of my attendance there nowadays—matters were very different. +Heaven and Hell were, in the eyes not only of our congregation, but of +those who hung about the doors in the summer sun, or even played +leap-frog over the grave-stones, as distinct alternatives as the east +and west highways on each side of my inn. If you did not go one way, +you must go the other; and not only so, but an immense desire was felt +by very many to go in the right direction. Now I perceive it is not so. +A considerable number of highway passengers, though even they are less +numerous than of old, are still studious—that is in their +aspirations—to avoid taking (shall I say delicately) the lower road; +but only a few, comparatively, are solicitous to reach the goal of the +upper. + +Let me once more observe that I am speaking of the ordinary +passengers—those who travel by the mail. Of the persons who are +convinced that there never was an Architect of the Universe, and that +Man sprang from the Mollusc, I know little or nothing: they mostly +travel two and two, in gigs, and have quarrelled so dreadfully on the +way, that, at the Inn, they don't speak to one another. The commonalty, +I repeat, are losing their hopes of heaven, just as the grown-up +schoolboy finds his paradise no more in home. I can remember when +divines were never tired of painting the lily, of indulging in the most +glowing descriptions of the Elysian Fields. A popular artist once drew +a picture of them: 'The Plains of Heaven' it was called, and the +painter's name was Martin. If he was to do so now, the public (who are +vulgar) would exclaim 'Betty Martin.' Not that they disbelieve in it, +but that the attractions of the place are dying out, like those of Bath +and Cheltenham. + +Of course some blame attaches to the divines themselves that things +have come to such a pass. 'I protest,' says a great philosopher, 'that +I never enter a church, but the man in the pulpit talks so unlike a +man, as though he had never known what human joys or sorrows are—so +carefully avoids every subject of interest save _one_, and paints that +in colours at once so misty and so meretricious—that I say to myself, I +will never sit under him again.' This may, of course, be only an +ingenious excuse of his for not going to church; but there is really +something in it. The angels, with their harps, on clouds, are now +presented to the eyes, even of faith, in vain; they are still +appreciated on canvas by an old master, but to become one of them is no +longer the common aspiration. There is a suspicion, partly owing, +doubtless, to the modern talk about the dignity and even the divinity +of Labour, that they ought to be doing something else than (as the +American poet puts it with characteristic ii reverence) 'loafing about +the throne;' that we ourselves, with no ear perhaps for music, and with +little voice (alas!) for praise, should take no pleasure in such +avocations. It is not the sceptics—though their influence is getting to +be considerable—who have wrought this change, but the conditions of +modern life. Notwithstanding the cheerful 'returns' as to pauperism, +and the glowing speeches of our Chancellors of the Exchequer, these +conditions are far harder, among the thinking classes, than they were. +The question 'Is Life worth Living?' is one that concerns philosophers +and metaphysicians, and not the persons I have in my mind at all; but +the question, 'Do I wish to be out of it?' is one that is getting +answered very widely—and in the affirmative. This was certainly not the +case in the days of our grand-sires. Which of them ever read those +lines— + +'For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, +This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, +Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, +Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?'— + +without a sympathetic complacency? This may not have been the best of +all possible worlds to them, but none of them wished to exchange it, +save at the proper time, and for the proper place. Thanks to overwork, +and still more to over-worry, it is not so now. There are many +prosperous persons in rude health, of course, who will ask (with a +virtuous resolution that is sometimes to be deplored), 'Do you suppose +then that I wish to cut my throat?' I certainly do not. Do not let us +talk of cutting throats; though, mind you, the average of suicides, so +admirably preserved by the Registrar-General and other painstaking +persons, is not entirely to be depended upon. You should hear the +doctors at my Inn (in the intervals of their abuse of their +professional brethren) discourse upon this topic—on that overdose of +chloral which poor B. took, and on that injudicious self-application of +chloroform which carried off poor C. With the law in such a barbarous +state in relation to self-destruction, and taking into account the +feelings of relatives, there was, of course, only one way of wording +the certificate, but—and then they shake their heads as only doctors +can, and help themselves to port, though they know it is poison to +them. + +It is an old joke that annuitants live for ever, but no annuity ever +had the effect of prolonging life which the present assurance companies +have. How many a time, I wonder, in these later years, has a hand been +stayed, with a pistol or 'a cup of cold poison' in it, by the thought, +'If I do this, my family will lose the money I am insured for, besides +the premiums.' This feeling is altogether different from that which +causes Jeannette and Jeannot in their Paris attic to light their +charcoal fire, stop up the chinks with their love-letters, and die +(very disreputably) 'clasped in one another's arms, and silent in a +last embrace.' There is not one halfpenny's worth of sentiment about it +in the Englishman's case, nor are any such thoughts bred in his brain +while youth is in him. It is in our midway days, with old age touching +us here and there, as autumn 'lays its fiery finger on the leaves' and +withers them, that we first think of it. When the weight of anxiety and +care is growing on us, while the shoulders are becoming bowed (not in +resignation, but in weakness) which have to bear it; when our pains are +more and more constant, our pleasures few and fading, and when whatever +happens, we know, must needs be for the worse—then it is that the +praise of the silver hair and length of days becomes a mockery indeed. + +Was it the prescience of such a state of thought, I wonder (for it +certainly did not exist in their time), that caused good men of old to +extol old age; as though anything could reconcile the mind of man to +the time when the very sun is darkened to him, and 'the clouds return +after the rain?' There is a noble passage in 'Hyperion' which has +always seemed to me to repeat that sentiment in Ecclesiastes; it speaks +of an expression in a man's face: + +'As though the vanward clouds of evil days +Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear +Was with its storied thunder labouring up.' + +This is why poor Paterfamilias, sitting in the family pew, is not so +enamoured of that idea of accomplishing those threescore years and ten +which the young parson, fresh from Cambridge, is describing as such a +lucky number in life's lottery. The attempt to paint it so is +well-meaning, no doubt, 'the vacant chaff well meant for grain;' and it +is touching to see how men generally (knowing that they themselves have +to go through with it) are wont to portray it in cheerful colours. + +A modern philosopher even goes so far as to say that our memories in +old age are always grateful to us. Our pleasures are remembered, but +our pains are forgotten; 'if we try to recall a physical pain,' she +writes (for it is a female), 'we find it to be impossible,' From which +I gather only this for certain, that that woman never had the gout. + +The folks who come my way, indeed, seem to remember their physical +ailments very distinctly, to judge by the way they talk of them; and +are exceedingly apprehensive of their recurrence. Nay, it is curious to +see how some old men will resent the compliments of their juniors on +their state of health or appearance. 'Stuff and nonsense!' cried old +Sam Rogers, grimly; 'I tell you there is no such thing as a fine old +man.' In a humbler walk of life I remember to have heard a similar but +more touching reply. It was upon the great centenarian question raised +by Mr. Thorns. An old woman in a workhouse, said to be a hundred years +of age, was sent for by the Board of Guardians, to decide the point by +her personal testimony. One can imagine the half-dozen portly +prosperous figures, and the contrast their appearance offered to that +of the bent and withered crone. 'Now, Betty,' said the chairman with +unctuous patronage, 'you look hale and hearty enough, yet they tell me +that you are a hundred years old; is this really true?' 'God Almighty +knows, sir,' was her reply, 'but I feel a thousand.' + +And there are so many people nowadays who 'feel a thousand.' + +It is for this reason that the gift of old age is unwished for, and the +prospect of future life without encouragement. It is the modern +conviction that there will be some kind of work in it; and even though +what we shall be set to do may be 'wrought with tumult of acclaim,' we +have had enough of work. What follows, almost as a matter of course, is +that the thought of possible extinction has lost its terrors. Heaven +and its glories may have still their charms for those who are not +wearied out with toil in this life; but the slave draws for himself a +far other picture of home. His is no passionate cry to be admitted into +the eternal city; he murmurs sullenly, 'Let me rest.' + +It was a favourite taunt with the sceptics of old—those Early Fathers +of infidelity, who used to occupy themselves so laboriously with +scraping at the rind of the Christian Faith—that until the Cross arose +men were not afraid of Death. But that arrow has lost its barb. The +Fear of Death, even among professing Christians, is now comparatively +rare; I do not mean merely among dying men—in whom those who have had +acquaintance with deathbeds tell us they see it scarcely ever—but with +the quick and hale. Even with very ignorant persons, the idea that +things may be a great deal worse for us hereafter than even at present +is not generally entertained as respects themselves. A clergyman who +was attending a sick man in his parish expressed a hope to the wife +that she took occasion to remind her husband of his spiritual +condition. 'Oh yes, sir,' she replied, 'many and many a time have I +woke him up o' nights, and cried, "John, John, you little know the +torments as is preparing for you."' But the good woman, it seems, was +not disturbed by any such dire imaginings upon her own account. + +Higher in the social scale, the apprehension of a Gehenna, or at all +events of such a one as our forefathers almost universally believed in, +is rapidly dying out. The mathematician tells us that even as a +question of numbers, 'about one in ten, my good sir, by the most +favourable computations,' the thing is incredible; the philanthropist +inquires indignantly, 'Is the city Arab then, who grows to be thief and +felon as naturally as a tree puts forth its leaves, to be damned in +both worlds?' and I notice that even the clergy who come my way, and +take their weak glass of negus while the coach changes horses, no +longer insist upon the point, but, at the worst, 'faintly trust the +larger hope.' + +Notwithstanding these comparatively cheerful views upon a subject so +important to all passengers on life's highway, the general feeling is, +as I have said, one of profound dissatisfaction; the good old notion +that whatever is is right, is fast disappearing; and in its place there +is a doubt—rarely expressed except among the philosophers, with whom, +as I have said, I have nothing to do—a secret, harassing, and unwelcome +doubt respecting the divine government of the world. It is a question +which the very philosophers are not likely to settle even among +themselves, but it has become very obtrusive and important. Men raise +their eyebrows and shrug their shoulders when it is alluded to, +instead, as of old, of pulverising the audacious questioner on the +spot, or even (as would have happened at a later date) putting him into +Coventry; they have no opinion to offer upon the subject, or at all +events do not wish to talk about it. But it is no longer, be it +observed, 'bad form' in a general way to do so; it is only that the +topic is personally distasteful. + +The once famous advocate of analogy threw a bitter seed among mankind +when he suggested, in all innocence, and merely for the sake of his own +argument, that as the innocent suffered for the guilty in this world, +so it might be in the world to come; and it is bearing bitter fruit. To +feel aweary at the Midway Inn is bad enough; but to be journeying to no +home, and perhaps even to some harsher school than we yet wot of, is +indeed a depressing reflection. + +Hence it comes, I think, or partly hence, that there is now no fun in +the world. Wit we have, and an abundance of grim humour, which evokes +anything but mirth. Nothing would astonish us in the Midway Inn so much +as a peal of laughter. A great writer (though it must be confessed +scarcely an amusing one), who has recently reached his journey's end, +used to describe his animal spirits depreciatingly, as being at the +best but vegetable spirits. And that is now the way with us all. When +Charles Dickens died, it was confidently stated in a great literary +journal that his loss, so far from affecting 'the gaiety of nations,' +would scarcely be felt at all; the power of rousing tears and laughter +being (I suppose the writer thought) so very common. That prophecy has +been by no means fulfilled. But, what is far worse than there being no +humorous writers amongst us, the faculty of appreciating even the old +ones is dying out. There is no such thing as high spirits anywhere. It +is observable, too, how very much public entertainments have increased +of late—a tacit acknowledgment of dulness at home—while, instead of the +lively, if somewhat boisterous, talk of our fathers, we have +drawing-room dissertations on art, and dandy drivel about blue china. + +There is one pleasure only that takes more and more root amongst us, +and never seems to fail, and that is making money. To hear the +passengers at the Midway Inn discourse upon this topic, you would think +they were all commercial travellers. It is most curious how the desire +for pecuniary gain has infected even the idlest, who of course take the +shortest cut to it by way of the race-course. I see young gentlemen, +blond and beardless, telling the darkest secrets to one another, +affecting, one would think, the fate of Europe, but which in reality +relate to the state of the fetlock of the brother to Boanerges. Their +earnestness (which is reserved for this enthralling topic) is quite +appalling. In their elders one has long been accustomed to it, but +these young people should really know better. The interest excited in +society by 'scratchings' has never been equalled since the time of the +Cock Lane ghost. If men would only 'lose their money and look pleasant' +without talking about it, I shouldn't mind; but they _will_ make it a +subject of conversation, as though everyone who liked his glass of wine +should converse upon 'the vintages.' One looks for it in business +people and forgives it; but everyone is now for business. + +The reverence that used to belong to Death is now only paid to it in +the case of immensely rich persons, whose wealth is spoken of with +bated breath. 'He died, sir, worth two millions; a very warm man.' If +you happen to say, though with all reasonable probability and even with +Holy Writ to back you, 'He is probably warmer by this time,' you are +looked upon as a Communist. What the man was is nothing, what he made +is everything. It is the gold alone that we now value: the temple that +might have sanctified the gold is of no account. This worship of mere +wealth has, it is true, this advantage over the old adoration of birth, +that something may possibly be got out of it; to cringe and fawn upon +the people that have blue blood is manifestly futile, since the +peculiarity is not communicable, but it is hoped that, by being shaken +up in the same social bag with millionaires, something may be attained +by what is technically called the 'sweating' process. So far as I have +observed, however, the results are small, while the operation is to the +last degree disagreeable. + +What is very significant of this new sort of golden age is that a +literature of its own has arisen, though of an anomalous kind. It is +presided over by a sort of male Miss Kilmansegge, who is also a model +of propriety. It is as though the dragon that guarded the apples of +Hesperides should be a dragon of virtue. Under the pretence of +extolling prudence and perseverance, he paints money-making as the +highest good, and calls it thrift; and the popularity of this class of +book is enormous. The heroes are all 'self-made' men who come to town +with that proverbial half-crown which has the faculty of accumulation +that used to be confined to snowballs. Like the daughters of the +horse-leech, their cry is 'Give, give,' only instead of blood they want +money; and I need hardly say they get it from other people's pockets. +Love and friendship are names that have lost their meaning, if they +ever had any, with these gentry. They remind one of the miser of old +who could not hear a large sum of money mentioned without an +acceleration of the action of the heart; and perhaps that is the use of +their hearts, which, otherwise, like that of the spleen in other +people, must be only a subject of vague conjecture. They live abhorred +and die respected; leaving all their heaped-up wealth to some +charitable institution, the secretary of which levants with it +eventually to the United States. + +This last catastrophe, however, is not mentioned in these biographies, +the subjects of which are held up as patterns of wisdom and prudence +for the rising generation. I shall have left the Midway Inn, thank +Heaven, for a residence of smaller dimensions, before it has grown up. +Conceive an England inhabited by self-made men! + +Has it ever struck you how gloomy is the poetry of the present day? +This is not perhaps of very much consequence, since everybody has a +great deal too much to do to permit them to read it; but how full of +sighs, and groans, and passionate bewailings it is! And also how deuced +difficult! It is almost as inarticulate as an Æolian harp, and quite as +melancholy. There are one or two exceptions, of course, as in the case +of Mr. Calverley and Mr. Locker; but even the latter is careful to +insist upon the fact that, like those who have gone before us, we must +all quit Piccadilly. 'At present,' as dear Charles Lamb writes, 'we +have the advantage of them;' but there is no one to remind us of that +now, nor is it, as I have said, the general opinion that it _is_ an +advantage. + +It is this prevailing gloom, I think, which accounts for the enormous +and increasing popularity of fiction. Observe how story-telling creeps +into the very newspapers (along with their professional fibbing); and, +even in the magazines, how it lies down side by side with 'burning +questions,' like the weaned child putting its hand into the +cockatrice's den. For your sake, my good fellow, who write stories +[here my friend glowered at me compassionately], I am glad of it; but +the fact is of melancholy significance. It means that people are glad +to find themselves 'anywhere, anywhere, out of the world,' and (I must +be allowed to add) they are generally gratified, for anything less like +real life than what some novelists portray it is difficult to imagine. + +[Here he stared at me so exceedingly hard, that anyone with a less +heavenly temper, or who had no material reasons for putting up with it, +would have taken his remark as personal, and gone away. + +Another cause of the absence of good fellowship amongst us (he went on) +is the growth of education. It sticks like a fungus to everybody, and +though, it is fair to say, mostly outside, does a great deal of +mischief. The scholastic interest has become so powerful that nobody +dares speak a word against it; but the fact is, men are educated far +beyond their wits. You can't fill any cup beyond what it will hold, and +the little cups are exceedingly numerous. Boys are now crammed (with +information) like turkeys (but unfortunately not killed at Christmas), +and when they grow up there is absolutely no room in them for a joke. +The prigs that frequent my Midway Inn are as the sands in its +hour-glass, only with no chance, alas! of their running out. The wisdom +of our ancestors limited education, and very wisely, to the three R's; +that is all that is necessary for the great mass of mankind: whereas +the pick of them, with those clamping irons well stuck to their heels, +will win their way to the topmost peaks of knowledge. + +At the very best—that is to say when it produces _anything_—what does +the most costly education in this country produce in ordinary minds but +the deplorable habit of classical quotation? If it could teach them to +_think_—but that is a subject, my dear friend, into which you will +scarcly follow me. + +[I could have knocked his head off if he had not been so exceptionally +stout and strong, and as it was, I took up my hat to go, when a thought +struck me.] + +'Among your valuable remarks upon the ideas entertained by society at +present, you have said nothing, my dear sir, about the ladies.' + +'I never speak of anything,' he replied with dignity, 'which I do not +thoroughly understand. Man I do know—down to his boots; but woman'—here +he sighed and hesitated—'no; I don't know nearly so much of her.' + + + + +THE CRITIC ON THE HEARTH. + + +It has often struck me that the relation of two important members of +the social body to one another has never been sufficiently considered, +or treated of, so far as I know, either by the philosopher or the poet. +I allude to that which exists between the omnibus driver and his +conductor. Cultivating literature as I do upon a little oatmeal, and +driving, when in a position to be driven at all, in that humble +vehicle, the 'bus, I have had, perhaps, exceptional opportunities for +observing their mutual position and behaviour; and it is very peculiar. +When the 'bus is empty, these persons are sympathetic and friendly to +one another, almost to tenderness; but when there is much traffic, a +tone of severity is observable upon the side of the conductor. 'What +are yer a-driving on for just as a party's getting in? Will nothing +suit but to break a party's neck?' 'Wake up, will yer? or do yer want +that ere Bayswater to pass us?' are inquiries he will make in the most +peremptory manner. Or he will concentrate contempt in the laconic but +withering observation: 'Now then, stoopid!' + +When we consider that the driver is after all the driver—that the 'bus +is under his guidance and management, and may be said _pro tem_, to be +his own—indeed, in case of collision or other serious extremity, he +calls it so: 'What the infernal regions are yer banging into my 'bus +for?' etc., etc.,—I say, this being his exalted position, the injurious +language of the man on the step is, to say the least of it, +disrespectful. + +On the other hand, it is the conductor who fills the 'bus, and even +entices into it, by lures and wiles, persons who are not voluntarily +going his way at all. It is he who advertises its presence to the +passers-by, and spares neither lung nor limb in attracting passengers. +If the driver is lord and king, yet the conductor has a good deal to do +with the administration: just as the Mikado of Japan, who sits above +the thunder and is almost divine, is understood to be assisted and even +'conducted' by the Tycoon. The connection between those potentates is +perhaps the most exact reproduction of that between the 'bus driver and +his cad; but even in England there is a pretty close parallel to it in +the mutual relation of the author and the professional critic. + +While the former is in his spring-time, the analogy is indeed almost +complete. For example, however much he may have plagiarised, the book +does belong to the author: he calls it, with pardonable pride (and +especially if anyone runs it down), 'my book.' He has written it, and +probably paid pretty handsomely for getting it published. Even the +right of translation, if you will look at the bottom of the title-page, +is somewhat superfluously reserved to him. Yet nothing can exceed the +patronage which he suffers at the hands of the critic, and is compelled +to submit to in sullen silence. When the book-trade is slack—that is, +in the summer season—the pair get on together pretty amicably. 'This +book,' says the critic, 'may be taken down to the seaside, and lounged +over not unprofitably;' or, 'Readers may do worse than peruse this +unpretending little volume of fugitive verse;' or even, 'We hail this +new aspirant to the laurels of Apollo.' But in the thick of the +publishing season, and when books pour into the reviewer by the +cartful, nothing can exceed the violence, and indeed sometimes the +virulence, of his language. That 'Now then, stoopid!' of the 'bus +conductor pales beside the lightnings of his scorn. + +'Among the lovers of sensation, it is possible that some persons may be +found with tastes so utterly vitiated as to derive pleasure from this +monstrous production.' I cull these flowers of speech from a wreath +placed by a critic of the _Slasher_ on my own early brow. Ye gods, how +I hated him! How I pursued him with more than Corsican vengeance; +traduced him in public and private; and only when I had thrust my knife +(metaphorically) into his detested carcase, discovered I had been +attacking the wrong man. It is a lesson I have never forgotten; and I +pray you, my younger brothers of the pen, to lay it to heart. Believe +rather that your unfriendly critic, like the bee who is fabled to sting +and die, has perished after his attempt on your reputation; and let the +tomb be his asylum. For even supposing you get the right sow by the +ear—or rather, the wild boar with the 'raging tooth'—what can it profit +you? It is not like that difference of opinion between yourself and +twelve of your fellow-countrymen which may have such fatal results. You +are not an Adonis (except in outward form, perhaps), that you can be +ripped up with his tusk. His hard words do not break your bones. If +they are uncalled for, their cruelty, believe me, can hurt only your +vanity. While it is just possible—though indeed in your case in the +very highest degree improbable—that the gentleman may have been right. + +In the good old times we are told that a buffet from the hand of an +Edinburgh or Quarterly Reviewer would lay a young author dead at his +feet. If it was so, he must have been naturally very deficient in +vitality. It certainly did not kill Byron, though it was a knock-down +blow; he rose from that combat from earth, like Antæus, all the +stronger for it. The story of its having killed Keats, though embalmed +in verse, is apocryphal; and if such blows were not fatal in those +times, still less so are they nowadays. On the other hand, if authors +are difficult to slay, it is infinitely harder work to give them life +by what the doctors term 'artificial respiration'—puffing. The amount +of breath expended in the days of 'the Quarterlies' in this hopeless +task would have moved windmills. Not a single favourite of those +critics—selected, that is, from favouritism, and apart from merit—now +survives. They failed even to obtain immortality for the writers in +whom there was really something of genius, but whom they extolled +beyond their deserts. Their pet idol, for example, was Samuel Rogers. +And who reads Rogers's poems now? We remember something about them, and +that is all; they are very literally 'Pleasures of Memory.' + +And if these things are true of the past, how much more so are they of +the present! I venture to think, in spite of some voices to the +contrary, that criticism is much more honest than it used to be: +certainly less influenced by political feeling, and by the interests of +publishing houses; more temperate, if not more judicious, and—in the +higher literary organs, at least—unswayed by personal prejudice. But +the result of even the most favourable notices upon a book is now but +small. I can remember when a review in the _Times_ was calculated by +the 'Row' to sell an entire edition. Those halcyon days—if halcyon days +they were—are over. People read books for themselves now; judge for +themselves; and buy only when they are absolutely compelled, and cannot +get them from the libraries. In the case of an author who has already +secured a public, it is indeed extraordinary what little effect +reviews, either good or bad, have upon his circulation. Those who like +his works continue to read them, no matter what evil is written of +them; and those who don't like them are not to be persuaded (alas!) to +change their minds, though his latest effort should be described as +though it had dropped from the heavens. I could give some statistics +upon this point not a little surprising, but statistics involve +comparisons—which are odious. As for fiction, its success depends more +upon what Mrs. Brown says to Mrs. Jones as to the necessity of getting +that charming book from the library while there is yet time, than on +all the reviews in Christendom. + +O Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, +'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases +Than to see the bright eyes of those dear ones discover +They thought that I was not unworthy— + +of a special messenger to Mr. Mudie's. + +Heaven bless them! for, when we get old and stupid, they still stick by +one, and are not to be seduced from their allegiance by any blaring of +trumpets, or clashing of cymbals, that heralds a new arrival among the +story-tellers. + +On the other hand, as respects his first venture, the author is very +dependent upon what the critics say of him. It is the conductor, you +know (I wouldn't call him a 'cad,' even in fun, for ten thousand +pounds), on whom, to return to our metaphor, the driver is dependent +for the patronage of his vehicle, and even for the announcement of its +existence. A good review is still the very best of advertisements to a +new author; and even a bad one is better than no review at all. Indeed, +I have heard it whispered that a review which speaks unfavourably of a +work of fiction, upon moral grounds, is of very great use to it. This, +however, the same gossips say, is mainly confined to works of fiction +written by female authors for readers of their own sex—'_by_ ladies +_for_ ladies,' as a feminine _Pall Mall Gazette_ might describe itself. + +Nor would I be understood to say that even a well-established author is +not affected by what the critics may say of him; I only state that his +circulation is not—albeit they may make his very blood curdle. I have a +popular writer in my mind, who never looks at a newspaper unless it +comes to him by a hand he can trust, for fear his eyes should light +upon an unpleasant review. His argument is this: 'I have been at this +work for the last twelve months, thinking of little else and putting my +best intelligence (which is considerable) at its service. Is it humanly +probable that a reviewer who has given his mind to it for a less number +of hours, can suggest anything in the way of improvement worthy of my +consideration? I am supposing him to be endowed with ability and +actuated by good faith; that he has not failed in my own profession and +is not jealous of my popularity; yet even thus, how is it possible that +his opinion can be of material advantage to me? If favourable, it gives +me pleasure, because it flatters my _amour propre_, and I am even not +quite sure that it does not afford a stimulating encouragement; but if +unfavourable, I own it gives me considerable annoyance. [This is his +euphemistic phrase to express the feeling of being in a hornets' nest +without his clothes on.] On the other hand, if the critic is a mere +hireling, or a young gentleman from the university who is trying his +'prentice hand at a lowish rate of remuneration upon a veteran like +myself, how still more idle would it be to regard his views!' + +And it appears to me that there is really something in these arguments. +As regards the latter part of them, by-the-bye, I had the pleasure of +seeing my own last immortal story spoken of in an American magazine—the +_Atlantic Monthly_—as the work of 'a bright and prosperous young +author.' The critic (Heaven bless his young heart, and give him a happy +Whitsuntide) evidently imagined it to be my first production. In +another Transatlantic organ, a critic, speaking of the last work of +that literary veteran, the late Mr. Le Fanu, observes: 'If this young +writer would only model himself upon the works of Mr. William Black in +his best days, we foresee a great future before him.' + +There is one thing that I think should be set down to the credit of the +literary profession—that for the most part they take their 'slatings' +(which is the professional term for them) with at least outward +equanimity. I have read things of late, written of an old and popular +writer, ten times more virulent than anything Mr. Ruskin wrote of Mr. +Whistler: yet neither he, nor any other man of letters, thinks of +flying to his mother's apron-string, or of setting in motion old Father +Antic, the Law. Perhaps it is that we have no money, or perhaps, like +the judicious author of whom I have spoken, we abstain from reading +unpleasant things. I wish to goodness we could abstain from hearing of +them; but the 'd——d good-natured friend' is an eternal creation. He has +altered, however, since Sheridan's time in his method of proceeding. He +does not say, 'There is a very unpleasant notice of you in the +_Scorpion_, my dear fellow, which I deplore.' The scoundrel now affects +a more light-hearted style. 'There is a review of your last book in the +_Scorpion_', he says, 'which will amuse you. It is very malicious, and +evidently the offspring of personal spite, but it is very clever.' Then +you go down to your club, and take the thing up with the tongs, when +nobody is looking, and make yourself very miserable; or you buy it, +going home in the cab, and, having spoilt your appetite for dinner with +it, tear it up very small, throw it out of window, and swear you have +never seen it. + +One forgives the critic—perhaps—but never the good-natured friend. It +is always possible—to the wise man—to refrain from reading the +lucubration of the former, but he cannot avoid the latter: which brings +me to the main subject of this paper—the Critic on the Hearth. One can +be deaf to the voice of the public hireling, but it is impossible to +shut one's ears to the private communications of one's friends and +family—all meant for our good, no doubt, but which are nevertheless +insufferable. + +In Miss Martineau's Autobiography there is a passage expressing her +surprise that whereas in all other cases there is a certain modest +reticence in respect to other people's business when it is of a special +kind, the profession of literature is made an exception. As there is no +one but imagines that he can poke a fire and drive a gig, so everyone +believes he can write a book, or at all events (like that blasphemous +person in connection with the Creation) that he can give a wrinkle or +two to the author. + +I wonder what a parson would say, if a man who never goes to church +save when his babies are christened, or by accident to get out of a +shower, should volunteer his advice about sermon-making? or an artist, +to whom the man without arms, who is wheeled about in the streets for +coppers, should recommend a greater delicacy of touch? Indeed, metaphor +fails me, and I gasp for mere breath when I think of the astounding +impudence of some people. If I possessed a tithe of it, I should surely +have made my fortune by this time, and be in the enjoyment of the +greatest prosperity. It must be remembered, too, that the opinion of +the Critics on the Hearth is always volunteered (indeed, one would as +soon think of asking for it as for a loan from the Sultan of Turkey), +and in nine cases out of ten it is unfavourable. One has no objection +to their praise, nor to any amount of it; what is so abhorrent is their +advice, and still more their disapproval. It is like throwing 'half a +brick' at you, which, utterly valueless in itself, still hurts you when +it hits you. And the worst of it is that, apart from their rubbishy +opinions, one likes these people; they are one's friends and relatives, +and to cut one's moorings from them altogether would be to sail over +the sea of life without a port to touch at. + +The early life of the author is especially embittered by the utterances +of these good folks. As a prophet is of no honour in his own country, +so it is with the young aspirant for literary fame with his folks at +home. They not only disbelieve in him, but—generally, however, with one +or two exceptions, who are invaluable to him in the way of +encouragement—'make hay' of him and his pretensions in the most +heartless style. If he produces a poem, it achieves immortality in the +sense of his 'never hearing the last of it;' it is the jest of the +family till they have all grown up. But this he can bear, because his +noble mind recognises its own greatness; he regards his jeering +brethren in the same light as the philosophic writer beholds 'the vapid +and irreflective reader.' When they tell him they 'can't make head or +tail of his blessed poetry,' he comforts himself with the reflection of +the great German (which he has read in a translation) that the clearest +handwriting cannot be read by twilight. It is when his literary talents +have received more or less recognition from the public at large, that +home criticism becomes so painful to him. His brethren are then boys no +longer, but parsons, lawyers, and doctors; and though they don't +venture to interfere with one-another as regards their individual +professions, they make no sort of scruple about interfering with _him_. +They write to him their unsolicited advice and strictures. This is the +parson's letter: + +'MY DEAR DICK, + 'I like your last book much better than the rest of them; but I + don't like your heroine. She strikes both Julia and myself [Julia + is his wife, who is acquainted with no literature but the + cookery-book] as rather namby-pamby. The descriptions, however, are + charming; we both recognised dear old Ramsgate at once. [The + original of the locality in the novel being Dieppe.] The plot is + also excellent, though we think we have some recollection of it + elsewhere; but it must be so difficult to hit upon anything + original in these days. Thanks for your kind remembrance of us at + Christmas: the oysters were excellent. We were sorry to see that + ill-natured little notice in the _Scourge_. + +'Yours affectionately, +'BOB.' + +Jack the lawyer writes: + +'DEAR DICK, + 'You are really becoming ["Becoming?" he thinks _that_ becoming] + quite a great man: we could hardly get your last book from Mudie's, + though I suppose he takes very small quantities of copies, except + from really popular authors. Marion was charmed with your heroine + [Dick rather likes Marion; and doesn't think Jack treats her with + the consideration she deserves], and I have no doubt women in + general will admire her, but your hero—you know I always speak my + mind—is rather a duffer. You should go into the world more, and + sketch from life. The Vice-Chancellor gave me great pleasure by + speaking of your early poems very highly the other day, and I + assure you it was quite a drop down for me, to find that he was + referring to some other writer of the same name. Of course I did + not undeceive him. I wish, my dear fellow, you would write stories + in one volume instead of three. You write a _short_ story + capitally. + +'Yours ever, +'JACK.' + +Tom the surgeon belongs to that very objectionable class of humanity, +called, by ancient writers, wags: + +'MY DEAR DICK, + 'I cannot help writing to thank you for the relief afforded to me + by the perusal of your last volume. I had been suffering from + neuralgia, and every prescription in the Pharmacopæia for producing + sleep had failed until I tried _that_. Dear Maggie [an odious + woman, who calls novels "light literature," and affects to be blue] + read it to me herself, so it was given every chance; but I think + you must acknowledge that it was a little spun out. Maggie assures + me—I have not read them myself, for you know what little time I + have for such things—that the first two volumes, with the exception + of the characters of the hero and heroine, which she pronounces to + be rather feeble, are first-rate. Why don't you write two-volume + novels? There is always something in analogy: reflect how seldom + Nature herself produces three at a birth: when she does, it is only + two, at most, which survive. We shall look forward to your next + effort with much interest, but we hope you will give more time and + pains to it. Remember what Horace says upon this subject (He has no + more knowledge of Horace than he has of Sanscrit, but he has read + the quotation in that vile review in the _Scourge_.) Maggie thinks + you live too luxuriously: if your expenses were less you would not + be compelled to write so much, and you would do it better. Excuse + this well-meant advice from an elder brother. + +'Yours always, +'Tom.' + +'One's sisters, and one's cousins, and one's aunts' also write in more +or less the same style, though, to do their sex justice, less +offensively. 'If you were to go abroad, my dear Dick,' says one, 'it +would expand your mind. There is nothing to blame in your last +production, which strikes me (what I could understand of it at least, +for some of it is a little Bohemian) as very pleasing; but the fact is, +that English subjects are quite used up.' Others discover for +themselves the originals of Dick's characters in persons he has never +dreamt of describing, and otherwise exhibit a most marvellous +familiarity with his materials. 'Hennie, who has just been here, is +immensely delighted with your satirical sketch of her husband. He, +however, as you may suppose, is _wild_, and says you had better +withdraw your name from the candidates' book at his club. I don't know +how many black balls exclude, but he has a good many friends there.' +Another writes: 'Of course we all recognised Uncle George in your Mr. +Flibbertigibbet; but we try not to laugh; indeed our sense of loss is +too recent. Seriously, I think you might have waited till the poor old +man—who was always kind to you, Dick—was cold in his grave.' + +Some of these excellent creatures send incidents of real life which +they are sure will be useful to 'dear Dick' for his next +book—narratives of accidents in a hansom cab, of missing the train by +the Underground, and of Mr. Jones being late for his own wedding, +'which, though nothing in themselves, actually did happen, you know, +and which, properly dressed up, as you so well know how to do,' will, +they are sure, obtain for him a marked success. 'There is nothing like +reality,' they say, he may depend upon it, 'for coming home to people.' + +After all, one need not read these abominable letters. One's relatives +(thank Heaven!) usually live in the country. The real Critics on the +Hearth are one's personal acquaintances in town, whom one cannot +escape. + +'My dear friend,' said one to me the other day—a most cordial and +excellent fellow, by-the-bye (only too frank)—'I like you, as you know, +beyond everything, personally, but I cannot read your books.' + +'My dear Jones,' replied I, 'I regret that exceedingly; for it is you, +and men like you, whose suffrages I am most anxious to win. Of the +approbation of all intelligent and educated persons I am certain; but +if I could only obtain that of the million, I should be a happy man.' + +But even when I have thus demolished Jones, I still feel that I owe him +a grudge. 'What the Deuce is it to me whether Jones likes my books or +not? and why does he tell me he doesn't like them?' + +Of the surpassing ignorance of these good people, I have just heard an +admirable anecdote. A friend of a justly popular author meets him in +the club and congratulates him upon his last story in the _Slasher_ [in +which he has never written a line]. It is so full of farce and fun [the +author is a grave writer]. 'Only I don't see why it is not advertised +under the same title in the other newspapers.' The fact being that the +story in the _Slasher_ is a parody—and not a very good-natured one—upon +the author's last work, and resembles it only as a picture in _Vanity +Fair_ resembles its original. + +Some Critics on the Hearth are not only good-natured, but have rather +too high, or, if that is impossible, let us say too pronounced, an +opinion of the abilities of their literary friends. They wonder why +they do not employ their gigantic talents in some enduring monument, +such as a life of 'Alexander the Great' or a popular history of the +Visigoths. To them literature is literature, and they do not concern +themselves with little niceties of style or differences of subject. +Others again, though extremely civil, are apt to affect more enthusiasm +than they feel. They admire one's works without exception—'they are all +absolutely charming'—but they would be placed in a position of great +embarrassment if they were asked to name their favourite: for, as a +matter of fact, they are ignorant of the very names of them. A novelist +of my acquaintance lent his last work to a lady cousin because she +'really could not wait till she got it from the library;' besides, 'she +was ill, and wanted some amusing literature.' After a month or so he +got his three volumes back, with a most gushing letter. It 'had been +the comfort of many a weary hour of sleeplessness,' etc. The thought of +having 'smoothed the pillow and soothed the pain' would, she felt sure, +be gratifying to him. Perhaps it would have been, only she had omitted +to cut the pages even of the first volume. + +But, as a general rule, these volunteer censors plume themselves on +discovering defects and not beauties. When any author is particularly +popular and has been long before the public, they have two methods of +discoursing upon him in relation to their literary friend. In the +first, they represent him as a model of excellence, and recommend their +friend to study him, though without holding out much hope of his ever +becoming his rival; in the second, they describe him as 'worked out,' +and darkly hint that sooner or later [they mean sooner] their friend +will be in the same unhappy condition. These, I need not say, are among +the most detestable specimens of their class, and only to be equalled +by those excellent literary judges who are always appealing to +posterity, which, even if a little temporary success has crowned you +to-day, will relegate you to your proper position to-morrow. If one +were weak enough to argue with these gentry, it would be easy to show +that popular authors are not 'worked out,' but only have the appearance +of being so from their taking their work too easily. Those whose +calling it is to depict human nature in fiction are especially subject +to this weakness; they do not give themselves the trouble to study new +characters, or at first hand, as of old; they sit at home and receive +the congratulations of Society without paying due attention to that +somewhat changeful lady, and they draw upon their memory, or their +imagination, instead of studying from the life. Otherwise, when they do +not give way to that temptation of indolence which arises from +competence and success, there is no reason why their reputation should +suffer, since, though they may lack the vigour or high spirits of those +who would push them from their stools, their experience and knowledge +of the world are always on the increase. + +As to the argument with regard to posterity which is so popular with +the Critic on the Hearth, I am afraid he has no greater respect for the +opinion of posterity himself than for that of his possible +great-great-granddaughter. Indeed, he only uses it as being a weapon +the blow of which it is impossible to parry, and with the object of +being personally offensive. It is, moreover, noteworthy that his +position, which is sometimes taken up by persons of far greater +intelligence, is inconsistent with itself. The praisers of posterity +are also always the praisers of the past; it is only the present which +is in their eyes contemptible. Yet to the next generation this present +will be _their_ past, and, however valueless may be the verdict of +today, how much more so, by the most obvious analogy, will be that of +to-morrow. It is probable, indeed, though it is difficult to believe +it, that the Critics on the Hearth of the generation to come will make +themselves even more ridiculous than their immediate predecessors. + + + + +SHAM ADMIRATION IN LITERATURE. + + +In all highly civilised communities Pretence is prominent, and sooner +or later invades the regions of Literature. In the beginning, this is +not altogether to be reprobated; it is the rude homage which Ignorance, +conscious of its disgrace, offers to Learning; but after awhile, +Pretence becomes systematised, gathers strength from numbers and +impunity, and rears its head in such a manner as to suggest it has some +body and substance belonging to it. In England, literary pretence is +more universal than elsewhere from our method of education. When young +gentlemen from ten to sixteen are set to study poetry (a subject for +which not one in a hundred has the least taste or capability even when +he reads it in his own language) in Greek and Latin authors, it is only +a natural consequence that their views upon it should be slightly +artificial. The youth who objected to the alphabet that it seemed +hardly worth while to have gone through so much to have acquired so +little, was exceptionally sagacious; the more ordinary lad conceives +that what has cost him so much time and trouble, and entailed so many +pains and penalties, must needs have something in it, though it has +never met his eye. Hence arises our public opinion upon the ancient +classics, which I am afraid is somewhat different from (what painters +term) the private view. If you take the ordinary admirer of Æschylus, +for example—not the scholar, but the man who has had what he believes +to be 'a liberal education'—and appeal to his opinion upon some passage +in a British dramatist, say Shakespeare, it is ten to one that he shows +not only ignorance of the author (the odds are twenty to one about +_that_), but utter inability to grasp the point in question; it is too +deep for him, and, especially, too subtle. If you are cruel enough to +press him, he will unconsciously betray the fact that he has never felt +a line of poetry in his life. He honestly believes that the 'Seven +against Thebes' is one of the greatest works that ever were written, +just as a child believes the same of the 'Seven Champions of +Christendom.' A great wit once observed, when bored by the praises of a +man who spoke six languages, that he had known a man to speak a dozen, +and yet not say a word worth hearing in any one of them. The humour of +the remark, as sometimes happens, has caused its wisdom to be +underrated; for the fact is that, in very many cases, all the +intelligence of which a mind is capable is expended upon the mere +acquisition of a foreign tongue. As to getting anything out of it in +the way of ideas, and especially of poetical ones, that is almost never +attained. There are, indeed, many who have a special facility for +languages, but in their case (with a few exceptions) one may say +without uncharity that the acquisition of ideas is not their object, +though if they did acquire them they would probably be new ones. The +majority of us, however, have much difficulty in surmounting the +obstacle of an alien tongue; and when we have done so we are naturally +inclined to overrate the advantages thus attained. Everyone knows the +poor creature who quotes French on all occasions with a certain stress +on the accent, designed to arouse a doubt in his hearers as to whether +he was not actually born in Paris. _He_, of course, is a low specimen +of the class in question, but almost all of us derive a certain +intellectual gratification from the mastery of another language, and as +we gradually attain to it, whenever we find a meaning we are apt to +mistake it for a beauty.[1] Nay, I am convinced that many admire this +or that (even) British poet from the fact that here and there his +meaning has gleamed upon them with all the charm that accompanies +unexpectedness. + + [1] Since the above was written, my attention has been called to the + following remark of De Quincey: 'As must ever be the case with readers + not sufficiently masters of a language to bring the true pretensions + of a work to any test of feeling, they are for ever mistaking for some + pleasure conferred by the writer, what is, in fact, the pleasure + naturally attached to the sense of a difficulty overcome.' + +Since classical learning is compulsory with us, this bastard admiration +is much more often excited with respect to the Greek and Latin poets. +Men may not only go through the whole curriculum of a university +education, but take high honours in it, without the least intellectual +advantage beyond the acquisition of a few quotations. This is not, of +course (good heavens!), because the classics have nothing to teach us +in the way of poetical ideas, but simply because to the ordinary mind +the acquisition of a poetical idea is very difficult, and when conveyed +in a foreign language is impossible. If the same student had given the +same time—a monstrous thought, of course, but not impracticable—to the +cultivation of Shakespeare and the old dramatists, or even to the more +modern English poets and thinkers, he would certainly have got more out +of them, though he would have missed the delicate suggestiveness of the +Greek aorist, and the exquisite subtleties of the particle _de_. Having +acquired these last, however, and not for nothing, it is not surprising +that he should esteem them very highly, and, being unable to popularise +them at dinner-parties and the like, he falls back upon praise of the +classics generally. + +Such are the circumstances which, more particularly in this country, +have led to a well-nigh universal habit of literary lying—of a pretence +of admiration for certain works of which in reality we know very +little, and for which, if we knew more, we should perhaps care even +less. + +There are certain books which are standard, and as it were planted in +the British soil, before which the great majority of us bow the knee +and doff the cap with a reverence that, in its ignorance, reminds one +of fetish worship, and, in its affectation, of the passion for High +Art. The works without which, we are told at book auctions, 'no +gentleman's library can be considered complete,' are especially the +objects of this adoration. The 'Rambler,' for example, is one of them. +I was once shut up for a week of snowstorms in a mountain inn, with the +'Rambler' and one other publication. The latter was a Shepherd's Guide, +with illustrations of the way in which sheep are marked by their +various owners for the purpose of identification: 'Cropped near ear, +upper key bitted far, a pop on the head and another at the tail head, +ritted, and with two red strokes down both shoulders,' etc. It was +monotonous, but I confess that there were times when I felt it some +comfort in having that picture-book to fall back upon, to alternate +with the 'Rambler.' + +The essay, like port wine, I have noticed, requires age for its due +appreciation. Leigh Hunt's 'Indicator' comprises some admirable essays, +but the general public have not a word to say for them; it may be urged +that that is because they had not read the 'Indicator' But why then do +they praise the 'Rambler' and Montaigne? That comforting word, +'Mesopotamia,' which has been so often alluded to in religious matters, +has many a parallel in profane literature. + +A good deal of this mock worship is of course due to abject cowardice. +A man who says he doesn't like the 'Rambler,' runs, with some folks, +the risk of being thought a fool; but he is sure to be thought that, +for something or another, under any circumstances; and, at all events, +why should he not content himself, when the 'Rambler' is belauded, with +holding his tongue and smiling acquiescence? It must be conceded that +there are a few persons who really have read the 'Rambler,' a work, of +course, I am merely using as a type of its class. In their young days +it was used as a schoolbook, and thought necessary as a part of polite +education; and as they have read little or nothing since, it is only +reasonable that they should stick to their colours. Indeed, the French +satirist's boast that he could predicate the views of any man with +regard to both worlds, if he were only supplied with the simple data of +his age and his income, is quite true in the general with regard to +literary taste. Given the age of the ordinary individual—that is to say +of the gentleman 'fond of books, but who has really no time for +reading'—and it is easy enough to guess his literary idols. They are +the gods of his youth, and, whether he has been 'suckled in a creed +outworn' or not, he knows no other. These persons, however, rarely give +their opinion about literary matters, except on compulsion; they are +harmless and truthful. The tendency of society in general, on the other +hand, is not only to praise the 'Rambler' which they have not read, but +to express a noble scorn for those who have read it and don't like it. + +I remember, as a young man, being greatly struck by the independence of +character exhibited by Miss Bronte in a certain confession she made in +respect to Miss Austen's novels. It was at a period when everybody +professed to adore them, and especially the great-guns of literature. +Walter Scott thought more highly of the genius of the author of +'Mansfield Park' even than of that of his favourite, Miss Edgeworth. +Macaulay speaks of her as though she were the Eclipse of +novelists—'first, and the rest nowhere'—though his opinion, it is true, +lost something of its force from the contempt he expressed for 'the +rest,' among whom were some much better ones. Dr. Whewell, a very +different type of mind, had 'Mansfield Park,' I believe, read to him on +his death-bed. And, indeed, up to the present date, some +highly-cultured persons of my acquaintance take the same view. They may +be very possibly right, but that is no reason why the people who have +never read Miss Austen's novels—and very few have—should ape the +fashion. Now, the authoress of 'Jane Eyre' did not derive much pleasure +from the perusal of the works of the other Jane. 'I know it's very +wrong,' she modestly said, 'but the fact is I can't read them. They +have not got story enough in them to engage my attention. I don't want +my blood curdled, but I like it stirred. Miss Austen strikes me as +milk-and-watery, and, to say truth, as dull.' + +This opinion she has, in effect, repeated in her published writings, +but I had only heard her verbal expression of it; and I admired her +courage. If she had been a man, struggling, as she then was, for a +position in literature, she would not have dared to say half as much. +For, what is very curious, the advocates of the classic authors—those I +mean whom antiquity has more or less hallowed—instead of pitying those +unhappy wights who confess their want of appreciation of them, fly at +them with bludgeons, and dance upon their prostrate bodies with clogs. + +'For who would rush on a benighted man, +And give him two black eyes for being blind?' + +inquires the poet. I answer, 'lots of people,' and especially those who +worship the pagan divinities of literature. The same thing happens—but +_their_ fury is more excusable, because they have less natural +intelligence—with the lovers of music. Instead of being sorry for the +poor folks who have 'no ear,' and whom 'a little music in the evening' +bores to extremity, they overwhelm them with reproaches for what is in +fact a natural infirmity. 'You Goth! you Vandal!' they exclaim, 'how +contemptible is the creature who has no music in his soul!' Which is +really very rude. Even persons who are not musical have their feelings. +'Hath not a Jew ears?'—that is to say, though they have 'no ear,' they +understand what is abusive language and resent it. + +I am not saying one word against established reputations in literature. +The very fact of their being established (even the 'Rambler,' for +example, has its merits) is in their favour; and, indeed, some of the +works I shall refer to are masterpieces. My objection is to the sham +admiration of them, which does their authors no good (for their +circulation is now of no consequence to them), and is injurious not +only to modern writers (who are generally made the subject of base +comparison), but especially to the utterers of this false coin +themselves. One cannot tell falsehoods, even about one's views in +literature, without injury to one's morals, yet to 'tell the truth and +shame the devil' is easy, as it would seem, compared with telling the +truth and defying the critics. + +I have alluded to the intrepidity of Miss Bronte in this matter; and, +curiously enough, it is women who have the most courage in the +expression of their literary opinions. It may be said, of course, that +this is due to the audacity of ignorance, and a well-known line may be +quoted (for some people, as I have said, are rude) in which certain +angels (who are _not_ women) are represented as being afraid to tread +in certain places. But I am speaking of women who are great readers. +Miss Martineau once confessed to me that she could see no beauties in +'Tom Jones.' 'Of course,' she said, 'the coarseness disgusts me, but +apart from that, I see no sort of merit in it.' 'What?' I replied, 'no +humour, no knowledge of human life?' 'No; to me it is a wearisome +book.' + +I disagreed with her very much upon that point, and do so still; yet, +apart from the coarseness (which does not disgust everybody, let me +tell you), there is a good deal of tedious reading in 'Tom Jones.' At +all events that expression of opinion from such lips strikes me as +noteworthy. + +It may here be said that there are many English authors of old date, +some of whose beauties are unintelligible except to those who are +acquainted with the classics; and 'Tom Jones' is one of them. Many of +the introductions to the chapters, not to mention a certain travestie +of an Homeric battle, must needs be as wearisome to those who are not +scholars, as the spectacle of a burlesque is to those who have not seen +the original play. This is still more the case with our old poets, +especially Milton. I very much doubt, in spite of the universal chorus +to the contrary, whether 'Lycidas' is much admired by readers who are +only acquainted with English literature; I am quite sure it never +touched their hearts as, for example, 'In Memoriam' does. + +I once beheld a young lady of great literary taste, and of exquisite +sensibility, torn to pieces (figuratively) and trampled upon by a great +scholar for venturing to make a comparison between those two poems. Its +invocation to the Muses, and the general classical air which pervades +it, had destroyed for her the pathos of 'Lycidas,' whereas to her +antagonist those very imperfections appeared to enhance its beauty. I +did not interfere, because the wretch was her husband, and it would +have been worse for her if I had, but my sympathies were entirely with +her. Her sad fate—for the massacre took place in public—would, I was +well aware, have the effect of making people lie worse than ever about +Milton. On that same evening, while some folks were talking about Mr. +Morris's 'Earthly Paradise,' I heard a scornful voice exclaim, 'Oh! +give ME "Paradise Lost,"' and with that gentleman I _did_ have it out. +I promptly subjected him to cross-examination, and drove him to that +extremity that he was compelled to admit he had never read a word of +Milton for forty years, and even then only in extracts from 'Enfield's +Speaker.' + +With Shakespeare—though there is a good deal of lying about _him_—the +case is different, and especially with elderly people; for 'in their +day,' as they pathetically term it, Shakespeare was played everywhere, +and everyone went to the play. They do not read him, but they recollect +him; they are well acquainted with his beauties—that is, with the +better known of them—and can quote him with manifest appreciation. They +are, intellectually, in a position much superior to that of a +fashionable lady of my acquaintance who informed me that her daughters +were going to the theatre that night to see Shakespeare's 'Turning of +the Screw.' + +The writer who has done most, without I suppose intending it, to +promote hypocrisy in literature is Macaulay. His 'every schoolboy +knows' has frightened thousands into pretending to know authors with +whom they have not even a bowing acquaintance. It is amazing that a man +who had read so much should have written so contemptuously of those who +have read but little; one would have thought that the consciousness of +superiority would have forbidden such insolence, or that his reading +would have been extensive enough to teach him at least how little he +had read of what there was to read; since he read some things—works of +imagination and humour, for example—to such very little purpose, he +might really have bragged a little less. One feels quite grateful to +Macaulay, however, for avowing his belief that he was the only man who +had read through the 'Faery Queen;' since that exonerates everybody—I +do not say from reading it, because the supposition is preposterous—but +from the necessity of pretending to have read it. The pleasure derived +from that poem to most minds is, I am convinced, analogous to that +already spoken of as being imparted by a foreign author: namely, the +satisfaction at finding it—in places—intelligible. For the few who +possess the poetic faculty it has great beauties, but I observe, from +the extracts that appear in Poetic Selections and the like, that the +most tedious and even the most monstrous passages are those which are +generally offered for admiration. The case of Spenser in this +respect—which does not stand alone in ancient English literature—has a +curious parallel in art, where people are positively found to go into +ecstasies over a distorted limb or a ludicrous inversion of +perspective, simply because it is the work of an old master, who knew +no better, or followed the fashion of his time. + +Leigh Hunt read the 'Faery Queen,' by-the-bye, as almost everything +else that has been written in the English tongue, and even Macaulay +alludes with rare commendation to his 'catholic taste.' Of all authors +indeed, and probably of all readers, Leigh Hunt had the keenest eye for +merit and the warmest appreciation of it wherever found. He was +actively engaged in politics, yet was never blind to the genius of an +adversary; blameless himself in morals, he could admire the wit of +Wycherley; and a freethinker in religion, he could see both wisdom and +beauty in the divines. Moreover, it is immensely to his credit that +this universal knowledge, instead of puffing him up, only moved him to +impart it, and that next to the pleasure he took in books was that he +derived from teaching others to take pleasure in them. Witness his 'Wit +and Humour' and his 'Imagination and Fancy,' to my mind the greatest +treasures in the way of handbooks that have ever been offered to +students of English literature, and the completest antidotes to +pretence in it. How many a time, as a boy, have I pondered over this or +that passage in the originals, from Shakespeare to Suckling, and then +compared it with the italicised lines in his two volumes, to see +whether I had hit upon the beauties; and how often, alas! I hit upon +the blots![2] + + [2] I remember (when 'I was but a little tiny boy') I thought that + 'the fringed curtains of thine eye advance,' addressed by Prospero to + Miranda, must needs be a very fine line; imagine then my confusion, on + referring for corroboration to my 'guide, philosopher, and friend,' as + he truly was, to find this passage: 'Why Shakespeare should have + condescended to the elaborate nothingness, not to say nonsense, of + this metaphor (for what is meant by "advancing curtains"?) I cannot + conceive. That is to say, if he did condescend: for it looks very like + the interpolation of some pompous declamatory player. Pope has put it + into his _Treatise on the Bathos_.' + +It is curious that Leigh Hunt, whose style has been so severely handled +(and, it must be owned, not without some justice) for its affectations, +should have been so genuine (although always generous) in his +criticisms. It was nothing to him whether an author was old or new; nor +did he shrink from any literary comparison between two writers when he +thought it appropriate (and he was generally right), notwithstanding +all the age and authority that might be at the back of one of them. +Thackeray, by the way, a very different writer and thinker, had this +same outspoken honesty in the expression of his literary taste. In +speaking of the hero of Cooper's five good novels—Leather-Stocking, +Hawkeye, etc.—he remarks with quite a noble simplicity: 'I think he is +better than any of Scott's lot.' + +It is a 'far cry' from the 'Faery Queen' to 'Childe Harold,' which, +reckoning by years, is still a modern poem; yet I wonder how many +persons under thirty—even of those who term it 'magnificent'—have ever +read 'Childe Harold.' At one time it was only people under thirty who +_had_ read it; for poetry to the ordinary reader is the poetry that was +popular in his youth—'no other is genuine.' + +'A dreary, weary poem called the _Excursion_, +Written in a manner which is my aversion,' + +is a couplet the frankness of which has always recommended itself to me +(though I like the 'Excursion'); but, except for the rhyme, it has a +fatal facility of application to other long poems. Heaven forbid that I +should 'with shadowed hint confuse' the faith in a British classic; +but, ye gods, how men have gaped (in private) over 'Childe Harold!' + +'Gil Blas,' though not a native classic, is included in the articles of +the British literary faith; not as a matter of pious opinion, but _de +fide_; a necessity of intellectual salvation. I remember an interview I +once had with a boy of letters concerning this immortal work; he is a +well-known writer now, but at the time I speak of he was only budding +and sprouting in the magazines—a lad of promise, no doubt, but given, +if not to kick against authority, to question it, and, what was worse, +to question _me_ about it, in an embarrassing manner. The natural +affability of my disposition had caused him, I suppose, to treat me as +his Father Confessor in literature; and one of the sins of omission he +confided to me was in connection with the divine Le Sage. + +'I say—about "Gil Blas," you know—Bias [a great critic of that day] was +saying last night that if he were to be imprisoned for life with only +one book to read he would choose the Bible or "Gil Blas."' + +'It is very gratifying to me,' said I, wishing to evade my young +friend, and also because I had no love for Bias, 'that he should have +selected the Bible, even as an alternative; and all the more so, since +I should never have expected it of him.' + +'Yes, papa' (that was what the young dog was wont to call me, though he +was no son of mine—far from it); 'but about "Gil Blas"? Is it _really_ +the next best book? And after he had read it—say ten times—would he not +have been rather sorry that he had not chosen—well, Shakespeare, for +instance?' + +The picture of Bias with a long white beard, the growth of twenty +years, reading that tattered copy of 'Gil Blas' in his cell, almost +affected me to tears; but I made shift to answer gravely: 'Bias is a +professional critic; and persons of that class are apt to be a little +dogmatic and given to exaggeration. But "Gil Blas" is a great work. As +a picture of the seamy side of human life—of its vices and its +weaknesses at least—it is unrivalled. The archbishop——' + +'Oh! I know that archbishop—_well_,' interrupted my young tormentor. 'I +sometimes think, if it hadn't been for that archbishop, we should never +perhaps have heard of "Gil Blas."' + +'Tchut, tchut!' said I; 'you talk like a child.' + +'But to read it _all through_, papa—three times, ten times, for all +one's life? Poor Mr. Bias!' + +'It is a matter of opinion, my dear boy,' I said. 'Bias has this great +advantage over you in literary matters, that he knows what he is +talking about; and if he was quite sure——' + +'Oh! but he was not quite sure: he was rather doubtful, he said, about +one of the books.' + +'Not the Bible, I do hope?' said I fervently. + +'No, about the other. He was not quite sure but that, instead of "Gil +Blas," he ought to have selected "Don Quixote." Now really that seems +to me worse than "Gil Blas." + +'You mean less excellent,' I rejoined; 'you are too young to appreciate +the full signification of "Don Quixote."' + +The scoundrel murmured, 'Do you mean to tell me people read it when +they are old?' But I pretended not to hear him. 'We do not all of us,' +I went on, 'know what is good for us. Sancho Panza's physician——' + +'Oh! I know that physician—_well_, papa. I sometimes think, if it had +not been for that physician, perhaps——' + +'Hush!' I exclaimed authoritatively; 'let us have no flippancy, I beg.' +And so, with a dead lift as it were, I got rid of him. He left the room +muttering, 'But to read it through—three times, ten times, for all +one's life?' And I was obliged to confess to myself that such a +prolonged course of study, even of 'Don Quixote,' would have been +wearisome. + +Rabelais is another article of our literary faith, that is certainly +subscribed to much more often than believed in. In a certain poem of +Mr. Browning's (_I_ call it the Burial of the Book, since the Latin +name he has given it is unpronounceable, even if it were possible to +recollect it), charmingly humorous, and which is also remarkable for +impersonating an inanimate object in verse as Dickens does in prose, +there occur these lines: + +'Then I went indoors, brought out a loaf, + Half a cheese and a bottle of Chablis, +Lay on the grass, and forgot the oaf + Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais.' + +Yet I have known some wonder to be expressed (confidentially) as to +where he found the 'jolly chapter,' and the looking for the beauties of +Rabelais to be likened to searching in a huge dung-heap for a few heads +of asparagus. + +I have no quarrel with Bias and Company (though they stick at nothing, +and will presently say that I don't care for these books myself), but I +venture to think that they are wrong in making dogmas of what are, +after all, but matters of literary taste; it is their vehemence and +exaggeration which drive the weak to take refuge in falsehood. + +A good woman in the country once complained of her stepson, 'He will +not love his learning, though I beats him with a jack-chain;' and from +the application of similar aids to instruction, the same result takes +place in London. Only here we dissemble and pretend to love it. It is +partly in consequence of this that works, not only of acknowledged but +genuine excellence, such as those I have been careful to select, are, +though so universally praised, so little read. The poor student +attempts them, but failing—from many causes no doubt, but also +sometimes from the fact of their not being there—to find those +unrivalled beauties which he has been led to expect in every sentence, +he stops short, where he would otherwise have gone on. He says to +himself, 'I have been deceived,' or 'I must be a born fool;' whereas he +is wrong in both suppositions. I am convinced that the want of +popularity of Walter Scott among the rising generation is partly due to +this extravagant laudation; and I am much mistaken if another great +author, more recently deceased, will not in a few years be added to the +ranks of those who are more praised than read from the same cause. + +The habit of mere adhesion to received opinion in any matter is most +mischievous, for it strikes at the root of independence of thought; and +in literature it tends to make the public taste mechanical. It is very +seldom that what is called the verdict of posterity (absurdly enough, +for are not _we_ posterity?) is ever reversed; but it has chanced to +happen in a certain case quite lately. The production of 'The Iron +Chest' upon the stage has once more brought into fashion 'Caleb +Williams.' Now that is a work, though by no means belonging to the same +rank as those to which I have referred, which has a fine old crusted +reputation. Time has hallowed it. The great world of readers (who have +never read it) used to echo the remark of Bias and Company, that this +and that modern work of fiction reminded them—though at an immense +distance, of course—of Godwin's masterpiece. I remember Le Fanu's +'Uncle Silas,' for example (from some similarity, more fanciful perhaps +than real, in the isolation of its hero), being thus compared with it. +Now 'Caleb Williams' is founded on a very fine conception—one that +could only have occurred, perhaps, to a man of genius; the first part +of it is well worked out, but towards the middle it grows feeble, and +it ends in tediousness and drivel; whereas 'Uncle Silas' is good and +strong from first to last. Le Fanu has never been so popular as, in my +humble judgment, he deserves to be, but of course modern readers were +better acquainted with him than with Godwin. Yet nine out of ten were +always heard repeating this cuckoo cry about the latter's superiority, +until the 'Iron Chest' came out, and Fashion induced them to read +Godwin for themselves; which has very properly changed their opinion. + +I remember, in my own case, that, from that reverence for authority +which I hope I share with my neighbours, I used to speak of 'Headlong +Hall' and 'Crotchet Castle'—both great favourites of our +fore-fathers—with much respect, until one wet day in the country I +found myself shut up with them. I won't say what I suffered; better +judges of literature than myself admire them still, I know. I will only +remark that _I_ don't admire them. I don't say they are the dullest +novels ever printed, because that would be invidious, and might do +wrong to works of even greater pretensions; but to my mind they are +dull. + +When Dr. Johnson is free to confess that he does not admire Gray's +'Elegy,' and Macaulay to avow that he sees little to praise in Dickens +and Wordsworth, why should not humbler folks have the courage of their +own opinions? They cannot possibly be more wrong than Johnson and +Macaulay were, and it is surely better to be honest, though it may +expose one to some ridicule, than to lie. The more we agree with the +verdict of the generations before us on these matters, the more, it is +quite true, we are likely to be right; but the agreement should be an +honest one. At present very extensive domains in literature are, as it +were, enclosed and denied to the public in respect to any free +expression of their opinion. 'They are splendid, they are faultless,' +cries the general voice, but the general eye has not beheld them. +Nothing, of course, could be more futile than that, with every new +generation, our old authors who have won their fame should be arraigned +anew at the bar of public criticism; but, on the other hand, there is +no reason why the mouths of us poor moderns should be muzzled, and +still less that we 'should praise with alien lips.' + +'Until Caldecott's charming illustrations of it made me laugh so much,' +said a young lady to me the other day, 'I confess—though I know it's +very stupid of me—I never saw much fun in "John Gilpin."' She evidently +expected a reproof, and when I whispered in her ear, 'Nor I,' her +lovely features assumed a look of positive enfranchisement. + +'But am I right?' she inquired. + +'You are certainly right, my dear young lady,' said I, 'not to pretend +admiration where you don't feel it; as to liking "John Gilpin," that is +a matter of taste. It has, of course, simplicity to recommend it; but +in my own case, though I'm fond of fun, it has never evoked a smile. It +has always seemed to me like one of Mr. Joe Miller's stories put into +tedious verse.' + +I really almost thought (and hoped) that that young lady would have +kissed me. + +'Papa always says it is a free country,' she exclaimed, 'but I never +felt it to be the case before this moment.' + +For years this beautiful and accomplished creature had locked this +awful secret in her innocent breast—that she didn't see much fun in +'John Gilpin.' 'You have given me courage,' she said, 'to confess +something else. Mr. Caldecott has just been illustrating in the same +charming manner Goldsmith's "Elegy on a Mad Dog," and—I'm very +sorry—but I never laughed at _that_ before, either. I have pretended to +laugh, you know,' she added, hastily and apologetically, 'hundreds of +times.' + +'I don't doubt it,' I replied; 'this is not such a free country as your +father supposes.' + +'But am I right?' + +'I say nothing about "right,"' I answered, 'except that everybody has a +right to his own opinion. For my part, however, I think the 'Mad Dog' +better than 'John Gilpin' only because it is shorter.' + +Whether I was wrong or right in the matter is of no consequence even to +myself; the affection and gratitude of that young creature would more +than repay me for a much greater mistake, if mistake it is. She +protests that I have emancipated her from slavery. She has since talked +to me about all sorts of authors, from Sir Philip Sidney to Washington +Irving, in a way that would make some people's blood run cold; but it +has no such effect upon me—quite the reverse. Of Irving she naïvely +remarks that his strokes of humour seem to her to owe much of their +success to the rarity of their occurrence; the flashes of fun are +spread over pages of dulness, which enhance them, just as a dark night +is propitious to fireworks, or the atmosphere of the House cf Commons, +or of a Court of Law, to a joke. She is often in error, no doubt, but +how bright and wholesome such talk is as compared with the platitudes +and commonplaces which one hears on all sides in connection with +literature! + +As a rule, I suppose, even people in society ('the drawing-rooms and +the clubs') are not absolutely base and yet one would really think so, +to judge by the fear that is entertained by them of being natural. 'I +vow to heaven,' says the prince of letter-writers, 'that I think the +Parrots of Society are more intolerable and mischievous than its Birds +of Prey. If ever I destroy myself, it will be in the bitterness of +having those infernal and damnable "good old times" extolled.' One is +almost tempted to say the same—when one hears their praises come from +certain mouths—of the good old books. It is not everyone, of course, +who has an opinion of his own upon any subject, far less on that of +literature, but everyone can abstain from expressing an opinion that is +not his own. If one has no voice, what possible compensation can there +be in becoming an echo? No one, I conclude, would wish to see +literature discoursed about in the same pinchbeck and affected style as +are painting and music; [3] yet that is what will happen if this +prolific weed of sham admiration is permitted to attain its full +growth. + + [3] The slang of art-talk has reached the 'young men' in the furniture + warehouses. A friend of mine was recommended a sideboard the other day + as not being a Chippendale, but as 'having a Chippendale _feeling_ in + it.' + +[decoration] + + + + +THE PINCH OF POVERTY. + + +In these days of reduction of rents, or of total abstinence from +rent-paying, it is, I am told, the correct thing to be 'a little +pressed for money.' It is a sign of connection with the landed interest +(like the banker's ejaculation in 'Middlemarch') and suggests family +acres, and entails, and a position in the county. (In which case I know +a good many people who are landlords on a very extensive scale, and +have made allowances for their tenants the generosity of which may be +described as Quixotic.) But as a general rule, and in times less +exceptionally hard, though Shakespeare tells us 'How apt the poor are +to be proud,' they are not proud of being poor. + +'Poverty,' says the greatest of English divines, 'is indeed despised +and makes men contemptible; it exposes a man to the influences of evil +persons, and leaves a man defenceless; it is always suspected; its +stories are accounted lies, and all its counsels follies; it puts a man +from all employment; it makes a man's discourses tedious and his +society troublesome. This is the worst of it.' Even so poverty seems +pretty bad, but, begging Dr. Jeremy Taylor's pardon, what he has stated +is by no means 'the worst of it.' To be in want of food at any time, +and of firing in winter time, is ever so much worse than the +inconveniences he enumerates; and to see those we love—delicate women +and children perhaps—in want, is worse still. The fact is, the +excellent bishop probably never knew what it was to go without his +meals, but took them 'reg'lar' (as Mrs. Gamp took her Brighton ale) as +bishops generally do. Moreover, since his day, Luxury has so +universally increased, and the value of Intelligence has become so well +recognised (by the publishers) that even philosophers, who profess to +despise such things, have plenty to eat, and good of its kind too. +Hence it happens that, from all we hear to the contrary from the +greatest thinkers, the deprivation of food is a small thing: indeed, as +compared with the great spiritual struggles of noble minds, and the +doubts that beset them as to the supreme government of the universe, it +seems hardly worth mentioning. + +In old times, when folks were not so 'cultured,' starvation was thought +more of. It is quite curious, indeed, to contrast the high-flying +morality of the present day (when no one is permitted, either by +Evolutionist or Ritualist, however dire may be his necessity, so much +as to jar his conscience) with the shocking laxity of the Holy +Scriptures. 'Men do not despise a thief if he steal to satisfy his soul +when he is hungry,' says Solomon, after which stretch of charity, +strange to say, he goes on to speak of marital infidelity in terms +that, considering the number of wives he had himself, strike one as +severe. + +It is certain, indeed, that the sacred writers were apt to make great +allowances for people with empty stomachs, and though I am well aware +that the present profane ones think this very reprehensible, I venture +to agree with the sacred writers. The sharpest tooth of poverty is +felt, after all, in the bite of hunger. A very amusing and graphic +writer once described his experience of a whole night passed in the +streets; the exhaustion, the pain, the intolerable weariness of it, +were set forth in a very striking manner; the sketch was called 'The +Key of the Street,' and was thought by many, as Browning puts it, to be +'the true Dickens.' But what are even the pangs of sleeplessness and +fatigue compared with those of want? Of course there have been fanatics +who have fasted many days; but they have been supported by the prospect +of spiritual reward. I confess I reserve my pity for those who have no +such golden dreams, and who fast perforce. It is exceedingly difficult +for mere worldlings—such as most of us are—not to eat, if it is +possible, when we are hungry. I have known a great social philosopher +who flattered himself that he was giving his sons an experience of High +Thinking and Low Living by restricting their pocket-money to two +shillings a day, out of which it was understood they were to find their +own meals. I don't know whether the spirit in their case was willing, +but the flesh was decidedly weak, for one of them, on this very +moderate allowance, used to contrive to always have a pint of dry +champagne with his luncheon. The fact is, that of the iron grip of +poverty, people in general, by no means excepting those who have +written about it, have had very little experience; whereas of the pinch +of it a good many people know something. It is the object of this +paper—and the question should be an interesting one, considering how +much it is talked about—to inquire briefly where it lies. + +It is quite extraordinary how very various are the opinions entertained +on this point, and, before sifting them, one must be careful in the +first place to eliminate from our inquiry the cases of that +considerable class of persons who pinch themselves. For, however +severely they do it, they may stop when they like and the pain is +cured. There is all the difference in the world between pulling one's +own tooth out, and even the best and kindest of dentists doing it for +one. How gingerly one goes to work, and how often it strikes one that +the tooth is a good tooth, that it has been a fast friend to us for +ever so many years and never 'fallen out' before, and that after all it +had better stop where it is! + +To the truly benevolent mind, indeed, nothing is more satisfactory than +to hear of a miser denying himself the necessaries of life a little too +far and ridding us of his presence altogether. Our confidence in the +average virtue of humanity assures us that his place will be supplied +by a better man. The details of his penurious habits, the comfortless +room, the scanty bedding, the cheese-rinds on his table, and the fat +banking-book under his thin bolster, only inspire disgust: if he were +pinched to death he did it himself, and so much the better for the +world in general and his heir in particular. + +Again, the people who have a thousand a year, and who try to persuade +the world that they have two thousand, suffer a good deal of +inconvenience, but it can't be called the pinch of poverty. They may +put limits to their washing-bills, which persons of cleanlier habits +would consider unpleasantly narrow; they may eat cold mutton in private +for five days a week in order to eat turtle and venison in public (and +with the air of eating them every day) on the sixth; and they may +immure themselves in their back rooms in London throughout the autumn +in order to persuade folks that they are still at Trouville, where for +ten days they did really reside and in splendour; but all their stint +and self-incarceration, so far from awakening pity, only fill us with +contempt. I am afraid that even the complaining tones of our City +friend who tells us that in consequence of 'the present unsettled state +of the markets' he has been obliged to make 'great retrenchments'—which +it seems on inquiry consist in putting down one of his carriages and +keeping three horses instead of six—fail to draw the sympathising tear. +Indeed, to a poor man this pretence of suffering on the part of the +rich is perhaps even more offensive than their boasts of their +prosperity. + +On the other hand, when the rich become really poor their case is hard +indeed; though, strange to say, we hear little of it. It is like +drowning; there is a feeble cry, a little ineffectual assistance from +the bystanders, and then they go under. It is not a question of pinch +with _them_; they have fallen into the gaping mouth of ruin, and it has +devoured them. If we ever see them again, it is in the second +generation as waiters (upon Providence), or governesses, and we say, +'Why, dear me, that was Bullion's son (or daughter), wasn't it?' using +the past tense, as if they were dead. 'I remember him when he lived in +Eaton Square.' This class of cases rarely comes under the head of +'genteel poverty.' They were at the top, and hey presto! by some +malignant stroke of fate they are at the bottom; and there they stick. + +I don't believe in bachelors ever experiencing the pinch of poverty; I +have heard them complaining of it at the club, while ordering Medina +oysters instead of Natives, but, after all, what does it signify even +if they were reduced to cockles? They have no appearances to keep up, +and if they cannot earn enough to support themselves they must be poor +creatures indeed. + +It is the large families of moderate income, who are delicate, and have +delicate tastes, that feel the twinge: and especially the poor girls. I +remember a man, with little care for his personal appearance, of small +means but with a very rich sense of humour, describing to me his +experiences when staying at a certain ducal house in the country, where +his feelings must have been very similar to those of Christopher Sly. +In particular he drew a charming picture of the magnificent attendant +who in the morning _would_ put out his clothes for him, which had not +been made by Mr. Poole, nor very recently by anybody. The contempt +which he well understood his Grace's gentleman must have felt for him +afforded him genuine enjoyment. But with young ladies, in a similar +position, matters are very different; they have rarely a sense of +humour, and certainly none strong enough to counteract the force of a +personal humiliation. I have known some very charming ones, compelled +to dress on a very small allowance, who, in certain mansions where they +have been occasionally guests, have been afraid to put their boots +outside their door, because they were not of the newest, and have +trembled when the officious lady's-maid has meddled with their scanty +wardrobe. A philosopher may think nothing of this, but, considering the +tender skin of the sufferer, it may be fairly called a pinch. + +In the investigation of this interesting subject, I have had a good +deal of conversation with young ladies, who have given me the fullest +information, and in a manner so charming, that, if it were common in +witnesses generally, it would make Blue-Books very pretty reading. + +'I consider it to be "a pinch,"' says one, 'when I am obliged to put on +black mittens on occasions when I know other girls will have long white +kid gloves.' I must confess I have a prejudice myself against mittens; +they are, so to speak, 'gritty' to touch; so that the pinch, if it be +one, experienced by the wearer, is shared by her ungloved friends. The +same thing may be said of that drawing-room fire which is lit so late +in the season for economical reasons, and so late in the day at all +times: the pinch is felt as much by the visitors as by the members of +the household. These things, however, are mere nips, and may be placed +in the same category with the hardships complained of by my friend +Quiverfull's second boy. 'I don't mind having papa's clothes cut up for +me,' he says, 'but what I do think hard is getting Bob's clothes' (Bob +being his elder brother), 'which have been papa's first; however, I am +in great hopes that I am out-growing Bob.' + +A much more severe example of the pinch of poverty than these is to be +found in railway travelling; no lady of any sense or spirit objects to +travel by the second, or even the third class, if her means do not +justify her going by the first. But when she meets with richer friends +upon the platform, and parts with them to journey in the same +compartment with their man-servant, she suffers as acutely as though, +when the guard slams the door of the carriage with the vehemence +proportioned to its humble rank, her tender hand had been crushed in +it. Of course it is very foolish of her; but it demands democratic +opinions, such as almost no woman of birth and breeding possesses, not +to feel _that_ pinch. Her knowledge that it is also hard upon the +man-servant, who has never sat in her presence before, but only stooped +over her shoulder with ''Ock, miss,' serves but to increase her pain. + +A great philosopher has stated that the worst evil of poverty is, that +it makes folks ridiculous; by which, I hope, he only means that, as in +the above case, it places them in incongruous positions. The man, or +woman, who derives amusement from the lack of means of a +fellow-creature, would jeer at a natural deformity, be cruel to +children, and insult old age. Such people should be whipped and then +hanged. Nevertheless there are certain little pinches of poverty so +slight, that they tickle almost as much as they hurt the victim. A lady +once told me (interrupting herself, however, with pleasant bursts of +merriment) that as a young girl her allowance was so small that when +she went out to spend the evening at a friend's, her promised pleasure +was darkened by the presentiment (always fulfilled) that the cabman was +sure to charge her more than the proper fare. The extra expense was +really of consequence to her, but she never dared dispute it, because +of the presence of the footman who opened the door. + +Some young ladies—quite as lady-like as any who roll in chariots—cannot +even afford a cab. 'What _I_ call the pinch of poverty,' observed an +example of this class, 'is the waiting for omnibus after omnibus on a +wet afternoon and finding them all full.' + +'But surely,' I replied with gallantry, 'any man would have given up +his seat to you?' + +She shook her head with a smile that had very little fun in it. 'People +in omnibuses,' she said, 'don't give up their seats to others.' Nor, I +am bound to confess, do they do so elsewhere; if I had been in their +place, perhaps I should have been equally selfish; though I do think I +should have made an effort, in this instance at least, to make room for +her close beside me. [4] + + [4] There is, however, some danger in this. I remember reading of some + highly respectable old gentleman in the City who thus accommodated on + a wet day a very nice young woman in humble circumstances. She was as + full of apologies as of rainwater, and he of good-natured rejoinders, + intended to put her at her ease; so that he became, in a Platonic and + paternal way, quite friendly with her by the time she arrived at her + destination—which happened to be his own door. She turned out to be + his new cook, which was afterwards very embarrassing. + +A young governess whom some wicked fairy endowed at her birth with the +sensitiveness often denied to princesses, has assured me that her +journeys by railway have sometimes been rendered miserable by the +thought that she had not even a few pence to spare for the porter who +would presently shoulder her little box on to the roof of her cab. + +It is people of this class, much more than those beneath them, who are +shut out from all amusements. The mechanic goes to the play and to the +music-hall, and occasionally takes his 'old girl,' as he calls his +wife, and even 'a kid' or two, to the Crystal Palace. But those I have +in my mind have no such relaxation from compulsory duty and importunate +care. 'I know it's very foolish, but I feel it sometimes to be a +pinch,' says one of these ill-fated ones, 'to see them all [the +daughters of her employer] going to the play, or the opera, while I am +expected to be satisfied with a private view of their pretty dresses.' +No doubt it is the sense of comparison (especially with the female) +that sharpens the sting of poverty. It is not, however, through envy +that the 'prosperity of fools destroys us,' so much as the knowledge of +its unnecessariness and waste. When a mother has a sick child who needs +sea air, which she cannot afford to give it, the consciousness that her +neighbour's family (the head of which perhaps is a most successful +financier and market-rigger) are going to the Isle of Wight for three +months, though there is nothing at all the matter with them, is an +added bitterness. How often it is said (no doubt with some +well-intentioned idea of consolation) that after all money cannot buy +life! I remember a curious instance to the contrary of this. In the old +days of sailing-packets a country gentleman embarked for Ireland, and +when a few miles from land broke a bloodvessel through seasickness. A +doctor on board pronounced that he would certainly die before the +completion of the voyage if it was continued; whereupon the sick man's +friends consulted with the captain, who convoked the passengers, and +persuaded them to accept compensation in proportion to their needs for +allowing the vessel to be put back; which was accordingly done. + +One of the most popular fictions of our time was even written with this +very moral, that life is unpurchasable. Yet nothing is more certain +than that life is often lost through want of money—that is, of the +obvious means to save it. In such a case how truly has it been written +that 'the destruction of the poor is their poverty'! This, however, is +scarcely a pinch, but, to those who have hearts to feel it, a wrench +that 'divides asunder the joints and the marrow.' + +A nobler example, because a less personal one, of the pinch of poverty, +is when it prevents the accomplishment of some cherished scheme for the +benefit of the human race. I have felt such a one myself when in +extreme youth I was unable, from a miserable absence of means, to +publish a certain poem in several cantos. That the world may not have +been much better for it if I had had the means does not affect the +question. It is easy to be incredulous. Henry VII. of England did not +believe in the expectations of Columbus, and suffered for it, and his +case may have been similar to that of the seven publishers to whom I +applied in vain. + +A man with an invention on which he has spent his life, but has no +means to get it developed for the good of humanity—or even patented for +himself—must feel the pinch of poverty very acutely. + +To sum up the matter, the longer I live, the more I am convinced that +the general view in respect to material means is a false one. That +great riches are a misfortune is quite true; the effect of them in the +moral sense (with here and there a glorious exception, however) is +deplorable: a shower of gold falling continuously upon any body (or +soul) is as the waters of a petrifying spring. But, on the other hand, +the occasional and precarious dripping of coppers has by no means a +genial effect. If the one recipient becomes hard as the nether +millstone, the other (just as after constant 'pinching' a limb becomes +insensible) grows callous, and also (though it seems like a +contradiction in terms) sometimes acquires a certain dreadful +suppleness. Nothing is more monstrous than the generally received +opinion with respect to a moderate competence; that 'fatal gift,' as it +is called, which encourages idleness in youth by doing away with the +necessity for exertion. I never hear the same people inveighing against +great inheritances, which are much more open to such objections. The +fact is, if a young man is naturally indolent, the spur of necessity +will drive him but a very little way, while the having enough to live +upon is often the means of preserving his self-respect. One constantly +hears what humiliating things men will do for money, whereas the truth +is that they do them for the want of it. It is not the temptation which +induces them, but the pinch. 'Give me neither poverty nor riches,' was +Agur's prayer; 'feed me with food convenient for me, lest I be full and +deny Thee, and say, Who is the Lord? or lest I be poor and steal.' And +there are many things—flatteries, disgraceful humiliations, +hypocrisies—which are almost as bad as stealing. One of the sharpest +pinches of poverty to some minds must be their inability (because of +their dependency on him and that of others upon them) to tell a man +what they think of him. + +Riches and poverty are of course but relative terms; but the happiest +material position in which a man can be placed is that of 'means with a +margin.' Then, however small his income may be, however it may behove +him to 'cut and contrive,' as the housekeepers call it, he does not +feel the pinch of poverty. I have known a rich man say to an +acquaintance of this class, 'My good friend, if you only knew how very +small are the pleasures my money gives me which you yourself cannot +purchase!' And for once it was not one of those cheap and empty +consolations which the wealthy are so ready to bestow upon their less +fortunate fellow-creatures. Dives was, in that instance, quite right in +his remark; only we must remember he was not speaking to Lazarus. 'A +dinner of herbs where love is,' is doubtless quite sufficient for us; +only there must be enough of it, and the herbs should be nicely cooked +in an omelette. + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE LITERARY CALLING AND ITS FUTURE. + + +One would think that in writing about literary men and matters there +would be no difficulty in finding a title for one's essay, or that any +embarrassment which might arise would be from excess of material. I +find this, however, far from being the case. 'Men of Letters,' for +example, is a heading too classical and pretentious. I do indeed +remember its being used in these modern days by the sub-editor of a +country paper, who, having quarrelled with his proprietor, and reduced +him to silence by a violent kick in the abdomen, thus addressed him: 'I +leave you and your dirty work for ever, and start to-night for London, +to take up my proper position as a Man of Letters.' But this +gentleman's case (and I hope that of his proprietor) was an exceptional +one. The term in general is too ambitious and suggestive of the author +of 'Cato,' for my humble purpose. 'Literature as a Profession,' again, +is open to objection on the question of fact. The professions do not +admit literature into their brotherhood. 'Literature, Science, and Art' +are all spoken of in the lump, and rather contemptuously (like +'reading, writing, and arithmetic'), and have no settled position +whatever. In a book of precedence, however—a charming class of work, +and much more full of humour than the peerage—I recently found +indicated for the first time the relative place of Literature in the +social scale. After a long list of Eminent Personages and Notables, the +mere perusal of which was calculated to bring the flush of pride into +my British cheek, I found at the very bottom these remarkable words, +'Burgesses, Literary Persons, and others.' Lest haughtiness should +still have any place in the breasts of these penultimates of the human +race, the order was repeated in the same delightful volume in still +plainer fashion, 'Burgesses, Literary Persons, etc.' It is something, +of course, to take precedence—in going down to dinner, for example—even +of an et cetera; but who are Burgesses? I have a dreadful suspicion +they are not gentlemen. Are they ladies? Did I ever meet a Burgess, I +wonder, coming through the rye? At all events, after so authoritative a +statement of its social position, I feel that to speak of Literature as +a profession would be an hyperbole. + +On the other hand, 'The Literary Calling' is not a title that satisfies +me. For the word 'calling' implies a certain fitness; in the religious +sense it has even more significance; and it cannot be denied that there +are a good many persons who devote—well, at least, their time to +literature, who can hardly be said to have 'a call' in that direction, +nor even so much as a whisper. At the same time I will venture to +observe, notwithstanding a great deal of high-sounding twaddle talked +and written to the contrary, that it is not necessary for a man to feel +any miraculous or even extraordinary attraction to this pursuit to +succeed in it very tolerably. I remember a now distinguished personage +(in another line) who had written a very successful work, expressing +his opinion to me that unless a certain divine afflatus animated a man, +he should never take up his pen to address the public. The writing for +pay, he added (he had at least £5,000 a year of his own), was the +degradation of literature. As I had written about a dozen books myself +at the time, and most decidedly with an eye to profit, and had never +experienced much afflatus, this remark discouraged me very much. +However, as the gentleman in question did essay another volume, which +was so absolute and distinct a failure that he promptly took up another +line of business (far above that of Burgesses), it is probable he +altered his views. + +Nature of course is the best guide in the matter of choosing a pursuit. +When she says 'This is your line, stick to it,' she seldom or never +makes a mistake. But, on the other hand, her speech must be addressed +to mature ears. For my part, I do not much believe in the predilections +of boyhood. I was never so simple as to wish to go to sea, but I do +remember (when between seven and eight) having a passionate longing to +become a merchant. I had no notion, however, of the preliminary stages; +the high stool in the close street; luncheon at a counter, standing (I +liked to have my meals good, plentiful, often, and in comfort, even +then); and imprisonment at the office on the eves of mail nights till +the large hours p.m. Even the full fruition of such aspirations—the +large waistcoat beginning to 'point,' (as it soon does in merchants), +heavy watchchain, and cheerful conviction of the coming scarcity of +necessaries for everybody else, would have failed to please. The sort +of merchant I wanted to be was never found in 'Post Office Directory,' +but in the 'Arabian Nights,' trading to Bussorah, chiefly in pearls and +diamonds. When the Paterfamiliases of my acquaintance instance certain +stenches and messes which their Toms and Harrys make with chemicals all +over their house, as a proof of 'their natural turn for engineering,' I +say, 'Very likely,' or 'A capital thing,' but I _think_ of that early +attraction of my own towards Bussorah. The young gentlemen never dream +of what I once heard described, in brief, as the real business life of +a scientific apprentice: 'To lie on your back with a candle in your +hand, while another fellow knocks nails into a boiler.' + +Boys have rarely any special aptitude for anything practical beyond +punching each others' heads, or (and these are the clever ones) for +keeping their own heads unpunched. As a rule, in short, Nature is not +demonstrative as respects our professional future. + +It must nevertheless be conceded that if the boy is ever father to the +man in this respect, it is in connection with literature. Also, however +prosaic their works are fated to be, it is curious that the aspirants +for the profession below Burgesses always begin with Poetry. Even +Harriet Martineau wrote verses in early life bad enough to comfort the +soul of any respectable parent. The approach to the Temple of Literary +Fame is almost always through double gates—couplets. And yet I have +known youthful poets, apparently bound for Paternoster Row, bolt off +the course in a year or two, to the delight of their friends, and +become, of their own free will, drysalters. + +There is so much talk about the 'indications of immortality in early +childhood' (of a very different kind from those referred to by +Wordsworth), and it is so much the habit of biographers to use +magnifiers when their subject is small, that it needs some courage to +avow my belief that the tastes of boys have very little significance. A +clever boy can be trained to almost anything, and an ordinary boy will +not do one thing much better than another. With the Geniuses I will +allow (for the sake of peace and quietness) that Nature is +all-powerful, but with nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand +of us, Second Nature, Use, is the true mistress; and what will +doubtless strike some people as almost paradoxical, but is nevertheless +a fact, Literature is the calling in which she has the greatest sway. + +It is the fashion with that enormous class of people who don't know +what they are talking about, and who take up cuckoo-cries, to speak +contemptuously of modern literature, by which they mean (for they are +acquainted with little else) periodical literature. However small may +be its merits, it is at all events ten times as good as ancient +periodical literature used to be. A very much better authority than +myself on such a subject has lately informed us that the majority of +the old essays in the _Edinburgh Review_, at the very time when it was +supposed to be most 'trenchant,' 'masterly,' 'exhaustive,' and a number +of other splendid epithets, are so dull and weak and ignorant, that it +is impossible that they or their congeners would now find acceptance in +any periodical of repute. And with regard to all other classes of old +magazine literature, this verdict is certainly most just. + +Let us take what most people suppose to be 'the extreme case,' Magazine +Poetry. Of course there is to-day a great deal of rant and twaddle +published under the name of verse in magazines; yet I could point to +scores and scores of poems that have thus appeared during the last ten +years,[5] which half a century ago would have made—and deservedly have +made—a high reputation for their authors. Such phrases as 'universal +necessity for practical exertion,' 'prosaic character of the age,' +etc., are, of course, common enough; but those who are acquainted with +such matters will, I am sure, corroborate my assertion that there was +never so much good poetry in our general literature as exists at +present. Persons of intelligence do not look for such things perhaps, +and certainly not in magazines, while persons of 'culture' are too much +occupied with old china and high art; but to humble folks, who take an +interest in their fellow-creatures, it is very pleasant to observe what +high thoughts, and how poetically expressed, are now to be found about +our feet, and, as it were, in the literary gutter. I don't compare +these writers with Byrons and Shelleys; I don't speak of them as born +poets at all. On the contrary, my argument is that second nature +(cultivation, opportunities of publication, etc.) has made them what +they are; and it is immensely creditable to her. + +And what holds good of verse holds infinitely better in respect to +prose. The enormous improvement in our prose writers (I am not speaking +of geniuses, remember, but of the generality), and their great +superiority over writers of the same class half a century ago, is +mainly due to use. Sir Walter Scott, who, like most men of genuine +power, had great generosity, once observed to a brother author, 'You +and I came just in the nick of time.' He foresaw the formidable +competition that was about to take place, though he had no cause to +fear it. I think in these days he would have had cause; not that I +disbelieve in his genius, but that I venture to think he diffused it +over too large an area. In such cases genius is overpassed by the +talent which husbands its resources; in other words, Nature succumbs to +second nature, as the wife in the patriarchal days (when _she_ grew +patriarchal) succumbed to the handmaid. And after all, though we talk +so glibly about genius, and profess to feel, though we cannot express, +in what it differs from talent, are we quite so sure about this as we +would fain persuade ourselves? At all events, it cannot surely be +contended that a man of genius always writes like one; and when he does +not, his work is often inferior to the first-rate production of a man +of talent. For my own part, I am not sure whether (with the exception, +perhaps, of the highest gifts of song) the whole distinction is not +fanciful. + +We are ready enough in ordinary matters to allow that 'practice makes +perfect,' and the limit of that principle is yet to be found. Moreover, +the vast importance of exclusive application is almost unknown. We see +it, indeed, in men of science and in lawyers, but without recognition; +nay, socially, it is even quoted against them. The mathematician may be +very eminent, but we find him dry; the lawyer may be at the head of his +profession, but we find him dull; and it is observed on all sides how +very little great A and great B, notwithstanding the high position they +have earned for themselves in their calling, know of matters out of +their own line. On the other hand, the man of whom it was said that +'science was his forte and omniscience his foible,' has left no +enduring monument behind him; and so it must always be with mortals who +have only fifty years of thought allotted to them at the very most, and +who diffuse it. Everyone admits the value of application, but very few +are aware how its force is wasted by diffusion: it is like a volatile +essence in a bottle without a cork. When, on the other hand, it is +concentrated—you may call it 'narrowed' if you please—there is hardly +anything within its own sphere of action of which it is not capable. So +many high motives (though also some mean ones) prompt us to make broad +the bases of education, that any proposal to contract them must needs +be thankless and unpopular; but it is certain that, among the upper +classes at least, the reason why so many men are unable to make their +way in the world, is because, thanks to a too liberal education, they +are Jacks of all trades and masters of none; and even as Jacks they cut +a very poor figure. + +How large and varied is the educational bill of fare set before every +young gentleman in Great Britain; and to judge by the mental stamina it +affords him in most cases, what a waste of good food it is! The dishes +are so numerous and so quickly changed, that he has no time to decide +on which he likes best. Like an industrious flea, rather than a bee, he +hops from flower to flower in the educational garden, without one +penny-worth of honey to show for it. And then—though I feel how +degrading it is to allude to so vulgar a matter—how high is the price +of admission to the feast in question! Its purveyors do not pretend to +have filled his stomach, but only to have put him in the way of filling +it for himself, whereas, unhappily, Paterfamilias discovers that that +is the very thing that they have not done. His young Hopeful at +twenty-one is almost as unable to run alone as when he first entered +the nursery. To discourse airily upon the beauties of classical +education, and on the social advantages of acquiring 'the tone' at a +public school at whatever cost, is an agreeable exercise of the +intelligence; but such arguments have been taken too seriously, and the +result is that our young gentlemen are incapable of gaining their own +living. It is not only that 'all the gates are thronged with suitors, +all the markets overflow,' but even when the candidates are so +fortunate as to attain admittance, they are still a burden upon their +fathers for years, from having had no especial preparation for the work +they have to do. Folks who can afford to spend £250 a year on their +sons at Eton or Harrow, and to add another fifty or two for their +support at the universities, do not feel this; but those who have done +it without affording it—_i.e._, by cutting and contriving, if not by +pinching and saving—feel their position very bitterly. There are +hundreds of clever young men who are now living at home and doing +nothing—or work that pays nothing, and even costs something for doing +it—who might be earning very tolerable incomes by their pen if they +only knew how, and had not wasted their young wits on Greek plays and +Latin verses; nor do I find that the attractions of such objects of +study are permanent, or afford the least solace to these young +gentlemen in their enforced leisure. + +The idea of bringing young people up to Literature is doubtless +calculated to raise the eyebrows almost as much as the suggestion of +bringing them up to the Stage. The notions of Paterfamilias in this +respect are very much what they were fifty years ago. 'What! put my boy +in Grub Street? I would rather see him in his coffin.' In his mind's +eye he beholds Savage on his bunk and Chatterton on his deathbed. He +does not know that there are many hundreds of persons of both sexes who +have found out this vocation for themselves, and are diligently +pursuing it—under circumstances of quite unnecessary difficulty—to +their material advantage. He is unaware that the conditions of +literature in England have been as completely changed within a single +generation as those of locomotion. + +There are, it is true, at present no great prizes in literature such as +are offered by the learned professions, but there are quite as many +small ones—competences; while, on the other hand, it is not so much of +a lottery. It is not necessary to marry an attorney's daughter, or a +bishop's, to get on in it. The calling, as it is termed (I know not +why, for it is often heavy enough), of 'light literature' is in such +contempt, through ignorance on the one hand, and arrogance on the +other, that one is almost afraid in such a connection to speak of +merit; yet merit, or, at all events, aptitude with diligence, is +certain of success in it. A great deal has been said about editors +being blind to the worth of unknown authors; but if so, they must be +also blind (and this I have never heard said of them) to their own +interests. It would be just as reasonable to accuse a recruiting +sergeant of passing by the stout six-feet fellows who wish to enlist +with him, and for each of whom—directly or indirectly—he receives +head-money. It is possible, of course, that one particular sergeant may +be drunken, or careless of his own interests, but in that case the +literary recruit has only to apply next door. The opportunities for +action in the field of literature are now so very numerous that it is +impossible that any able volunteer should be long shut out of it; and I +have observed that the complaints about want of employment come almost +solely from those unfit for service. Nay, in the ranks of the +literaryarmy there are very many who should have been excluded. Few, if +any, are there through favour; but the fact is, the work to be done is +so extensive and so varied, that there is not a sufficiency of good +candidates to do it. And of what is called 'skilled labour' among them +there is scarcely any. + +The question 'What can you do?' put by an editor to an aspirant, +generally astonishes him very much. The aspirant is ready to do +anything, he says, which the other will please to suggest. 'But what is +your line in literature? What can you do best—not tragedies in blank +verse, I hope?' Perhaps the aspirant here hangs his head; he _has_ +written tragedies. In which case there is good hope for him, because it +shows a natural bent. But he generally replies that he has written +nothing as yet except that essay on the genius of Cicero (at which the +editor has already shaken his head), and that defence of Mary Queen of +Scots. Or perhaps he has written some translations of Horace, which he +is surprised to find not a novelty; or some considerations upon the +value of a feudal system. At four-and-twenty, in short, he is but an +overgrown schoolboy. He has been taught, indeed, to acquire knowledge +of a certain sort, but not the habit of acquiring; he has been taught +to observe nothing; he is ignorant upon all the subjects that interest +his fellow-creatures, and in his new ambition is like one who +endeavours to attract an audience without having anything to tell them. +He knows some Latin, a little Greek, a very little French, and a very +very little of what are called the English classics. He has read a few +recent novels perhaps, but of modern English literature, and of that +(to him at least) most important branch of it, English journalism, he +knows nothing. His views and opinions are those of a public school, +which are by no means in accordance with those of the great world of +readers; or he is full of the class prejudices imbibed at college. In +short, he may be as vigorous as a Zulu, with the materials of a +first-rate soldier in him, but his arms are only a club and an assegai, +and are of no service. Why should he not be fitted out in early life +with literary weapons of precision, and taught the use of them? + +I say, again, that poor Paterfamilias looking hopelessly about him, +like Quintus Curtius in the riddle, for 'a nice opening for a young +man,' is totally ignorant of the opportunities, if not for fame and +fortune, at least for competency and comfort, that Literature now +offers to a clever lad. He looks round him; he sees the Church leading +nowhere, with much greater certainty of expense than income, and +demanding a huge sum for what is irreverently termed 'gate money;' he +sees the Bar, with its high road leading indeed to the woolsack, but +with a hundred by-ways leading nowhere in particular, and full of +turnpikes—legal tutors, legal fees, rents of chambers, etc.—which he +has to defray; he sees Physic, at which Materfamilias sniffs and turns +her nose up. 'Her Jack, with such agreeable manners, to become a +saw-bones! Never!' He sees the army, and thinks, since Jack has such +great abilities, it seems a pity to give him a red coat, which costs +also considerably more than a black one; And how is Jack to live upon +his pay? + +After all, indeed, however prettily one puts it, the question is with +him, not so much '_What_ is my Jack to be?' as '_How_ is my Jack to +live?' To one who has any gift of humour there are few things more +amusing than to observe how this vulgar, but really rather important +inquiry, is ignored by those who take the subject of modern education +in hand. They are chiefly schoolmasters, who are not so deep in their +books but that they can spare a glance or two in the direction of their +banker's account; or fellows of colleges who have no children, and +therefore never feel the difficulties of supporting them. Heaven forbid +that so humble an individual as myself should question their wisdom, or +say anything about them that should seem to smack of irreverence; but I +do believe that (with one or two exceptions I have in my mind) the +system they have introduced among us is the Greatest Humbug in the +universe. In the meantime poor Paterfamilias (who is the last man, they +flatter themselves, to find this out) stands with his hands (and very +little else) in his pockets, regarding his clever offspring, and +wondering what he shall do with him. He remembers to have read about a +man on his deathbed, who calls his children about him and thanks God, +though he has left them nothing to live upon, he has given them a good +education, and tries to extract comfort from the reminiscence. That he +has spent money enough upon Jack's education is certain; something +between two or three thousand pounds in all at least, the interest of +which, it strikes him, would be very convenient just now to keep him. +But unfortunately the principal is gone and Jack isn't. + +Now suppose—for one may suppose anything, however ridiculous—he had +spent two or three hundred pounds at the very most, and brought him up +to the Calling of Literature. He believes, perhaps, that it is only +geniuses that succeed in it (in which case I know more geniuses than I +had any idea of), and he doesn't think Jack a genius, though Jack's +mother does. Or, as is more probable, he regards it as a hand-to-mouth +calling, which to-day gives its disciples a five-pound note, and +to-morrow five pence. He calls to mind a saying about Literature being +a good stick, but not a good crutch—an excellent auxiliary, but no +permanent support; but he forgets the all-important fact that the +remark was made half a century ago. + +Poor blind Paterfamilias—shall I couch you? If the operation is +successful, I am sure you will thank me for it; but, on the other hand, +I foresee I shall incur the greatest enmities. Should I encourage +clever Jack, and, what is worse, a thousand Jacks who are not clever, +to enter upon this vocation, what will editors say to me? I shall have +to go about, perhaps, guarded with two policemen with revolvers, like +an Irish gentleman on his landed estate. 'Is not the flood of rubbish +to which we are already subjected,' I hear them crying, 'bad enough, +without your pulling up the sluices of universal stupidity?' My +suggestion, however, is intended to benefit them by clearing away the +rubbish, and inducing a clearer and deeper stream for the turning of +their mills. At the same time I confess that the lessening of +Paterfamilias's difficulties is my main object. What I would open his +eyes to is the fact that a calling, of the advantages of which he has +no knowledge, _does_ present itself to clever Jack, which will cost him +nothing but pens, ink, and paper to enter upon, and in which, if he has +been well trained for it, he will surely be successful, since so many +succeed in it without any training at all. Why should not clever Jack +have this in view as much as the _ignes fatui_ of woolsacks and mitres? +If it has no lord chancellorships, it has plenty of county court +appointments; if it has no bishoprics, it has plenty of benefices—and +really, as times go, some pretty fat ones. + +On your breakfast-table, good Paterfamilias, there lies, every morning, +a newspaper, and on Saturday perhaps there are two or three. When you +go out in the street, you are pestered to buy half a score more of +them. In your club reading-room there are a hundred different journals. +When you travel by the railway you see at every station a provincial +newspaper of more or less extensive circulation. Has it never struck +you that to supply these publications with their leading articles, +there must be an immense staff of persons called journalists, +professing every description of opinion, and advocating every +conceivable policy? And do you suppose these gentry only get £70 a year +for their work, like a curate; or £60, like a sub-lieutenant; or that +they have to pay three times those sums for the privilege of belonging +to the press, as a barrister does for belonging to his inn? Again, in +London at least, there are as many magazines as newspapers, containing +every kind of literature, the very contributors of which are so +numerous, that they form a public of themselves. That seems at the +first blush to militate against my suggestion, but though contributors +are so common, and upon the whole so good—indeed, considering the +conditions under which they labour, so wonderfully good—they are not (I +have heard editors say) so good as they might be, supposing (for +example) they knew a little of science, history, politics, English +literature, and especially of the art of composition, before they +volunteered their services. At present the ranks of journalistic and +periodical literature are largely recruited from the failures in other +professions. The bright young barrister who can't get a brief takes to +literature as a calling, just as the man who has 'gone a cropper' in +the army takes to the wine-trade. And what æons of time, and what +millions of money, have been wasted in the meanwhile! + +The announcement written on the gates of all the recognised professions +in England is the same that would-be travellers read on the faces of +the passengers on the underground railway after office hours: 'Our +number is complete, and our room is limited.' In literature, on the +contrary, though its vehicles may seem as tightly packed, substitution +can be effected. There may be persons travelling on that line in the +first-class who ought to be in the third, and indeed have no reasonable +pretext for being there at all. And if clever Jack could show his +ticket, he would turn them out of it. + +Again, so far from the space being limited, it is continually +enlarging, and that out of all proportion to those who have tickets. We +hear from its enemies that the Church is doomed, and from its friends +that it is in danger; there is a small but energetic party who are bent +on reducing the Army, and even on doing away with it; nay, so wicked +and presumptuous has human nature grown, that mutterings are heard and +menaces uttered against the delay and exactions of the Law itself; +whereas Literature has no foes, and is enlarging its boundaries in all +directions. It is all 'a-growing and a-blowing,' as the peripatetic +gardeners say of their plants; but, unlike their wares, it has its +roots deep in the soil and is an evergreen. Its promise is golden, and +its prospects are boundless for every class of writer. + +In some excellent articles on Modern Literature in _Blackwood's +Magazine_ the other day, this subject was touched upon with respect to +fiction, and might well have filled a greater space, for the growth of +that description of literature of late years is simply marvellous. +Curiously enough, though France originated the _feuilleton_, it was +from America and our own colonies that England seems to have taken the +idea of publishing novels in newspapers. It was a common practice in +Australia long before we adopted it; and, what is also curious, it was +first acclimatised among us by our provincial papers. The custom is +rapidly gaining ground in London, but in the country there is now +scarcely any newspaper of repute which does not enlist the aid of +fiction to attract its readers. Many of them are contented with very +poor stuff, for which they pay a proportional price; but others club +together with other newspapers—the operation has even received the +technical term of 'forming a syndicate'—and are thereby enabled to +secure the services of popular authors; while the newspapers thus +arranged for are published at a good distance from one another, so as +not to interfere with each other's circulation. Country journals, which +are not so ambitious, instead of using an inferior article, will often +purchase the 'serial right,' as it is called, of stories which have +already appeared elsewhere, or have passed through the circulating +libraries. Nay, the novelist who has established a reputation has many +more strings to his bow: his novel, thus published in the country +newspapers, also appears coincidently in the same serial shape in +Australia, Canada, and other British colonies, leaving the three-volume +form and the cheap editions 'to the good.' And what is true of fiction +is in a less degree true of other kinds of literature. Travels are +'gutted,' and form articles in magazines, illustrated by the original +plates; lectures, after having served their primary purpose, are +published in a similar manner; even scientific works now appear first +in the magazines which are devoted to science before performing their +mission of 'popularising' their subject. + +When speaking of the growth of readers, I have purposely not mentioned +America. For the present the absence of copyright there is destroying +both author and publisher; but the wheels of justice, though tardy, are +making way there. In a few years that great continent of readers will +be legitimately added to the audience of the English author, and those +that have stolen will steal no more. + +Nor, in our own country, must we fail to take notice of the +establishment of School Boards. A generation hence we shall have a +reading public almost as numerous as in America; even the very lowest +classes will have acquired a certain culture which will beget demands +both for journalists and 'literary persons.' The harvest will be +plenteous indeed, but unless my advice be followed in some shape or +another, the labourers will be comparatively few and superlatively +inadequate. + +I am well aware how mischievous, as well as troublesome, would be the +encouragement of mediocrity; and in stating these promising facts I +have no such purpose in my mind. On the contrary, there is an immense +amount of mediocrity already in literature, which I think my +proposition of training up 'clever Jack' to that calling would +discourage. I have no expectation of establishing a manufactory for +genius—and indeed, for reasons it is not necessary to specify, I would +not do it if I could. But whereas all kinds of 'culture' have been +recommended to the youth of Great Britain (and certainly with no limit +as to the expense of acquisition), the cultivation of such natural +faculties as imagination and humour (for example) has never been +suggested. The possibility of such a thing will doubtless be denied. I +am quite certain, however, that they are capable of great development, +and that they may be brought to attain, if not perfection, at all +events a high degree of excellence. The proof, to those who choose to +look for it, is plain enough even as matters stand. Use and opportunity +are already producing scores of examples of it; if supplemented by +early education they might surely produce still more. + +There is so great and general a prejudice against special studies, that +I must humbly conclude there is something in it. On the other hand, I +know a large number of highly—that is broadly—educated persons, who are +desperately dull. 'But would they have been less dull,' it may be +asked, 'if they were also ignorant?' Yes, I believe they would. They +have swallowed too much for digestions naturally weak; they have become +inert, conceited, oppressive to themselves and others—Prigs. And I +think that even clever young people suffer in a less degree from the +same cause. Some one has written, 'Information is always useful.' This +reminds me of the married lady, fond of bargains, who once bought a +door-plate at a sale with 'Mr. Wilkins' on it. Her own name was Jones, +but the doorplate was very cheap, and her husband, she argued, _might_ +die, and then she might marry a man of the name of Wilkins. 'Depend +upon it, everything comes in useful,' she said, 'if you only keep it +long enough.' + +This is what I venture to doubt. I have myself purchased several +door-plates (quite as burthensome, but not so cheap as that good +lady's), which have been of no sort of use to me, and are still on +hand. + + [5] I take up a half-yearly volume of a magazine (price 1½d. weekly) + addressed to the middle classes, and find in it, at haphazard, the + five following pieces, the authors of which are anonymous: + +AGATHA. + +'From under the shade of her simple straw hat +She smiles at you, only a little shamefaced: +Her gold-tinted hair m a long-braided plait +Reaches on either side down to her waist. +Her rosy complexion, a soft pink and white, +Except where the white has been warmed by the sun, +Is glowing with health and an eager delight, +As she pauses to speak to you after her run. + +'See with what freedom, what beautiful ease, +She leaps over hollows and mounds in berrace; +Hear how she joyously laughs when the breeze +Tosses her hat off, and blows in her face! +It's only a play-gown of homeliest cotton +She wears, that her finer silk dress may be saved; +And happily, too, she has wholly forgotten +The nurse and her charge to be better behaved. + +'Must a time come when this child's way of caring +For only the present enjoyment shall pass; +When she'll learn to take thought of the dress that she's wearing, +And grow rather fond of consulting the glass? +Well, never mind; nothing really can change her; +Fair childhood will grow to as fair maidenhood; +Her unselfish, sweet nature is safe from all danger; +I know she will always be charming and good. + +'For when she takes care of a still younger brother, +You see her stop short in the midst of her mirth, +Gravely and tenderly playing the mother: +Can there be anything fairer on earth? +So proud of her charge she appears, so delighted; +Of all her perfections (indeed, they're a host), +This loving attention to others, united +With naive self-unconsciousness, charms me the most. + +'What hearts that unthinkingly under short jackets +Are beating to-day in a wonderful wise +About racing, or jumping, or cricket, or rackets, +One day will beat at a smile from those eyes! +Ah, how I envy the one that shall win her, +And see that sweet smile no ill-humour shall damp, +Shining across the spread table at dinner, +Or cheerfully bright in the light of the lamp. + +'Ah, little fairy! a very short while, +Just once or twice, in a brief country stay, +I saw you; but when will your innocent smile +That I keep in my mem'ry have faded away? +For when, in the midst of my trouble and doubt, +I remember your face with its laughter and light, +It's as if on a sudden the sun had shone out, +And scattered the shadow, and made the world bright.' + +CHARTREUSE. + +(_Liqueur_.) + +'Who could refuse +Green-eyed Chartieuse? +Liquor for heretics, +Turks, Christians, or Jews +For beggar or queen, +For monk or for dean; + +Ripened and mellow +(The _green_, not the yellow), +Give it its dues, +Gay little fellow, +Dressed up in green! +I love thee too well, O +Laughing Chartreuse! + +'O the delicate hues +That thrill through the green! +Colours which Greuze +Would die to have seen! +With thee would De Musset +Sweeten his muse; +Use, not abuse, +Bright little fellow! +(The green, _not_ the yellow.) +O the taste and the smell! O +Never refuse +A kiss on the lips from +Jealous Chartreuse!' + +THE LIFE-LEDGER. + +'Our sufferings we reckon o'er +With skill minute and formal; +The cheerful ease that fills the score +We treat as merely normal. +Our list of ills, how full, how great! +We mourn our lot should fall so; +I wonder, do we calculate +Our happinesses also? + +'Were it not best to keep account +Of all days, if of any? +Perhaps the dark ones might amount +To not so very many. +Men's looks are nigh as often gay +As sad, or even solemn: +Behold, my entry for to-day +Is in the "happy" column.' + +OCTOBER. + +'The year grows old; summer's wild crown of roses +Has fallen and faded in the woodland ways; +On all the earth a tranquil light reposes, +Through the still dreamy days. + +'The dew lies heavy in the early morn, +On grass and mosses sparkling crystal-fair; +And shining threads of gossamer are borne +Floating upon the air, + +'Across the leaf-strewn lanes, from bough to bough +Like tissue woven in a fairy loom; +And crimson-berried bryony garlands glow +Through the leaf-tangled gloom. + +'The woods are still, but for the sudden fall +Of cupless acorns dropping to the ground, +Or rabbit plunging through the fern-stems tall, +Half-startled by the sound. + +'And from the garden lawn comes, soft and clear, +The robin's warble from the leafless spray, +The low sweet Angelus of the dying year, +Passing in light away.' + +PROSPERITY. + +'I doubt if the maxims the Stoic adduces +Be true in the main, when they state +That our nature's improved by adversity's uses, +And spoilt by a happier fate. + +'The heart that is tried by misfortune and pain, +Self-reliance and patience may learn; +Yet worn by long waiting and wishing in vain, +It often grows callous and stern. + +'But the heart that is softened by ease and contentment, +Feels warmly and kindly t'wards all; +And its charity, roused by no moody resentment, +Embraces alike great and small. + +'So, although in the season of rain-storms and showers, +The tree may strike deeper its roots, +It needs the warm brightness of sunshiny hours +To ripen the blossoms and fruits.' + +Observe, not only the genuine merit of these five pieces, but the +variety in the tones of thought: then compare them with similar +productions of the days, say, of the once famous L.E.L. + + + + +STORY-TELLING. + + +The most popular of English authors has given us an account of what +within his experience (and it was a large one) was the impression among +the public at large of the manner in which his work was done. They +pictured him, he says, + +as a radiant personage whose whole time is devoted to idleness and +pastime; who keeps a prolific mind in a sort of corn-sieve and lightly +shakes a bushel of it out sometimes in an odd half-hour after +breakfast. It would amaze their incredulity beyond all measure to" be +told that such elements as patience, study, punctuality, determination, +self-denial, training of mind and body, hours of application and +seclusion to produce what they read in seconds, enter in such a career +… correction and recorrection in the blotted manuscript; consideration; +new observations; the patient massing of many reflections, experiences, +and imaginings for one minute purpose; and the patient separation from +the heap of all the fragments that will unite to serve it—these would +be unicorns and griffins to them—fables altogether. + +And as it was, a quarter of a century ago, when those words were +written, so it is now: the phrase of 'light literature' as applied to +fiction having once been invented, has stuck, with a vengeance, to +those who profess it. + +Yet to 'make the thing that is not as the thing that is' is not (though +it may seem to be the same thing) so easy as lying. + +Among a host of letters received in connection with an article +published in the _Nineteenth Century_, entitled 'The Literary Calling +and its Future,' and which testify in a remarkable manner to the +pressing need (therein alluded to) of some remunerative vocation among +the so-called educated classes, there are many which are obviously +written under the impression that Dogberry's view of writing coming 'by +nature' is especially true of the writing of fiction. Because I +ventured to hint that the study of Greek was not essential to the +calling of a story-teller, or of a contributor to the periodicals, or +even of a journalist, these gentlemen seem to jump to the conclusion +that the less they know of anything the better. Nay, some of them, +discarding all theories (in the fashion that Mr. Carlyle's heroes are +wont to discard all formulas), proceed to the practical with quite an +indecent rapidity; they treat my modest hints for their instruction as +so much verbiage, and myself as a mere convenient channel for the +publication of their lucubrations. 'You talk of a genuine literary +talent being always appreciated by editors,' they write (if not in so +many words by implication); 'well, here is an admirable specimen of it +(enclosed), and if your remarks are worth a farthing you will get it +published for us, somewhere or another, _instanter_, and hand us over +the cheque for it. Nor are even these the most unreasonable of my +correspondents; for a few, with many acknowledgments for my kindness in +having provided a lucrative profession for them, announce their +intention of throwing up their present less congenial callings, and +coming up to London (one very literally from the Land's End) to live +upon it, or, that failing (as there is considerable reason to expect it +will), upon _me_. + +With some of these correspondents, however, it is impossible +(independent of their needs) not to feel an earnest sympathy; they have +evidently not only aspirations, but considerable mental gifts, though +these have unhappily been cultivated to such little purpose for the +object they have in view that they might almost as well have been left +untilled. In spite of what I ventured to urge respecting the advantage +of knowing 'science, history, politics, English literature, and the art +of composition,' they 'don't see why' they shouldn't get on without +them. Especially with those who aspire to write fiction (which, by its +intrinsic attractiveness no less than by the promise it affords of +golden grain, tempts the majority), it is quite pitiful to note how +they cling to that notion of 'the corn-sieve,' and cannot be persuaded +that story-telling requires an apprenticeship like any other calling. +They flatter themselves that they can weave plots as the spider spins +his thread from (what let us delicately term) his inner consciousness, +and fondly hope that intuition will supply the place of experience. +Some of them, with a simplicity that recalls the days of Dick +Whittington, think that 'coming up to London' is the essential step to +this line of business, as though the provinces contained no +fellow-creatures worthy to be depicted by their pen, or as though, in +the metropolis, Society would at once exhibit itself to them without +concealment, as fashionable beauties bare themselves to the +photographers. + +This is, of course, the laughable side of the affair, but, to me at +least, it has also a serious one; for, to my considerable embarrassment +and distress, I find that my well-meaning attempt to point out the +advantages of literature as a profession has received a much too free +translation, and implanted in many minds hopes that are not only +sanguine but Utopian. + +For what was written in the essay alluded to I have nothing to reproach +myself with, for I told no more than the truth. Nor does the +unsettlement of certain young gentleman's futures (since by their own +showing they were to the last degree unstable to begin with) affect me +so much as their parents and guardians appear to expect; but I am sorry +to have shaken however undesignedly, the 'pillars of domestic peace' in +any case, and desirous to make all the reparation in my power. I regret +most heartily that I am unable to place all literary aspirants in +places of emolument and permanency out of hand; but really (with the +exception perhaps of the Universal Provider in Westbourne Grove) this +is hardly to be expected of any man. The gentleman who raised the +devil, and was compelled to furnish occupation for him, affords in fact +the only appropriate parallel to my unhappy case. 'If you can do +nothing to provide my son with another place,' writes one indignant +Paterfamilias, 'at least you owe it to him' (as if I, and not Nature +herself, had made the lad dissatisfied with his high stool in a +solicitor's office!) 'to give him some practical hints by which he may +become a successful writer of fiction.' + +One would really think that this individual imagined story-telling to +be a sort of sleight-of-hand trick, and that all that is necessary to +the attainment of the art is to learn 'how it's done.' I should not +like to say that I have known any members of my own profession who are +'no conjurors,' but it is certainly not by conjuring that they have +succeeded in it. + +'You talk of the art of composition,' writes, on the other hand, +another angry correspondent, 'as though it were one of the exact +sciences; you might just as well advise your "clever Jack" to study the +art of playing the violin.' So that one portion of the public appears +to consider the calling of literature mechanical, while another holds +it to be a soft of divine instinct! + +Since the interest in this subject proves to be so wide-spread, I trust +it will not be thought presumptuous in me to offer my own humble +experience in this matter for what it is worth. To the public at large +a card of admission to my poor manufactory of fiction—a 'very one-horse +affair,' as an American gentleman, with whom I had a little difficulty +concerning copyright, once described it—may not afford the same +satisfaction as a ticket for the private view of the Royal Academy; but +the stings of conscience urge me to make to Paterfamilias what amends +in the way of 'practical hints' lie in my power, for the wrong I have +done to his offspring; and I therefore venture to address to those whom +it may concern, and to those only, a few words on the Art of +Story-telling. + +The chief essential for this line of business, yet one that is much +disregarded by many young writers, is the having a story to tell. It is +a common supposition that the story will come if you only sit down with +a pen in your hand and wait long enough—a parallel case to that which +assigns one cow's tail as the measure of distance between this planet +and the moon. It is no use 'throwing off' a few brilliant ideas at the +commencement, if they are only to be 'passages that lead to nothing;' +you must have distinctly in your mind at first what you intend to say +at last. 'Let it be granted,' says a great writer (though not one +distinguished in fiction), 'that a straight line be drawn from any one +point to any other point;' only you must have the 'other point' to +begin with, or you can't draw the line. So far from being 'straight,' +it goes wabbling aimlessly about like a wire fastened at one end and +not at the other, which may dazzle, but cannot sustain; or rather what +it does sustain is so exceedingly minute, that it reminds one of the +minnow which the inexperienced angler flatters himself he has caught, +but which the fisherman has in fact previously put on his hook for +bait. + +This class of writer is not altogether unconscious of the absence of +dramatic interest in his composition. He writes to his editor (I have +read a thousand such letters): 'It has been my aim, in the enclosed +contribution, to steer clear of the faults of the sensational school of +fiction, and I have designedly abstained from stimulating the +unwholesome taste for excitement.' In which high moral purpose he has +undoubtedly succeeded; but, unhappily, in nothing else. It is quite +true that some writers of fiction neglect 'story' almost entirely, but +then they are perhaps the greatest writers of all. Their genius is so +transcendent that they can afford to dispense with 'plot;' their +humour, their pathos, and their delineation of human nature are amply +sufficient, without any such meretricious attraction; whereas our too +ambitious young friend is in the position of the needy knife-grinder, +who has not only no story to tell, but in lieu of it only holds up his +coat and breeches 'torn in the scuffle'—the evidence of his desperate +and ineffectual struggles with literary composition. I have known such +an aspirant to instance Miss Gaskell's 'Cranford' as a parallel to the +backboneless flesh-and-bloodless creation of his own immature fancy, +and to recommend the acceptance of the latter upon the ground of their +common rejection of startling plot and dramatic situation. The two +compositions have certainly _that_ in common; and the flawless diamond +has some things, such as mere sharpness and smoothness, in common with +the broken beer-bottle. + +Many young authors of the class I have in my mind, while more modest as +respects their own merits, are even still less so as regards their +expectations from others. 'If you will kindly furnish me with a +subject,' so runs a letter now before me, 'I am sure I could do very +well; my difficulty is that I never can think of anything to write +about. Would you be so good as to oblige me with a plot for a novel?' +It would have been infinitely more reasonable of course, and much +cheaper, for me to grant it, if the applicant had made a request for my +watch and chain;[6] but the marvel is that folks should feel any +attraction towards a calling for which Nature has denied them even the +raw materials. It is true that there are some great talkers who have +manifestly nothing to say, but they don't ask their hearers to supply +them with a topic of conversation in order to be set agoing. + + [6] To compare small things with great, I remember Sir Walter Scott + being thus applied to for some philanthropic object. 'Money,' said the + applicant, who had some part proprietorship in a literary miscellany, + 'I don't ask for, since I know you have many claims upon your purse; + but would you write us a little paper gratuitously for the + "Keepsake"?' + +'My great difficulty,' the would-be writer of fiction often says, 'is +how to begin;' whereas in fact the difficulty arises rather from his +not knowing how to end. Before undertaking the management of a train, +however short, it is absolutely necessary to know its destination. +Nothing is more common than to hear it said that an author 'does not +know where to stop;' but how much more deplorable is the position of +the passengers when there is no terminus whatsoever! They feel their +carriage 'slowing,' and put their heads expectantly out of window, but +there is no platform—no station. When they took their tickets, they +understood that they were 'booked through' to the _dénouement_, and +certainly had no idea of having been brought so far merely to admire +the scenery, for which only a very few care the least about. + +As a rule, anyone who can tell a good story can write one, so there +really need be no mistake about his qualification; such a man will be +careful not to be wearisome, and to keep his point, or his catastrophe, +well in hand. Only, in writing, there is necessarily greater art. +_There_ expansion is of course absolutely necessary; but this is not to +be done, like spreading gold leaf, by flattening out good material. +_That_ is 'padding,' a device as dangerous as it is unworthy; it is +much better to make your story a pollard—to cut it down to a mere +anecdote—than to get it lost in a forest of verbiage. No line of it, +however seemingly discursive, should be aimless, but should have some +relation to the matter in hand; and if you find the story interesting +to yourself notwithstanding that you know the end of it, it will +certainly interest the reader. + +The manner in which a good story grows under the hand is so remarkable, +that no tropic vegetation can show the like of it. For, consider, when +you have got your germ—the mere idea, not half a dozen lines +perhaps—which is to form your plot, how small a thing it is compared +with, say, the thousand pages which it has to occupy in the +three-volume novel! Yet to the story-teller the germ is everything. +When I was a very young man—a quarter of a century ago, alas!—and had +very little experience in these matters, I was reading on a coachbox +(for I read everywhere in those days) an account of some gigantic +trees; one of them was described as sound outside, but within, for many +feet, a mass of rottenness and decay. If a boy should climb up +birdsnesting into the fork of it, thought I, he might go down feet +first and hands overhead, and never be heard of again. How inexplicable +too, as well as melancholy, such a disappearance would be! Then, 'as +when a great thought strikes along the brain and flushes all the +cheek,' it struck me what an appropriate end it would be—with fear +(lest he should turn up again) instead of hope for the fulcrum to move +the reader—for a bad character of a novel. Before I had left the +coachbox I had thought out 'Lost Sir Massingberd.' + +The character was drawn from life, but unfortunately from hearsay; he +had flourished—to the great terror of his neighbours—two generations +before me, so that I had to be indebted to others for his portraiture, +which was a great disadvantage. It was necessary that the lost man +should be an immense scoundrel to prevent pity being excited by the +catastrophe, and at that time I did not know any very wicked people. +The book was a successful one, but it needs no critic to point out how +much better the story might have been told. The interest in the +gentleman, buried upright in his oak coffin, is inartistically weakened +by other sources of excitement; like an extravagant cook, the young +author is apt to be too lavish with his materials, and in after days, +when the larder is more difficult to fill, he bitterly regrets it. The +representation of a past time I also found it very difficult to +compass, and I am convinced that for any writer to attempt such a +thing, when he can avoid it, is an error in judgment. The author who +undertakes to resuscitate and clothe with flesh and blood the dry bones +of his ancestors, has indeed this advantage, that, however unlifelike +his characters may be, there is no one in a position to prove it; it is +not 'a difference of opinion between himself and twelve of his +fellow-countrymen,' or a matter on which he can be condemned by +overwhelming evidence; but, on the other hand, he creates for himself +unnecessary difficulties. I will add, for the benefit of those literary +aspirants to whom these remarks are especially addressed—a circumstance +which, I hope, will be taken as an excuse for the writing of my own +affairs at all, which would otherwise be an unpardonable +presumption—that these difficulties are not the worst of it; for when +the novel founded on the Past has been written, it will not be read by +a tenth of those who would read it if it were a novel of the Present. + +Even at the date I speak of, however, I was not so young as to attempt +to create the characters of a story out of my own imagination, and I +believe that the whole of its _dramatis personæ_ (except the chief +personage) were taken from the circle of my own acquaintance. This is a +matter, by-the-bye, on which considerable judgment and good taste have +to be exercised; for if the likeness of the person depicted is +recognisable by his friends (he never recognises it by any chance +himself), or still more by his enemies, it is no longer a sketch from +life, but a lampoon. It will naturally be asked by some: 'But if you +draw the man to the life, how can he fail to be known?' For this there +is the simplest remedy. You describe his character, but under another +skin; if he is tall you make him short, if dark, fair; or you make such +alterations in his circumstances as shall prevent identification, while +retaining them to a sufficient extent to influence his behaviour. In +the framework which most (though not all) skilled workmen draw of their +stories before they begin to furnish them with so much even as a +door-mat, the real name of each individual to be described should be +placed (as a mere aid to memory) by the side of that under which he +appears in the drama; and I would strongly recommend the builder to +write his real names in cipher; for I have known at least one instance +in which the entire list of the _dramatis personæ_ of a novel was +carried off by a person more curious than conscientious, and afterwards +revealed to those concerned—a circumstance which, though it increased +the circulation of the story, did not add to the personal popularity of +the author. + +If a story-teller is prolific, the danger of his characters coinciding +with those of people in real life who are unknown to him is much +greater than would be imagined; the mere similarity of name may of +course be disregarded; but when in addition to that there is also a +resemblance of circumstance, it is difficult to persuade the man of +flesh and blood that his portrait is an undesigned one. The author of +'Vanity Fair' fell, in at least one instance, into a most unfortunate +mistake of this kind; while a not less popular author even gave his +hero the same name and place in the Ministry which were (subsequently) +possessed by a living politician. + +It is better, however, for his own reputation that the story-teller +should risk a few actions for libel on account of these unfortunate +coincidences than that he should adopt the melancholy device of using +blanks or asterisks. With the minor novelists of a quarter of a century +ago it was quite common to introduce their characters as Mr. A and Mr. +B, and very difficult their readers found it to interest themselves in +the fortunes and misfortunes of an initial: + +It was in the summer of the year 18—, and the sun was setting behind +the low western hills beneath which stands the town of C; its dying +gleams glistened on the weather-cock of the little church, beneath +whose tower two figures were standing, so deep in shadow that little +more could be made out concerning them save that they were young +persons of the opposite sex. The elder and taller, however, was the +fascinating Lord B; the younger (presenting a strong contrast to her +companion in social position, but yet belonging to the true nobility of +nature) was no other than the beautiful Patty G, the cobbler's +daughter. + +This style of narrative should be avoided. + +Another difficulty of the story-teller, and one unhappily in which no +advice can be of much service to him, is how to describe the lapse of +time and of locomotion. To the dramatist nothing is easier than to +print in the middle of his playbill, 'Forty years are here supposed to +have elapsed;' or 'Scene I.: A drawing-room in Mayfair; Scene II.: +Greenland.' But the story-teller has to describe how these little +changes are effected, without being able to take his readers into his +confidence.[7] He can't say, 'Gentle reader, please to imagine that the +winter is over, and the summer has come round since the conclusion of +our last chapter.' Curiously enough, however, the lapse of years is far +easier to suggest than that of hours; and locomotion from Islington to +India than the act, for instance, of leaving the room. If passion +enters into the scene, and your heroine can be represented as banging +the door behind her, and bringing down the plaster from the ceiling, +the thing is easy enough, and may be even made a dramatic incident; but +to describe, without baldness, Jones rising from the tea-table and +taking his departure in cold blood, is a much more difficult business +than you may imagine. When John the footman has to enter and interrupt +a conversation on the stage, the audience see him come and go, and +think nothing of it; but to inform the reader of your novel of a +similar incident—and especially of John's going—without spoiling the +whole scene by the introduction of the commonplace, requires (let me +tell you) the touch of a master. + + [7] That last, indeed, is a thing which, with all deference to some + great names in fiction, should in my judgment never be done. It is + hard enough for him as it is to simulate real life, without the poor + showman's reaching out from behind the curtain to shake hands with his + audience. + +When you have got the outline of your plot, and the characters that +seem appropriate to play in it, you turn to that so-called 'commonplace +book,' in which, if you know your trade, you will have set down +anything noteworthy and illustrative of human nature that has come +under your notice, and single out such instances as are most fitting; +and finally you will select your scene (or the opening one) in which +your drama is to be played. And here I may say, that while it is +indispensable that the persons represented should be familiar to you, +it is not necessary that the places should be; you should have visited +them, of course, in person, but it is my experience that for a +description of the salient features of any locality the less you stay +there the better. The man who has lived in Switzerland all his life can +never describe it (to the outsider) so graphically as the (intelligent) +tourist; just as the man who has science at his fingers' ends does not +succeed so well as the man with whom science has not yet become second +nature, in making an abstruse subject popular. + +Nor is it to be supposed that a story with very accurate local +colouring cannot be written, the scenes of which are placed in a +country which the writer has never beheld. This requires, of course, +both study and judgment, but it can be done so as to deceive, if not +the native, at least the Englishman who has himself resided there. I +never yet knew an Australian who could be persuaded that the author of +'Never Too Late to Mend' had not visited the underworld, or a sailor +that he who wrote 'Hard Cash' had never been to sea. The fact is, +information, concerning which dull folks make so much fuss, can be +attained by anybody who chooses to spend his time that way; and by +persons of intelligence (who are not so solicitous to know how blacking +is made) can be turned, in a manner not dreamt of by cram-coaches, to +really good account. + +The general impression perhaps conveyed by the above remarks will be +that to those who go to work in the manner described—for many writers +of course have quite other processes—story-telling must be a mechanical +trade. Yet nothing can be farther from the fact. These preliminary +arrangements have the effect of so steeping the mind in the subject in +hand, that when the author begins his work he is already in a world +apart from his everyday one; the characters of his story people it; and +the events that occur to them are as material, so far as the writer is +concerned, as though they happened under his roof. Indeed, it is a +question for the metaphysician whether the professional story-teller +has not a shorter lease of life than his fellow-creatures, since, in +addition to his hours of sleep (of which he ought by rights to have +much more than the usual proportion), he passes a large part of his +sentient being outside the pale of ordinary existence. The reference to +sleep 'by rights' may possibly suggest to the profane that the +storyteller has a claim to it on the ground of having induced slumber +in his fellow-creatures; but my meaning is that the mental wear and +tear caused by work of this kind is infinitely greater than that +produced by mere application even to abstruse studies (as any doctor +will witness), and requires a proportionate degree of recuperation. + +I do not pretend to quote the experience (any more than the mode of +composition) of other writers—though with that of most of my brethren +and superiors in the craft I am well acquainted—but I am convinced that +to work the brain at night in the way of imagination is little short of +an act of suicide. Dr. Treichler's recent warnings upon this subject +are startling enough, even as addressed to students, but in their +application to poets and novelists they have far greater significance. +It may be said that journalists (whose writings, it is whispered, have +a close connection with fiction) always write in the 'small hours,' but +their mode of life is more or less shaped to meet their exceptional +requirements; whereas we storytellers live like other people (only more +purely), and if we consume the midnight oil, use perforce another +system of illumination also—we burn the candle at both ends. A great +novelist who adopted this baneful practice and indirectly lost his life +by it (through insomnia) notes what is very curious, that +notwithstanding his mind was so occupied, when awake, with the +creatures of his imagination, he never dreamt of them; which I think is +also the general experience. But he does not tell us for how many hours +_before_ he went to sleep, and tossed upon his restless pillow till far +into the morning, he was unable to get rid of those whom his +enchanter's wand had summoned.[8] What is even more curious than the +story-teller's never dreaming of the shadowy beings who engross so much +of his thoughts, is that (so far as my own experience goes at least) +when a story is once written and done with, no matter how forcibly it +may have interested and excited the writer during its progress, it +fades almost instantly from the mind, and leaves, by some benevolent +arrangement of nature, a _tabula rasa_—a blank space for the next one. +Everyone must recollect that anecdote of Walter Scott, who, on hearing +one of his own poems ('My hawk is tired of perch and hood') sung in a +London drawing-room, observed with innocent approbation, 'Byron's, of +course;' and so it is with us lesser folks. A very humorous sketch +might be given (and it would not be overdrawn) of some prolific +novelist getting hold, under some strange roof, of the 'library +edition' of his own stories, and perusing them with great satisfaction +and many appreciative ejaculations, such as 'Now this _is_ good;' 'I +wonder how it will end;' or 'George Eliot's, _of course_! + + [8] Speaking of dreams, the composition of Khubla Khan and of one or + two other literary fragments during sleep has led to the belief that + dreams are often useful to the writer of fiction; but in my own case, + at least, I can recall but a single instance of it, nor have I ever + heard of their doing one pennyworth of good to any of my + contemporaries. + +Although a good allowance of sleep is absolutely necessary for +imaginative brain work, long holidays are not so. I have noticed that +those who let their brains 'lie fallow,' as it is termed, for any +considerable time, are by no means the better for it; but, on the other +hand, some daily recreation, by which a genuine interest is excited and +maintained, is almost indispensable. It is no use to 'take up a book,' +and far less to attempt 'to refresh the machine,' as poor Sir Walter +did, by trying another kind of composition; what is needed is an +altogether new object for the intellectual energies, by which, though +they are stimulated, they shall not be strained. + +Advice such as I have ventured to offer may seem 'to the general' of +small importance, but to those I am especially addressing it is worthy +of their attention, if only as the result of a personal experience +unusually prolonged; and I have nothing unfortunately but advice to +offer. To the question addressed to me with such _naïveté_ by so many +correspondents, 'How do you make your plots?' (as if they were +consulting the Cook's Oracle), I can return no answer. I don't know, +myself; they are sometimes suggested by what I hear or read, but more +commonly they suggest themselves unsought. + +I once heard two popular story-tellers, A who writes seldom, but with +much ingenuity of construction, and B who is very prolific in pictures +of everyday life, discoursing on this subject. + +'Your fecundity,' said A, 'astounds me; I can't think where you get +your plots from.' + +'Plots?' replied B; 'oh! I don't trouble myself about _them_. To tell +you the truth, I generally take a bit of one of yours, which is amply +sufficient for my purpose.' + +This was very wrong of B; and it is needless to say I do not quote his +system for imitation. A man should tell his own story without +plagiarism. As to Truth being stranger than Fiction, that is all +nonsense; it is a proverb set about by Nature to conceal her own want +of originality. I am not like that pessimist philosopher who assumed +her malignity from the fact of the obliquity of the ecliptic; but the +truth is, Nature is a pirate. She has not hesitated to plagiarise from +even so humble an individual as myself. Years after I had placed my +wicked baronet in his living tomb, she starved to death a hunter in +Mexico under precisely similar circumstances; and so late as last month +she has done the same in a forest in Styria. Nay, on my having found +occasion in a certain story ('a small thing, but my own') to get rid of +the whole wicked population of an island by suddenly submerging it in +the sea, what did Nature do? She waited for an insultingly short time +(if her idea was that the story would be forgotten), and then +reproduced the same circumstances on her own account (and without the +least acknowledgment) in the Indian seas. My attention was drawn to +both these breaches of copyright by several correspondents, but I had +no redress, the offender being beyond the jurisdiction of the Court of +Chancery. + +When the story-teller has finished his task and surmounted every +obstacle to his own satisfaction, he has still a difficulty to face in +the choice of a title. He may invent indeed an eminently appropriate +one, but it is by no means certain he will be allowed to keep it. Of +course he has done his best to steer clear of that borne by any other +novel; but among the thousands that have been brought out within the +last forty years, and which have been forgotten even if they were ever +known, how can he know whether the same name has not been hit upon? He +goes to Stationers' Hall to make inquiries; but—mark the usefulness of +that institution—he finds that books are only entered there under their +authors' names. His search is therefore necessarily futile, and he has +to publish his story under the apprehension (only too well founded, as +I have good cause to know) that the High Court of Chancery will +prohibit its sale upon the ground of infringement of title. + +[Illustration] + + + + +PENNY FICTION + + +It is now nearly a quarter of a century ago since a popular novelist +revealed to the world in a well-known periodical the existence of the +'Unknown Public;' and a very curious revelation it was. He showed us +that the few thousands of persons who had hitherto imagined themselves +to be the public—so far, at least, as their being the arbiters of +popularity in respect to writers of fiction was concerned—were in fact +nothing of the kind; that the subscribers to the circulating libraries, +the members of book clubs, the purchasers of magazines and railway +novels, might indeed have their favourites, but that these last were +'nowhere,' as respected the number of their backers, in comparison with +novelists whose names and works appear in penny journals and nowhere +else. + +This class of literature was of considerable dimensions even in the +days when Mr. Wilkie Collins first called attention to it; but the +luxuriance of its growth has since become tropical. His observations +are drawn from some half a dozen specimens of it only, whereas I now +hold in my hand—or rather in both hands— nearly half a hundred of them. +The population of readers must be dense indeed in more than one sense +that can support such a crop. + +Doubtless the individual circulation of none of these serials is equal +to that of the most successful of them at the date of their first +discovery; but those who read them must, from various causes, of which +the most obvious is the least important, have trebled in number. +Population, that is to say, has increased in very small proportion as +compared with the increase of those who very literally run and read—the +peripatetic students, who study on their way to work or even as they +work, including, I am sorry to say, the telegraph boy on his errand. + +Nevertheless, notwithstanding its gigantic dimensions, the Unknown +Public remains practically as unknown as ever. The literary wares that +find such favour with it do not meet the eye of the ordinary observer. +They are to be found neither at the bookseller's nor on the railway +stall. But in back streets, in small dark shops, in the company of +cheap tobacco, hardbake (and, at the proper season, valentines), their +leaves lie thick as those in Vallombrosa. Early in the week is their +springtime, when they are put forth from Heaven knows what +printing-houses in courts and alleys, to lie for a few days only on the +counter in huge piles. On Saturdays, albeit that is their nominal +publishing day, they have for the most part disappeared. For this sort +of literature has one decidedly advanced feature, and possesses one +virtue of endurance—it comes out ever so long before the date it bears +upon its title-page, and 'when the world shall have passed away' will, +by a few days at least, if faith is to be placed in figures, survive +it. + +Why it should have any date at all no man can tell. There is nothing in +the contents that is peculiar to one year—or, to say truth, of one +era—rather than another. As a rule, indeed, time and space are alike +annihilated in them, in order to make two lovers happy. The general +terms in which they are written is one of their peculiar features. One +would think that, instead of being as unlike real life as stories +professing to deal with it can be, they were photographs of it, and +that the writers, as in the following instance, had always the fear of +the law of libel before their eyes: + +We must now request our readers to accompany us into an obscure _cul de +sac_ opening into a narrow street branching off Holborn. For many +reasons we do not choose to be more precise as to locality. + +Of course in this _cul de sac_ is a Private Inquiry Office, with a +detective in it. But in defining even him the novelist gives himself no +trouble to arouse excitement in his readers: they have paid their penny +for the history of this interesting person, and, that being done, they +may read about him or not, as they please. One would really think that +the author of the story was also the proprietor of the periodical. + +Those who desire (he says) to make the acquaintance of this somewhat +remarkable person have only to step with us into the little dusky room +where he is seated, and we shall have much pleasure in introducing him +to their notice. + +—A sentence which has certainly the air of saying, 'You may be +introduced to him, or you may let it alone.' + +The coolness with which everything is said and done in penny fiction is +indeed most remarkable, and should greatly recommend it to that +respectable class who have a horror of 'sensation.' In a story, for +example, that purports to describe University life (and is as much like +it as the camel produced from the German professor's self-consciousness +must have been to a real camel) there is an underplot of an amazing +kind. The wicked undergraduate, notwithstanding that he has the +advantage of being a baronet, is foiled in his attempt to win the +affections of a young woman in humble life, and the virtuous hero of +the story recommends her to the consideration of his negro servant: + +'Talk to her, Monday,' whispered Jack, 'and see if she loves you.' + For a short time Monday and Ada were in close conversation. + Then Monday uttered a cry like a war-whoop. + 'It am come all right, sare. Missy Ada says she not really care for + Sir Sydney, and she will be my little wife,' he said. + 'I congratulate you, Monday,' answered Jack. + In half an hour more they arrived at the house of John Radford, + plumber and glazier, who was Ada's father. + Mr. and Mrs. Radford and their two sons received their daughter and + her companions with that unstudied civility which contrasts so + favourably with the stuck-up ceremony of many in a higher position. + They were not prejudiced against Monday on account of his dark + skin. + It was enough for them that he was the man of Ada's choice. + Mrs. Radford even went so far as to say, 'Well, for a coloured + gentleman, he is very handsome and quite nice mannered, though I + think Ada's been a little sly in telling us nothing about her + engagement to the last.' + They did not know all. + Nor was it advisable that they should. + +Still they knew something—for example, that their new son-in-law was a +black man, which one would have thought might have struck them as +phenomenal. They take it, however, quite quietly and as a matter of +course. Now, surely, even among plumbers and glaziers, it must be +thought as strange for one's daughter to marry a black man as a lord. +Yet, out of this dramatic situation the author makes nothing at all, +but treats it as coolly as his _dramatis personæ_ do themselves. Now +_my_ notion would have been to make the bridegroom a black lord, and +then to portray, with admirable skill, the conflicting emotions of his +mother-in-law, disgusted on the one hand by his colour, attracted on +the other by his rank. But 'sensation' is evidently out of the line of +the penny novelist: he gives his facts, which are certainly remarkable, +then leaves both his characters and his readers to draw their own +conclusions. + +The total absence of local scenery from these half hundred romances is +also curious, and becomes so very marked when the novelists are so +imprudent as to take their _dramatis personæ_ out of England, that one +can't help wondering whether these gentlemen have ever been in foreign +parts themselves, or even read about them. Here is the conclusion of a +romance which leaves nothing to be desired in the way of brevity, but +is unquestionably a little abrupt and vague: + +A year has passed away, and we are far from England and the English +climate. + +Whither 'we' have gone the author does not say, nor even indicate the +hemisphere. It will be imagined, perhaps, that we shall find out where +we are by the indication of the flora and fauna. + +A lady and gentleman before the dawn of day have been climbing up an +arid road in the direction of a dark ridge. + +Observe, again, the ingenious vagueness of the description: an 'arid +road' which may mean Siberia, and a 'dark ridge' which may mean the +Himalayas. + +The dawn suddenly comes upon them in all its glory. Birds twittered in +their willow gorges, and it was a very glorious day. Arthur and Emily +had passed the night at the ranche, and he had now taken her up to look +at the mine which at all events had introduced them. He had previously +taken her to see his mother's grave, the mother whom he had so loved. +The mine after some delay proved more prosperous than ever. It was not +sold, but is the 'appanage' of the younger sons of the house of Dacres. + +With the exception of the 'ranche,' it will be remarked that there is +not one word in the foregoing description to fix locality. The mine and +the ranche together seem indeed to suggest South America. But—I ask for +information—do birds twitter there in willow gorges? Younger sons of +noble families proverbially come off second best in this country, but +if one of them found his only 'appanage' was a mine, he would surely +with some justice make a remonstrance. + +The readers of this class of fiction will not have Dumas at any +price—or, at all events, not at a penny. Mr. Collins tells us how +'Monte Christo' was once spread before them, and how they turned from +that gorgeous feast with indifference, and fell back upon their tripe +and onions—their nameless authors. But some of those who write for them +have adopted one peculiarity of Dumas. The short jerky sentences which +disfigure the 'Three Musketeers,' and indeed all that great novelist's +works, are very frequent with them, which induces me to believe that +they are paid by the line. + +On the other hand, some affect fashionable description and conversation +which are drawn out in 'passages that lead to nothing' of an amazing +length. + +'Where have I been,' replied Clyde with a carelessness which was half +forced 'Oh, I have been over to Higham to see the dame.' + 'Ah, yes,' said Sir Edward, 'and how is the poor old creature?' + 'Quite well,' said Clyde, as he sat down and took up the menu of + the elaborate dinner. 'Quite well, she sent her best respects,' he + added, but he said nothing of the lodger, pretty Miss Mary + Westlake. + And when, a moment afterwards, the door opened and Grace came + flowing in with her lithe noiseless step, dressed in one of Worth's + masterpieces, a wonder of amber, satin, and antique lace, he raised + his eyes and looked at her with an earnest scrutiny—so earnest that + she paused with her hand on his chair, and met his eyes with a + questioning glance. + 'Do you like my new dress?' she said with a calm smile. + 'Your dress?' he said. 'Yes, yes, it is very pretty, very.' But to + himself he added, 'Yes, they are alike, strangely alike.' + +Which last remark may be applied with justice to the conversations of +all our novelists. There appears no necessity for their commencement, +no reason for their continuance, no object in their conclusion; the +reader finds himself in a forest of verbiage from which he is +extricated only at the end of the chapter, which is always, however, +'to be continued.' + +It is true that these story-tellers for the million generally keep 'a +gallop for the avenue' (an incident of a more or less exciting kind to +finish up with), but it is so brief and unsatisfactory that it hardly +rises to a canter; the author never seems to get into his stride. The +following is a fair example: + +But before we let the curtain fall, we must glance for a moment at +another picture—a sad and painful one. In one of those retreats, worse +than a living tomb, where reside those whose reason is dead, though +their bodies still live, is a small spare cell. The sole occupant is a +woman, young and very beautiful. Sometimes she is quiet and gentle as a +child; sometimes her fits of frenzy are frightful to witness; but the +only word she utters is 'Revenge,' and on her hand she always wears a +plain gold band with a cross of black pearls. + +This conclusion, which I chanced upon before I read the tale which +preceded it, naturally interested me immensely. Here, thought I, is at +last an exciting story; I shall now find one of those literary prizes +in hopes, perhaps, of hitting upon which the penny public endures so +many blanks. I was quite prepared to have my blood curdled; my lips +were ready for a full draught of gore; yet, I give you my word, there +was nothing in the whole story worse than a bankruptcy. + +This is what makes the success of penny fiction so remarkable; there is +nothing whatever in the way of dramatic interest to account for it; nor +of impropriety either. Like the lady friend of Dr. Johnson, who +congratulated him that there were no improper words in his dictionary, +and received from that unconciliatory sage the reply, 'You have been +looking for them, have you?' I have carefully searched my fifty samples +of penny fiction for something wrong, and have not found it. It is as +pure as milk, or, at all events, as milk-and-water. Unlike the Minerva +Press, too, it does not deal with eminent persons: wicked peers are +rare; fraud is usually confined within what may be called its natural +limits—the lawyer's office; the attention paid to the heroines not only +by their heroes, but by their unsuccessful and objectionable rivals, is +generally of the most honourable kind; and platitude and dulness hold +undisputed sway. + +In one or two of these periodicals there is indeed an example of the +mediaeval melodrama; but 'Ralpho the Mysterious' is by no means +thrilling. Indeed, when I remember that 'Ivanhoe' was once published in +a penny journal and proved a total failure, and then contemplate the +popularity of 'Ralpho,' I am more at sea as to what it is that attracts +the million than ever. + +'Noble youth,' cried the King as he embraced Ralpho, 'to you we must +entrust the training of our cavalry. I hold here the list which has +been made out of the troops which will come at the signal. To certain +of our nobles we have entrusted certain of our _corps d'armée_, but +unto you, Ralpho, we must entrust our horse, for in that service you +can display that wonderful dexterity with the sword which has made your +name so famous.' + 'Sire,' cried our hero, as he dropped on one knee and took the + King's hand, pressing it to his lips, 'thou hast indeed honoured me + by such a reward, but I cannot accept it.' + 'How!' cried the King; 'hast thou so soon tired of my service?' + 'Not so, sire. To serve you I would shed the last drop of my blood. + But if I were to accept this command, I should cease to do the + service for the cause which now it has pleased you to say I have + done. No, sire, let me remain the guardian of my King—his secret + agent. I, with my sword alone, will defend my country and my King.' + 'Be not rash, Ralpho; already hast thou done more than any man ever + did before. Run no more danger.' + 'Sire, if I have served you, grant my request. Let it be as I have + said.' + 'It shall be so, mysterious youth. Thou shalt be my secret agent. + Take this ring, and wear it for my sake; and, hark ye, gentlemen, + when Ralpho shows that ring, obey him as if he were ourselves.' + 'We will,' cried the nobles. + Then the King took the Star of St. Stanislaus, and fixed it on our + hero's breast. + +Now, to my mind, though his preferring to be 'a secret agent' to +becoming a generalissimo of the Polish cavalry is as modest as it is +original, Ralpho is too 'goody-goody' to be called 'the Mysterious.' He +reminds me, too, in his way of mixing chivalry with self-interest, of +those enterprising officers in fighting regiments who send in +applications for their own V.C.s while their comrades remain in modest +expectation of them. + +I am inclined to think, however, from the following advertisement, that +some author has been recently piling up the virtues of his hero too +strongly for the very delicate stomachs of the penny public, who, it is +evident, resent superlatives of all kinds, and are commonplace and +conventional to the marrow of their bones: 'T.B. TIMMINS is informed +that he cannot be promised another story like "Mandragora," since, in +deciding the contents of our journal, the tastes of readers have to be +considered whose interest cannot be aroused by the impossible deeds of +impossible creatures.' Alas! I wish from my heart I knew what 'deeds' +or 'creatures' _do_ arouse the interest of this (to me) inexplicable +public; for though I have before me the stories they obviously take +delight in, why they do so I cannot tell. + +At the 'Answers to Correspondents,' indeed, which form a leading +feature in most of these penny journals, one may exclaim, with the +colonel in 'Woodstock,' when, after many ghosts, he grapples with +Wildrake: 'Thou at least art palpable.' Here we have the real readers, +asking questions upon matters that concern them, and from these we +shall surely get at the back of their minds. But it is unfortunately +not so certain that these 'Answers to Correspondents' are not +themselves fictions, like all the rest—only invented by the editor +instead of the author, and coming in handy to fill up a vacant page. It +is, to my mind, incredible that a public so every way different from +that of the Mechanic's Institute, and to whom mere information is +likely to be anything but attractive, should be genuinely solicitous to +learn that 'Needles were first made in England in Cheapside, in the +reign of Queen Mary, by a negro from Spain;' or that 'The family name +of the Duke of Norfolk is Howard, although the younger members of it +call themselves Talbot.' + +Even the remonstrance of 'Our Correspondence Editor' with a gentleman +who wishes to learn 'How to manufacture dynamite' seems to me +artificial; as though the idea of saying a few words in season against +explosive compounds had occurred to him, without any particular +opportunity having really offered itself for the expression of his +views. + +There are, however, one or two advertisements decidedly genuine, and +which prove that the readers of penny fiction are not so immersed in +romance but that they have their eyes open to the main chance and their +material responsibilities. 'ANXIOUS TO KNOW,' for example, is informed +that 'The widow, unless otherwise decreed, keeps possession of +furniture on her marriage, and the daughter cannot claim it;' while +SKIBBS is assured that 'After such a lapse of time there will be no +danger of a warrant being issued for leaving his wife and family +chargeable to the parish.' + +As when Mr. Wilkie Collins made his first voyage of discovery into +these unknown latitudes, the penny journals are largely used for +forming matrimonial engagements, and for adjudicating upon all +questions of propriety in connection with the affections. 'It is just +bordering on folly,' 'NANCY BLAKE' is informed, 'to marry a man six +years your junior.' In answer to an inquiry from 'LOVING OLIVIA' +whether 'an engaged gentleman is at liberty to go to a theatre without +taking his young lady with him,' she is told 'Yes; but we imagine he +would not often do so.' + +Some tender questions are mixed up with others of a more practical +sort. 'LADY HILDA' is informed that 'it is very seldom children are +born healthy whose father has married before he is three-and-twenty; +that long engagements are not only unnecessary but injurious; and that +washing the head will remove the scurf.' 'LEONE' is assured that 'it is +not necessary to be married in two churches, one being quite +sufficient;' that 'there is no truth in the saying that it is unlucky +to marry a person of the same complexion;' and that 'a gentle aperient +will remove nettle-rash.' + +'VIRGINIE' (who, by the way, should surely be VIRGINIUS) is thus +tenderly sympathised with: + +'It does seem rather hard that you should be deprived of all +opportunity of having a _tête-à-tête_ with your betrothed, owing to her +being obliged to entertain other company, although there are others of +the family who can do so; still, as her mother insists upon it, and +will not let you enjoy the society of her daughter uninterrupted, you +might resort to a little harmless strategy, and whenever your stated +evenings for calling are broken in on that way, ask the young lady to +take a walk with you, or go to a place of amusement. She can then +excuse herself to her friends without a breach of etiquette, and you +can enjoy your _tête-à-tête_ undisturbed.' + +The photographs of lady correspondents which are received by the +editors of most of these journals are apparently very numerous, and, if +we may believe their description of them, all ravishingly beautiful. It +is no wonder they receive many applications of the following nature: + +'CLYDE, a rising young doctor, twenty-two, fair, with a nice house and +servants; being tired of bachelor life, wishes to receive the +carte-de-visite of a dark, fascinating young lady, of from seventeen to +twenty years of age; no money essential, but good birth indispensable. +She must be fond of music and children, and very loving and +affectionate.' + +Another doctor: + +'Twenty-nine, of a loving and amiable disposition, and who has at +present an income of £120 a year, is desirous to make an immediate +engagement with a lady about his own age, who must be possessed of a +little money, so that by their united efforts he may soon become a +member of a lucrative and honourable profession.' + +How the 'united efforts' of two young people, however enthusiastic, can +make a man an M.D. or an M.R.C.S. (except that love conquers all +things) is more than one can understand. The last advertisement I shall +quote affects me nearly, for it is from an eminent member of my own +profession: + +'ALEXIS, a popular author in the prime of life, of an affectionate +disposition, and fond of home, and the extent and pressing nature of +whose work have prevented him from mixing much in society, would be +glad to correspond with a young lady not above thirty. She must be of a +pleasing appearance, amiable, intelligent, and domestic.' + +If it is with the readers of penny fiction that Alexis has established +his popularity, I would like to know how he did it, and who he is. To +discover this last is, however, an impossibility. These novelists all +write anonymously, nor do their works ever appear before the public in +another guise. There is sometimes a melancholy pretence to the contrary +put forth in the 'Answers to Correspondents.' 'PHOENIX,' for example, +is informed that 'The story about which he inquires will not be +published in book form at the time he mentions.' But the fact is it +will never be so published at all. It has been written, like all its +congeners, for the unknown millions and for no one else. + +Some years ago, in a certain great literary organ, it was stated of one +of these penny journals (which has not forgotten to advertise the +eulogy) that 'its novels, are equal to the best works of fiction to be +got at the circulating libraries.' The critic who so expressed himself +must have done so in a moment of hilarity which I trust was not +produced by liquor; for 'the best works of fiction to be got at the +circulating libraries' obviously include those of George Eliot, +Trollope, Reade, Black, and Blackmore, while the novels I am discussing +are inferior to the worst. They are as crude and ineffective in their +pictures of domestic life as they are deficient in dramatic incident; +they are vapid, they are dull. Indeed, the total absence of humour, and +even of the least attempt at it, is most remarkable. There is now and +then a description of the playing of some practical joke, such as tying +two Chinamen's tails together, the effect of the relation of which is +melancholy in the extreme, but there is no approach to fun in the whole +penny library. And yet it attracts, it is calculated, four millions of +readers—a fact which makes my mouth water like that of Tantalus. + +When Mr. Wilkie Collins wrote of the Unknown Public it is clear he was +still hopeful of them. He thought it 'a question of time' only. 'The +largest audience,' he says, 'for periodical literature in this age of +periodicals must obey the universal law of progress, and sooner or +later learn to discriminate. When that period comes the readers who +rank by millions will be the readers who give the widest reputations, +who return the richest rewards, and who will therefore command the +services of the best writers of their time.' This prophecy has, +curiously enough, been fulfilled in a different direction from that +anticipated by him who uttered it. The penny papers—that is, the +provincial penny newspapers—_do_ now, under the syndicate system, +command the services of our most eminent novel writers; but Penny +Fiction proper—that is to say, the fiction published in the penny +literary journals—is just where it was a quarter of a century ago. + +With the opportunity of comparison afforded to its readers one would +say this would be impossible, but as a matter of fact, the opportunity +is _not_ offered. The readers of Penny Fiction do not read newspapers; +political events do not interest them, nor even social events, unless +they are of the class described in the _Police News_, which, I +remark—and the fact is not without significance—does not need to add +fiction to its varied attractions. + +But who, it will be asked, _are_ the public who don't read newspapers, +and whose mental calibre is such that they require to be told by a +correspondence editor that 'any number over the two thousand will +certainly be in the three thousand'? + +I believe, though the vendors of the commodity in question profess to +be unable to give any information on the matter, that the majority are +female domestic servants. + +As to what attracts them in their favourite literature, that is a much +more knotty question. My own theory is that, just as Mr. Tupper +achieved his immense popularity by never going over the heads of his +readers, and showing that poetry was, after all, not such a difficult +thing to be understood, so the writers of Penny Fiction, in clothing +very conventional thoughts in rather high-faluting English, have found +the secret of success. Each reader says to himself (or herself), 'That +is _my_ thought, which I would have myself expressed in those identical +words, if I had only known how. + + + + +HOTELS. + + +The desire for cheap holidays—as concerns going a long distance for +little money—is no doubt very general, but it is not universal. It +demands, like the bicycle, both youth and vigour. In mature years, not +only because we are more fastidious, but because we are less robust, +the element of cheapness, though always agreeable, is subsidiary to +that of comfort. For my own part, if the chance were offered me to +travel night and day for forty-eight hours anywhere—though it was to +the Elysian Fields—and that in a Pullman car, and for nothing, I would +rather go to Southend at my own expense from Saturday to Monday. +Suppose the former journey to be commenced by a Channel passage and +continued in a third-class carriage, I would rather stop at home. Or +if, in addition to the other discomforts, I am to be a unit among 100 +excursionists, with a coupon that insures my being lodged on the sixth +floor everywhere, I had rather take a month's quiet holiday in London +at the House of Detention. + +These things are matters of taste; but it is certain that a very large +number of people, who, like myself, are neither rich nor in a position +which justifies them in giving themselves airs, consider quiet, +comfort, and the absence of petty cares the most essential conditions +of a holiday. These views necessitate some expense and generally limit +the excursions of those who entertain them to their native land; but, +on the other hand, they have their advantages. They give one, for +example, a great experience in the matter of hotels. + +As I idly flutter the yellow leaves of the advertisements of inns in +'Bradshaw,' they call up pictures in my mind quite undreamt of by the +proprietors. I have been a sojourner in almost all of these which are +described as 'situated in picturesque localities.' They are all—it is +in print and must be true—'first-class' hotels; they have most of them +'unrivalled accommodation;' not a few of them have been 'patronised by +Royalty,' and one of them even by 'the Rothschilds.' These last, of +course, are great caravanserais, with 'magnificent ladies' +drawing-rooms' and 'replete' (a word that seems to have taken service +with the licensed victuallers) 'with every luxury.' They make up (a +term unfortunately suggestive of transformation) hundreds of beds; they +have equipages and 'night chamberlains;' '_On y parle français_;' '_Man +spricht Deutsch_.' Of some of these there is quite a little biography, +beginning with the year of their establishment and narrating their +happy union with other agreeable premises, like a brick and mortar +novel. I remember them well: their 'romantic surroundings' or 'their +exclusive privilege of meeting trains upon the platform;' their +accurate resemblance to 'a gentleman's own house' (with 'a +reception-room 80 feet by 90 feet'); their 'douche and spray baths;' +their 'unexceptionable tariff;' and even their having undergone those +'extensive alterations,' through which I also underwent something, +which they did not allow for in the bill. + +These hotels are all more or less satisfactory as to appearance; +furnished, not, indeed, with such taste, nor so lavishly, as their +rivals on the Continent, but handsomely enough; they are much cleaner +than foreign inns; and if their reference to 'every sanitary +improvement which science can suggest' is a little tall, even for an +advertisement, one never has cause to shudder as happens in some places +in France proper and in Brittany everywhere. Though it must be admitted +that _tables d'hôte_ abroad are not the banquets which the travelling +Briton believes them to be, our own hotel public dinners are inferior +to their originals, and, what is very hard, those who pay for an +entertainment in private suffer from them. The guest who happens to +dine later than the _table d'hôte_ in his own apartment can hardly +escape getting things 'warmed up;' and if he dines at the same time he +has nobody to wait on him. There is one thing that presses with great +severity on paterfamilias—the charge which is made at many of the large +hotels of 1s. 6d. a day for attendance on each person. Half a guinea a +week for service is a high price even for a bachelor; but when this has +to be paid for every member of the family, it is ruinous. Young ladies +who dine at the same table and do not give half the trouble of 'single +gentlemen' ought not to be taxed in this way. It is urged by many that +since attendance is charged in the bill,' there should be no other +fees. But the lover of comfort will always cheerfully pay for a little +extra civility; nor do I think that this practice—any more than that of +feeing our railway porters—is a public disadvantage. The waiter does +not know till the guest goes whether he is a person of inflexible +principles or not, and, therefore, hope ameliorates his manners and +shapes his actions to all. As to getting 'attendance' out of the bill, +now it has once got into it, that I believe to be impossible. There it +is, like the moth in one's drawing-room sofa. And yet I am old enough +to remember how poor Albert Smith plumed himself on the benefit he +bestowed upon the public, as he had imagined, by introducing a fixed +charge for all services and doing away with 'Please, sir, boots.' In +this country, and, to say truth, in most others, 'Please, sir, boots,' +is indigenous and not to be done away with. We did very much better +under the voluntary system, although a few people who did not deserve +it, but simply could not afford to be lavish, were called in +consequence 'screws.' + +To pay the wages of another man's servants is absurd, and reminds one +of the 'plate, glass, and linen' that used to be charged for at the +posting-house on the Dover road with every threepenny-worth of +brandy-and-water, I have been asked 6d. for an orange (when oranges +were cheap) at a London hotel, upon the ground that they never charged +less than 6d. for anything; and I have read of 'an old established and +family hotel' near Piccadilly, where the charge for putting the _Times_ +upon a guest's breakfast-table was 6d. up to this present year of +grace. 'Gentlemen and families had always been supplied with it at that +price,' said the landlord, when remonstrated with, 'and it was his +principle, and his customers approved it, to keep things as they were.' +It must be admitted, however, that matters have changed for the better +in this respect elsewhere; and, at all events, the printed tariff that +may now be consulted in every modern hotel enables you to know what you +are spending. + +Things are improved, too, in the way of light and air; both the public +and private rooms of our hotels are far more cheerful and better +appointed than they used to be, and instead of the four-posters there +are French beds. The one great advantage that our new system possesses +over the old is, indeed, the sleeping accommodation. The 'skimpy' +mattress, the sheet that used to come untucked through shortness, +leaving the feet tickled by the blanket, and the thin, limp thing that +called itself a feather bed, are only to be found in ancient +hostelries. + +On the other hand, it must be confessed that the food has deteriorated; +the bill of fare, indeed, is more pretentious, but the materials are +inferior, and so is the cooking. The well-browned fowl, with its rich +gravy and the bread-sauce that used to be its homely but agreeable +attendant, has disappeared. The bird appears now under a French title, +and is in other respects unrecognisable; as an Irish gentleman once +explained it to me, it is not only that the thing appears under an +_alias_, but the _alias_ comes up instead of the thing. There is one +essential which the old hotel often omitted to serve with your chicken, +and which the new hotel supplies—the salad. This, however, few hotel +cooks in England—and far less hotel waiters—can be trusted to prepare. +Their simple plan is to deluge the tender lettuce with some hateful +ingredient called 'salad mixture,' poured out of a peculiarly shaped +bottle, such as the law now compels poisons to be sold in; and the +jewel is deserving of its casket—it is almost poison. Nor, alas! is +security always to be attained by making one's salad for one's self. +For supposing even that the lettuce is fresh and white, and not +manifestly a cabbage that is pretending to be a lettuce, how about the +oil? Charles Dickens used to say that he could always tell the +character of an inn from its cruets; if they were dirty and neglected, +all was bad. The cruets are now clean enough in all hotels of +pretension; but alas for that bottle which should contain (and perhaps +did at some remote period contain) the oil of Lucca! On the fingers of +one hand I could count all the hotels in England which have not given +me bad oil. Whether it was never good, or whether it has gone bad, I +leave to those philosophers who investigate the origin of evil. I only +know that it tastes as hair-oil smells. As to the soups, they are no +worse than they used to be, and no better; there is soup and there is +hotel soup. + +'Gravy soup, fried sole, _entrée_, leg of mutton, and apple tart' used +to be the unambitious _menu_ of the old-fashioned inn. The _entrée_ was +terrible, but the fish, meat, and sweet were excellent. I will say +nothing of the _entrées_ now; I am not in a position to say anything, +for not being of a sanguine temperament, and having but a few years to +live, I do not venture upon them. But it is undeniable that our bill of +fare is greatly more varied than it used to be, and that the way in +which the table is arranged is much more attractive. At the great +hotels in the neighbourhood of London where rich, or at all events +prodigal people, go to dine in the summer months, this is especially +the case. All these establishments affect fine dinners, yet how seldom +it is they give you good ones! Their wines, though monstrously dear, +are very fair; indeed, of the champagnes at least you may make certain +by looking at the corks; but the food! How many of their fancifully +named dishes might be included under the common title, Fiasco! + +It was once suggested to a decayed man of fashion that an excellent +profession for him to take up would be the proprietorship of an hotel +of this class. 'You know what is really worth eating,' said an +influential friend of his, 'and these caterers for your own class +evidently don't; if you will undertake the management of the _Mammoth_ +(naming an inn of very high repute), I will furnish the funds.' But the +man of fashion, who had spent his all with very little to show for it, +had at least acquired some knowledge of his fellow-creatures. 'I am +deeply obliged to you,' he said, 'but were I to accept your offer I +should only lose your money. There are but a very few people in the +world who know a good dinner when it is set before them; and a very +large class (including all the ladies, who are only solicitous about +its _looking_ good) do not care whether it is good or bad. In private +life if a dinner consists of many courses, is given at a fine house, +and is presumably expensive, nineteen-twentieths of those who sit down +to it are satisfied. The twentieth alone says to himself, 'How much +better I should have dined at home!' I have been at scores and scores +of great dinner-parties where the very plates were cold and nobody but +myself has observed it.' + +I have no doubt the gentleman of fashion was right; delicate cooking +would be entirely thrown away upon the general palate. The fair sex, +the young, the hungry, the easy-going, the ignorant—how large a +majority of the 'frequenters' of hotels do these classes embrace! And +it must also be remarked that to cook food (except whitebait) +delicately in large quantities is a very difficult operation indeed. + +Upon the whole, I think, our large hotels, 'arranged on the Continental +system,' are well adapted for those who frequent them, and they show a +readiness to adopt improvements. An immense number of well-to-do people +go to Brighton, to Scarborough, and scores of other places to get a +change and fresh air, but also to find the same amusements to which +they have been accustomed in London; and, on the whole, they get what +they want without paying very much too much for it. But what drives +many quiet folks abroad is their disinclination to meet with all this +gaiety and public life; they do not mind it so much when it is mixed +with the foreign element, and they are also under the impression that +picturesque scenery is a peculiarity of the Continent. I believe that +more English people have visited Switzerland than have seen the Lake +District and the Channel Islands, and very many more than have +travelled in North Devon and Cornwall. The chief reason of their +abstinence in this respect is, however, their dread of the want of +'accommodation.' To the last two counties, with the exception of some +towns, such as Ilfracombe, approachable by sea, or a direct railway +route, folks never go in crowds, and never will go. It is true there +are no mammoth hotels to be found there; but for picturesque situation +and a certain homely comfort, that takes one not only into another +world, but another generation, there is nothing equal to certain little +inns in these out-of-the-way places. In Wales also, and even in the +Isle of Wight, there are perfect bowers of bliss of this description, +still undesecrated by the excursionist. Not ten years ago, in a part of +North Devon which shall be nameless, I came, with my wife and daughter, +upon an inn of this description. We were all enraptured with the +exquisite beauty of its situation, and were so imprudent as to express, +in the presence of the landlady, our wish to live and die there. 'Well, +indeed, sir,' she said, 'I am delighted to see you, but I hope you are +not going to stay very long.' 'My dear madam,' I remonstrated, aghast +at this remark, 'are we, then, such very objectionable-looking +persons?' 'Bless your heart, no, sir, it isn't that; but the fact is, +we have only room for three, and if parties come and come, and always +find us full (through your being here, you know), they will think it is +no use coming, and we shall lose our custom.' We did stay on, however, +a pretty long time—it was a place of ineffable beauty, such as one +parts from almost with tears—and when on our departure I asked for my +bill, the landlady said, 'Dear me, sir, would you kindly tell me what +day you come upon, for I ha' lost my account of it?' The life we led at +that inn was purely pastoral; the clotted cream was of that consistency +that it was meat and drink in one; but although the fare was homely, it +was good of its kind, and admirably cooked. There was fresh fish every +day—for we were too far from railways for that Gargantuan ogre, 'the +London market,' to deprive us of it—and tender fowls, and jams of all +kinds such as no money could buy. + +The landlady had a genius for making what she called 'conserves,' and +every cupboard in the queer little house was filled with them. In the +sitting-room was a quantity of old china and knick-knacks, brought by +the sailors of the place from foreign lands; the linen was white as +snow, and smelt of lavender. Outside the inn was a sea that stretched +to Newfoundland, and cliffs that caught the sunset—such scenery as is +not surpassed by that of the Tyrol (though, of course, in a very +different line), and be sure I was afraid of no comparison between our +'Travellers' Rest' and any Tyrolean inn. It is noteworthy that this +hostelry of ours was so peculiarly and picturesquely placed that it +could only be approached on foot, which reminds me of another place of +entertainment for man, but not for beast. + +In appearance, 'The Strangers' Welcome' (as I will take leave to term +it) is more ambitious than 'The Rest,' but it is of the same simple +type. In some respects it is even more primitive; no sign hangs over +its door, nor is any other symbol of its vocation visible, 'Liberty,' +not 'License,' as one may say without much metaphor, being its motto. +It is on an island, so insignificant in extent that horse exercise is +impossible on it. What it lacks in superficial area is more than made +up, however, in its stupendous height. From the 'Welcome,' though it +lies in a dell, one looks down perhaps a hundred sheer feet upon the +ocean. Its solemn murmur, even in calm, always reaches the place, and +when in storm, its spray. As one watches it from the lawn among the +fuchsias, one scarcely knows which mood becomes it best. The fuchsias +grow against our walls and tap at our window-panes in the morning as +though they were roses; they even make their homes in the rocks, like +the conies. The island is a very garden of fuchsias, tall as trees; and +there are no other trees. The 'Welcome' itself is a sort of farmhouse +without the farm; there is a goat or two and a donkey to be seen about +it, which would account for the milk having an alien flavour, if it had +one. But the 'Welcome' has excellent milk, so that there must be some +cows somewhere. From the cliff-top you may see Alderney, for our inn is +among the Channel Islands. When a storm comes you must stop where you +are; for until the last waves of it have ceased there is no approach to +us from the world without. To the stranger it seems probable at such +seasons that the little place will burst up from below, for beneath it +are caverns innumerable, filled with furious waves like sea monsters +roaring for our lives. The sea, in short, has honeycombed it, and +renews her vows to be its ruin with every gale. Yet the 'Welcome' lasts +our time, and will last that of many generations, who will continue, +however, doubtless to believe that the sublimities of Nature are +unattainable short of Switzerland. + +My memory now transports me to a mountain district in the north, but on +this side of the border; and here, again, the inn is signless, and has +no appearance of an inn at all. It is situated on the last of a great +chain of hills, with lakes among them. It has lawns and shrubberies, +but few flowers; Nature frowns on every hand, even in sunshine, when +the waterfalls flow like silver, and the crags are decked with +diamonds. There are no 'trencher-scraping, napkin-carrying,' waiters in +the house, but country damsels attend upon you, and a motherly dame, +their mistress, expresses her hope every morning that you have slept +well. If you have not, it is the fault of your conscience: you have had +a poet's recipe for it, for you have been 'within the hearing of a +hundred streams' all night. Will you go up the Fells, or will you row +on the Lake? These are your simple alternatives; there is no brass +band, no promenade, no pier, no anything that the vulgar like. Yet once +a week at least a great spectacle can be promised you without crossing +the inn threshold (indeed, when the promise is kept it is better to be +on the right side of it)—a thunder-storm among the hills. The +arrangements for lighting the place, of which you may have complained, +not without reason, are then in perfection, and the silence is broken +with a vengeance. It is difficult to imagine the grandeurs of a +sham-fight—a battle without corpses—but here you have them. First the +musketry, then the guns, with the explosion of the +powder-magazine—repeated about forty times by the mountain echoes—at +the end of it. When all is over you sit down to such a supper as +Lucullus would have given a year of life for, and which, in all +probability—for he had no prudence—would have shortened it for him. At +the 'Retreat,' as it is called, among other native delicacies, they +give you fresh char cooked to a turn. I like to think that this was the +fish that Monte Christo had sent him in a tank to Paris on the occasion +of a certain banquet; but all the wealth of the Indies could not have +accomplished that; the char (in spite of its name) does not travel. + +One more reminiscence of country inns; and, though I have more of them +in the picture-gallery of my memory, I have done. I conjure up an +ivy-covered dwelling, long roofed but low, and sheltered by a lofty +hill. Its situation is quite solitary, and, save for the cry of the +seagull, there reigns about it an unbroken silence. It is on the very +highway of the world, but the road is noiseless, for it is the sea. +From the windows, all day long, we can watch the ships pass by that +carry the pilgrims of the earth, for their freight is chiefly human. It +is here 'the first ray glitters on the sail that brings our friends up +from the under world, and the last falls on that which sinks with all +we love below the verge.' Even at night there is no cessation to this +coming and going; only, a red light or a white, and the distant strokes +of a paddle-wheel in the hush of the moonless void are then the sole +signs of all this motion. What hopes and fears contend in unseen hearts +under those moving stars! Is it nothing to have the opportunity to +watch them from the ivied porch of the 'Outlook,' and to welcome the +thoughts they arouse within us? On land, too, there are stars, not made +in heaven, but their shining is intermittent. As I lie in my bed I can +see the great revolving light on the farthest point of rock that juts +to sea. That is the 'Outlook's' watchman, not of much use to it, +indeed, in a practical way, but imparting a marvellous sense of +guardianship and security. + +The chief means of amusement at inns of this kind is supplied by +science in the telescope. You note through it all that comes and goes, +and after a day or two can tell-for yourself whither each stately ship +is bound, or whence it comes. At the 'Outlook' the food is plain, but +good; the prawns in particular (which the young people, by-the-bye, can +catch for themselves) are of an exquisite flavour, and in size approach +the lobster. Twice a week for four hours this earthly Paradise is as a +town taken by assault and given over to pillage. An excursion steamer +stops at the little pier and discharges a cargo of excursionists. But +those to whom the happiness of their fellow-creatures is intolerable +can withdraw themselves at these seasons to the neighbouring Downs and +Bays, and on their return they will find peace with folded wing sitting +as before on the 'Outlook's' flagstaff. + +Such are the inns which I have known, and there are hundreds in +beautiful England like them. On its rivers in particular there are many +charming little inns, but, to say truth, although the +gentlemen-fishermen are as quiet as mice (from their habits of caution +in their calling), the disciples of the oar are noisy; they get up too +early and go to bed too late, and are too much addicted to melody. +Moreover, these houses of entertainment often carry the principle of +home production to excess: their native fare is excellent; but, spring +mattresses not growing in the neighbourhood, the stuffing of the beds +is supplied, to judge by results, from the turnip-field. For the +purpose for which they are intended, however, these little hostels are +well fitted and have a river charm that is indescribable. + +I could speak, too, of excellent hotels set in the grounds of ruined +castles or abbeys; but the attractions of the latter interfere with the +repose of the visitor. Moreover, it has been my chief object, while +admitting the merits of the _Crown_ (and) _Imperial_, to paint the +lily—to point out the violet half hid from the eye. It seems to me a +pity that so many persons should leave their native land and spend +their money among foreigners through ignorance of the quiet +resting-places that await them at home. I have in no way exaggerated +their merits, but it must be confessed that they have one serious +drawback, which, however, only affects bachelors; if Paterfamilias is +troubled by it he ought to be ashamed of himself. I allude to the happy +couples on their honeymoon whom one is wont to meet with in these +retired bowers. It is aggravating, no doubt, to see how Angelina and +Edwin devote themselves to one another without the slightest regard for +the feelings of the solitary stranger. The poor creature has no wish, +of course, to thrust his company upon them, still he would like to have +his existence acknowledged; and they ignore it. They have not a word to +throw to him, nor even a glance. Then there are certain endearments, +delightful, no doubt, to those who exchange them, but which to the +spectator are distraction. What I would recommend to the bachelor as a +remedy is a wife of his own. The good Mussulman's idea of future +happiness is a perpetual honeymoon; and these little Paradises are the +very places to spend it in. The customs of our own country forbid the +agreeable variety which has such charms for the Faithful; but, even as +it is, I have seen in these pleasant inns a great deal of human +happiness, such as to the sober lover of his species only adds to their +attraction. + +[Illustration] + + + + +MAID-SERVANTS. + + +It is a common thing to hear the remark expressed by much-tried +mistresses that servants are not 'reasonable beings.' The observation +may either have been provoked by the misbehaviour of some particular +domestic, or by the injudicious defence of the class by one of the male +sex. For the gentlemen have more to urge in favour of our domestics +than the ladies have, and, as the latter maintain, for a very obvious +reason—'they have much less to do with them.' The statement is cynical, +but correct. So long as a man finds his clothes brushed and his meals +well and punctually cooked, he 'does not see much to complain of,' nor +does he give much thought to the pains and trouble which even that +moderate amount of service entails upon his wife. Unless in great +households, where everything is delegated to a paid housekeeper, it is, +indeed, certain that ladies who are resolved to keep a house as it +should be have, now, from various causes, a very hard time of it. The +old feeling of feudal service, though a few examples—both mistresses +and servants—may still exist of it, is dead; and in its place we have +the employer and the hireling. There are faults, of course, on both +sides; mistresses are accustomed to look upon their servants too much +as machines, and in the working thereof do not, perhaps, estimate +sufficiently the advantages of the use of sweet oil; while servants are +more prone to 'eye-service' than were ever the housemaids of Ephesus. +Which of the two began it I cannot tell, but a certain antagonism has +grown up between these two classes which shakes the pillars of domestic +peace. At the root of it all, as at the root of most evils, lies +ignorance, and in the servants' case ignorance of a stupendous nature. + +I have had in my household an under-nurse, who, upon the family's +leaving town for a short holiday, was enjoined to see that the birds in +the nursery (canaries) were well supplied with sand. When we came back +we found them all starved to death. She had given them sand, but, alas! +no seed. This was a girl from the country, who, one would think, would +have known what birds fed upon; otherwise one does not expect much +intelligence from Arcadia. When our last importation (an +under-housemaid) 'turned on the gas' in the upper apartments as she was +directed to do, but omitted to light it, I thought it very excusable; +she had not been accustomed to gas. On the other hand, when her +mistress told her to 'look to the fire' of a certain room, I contend we +had a right to expect that that fire should be kept in. It was not so, +however, and when the lady inquired, 'Why did you not look to it, as I +told you?' the girl replied, 'Well, I did, mum; the door was open and I +looked at the fire every time I passed.' She appeared to attach some +sort of igneous power to the human eye. + +Each of these young ladies came to us very highly recommended by the +wife of the clergyman of her native place. Surely, in the curriculum of +the village school, something else beside the catechism ought to have +been included; yet, of the things they were certain to be set to do—the +merest first principles of domestic service—they had been taught +nothing; and in learning them at our expense they cost us ten times +their wages. + +It may be said, indeed, that when you employ a young girl who has never +been out to service before, you secure honesty, chastity, and sobriety, +and must not look for the artificial virtues; but, unhappily, things +are not very much better when you engage an experienced hand. The lady +of the house should not, of course, expect too much (in these days she +must be of a very sanguine temperament if she falls into _that_ error); +she will think it necessary to warn the new arrival—although she 'knows +her place' and is 'a thorough housemaid'—that a velvet pile carpet, for +example, should not be brushed backwards. But on more obvious matters +she will probably leave the 'thorough housemaid' to her own devices, +the result of which is that the boards beside the stair-carpets are +washed with soda the first morning, which takes the dirt off +effectually—and the paint also. An hour or two before she was caught at +this, she has, perhaps, utterly spoilt a polished grate or two by +rubbing them with scouring paper instead of emery powder. + +Paterfamilias feels these things when he has to pay the bill, but his +wife feels them in the meantime, and it is more than is to be expected +of human nature that she can welcome cordially such an addition to her +household. A prejudice against the girl springs up in her mind, which +is very promptly responded to, and the mutual respect that ought to +grow up between them is nipped in the bud. I am sorry to say that good +housewives are almost always opposed to having servants well educated; +they think that 'knowledge puffs up,' blows them above their places, +and encourages a taste for light literature which is opposed to the +arts of brushing and cleaning. What the 'higher education' of domestic +servants is to be under the School Boards I know not; but I hope they +will not imagine, as the Universities do, that their duty is only to +teach their pupils how to educate themselves. I confess I agree with +the housewives, that, for young persons intended for service, reading, +writing, and arithmetic, with the use of the scrubbing and hearth +brushes, are far preferable acquirements to those of the same three +great principles with the use of the globes. Whether there are any +handbooks in existence, other than cookery books, to teach the duties +of servants I know not; but, even if there are, servants will never +read them of their own free will. Not one in a hundred has a +sufficiently strong desire to improve herself for that. They must be +taught like children, and when they _are_ children, if any good is to +come of it. + +It is to me astounding, and certainly makes me very suspicious of the +advocates of women's rights, that they have done little or nothing in +this direction. Why should not some of that immense energy which is now +expended on platforms be directed into this less ambitious but more +natural channel? There are tens of thousands of persons of their own +sex, not indeed out of employment, but who are obtaining employment on +false pretences, who would do so honestly enough if they had had but a +little early training. Unfortunately, the ladies of the platform do not +in general stoop to such small things as domestic matters; they do not +care about mere comfort, they even perhaps resent it because it is so +dear to tyrannous man. If they would only turn their attention to the +education of their humbler sisters, they would win over all their +enemies and put to shame the cynic who has associated Man's Lefts with +Women's Rights. + +The only School for Servants I am acquainted with sent us the worst we +ever had, and if it had not been for the very handsome fee it charged +both us and her for our mutual introduction, I should not have +recognised it as an educational establishment at all. + +It will naturally be said by men (not by their wives, for they know +better), 'But surely self-interest will cause a servant to qualify +herself for a place, since, having done so, she will command better +wages.' This is the mistake of the political economists, who, right +enough in the importance they attach to self-interest, gravely err in +supposing it to be always of a material kind. They start with the idea +that everybody wants to make as much money as possible. So they do; but +with a large majority this desire is subordinate to the wish for +leisure and enjoyment. Trades unionism, with all its faults, is founded +on this important fact in human nature—that many of us prefer narrow +means, with comparative leisure, to affluence with toil. That this +notion, if universal, would destroy good work of all kinds and make +perfection impossible, is beside the question, or certainly never +enters into the minds of those chiefly concerned in the matter. 'A good +day's work for a good day's wage' is a fine sentiment; but 'half a +day's work for half a day's wage' suits some people even better; while +'half a day's work for a good day's wage' suits them better still. In +old times the sense of 'service being no inheritance' begat habits of +good conduct as well as thrift, for in most well-conducted households, +servants' wages were made proportionate to their length of service. But +nowadays a lady's promise of raising a servant's wages every year is +quite superfluous, since it is ten to one against her keeping her for +the first twelve months. It is no wonder, then, that while the +conviction of service being of a temporary character is, at least, as +strong as ever, the course of conduct it now suggests is to make as +much as possible out of it while it lasts, in the way of perquisites, +etc. With our cooks, especially, it is not too much to say that wages +are often a secondary object as compared with the opportunity of making +a purse for themselves; and the recognised privilege of selling the +dripping affords cover for a multitude of petty delinquencies which if +not positive thefts have a strong family resemblance to them. + +Before leaving the subject of short terms of service, it should be +noted that the modern servant openly avows her love of change. An +excellent mistress, and a very kind one, has told me that housemaids +and kitchenmaids have given her warning again and again for no other +cause than this. They have avowed themselves quite happy and contented +in their place, but they want 'fresh woods and pastures new.' When Jack +Mytton was reminded by his lawyer that a certain estate he was about to +sell had been in his family for 500 years, he replied, 'Then it's high +time it should go out of it;' and the same reflection occurs to our +Janes and Bessies. They have been in their present situation a year +perhaps, or two at most—indeed, two years is considered in the world +below stairs the extreme point for any person of spirit to remain under +one roof—and it is high time they should leave it. One would naturally +think that, in the case of young women at all events, they would be +slow to exchange even a moderately comfortable place for a home among +strangers; that they would bear the ills they know of, even if ills +exist, rather than venture on those of which they know nothing; but +this is far from being the case. Nor do they even quit their place in +order 'to better themselves.' They have absolutely no reason except the +love of change. Behaviour of this sort naturally gives some colour to +the remark already quoted that servants are not 'reasonable beings.' I +was almost a convert to that opinion myself when, on one occasion, +having asked a female domestic to be good enough to put my boots on the +tree, she literally obeyed my order. She hung all my boots on the tree +in the garden, and it was very wet weather. But to young persons who +come from the country everything is pardonable—except 'temper.' + +The growth of this parasite in both town and country is, however, quite +alarming. Little as mistresses dare to say to the disadvantage of +servants when leaving their employment, no matter for what reason, they +do sometimes remark of them that their temper is 'uncertain.' When this +happens and the fact is communicated to Jane or Betsy by the lady to +whom they have proposed themselves, they have one invariable method of +self-defence: 'Temper, mum? Well, I 'ave my faults, I daresay, but not +_that_; all as knows me knows my temper is 'eavenly. But the fact is, +mum, Mrs. Jones [her late mistress] was a bit flighty.' And she touches +her forehead, and even sometimes winks, to indicate aberration of the +intellect. A really good-tempered servant is now rare; and there are +very few who will bear 'speaking to' when their work is neglected or +ill-done. + +What, however, always puts them in the highest good humour is an +expensive breakage. When Susan comes to say, 'Oh, please, mum, I've 'ad +a haccident with the pier glass,' her face is wreathed in smiles. To a +mistress who cannot relieve her feelings by strong language, as a man +would do, this behaviour is very aggravating. If servants do not +actually delight in these misfortunes, I am afraid not one in twenty +shows the least consideration for her employer's purse. It is +charitable to say, when Thomas or Jane leaves the gas burning all +night, or the sun-blinds out in the pouring rain, that they have 'no +head;' but it is my experience that they are very careful, and, indeed, +take quite extraordinary precautions, with respect to their own +property. I am afraid that the true reason of the waste and +extravagance among servants is that they have no attachment to their +employers, and of course it is less troublesome to be lavish than to be +economical. All the education in the world cannot make selfish persons +unselfish; but it can surely implant in them some sense of duty. At +present, so long as a servant is not absolutely dishonest, her +conscience rarely troubles her. This is especially the case with our +cooks, who also—that 'dripping' question making their path so +slippery—draw the line between honesty and its contrary very fine +indeed. + +Moreover, they know less of what they pretend to know than any other +class of servant. The proof of this is in the fact that not one in a +hundred of them will cook you a dinner on trial. I have often said to a +cook, 'Your character is satisfactory enough in other respects; but, +before engaging you, will you show what you can do by sending up one +good dinner, for which I will pay you at the ordinary rate —namely, +half-a-guinea?' She won't do it; she says she can cook for a prince, +and affects to be hurt at the proposition. The consequence is that for +a month, at least, we are slowly poisoned. Once only I hired a cook who +accepted these terms. I am bound to say she sent us up a most excellent +dinner, but when I sent for her to pay the half-guinea she was dead +drunk on the kitchen floor. She had taken a bottle of port wine and one +of stout while serving up that entertainment, and afterwards confessed +that during her arduous duties she required 'constant support.' Again, +it is by no means unusual for cooks to succeed to admiration for a week +and then to begin to spoil everything, the proverb respecting a 'new +broom' applying, curiously enough, even more to them than to the +'housemaids.' + +These observations are no doubt severe, but they are not unjust; nor do +I for a moment imply that servants are always to blame, and never +mistresses. There are faults on both sides. Ladies often show +themselves as 'unreasonable' as their female domestics. For example, +although very solicitous for the settlement of their own daughters in +life, they often do not give sufficient opportunities for their +maid-servants to find husbands. A girl in service is quite as anxious +to get a husband as her young mistresses, and, indeed, it is of much +more consequence for her to do so. She sees her youth slipping away +from her in a place where no 'followers' are allowed, and it is no +wonder that she 'wants a change.' She has a right to have her holidays +and her 'Sundays out,' and it is the mistress's duty not only to grant +them, but to make some inquiry as to how she spends them. Many ladies +who go to church with much regularity never take the smallest interest +in the moral conduct of those to whom they stand, morally if not +legally, _in loco parentis_, and who may, perhaps, have no other +adviser. + +Mistresses of all ranks, too, show a lamentable want of principle in +the matter of character-giving. It wants, no doubt, a certain strength +of mind to write the truth. 'The girl is going, thank Heaven,' they say +to themselves, and they are glad to get rid of her, without a row, at +the easy price of a small falsehood. They lay the flattering unction to +their souls that they are concealing certain facts in order 'not to +stand in the way of the poor girl's future.' What they are really doing +is an act of selfishness, cruel as regards the lady who is trusting to +their word, and baneful as regards the public good. It is the good +characters which make the bad servants. In a certain primitive district +of England, where ministers are 'called' from parish to parish, one of +the churchwardens of X complained to the churchwardens of Y that his +late importation from the Y pulpit was not very satisfactory. 'And +yet,' he said, 'you all cracked him up enormously.' 'Yes,' replied the +churchwarden of Y, 'and you will have to crack him up too before you +get rid of him.' + +Now, it is only ignorance which causes ladies to believe that there is +any necessity to 'crack up' the character of a servant. They are not +obliged (though, of course, if the servant has behaved well it would be +infamous to withhold it) to give her any character at all, and they may +state the most unpleasant truth (if they are quite certain of the fact +and can prove it) without the least fear of an action for libel. The +law does not punish them for telling the truth about their servants, +and in another matter also it is more just than it is supposed to be. +There is a superstition among servants that when leaving their +situations before their time is out they have a right to claim board +wages, and that even when dismissed for gross misconduct they have a +right to their ordinary wages for the remainder of the month; but these +are mere popular errors. The only case with which I am acquainted where +neither of these dues was demanded was rather a curious one. A widow +lady advertised for a cook and a housemaid, and procured them by the +first cast of her net. They came together with an open avowal of their +previous acquaintanceship; they were attached to one another, they +said, and did not wish to be in separate service, and wages were not so +much an object to them as opportunities of friendship. The lady, who +had an element of romance in her, was touched with this expression of +sentiment; it was also a great convenience to her to be so quickly +suited; and, their characters being good, she engaged them. They had +come from a house of much greater pretensions than her own, and had +taken higher wages, which might have attracted her suspicions; but she +had very little work for them to do, and she concluded that 'an easy +place' had had its attractions for them. Her servants were well treated +and well fed, and were allowed to see their friends; but she objected +to evening visits, and required the back door to be locked and the key +placed in her possession at nine o'clock every evening. If the front +door was opened she could hear it from every part of her modest +residence (and, being very nervous, she used often to fancy that it +opened when it did not), while a wire for the use of the policeman +connected the ground-floor with an alarm bell in her own room in case +of fire or other contingency. The two servants had been six days with +her when this alarm bell was pealed one night with great violence. She +looked out of window, and beheld a cab laden with luggage standing at +her door. She expected nobody; but whoever had come was more welcome +than 'thieves' or 'fire,' and she went up to the maid's room to bid +them answer the door. She found to her great astonishment—for it was +two in the morning—the apartment empty, and while she was there the +alarm-bell sounded again with increased fury. Looking over the +balusters, she perceived a light in the hall and inquired who was +there. 'Well, it's us two,' returned the cook, 'we're just agoin, so +good-bye. It ain't at all the sort o' place for us, and you ain't the +sort o' missis.' Then there was a shout of laughter, the front door was +opened and slammed to, and the cab drove off with its tenants, leaving +their mistress to her lonely meditations. The two friends had come on +trial, it seemed, and had had enough of it. + +That they made no claim for wages of any kind seems quite curious when +one considers what sort of servants, and in what sort of circumstances, +do demand them. And, as a rule, masters and mistresses give in to the +extortion. Yet the law is on their side, nor have they any reason to +complain of it in other respects. The improvement that is needed is in +themselves, and in their relations to those in their employment. Our +young ladies are so engaged in their accomplishments and their +amusements that they have no time to acquire a knowledge of domestic +affairs, so that when they marry they know no more of a housewife's +duties than their husbands. No wonder men of moderate means shrink from +marriage when wives have become a source of discomfort and expense, +instead of their contraries, and have lost the name of helpmate. How +can they be in a position to teach their servants when they themselves +are grossly ignorant of what they would have them learn? There are +certain village schools, indeed, which profess to train their pupils +for domestic service, but they only teach them to be maids-of-all-work, +the least remunerated and the hardest-worked of all the daughters of +toil. They offer no premium to diligence and perfection. + +This state of things is very hard both upon mistresses and servants, +but it is not irremediable, and the remedy must come from the upper of +the two classes. Schools are as necessary for servants as they are for +other people; they must be taught their calling before they can +practise it; and schools for servants must therefore be instituted. +With schools will come certificates of merit, and servants will then be +paid for what they can really do, and not, as now, in proportion to +their powers of audacity of assertion. + + + + +MEN-SERVANTS. + + +The subject of men-servants is by no means of such universal interest +as that of maid-servants, and those who suffer from them are not only +less numerous, but less deserving of pity; as a lady of limited means +once put it in my hearing, 'They can better afford to be robbed and +murdered' On the other hand, whatever truth may be in the dogma that +where a woman is bad she is worse than a bad man, it is certain that +when a man-servant is bad he can do more mischief than a bad +maid-servant. In many cases he is a necessity, not because folks are +rich, but because they have large families, and the service is +consequently too heavy to be undertaken solely by women. I have known +many householders who, weary of the trouble and annoyance given by +men-servants, have resolved to engage only those of the other sex, and +who have had to resort to men-servants again for what may be called +physical reasons. + +When this happens, however, both master and mistress should agree to +the arrangement, or at all events be both informed that it has been +made. Only last autumn a lady friend of mine adopted it in the absence +of her husband abroad, and forgot to apprise him of it by letter. He +arrived home late at night, and, letting himself in with a latch-key, +took the strange man for a burglar, and was almost the death of him by +strangulation before he could explain that he was the new butler. + +No woman can bring up a luncheon or dinner tray for a dozen people +twice a day without sooner or later coming to grief with it. And here +it is appropriate to say that in places where there is much heavy work +it is only reasonable that wages should be higher than where the work +is light. Whereas, upon such irrational grounds is our whole system of +domestic service built, that this is hardly ever taken into +consideration. Since the servant is told beforehand what he or she will +have to do, it is taken for granted that the conditions are acceptable +to them; whereas, the fact is that the capability of performing their +duties is the very last thing to enter their minds. They cannot afford +to remain 'out of a situation,' and therefore take the first that +offers itself as a stopgap, with no more intention of permanently +remaining there than a European who accepts an appointment in Turkey, +and with the same object—namely, to make as much as possible out of the +Turks in the meantime. + +In the case of a man-servant, especially in London, no written +character should ever be held sufficient. A personal interview with his +late master or mistress is indispensable. This gives a little trouble, +no doubt, on both sides; but those who grudge it, for such a purpose, +must indeed be grossly selfish, and when they engage a ticket-of-leave +man for their butler get no worse than they deserve. One of the best +butlers, however, I ever knew was a ticket-of-leave man—engaged on the +faith of a written character, which was, of course, a forged one, and +who remained with his employer no less than eighteen months. If his +speculations on the turf had been successful, he might have parted with +him the best of friends, and perhaps have purchased a residence in the +same square; but something went wrong with the brother to Bucephalus, +whom he had backed for the Derby, and the poor man had to dispose of +the whole of his master's family plate to pay his own debts of honour +and defray his travelling expenses—probably to some considerable +distance, as the police could never hear of him. The risk in taking a +butler without a personal guarantee of at least his honesty and +sobriety can indeed hardly be exaggerated. If a clever fellow, his +influence over his fellow-servants of the other sex is very great, and +it is a recognised maxim of the class never 'to tell upon one another' +so long as they remain good friends. I have heard an experienced +housewife say there is nothing she dreads so much as an unbroken +harmony below stairs; like silence in the nursery, it is ominous of all +sorts of mischief. + +Of course, the ticket-of-leave man was an extreme case; but it is +certain that some butlers who are not thieves are always treading on +the very confines of roguery. They are like trustees who, though they +will not touch the principal entrusted to them, not only omit to put it +out to the best advantage, but will sometimes even pocket a portion of +the interest 'for their trouble.' I remember reading a curious case of +this sort. A gentleman who had been with his family in Switzerland for +nine months was met by a London acquaintance on his return, who +expressed his regret at his having been in trouble at home. 'Nay, I +have been in no trouble,' he replied, 'and, indeed, none of us have +been at home.' 'But a month ago when I was passing down your street I +surely saw a funeral standing at your door?' Nor had his eyes deceived +him. The butler in charge had let the house for a couple of months, and +but for his singular ill-luck in one of his tenants happening to die +during their temporary occupation of it, he would have pocketed the +rent (_minus_ the money requisite to keep the maids' mouths shut) and +his master would have been none the wiser. It is said that it is only +when we have lost a friend that we come to value him at his true worth; +and it is certain that it is only when one's butler has left us and the +tongues of his fellow-servants are loosened that we come to learn his +demerits—the difference between his real character and his written one. +If he is a rogue, his evil influence remains behind him, and, next to +the maidservants, it is the page who suffers most from it. He +becomes—poor little fellow!—almost by necessity an accessory to his +delinquencies, plays pilot-fish to the other's shark, and himself grows +up to swell the host of bad servants and that army of martyrs their +masters and mistresses. + +A common cause of a butler's ruin, and for which he is much to be +pitied, is his having married unfortunately. I had once a good servant +whom I was very loth to lose, but whose departure became necessary from +his constantly being visited by a wife in advanced stages of +intoxication. Housewives generally prefer a married man for their +servant, for reasons that are not inscrutable. I do not wish to differ +from such good authorities. But though I have no objection to my butler +being married, I do object to maintain his wife, which, if he be on +good terms with the cook, there is a strong probability of my having to +do. As to his own eating, Heaven forbid that I should grudge it to him; +but it is curious and utterly subversive of all medical dogma that both +men-servants and maidservants, who take, of course, comparatively +little exercise, should, nevertheless, contrive to eat more apiece for +dinner than two average Alpine climbers. Four meals a day, and three of +them meat meals, is their usual rate of sustenance, and the food must +not only be frequent and plentiful, but very good. It is a gratifying +proof of the rapid influence of civilisation that the daughter of a +farm-labourer, accustomed at home to consider bacon a treat and beef a +windfall, will, after a month's experience of her London place, decline +to eat cold meat of any kind, reject salt butter as 'not fit for a +Christian,' and become quite a _connoisseur_ as to the strength of +bitter ale. Indeed, two of our present female domestics are +'recommended' to drink claret because beer makes them bilious. I do not +mind giving them claret, but I think it hard that under such +circumstances I should have had a butler give me warning because the +female domestics are 'not select enough.' My own impression is, though +I scarcely like to mention it, because he was a married man, that he +considered them too plain. + +The reasons, or at all events the professed reasons, which servants +give for leaving their situations are sometimes very curious. One man +left a family of my acquaintance because he said he was interfered with +by the young ladies. 'Good gracious, what do you mean?' inquired his +mistress. Her daughters, it appears, were accustomed to arrange the +flowers for the dinner-table, whereas, as he imagined, he had a +peculiar gift for that kind of decoration himself. + +On the other hand, it is sometimes difficult for a sensitive master or +mistress to give the true reason for their parting with a servant. A +friend of mine had a footman who, through trick, or some defect in his +respiratory organs, used to blow like a grampus, and indeed more like a +whale, while waiting at table. It was not a vice, of course, but it was +very objectionable, and guests who were bald especially objected to it. +My friend consulted with his butler, who admitted that 'John did blow +like a pauper' (meaning, as I suppose, a porpoise), and undertook to +break the subject to him. It is quite common to find candidates for +service very deaf, and if they contrive to pass their 'entrance +examination' (for which no doubt they sharpen their faculties), they +stay with you for a month at least with an excellent excuse for making +it a holiday, since, whatever you tell them to do they cannot hear and +do not do it, or do something else which they like better. Mistresses +who are silent about moral disqualifications are much more so, of +course, about physical ones, and have no scruples in ridding themselves +of a deaf man. + +The worst class of men-servants, perhaps, are those who are said to +'require a master;' which means that when he happens to be not at home +they neglect everything. A friend of mine who happened to take a week's +holiday, alone, discovered on his return that his family might almost +as well have had no servant at all as the man he left with them; he was +generally out, and when at home had not even troubled himself to answer +the drawing-room bell. Some men-servants are always running out; they +have 'just stepped round the corner,' they say, 'to post a letter;' +which in nine cases out of ten means to have a dram at the +public-house. The servants who 'require a master' sometimes retain +their situation with a very selfish one by devoting themselves to his +service at the expense of the rest of the family. 'John suits me very +well,' he says, 'and thoroughly understands his duties,' which in this +case means the length of the master's foot. + +On the other hand, there are some men-servants who, one would think, +ought to belong to the other sex, so utterly ignorant they are of that +branch of their duty which they call 'valeting.' A lady blessed with a +scientific husband, who certainly did not take much notice whether he +was 'valeted' or not, once complained to his man of his neglect in this +particular. 'When your master comes in, William, you should look after +him, and see to his hat and coat, and pay him little attentions.' So +the next time the man of science came in he was not a little surprised +by William (who, it is fair to say, came from the country) running up +and taking his hat off his head, like some highly-trained retriever. +Happy the master to whom a worse thing has never happened at the hands +of his retainer! + +The main thing to be dreaded in men-servants—next to downright +dishonesty—is, of course, intoxication. If a man has been long in one's +service and gets drunk for once and away, it may well be forgiven him; +but when your new servant gets drunk, wait till he is sober enough to +receive his wages, and then dismiss him—if you can. Not long ago I had +occasion to discharge a butler for habitual intoxication; he was never +quite drunk, but also never quite sober; he was a sot. I made him fetch +a cab, and saw his luggage put upon it, and I tendered him his month's +wages. But he refused to leave the house without board wages. Of +course, I declined to pay him any such thing; and, as he persisted in +leaning against the dining-room door murmuring at intervals, 'I wants +my board wages,' I sent for a policeman. 'Be so good,' I said,' as to +turn this drunken person out of my house.' 'I daren't do it, sir,' was +the reply; 'that would be to exceed my duty.' 'Then, why are you here?' +'I am here, sir, to see that you turn the man out yourself without +using unnecessary violence.' 'The man' was six feet high and as stout +as a beer-barrel. I could no more have moved him than Skiddaw, and he +knew it. 'I stays here,' he chanted in his maudlin way, 'till I gets my +board wages.' Fortunately, two Oxford undergraduates happened to be in +the house, to whom I mentioned my difficulty, and I shall not easily +forget the delighted promptitude with which they seized upon the +offender and 'ran him out' into the street. He fled down the area steps +at once with a celerity that convinced me he was accustomed to being +turned out of houses, and tried to obtain re-admission at the +back-door. It was fortunately locked, but when I said to the policeman, +'_Now_, please to remove that man,' he answered, 'No, sir; that would +be to exceed my duty; he is still upon your premises and a member of +your household.' As it was raining heavily, the delinquent, though +sympathised with by a great crowd round the area railings, presently +got tired of his position and went away. But supposing my young Oxford +friends had not been in the house and he had fallen upon me (a little +man) in the act of expulsion; or supposing I had been a widow lady with +no protector, would that too faithful retainer have remained in my +establishment for ever? + +I have purposely addressed myself to that large class of the community +only who are said 'to keep a man-servant'—that is, one man, assisted, +perhaps, by a page. Those who keep butler, footman, coachman, grooms, +and valets are comparatively few in number, and know nothing of the +inconveniences which their less wealthy fellow-countrymen endure. In +large establishments, if William is drunk, John is sober, and the work +is done for the rich man by somebody; especially, too, if William is +drunk, there are John and Thomas to turn him out of the house and have +done with him. But it is certain that the lower Ten Thousand are not in +a satisfactory condition as respects their men-servants; hardly more +so, in fact, than the Hundred Thousand are in regard to their maids. +The men-servants, however, are not so ignorant of their duties as are +the latter, and if only their masters would have the courage to tell +the truth when giving them their 'characters,' there would be a great +improvement in them. Against the masters themselves (unlike the +mistresses) I have never heard much complaint. Most of them object to +be 'bothered' and 'troubled,' and are willing enough to put everything +into their man's hands, including the key of the Cellar, if only they +could trust him; but at present, alas! this is a very large 'If.' + +[Illustration] + + + + +WHIST-PLAYERS. + + +If cards are the Devil's books, Whist is the _édition de luxe_ of them. +Whist-playing is one of the few vices of the upper classes that has not +in time descended to the lower, with whom the ingenious and attractive +game of 'All Fours' has always held its own against it. I have known +but two men not belonging to the upper ten thousand who played well at +whist. One was a well-known jockey in the South of England, who was +also, by the way, an admirable billiard-player. He called himself an +amateur, but those who played with him used to complain that his +proceedings were even ultra-professional. On the Turf men are almost as +equal as they are under it, and this ornament of the pigskin would on +certain occasions (race meetings) take his place at the card-table with +some who were very literally his betters, while others who had more +self-respect contented themselves with backing him. The other example I +have in my mind was an ancient Cumberland yeoman, who, having lost the +use of his limbs in middle life from having been tossed by a bull, +pursued the science under considerable difficulties. A sort of +card-rack (such as Psycho uses at the Egyptian Hall) was placed in +front of him, and behind him stood his little granddaughter who played +the cards for him by verbal direction. Both these men played a very +good game of the old-fashioned kind, for though the jockey used +subtleties, they were not of the Clay or Cavendish sort. The asking for +trumps was a device unknown to him, though there were folks who +whispered he would take them under certain circumstances without +asking, and of the leading of the penultimate with five in the suit it +could be said of him, for once, that he was as innocent as a babe. + +Of course, many persons join the 'upper ten' who come from the lower +twenty (or even thirty), and it need not be said that they are by no +means inferior in sagacity to their new acquaintances; yet they rarely +make first-rate players. Whist, like the classics, must be learnt young +for any excellence to be attained in it. Of this Metternich was a +striking example. If benevolent Nature ever intended a man for a +whist-player one would have supposed that she had done so in his case, +but had been baffled by some malign Destiny which had degraded him to +that class by whom, in conjunction with Kings, it was fondly believed, +previously to the recent general election, that 'the world was +governed.' Until late in life he never took to whist, when he grew +wildly fond of it, and played incessantly, till it is said a certain +memorable event took place which caused him never to touch a card +again. The story goes that, rapt in the enjoyment of the game, he +suffered a special messenger to wait for hours, to whom if he had given +his attention more promptly a massacre of many hundred persons would +have been prevented. Humanity may drop a tear, but whist had nothing to +regret in the circumstance; for in Metternich it did not lose a good +player, and, what redeems his intelligence, he knew it. 'I learnt my +whist too late,' he would say, with more pathos and solemnity, perhaps, +than he would have used when speaking of more momentous matters of +omission. + +He must be a wise man indeed who, being an habitual whist-player, is +aware that he is a bad one. In games of pure skill, such as chess, and, +in a less degree, billiards, a man must be a fool who deceives himself +upon such a point; but in whist there is a sufficient amount of chance +to enable him to preserve his self-complacency for some time—let us +say, his lifetime. If he loses, he ascribes it to his 'infernal luck,' +which always fills his hands with twos and threes; and if he wins, +though it is by a succession of four by honours as long as the string +of four-in-hands when the Coaching Club meets in Hyde Park, he ascribes +it to his skill. 'If I hadn't played trumps just when I did,' he +modestly observes to his partner, 'all would have been over with us;' +though the result would have been exactly the same had he played +blindfold. To an observer of human nature, who is not himself a loser +'on the day,' there are few things more charming than the genial, +gentle self-approval of two players of this class who have just +defeated two experts, and proved, to their own satisfaction, that if +fortune gives them 'a fair chance' or 'something like equal cards,' as +they term the conditions of their late performance, they can play as +well as other people. + +Of course, the term 'good-play' is a relative one; the player who wins +applause in the drawing-room is often thought but little of in places +where the rigour of the game is observed; and the 'good, steady player' +of the University Clubs is not a star of the first magnitude at the +Portland. The best players used to be men of mature years; they are now +the middle-aged, who, with sufficient practical experience, have +derived their skill in early life from the best books. 'It is difficult +to teach an old dog new tricks,' and for the most part the old dogs +despise them. When I hear my partner boast that he is 'none of your +book-players,' I smile courteously, and tremble. I know what will +become of him and me if fortune does not give him his 'fair chance,' +and I seek comfort from the calculation which tells me it is two to one +against my cutting with him again. How marvellous it is, when one comes +to consider the matter, that a man should decline to receive +instruction on a technical subject from those who have eminently +distinguished themselves in it, and have systematised for the benefit +of others the results of the experience of a lifetime! With books or no +books, it is quite true, however, that some men, otherwise of great +intelligence, can never be taught whist; they may have had every +opportunity of learning it—have been born, as it were, with the ace of +spades in their mouth instead of a silver spoon—but the gift of +understanding is denied them; and though it is ungallant to say so, I +have never known a lady to play whist well. + +In the case of the fair sex, however, it may be urged that they have +not the same chances; they have no whist clubs, and the majority of +them entertain the extraordinary delusion that it is wrong to play at +whist in the afternoon. One may talk scandal over kettle-drums, and go +to morning performances at the theatre, but one may not play at cards +till after dinner. There is even quite a large set of male persons who, +'on principle,' do not play at whist in the afternoon. In seasons of +great adversity, when fortune has not given me my 'fair chance' for +many days, I have sometimes 'gone on strike,' as it is termed, and +joined them; but anything more deplorable than such a state of affairs +it is impossible to imagine. After their day's work is over, these good +people can't conceive what to do with themselves, and, between +ourselves, it is my experience, drawn from these occasional 'intervals +of business,' that this practice of not playing whist in the afternoon +generally leads to dissipation. + +It is sometimes advanced by this unhappy class, by way of apology, that +they play at night; which may very possibly be the case, but they don't +play well. There is no such thing, except in the sense in which +after-dinner speaking is called 'good,' as good whist after dinner. It +may seem otherwise, even to the spectators; but having themselves dined +like the rest, they are not in a position to give an opinion. The +keenness of observation is blunted by food and wine; the delicate +perceptions are gone; and what is left of the intelligence is generally +devoted to finding faults in your partner's play. The consciousness of +mistakes on your own part, which he is in no condition to discern, +instead of suggesting charity, induces irritation, and you are +persuaded, till you get the next man, that you are mated with the worst +player in all Christendom. Moreover, that 'one more rubber' with which +you propose to finish is generally elastic (_Indian_ rubber), and you +sit up into the small hours and find them disagree with you. If I ever +write that new series of the 'Chesterfield Letters' which I have long +had in my mind, and for which I feel myself eminently qualified, my +most earnest advice to young gentlemen of fashion will be found in the +golden rule, 'Never sit down to whist after dinner;' it is a mistake, +and almost an immorality. If they must play cards, let them play +Napoleon. + +With regard to finding fault with one's partner, I have no apology to +offer for it under any circumstances; but it must be remembered that +this does not always arise from ill-temper, or the sense of loss that +might have been gain. There are many lovers of whist for its own sake +to whom bad play, even in an adversary, excites a certain distress of +mind; when a good hand is thrown away by it, they experience the same +sort of emotion that a gourmand feels who sees a haunch of venison +spoilt in the carving. In such a case a gentle expression of +disapproval is surely pardonable. And I have observed that, with one or +two exceptions (_non Angli sed angeli_, men of angelic temper rather +than ordinary Englishmen), the good players who never find fault are +not socially the pleasantest. They are men who 'play to win,' and who +think it very injudicious to educate a bad partner who will presently +join the ranks of the Opposition. + +What is rather curious—and I speak with some experience, for I have +played with all classes, from the prince to the gentleman farmer—the +best whist-players are not, as a rule, those who are the most highly +educated or intellectual. Men of letters, for example (I am speaking, +of course, very generally), are inferior to the doctors and the +warriors. Both the late Lord Lytton and Charles Lever had, it is true, +a considerable reputation at the whist-table, but though they were good +players, they were not in the first class; while the author of 'Guy +Livingstone,' though devoted to the game, was scarcely to be placed in +the second. The best players are, one must confess, what irreverent +persons, ignorant of the importance of this noble pursuit, would term +'idlers'—men of mere nominal occupation, or of none, to whom the game +has been familiar from their youth, and who have had little else to do +than to play it. + +While some men, as I have said, can never be taught whist, a few are +born with a genius for the game, and move up 'from high to higher,' +through all the grades of excellence, with a miraculous rapidity; but, +whether good, bad, or indifferent, I have not known half a dozen +whist-players who were not superstitious. Their credulity is, indeed, +proverbial, but no one who does not mix with them can conceive the +extent of it; it reminds one of the African fetish. The country +apothecary's wife who puts the ivory 'fish' on the candlestick 'for +luck,' and her partner, the undertaker, who turns his chair in hopes to +realise more 'silver threepences,' are in no way more ridiculous than +the grave and reverend seigneurs of the Clubs who are attracted to 'the +winning seats' or 'the winning cards.' The idea of going on because +'the run of luck' is in your favour, or of leaving off because it has +declared itself against you, is logically of course unworthy of +Cetywayo. The only modicum of reason that underlies it is the fact that +the play of some men becomes demoralised by ill-fortune, and may, +possibly, be improved by success. Yet the belief in this absurdity is +universal, and bids fair to be eternal. 'If I am not in a draught, and +my chair is comfortable, you may put me anywhere,' is a remark I have +heard but once, and the effect of it on the company was much the same +as if in the House of Convocation some reverend gentleman had announced +his acceptance of the religious programme of M. Comte. + +With the few exceptions I have mentioned, whist-players not only stop +very far short of excellence in the game, but very soon reach their +tether. I cannot say of any man that he has gone on improving for +years; his mark is fixed, and he knows it—though he is exceptionally +sagacious if he knows where it is drawn as respects others—and there he +stays till he begins to deteriorate. The first warning of decadence is +the loss of memory, after which it is a question of time (and good +sense) when he shall withdraw from the ranks of the fighting men and +become a mere spectator of the combat. It was said by a great gambler +that the next pleasure in life to that of winning was that of losing; +and to the real lover of whist, the next pleasure to that of playing a +good game is that of looking on at one. + +Whist has been extolled, and justly, upon many accounts; but the +peculiar advantage of the game is, perhaps, that it utilises socially +many persons who would not otherwise be attractive. Unless a player is +positively disagreeable, he is as good to play whist with as a +conversational Crichton. Moreover, though the poet has hinted of the +evanescent character of 'friendships made in wine,' such is not the +case with those made at whist. The phrase, 'my friend and partner,' +used by a well-known lady in fiction, in speaking of another lady, is +one that is particularly applicable to this social science, and holds +good, as it does, alas, in no other case, even when the partner becomes +an adversary. + +[Illustration] + + + + +RELATIONS. + + +It is a favourite utterance of a much 'put-upon' Paterfamilias of my +acquaintance, when he finds his family more than usually too much for +him, and cynically confesses his own shortcomings, that 'children +cannot be too particular in their choice of their parents, or begin +their education too early.' + +But not only are children a necessity—that is, if the world of men and +women is to be kept going, concerning the advantage of which there +seems, however, just now, to be some doubt,—but when they have arrived, +they cannot, except in very early life, be easily got rid of. In this +respect they differ from the relations whose case I am about to +consider, and also possess a certain claim upon us over and above the +mere tie of blood, since we are responsible for their existence. The +obligation on the other side is, I venture to think, a little +exaggerated. If there is such a thing as natural piety, which, even in +these days, few are found to deny, it is the reverence, it is true, +with which children regard their parents; but their moral indebtedness +to them as the authors of their being is open to doubt. That theory, +indeed, appears to be founded upon false premises; for, unless in the +case of an ancestral estate, I am not aware that the existence of +children is much premeditated. On the contrary, their arrival is often +looked upon, from pecuniary reasons, with much apprehension, or, at +best, till they do arrive, they may be described, in common phrase, as +'neither born nor thought of.' I am a father myself, but I wish to be +fair and to take a just view of matters. If a mother leaves her child +on a doorstep, for example, the filial bond can hardly be expected to +be very strong. In such a case, indeed, the infant seems to me to have +a very distinct grievance against its female parent, and to be under no +very overwhelming obligation to its father. 'Handsome is as handsome +does' is a principle that applies to all relations of life, including +the nearest; and if duty never absolutely ceases to exist, it is, at +all events, greatly moulded by circumstances. + +Patriotism, for instance, is very commendable, but your country must be +worth something to make you love it. It is next to impossible that an +inhabitant of Monaco, for example, should be patriotic. He can at most +be only parochial. The love of one's mother is probably the purest and +noblest of all human affections; but some people's mothers are habitual +drunkards, and others professional thieves. Even filial reverence, it +is plain, must stop somewhere. That is one of the objections which, +with all humility, I feel to the religion of M. Comte. The worship of +my grandmother would be impossible to me, unless I had reason to +believe her to have been a respectable person. Her relationship, unless +I had had the advantage of her personal acquaintance, would weigh I +fear, but little with me, and that of my great-grandmother nothing at +all. The whole notion of ancestry—unless one's ancestors have been +distinguished people—seems to me ridiculous. If they have _not_ been +distinguished people—folks, that is, of whom some record has been +preserved—how is one to know that they have been worthy persons, whose +mission has been to increase the sum of human happiness? If, on the +other hand, they have been only notorious, and done their best to +decrease it, I should be most heartily ashamed of them. The pride of +birth from this point of view—which seems to me a very reasonable +one—is not only absurd, but often very reprehensible. We may be +exulting, by proxy, in successful immorality, or even crime. Our +boastfulness of our progenitors is necessarily in most cases very +vague, because we know so little about them. When we come to the +particular, the record stops very short indeed—generally at one's +grandmother, who, by the way, plays a part in the dream-drama of +ancestry little superior to that of that 'rank outsider,' a +mother-in-law. 'Tell that to your grandmother' is a phrase that +certainly did not originate in reverence; and even when that lady is +proverbially alluded to in a complimentary sense, her intelligence is +only eulogised in connection with the 'sucking of eggs.' + +It so happens that I have quite a considerable line of ancestors +myself, but only one of them ever distinguished himself, and that (he +was an Attorney-General) in a doubtful way; and I confess I don't take +the slightest interest in them. I prefer the pleasant companion with +whom I came up in the train yesterday, and whose name I forgot to ask, +to the whole lot of them. + +And if I don't care about ancestors on canvas (for their pictures, of +course, are all we have seen of them), I have good cause to be offended +with them on paper. My favourite biographies—such as that of Walter +Scott, for example—are disfigured by them. When men sit down to write a +great man's life, why should they weary us with an epitome of that of +his grandfather and grandmother? Of course, the book has to be a +certain length. No one is more sensible than myself of the difficulty +of providing 'copy' sufficient for two octavo volumes; but I do think +biographers should confine themselves to two generations. For my part, +I could do with one, but there is the favourite theory of a great man's +inheriting his greatness from the maternal parent, which I am well +aware cannot be dispensed with. It is like the white horse, or rather +the grey mare, in Wouvermanns's pictures; you can't get rid of it any +more than Mr. Dick could get Charles I. out of his memorial. For my +part, I always begin biographies at the fourteenth chapter (or +thereabouts)—'The subject of this memoir was born,' etc.; and even so I +find I get quite enough of them. In novels the introduction of ancestry +is absolutely intolerable. When I see that hateful chapter headed +'Retrospective,' I pass over to the other side, like the Levite, only +quicker. What do I care whether our hero's grandfather was Archbishop +of Canterbury or a professional body-snatcher? I don't even care which +of the two was my own personal friend's grandfather, and how much less +can I take an interest in this imaginary progenitor of the creation of +an author's brain? The introduction of such a colourless shadow is, to +my mind, the height of impertinence. If I were Mr. Mudie, I would put +my foot down resolutely and stamp out this literary plague. As George +III., who had an objection to commerce, is said to have observed, when +asked to confer a baronetcy on one of the Broadwood family, 'Are you +sure there is not a piano in it?' so should Mr. M. inquire of the +publisher before taking copies of any novel, 'Are you sure there is not +a grandfather in it?' + +Again, what a nuisance is ancestry in our social life! It cannot, +unhappily, be done away with as a fact, but surely it need not be a +topic. How often have I been asked by some fair neighbour at a +dinner-table, 'Is that Mr. Jones opposite one of the Joneses of +Bedfordshire?' One's first impulse is naturally to ask, 'What on earth +is that to you or me?' But experience teaches prudence, and I reply +with reverence, 'Yes, of Bedfordshire,' which, at all events, puts a +stop to argument upon the matter. Moreover, she seems to derive some +sort of mysterious satisfaction from the information, and it is always +well to give pleasure. + +A well-known wit was once in company with one of the Cavendishes, who +had lately been to America, and was recounting his experiences. 'These +Republican people have such funny names,' he said. 'I met there a man +of the name of Birdseye.' 'Well, and is not that just as good as +Cavendish?' replied the wit, who was also a smoker. But the remark was +not appreciated. + +Ancestral people do not, as a rule, appreciate wit; but, on the other +hand, it must be admitted that this is not a defect peculiar to them +alone. I once knew a man of letters who, though he had risen to wealth +and eminence, was of humble descent, and had a weakness for avoiding +allusion to it. His daughter married a man of good birth, but whose +literary talents were not of a high order. This gentleman wrote a +letter applying for a certain Government appointment, and expressed a +wish for his father-in-law's opinion upon the composition. 'It's a very +bad letter,' was the frank criticism the other made upon it. 'The +writing is bad, the spelling is indifferent, the style is abominable. +Good heavens! where are your relatives and antecedents?' 'If it comes +to that,' was the reply, 'where are yours? For I never hear you speak +about them.' Nor did he ever hear him, for his father-in-law never +spoke another word to him. + +Nothing, of course, can be more contemptible than to neglect one's poor +relations on account of their poverty; but it is very doubtful whether +the sum of human happiness is increased by our having so much respect +for the mere tie of kindred, unaccompanied by merit. Other things being +equal, it is obviously natural that one's near relatives should be the +best of friends. But other things are not always equal. Indeed, a +certain high authority (which looks on both sides of most questions) +admits as much. 'There is a friend,' it says, 'that sticketh closer +than a brother. The connection, with its consequences, is somewhat +similar to a partnership in commercial life. If partners pull together, +and are sympathetic, nothing can be more delightful than such an +arrangement. The tie of business clenches the tie of social attraction. +For myself, I am not commercial; but I envy the old firm of Beaumont +and Fletcher, and the modern one of Erckmann and Chatrian. But if the +members of the firm do _not_ pull together? Then, surely the bond +between them is most deplorable, and a divorce _a vinculo_ should be +obtained as soon as possible. + +One of the greatest mistakes—and there are many—that we fall into from +a too ready acknowledgment of the tie of kindred is the obligation we +feel under to consort with relations with whom we have nothing in +common. You may take such persons to the waters of affection, but you +cannot make them drink; and the more you see of them the less they are +likely to agree with you. Not once, nor twice, but fifty times, in a +life experience that is becoming protracted, I have seen this forcible +bringing together of incongruous elements, and the result has been +always unfortunate. I say 'forcible,' because it has been rarely +voluntary; now and then a strong, though, I venture to think, a +mistaken sense of duty may lead a man to seek the society of one with +whom he has nothing in common save the bond of race; but for the most +part they are obeying the wishes of another —the sacred injunction, +perhaps, of a parent on his death-bed. 'Be good friends,' he murmurs, +'my children,' not reflecting, in that supreme and farewell hour, how +little things, such as prejudice, difference of political or religious +opinions, conflicting interests, and the like, affect us while we are +in this world, and how perilous it is to attempt to link like with +unlike. I am quite certain that when relations do not, in common +phrase, 'get on well with one another,' the best chance of their +remaining friends is for them to keep apart. This is gradually becoming +recognised by 'the common sense of most,' as we see by the falling-off +in those family gatherings at Christmas, which only too often partook +of the character of that assembly which met under the roof of Mr, +Pecksniff, with the disastrous result with which we are all acquainted. + +The more distant the tie of blood, the less reason, of course, there is +to consider it; yet it is strange to see how even sensible men will +welcome the Good-for-nothing, who chance to be 'of kin' to them, to the +exclusion of the Worthy, who lack that adventitious claim. The effect +of this is an absolute immorality, since it offers a premium to +unpleasant people, while it heavily handicaps those who desire to make +themselves agreeable. To give a particular example of this, though upon +a large scale, I might cite Scotland, where, making allowance for the +absence of that University system, which in England is so strong a +social tie, there are undoubtedly fewer friendships, in comparison, +than there are with us; this I have no hesitation in attributing to +clanship—the exaggeration of the family tie—which substitutes nearness +for dearness, and places a tenth cousin above the most charming of +companions, who labours under the disadvantage of being 'nae kin.' + +Again, what is more common than to hear it said, in apology for some +manifestly ill-conditioned and offensive person, that he is 'good to +his family'? The praise is probably only so far deserved that he does +not beat his wife nor starve his children; but, supposing even he +treated them as he should do, and, moreover, entertained his ten-times +removed cousins to dinner every Sunday, what is that to _me_ who do not +enjoy his unenviable hospitality? Let his cousins speak well of him by +all means; but let the rest of the world speak as they find. I protest +against the theory that the social virtues should limit themselves to +the home circle, and still more, that they should extend to the distant +branches of it to the exclusion of the world at large. + +Of Howard, the philanthropist, it is said—and, I notice, said with a +certain cynical pleasure—that, notwithstanding his universal +benevolence, he behaved with severity ta his own son. I have not that +intimate acquaintance with the circumstances which, to judge by the +confidence of their assertions, his traducers possess, but I should be +slow to believe, in the case of such a father, that the son did not +deserve all he got, or was not forgiven even to the seventy times +seventh offence. There is, however, no little want of reason in the +ordinary acceptation of the term, 'loving forgiveness.' He must be a +very morose man who does not forgive a personal injury, especially when +there has been an expression of repentance for it; but there are +offences which, quite independently of their personal sting, manifest +in the offender a cruel or bad heart, and 'loving forgiveness' is in +that case no more to be expected than that we should take a serpent who +has already stung us to our bosom. 'It is his nature to,' as the poet +expresses it, and if that serpent is my relative it is my misfortune, +and by no means impresses me with a sense of obligation. Indeed, in the +case of an offensive relation, so far from his having any claim to my +consideration, it seems to me I have a very substantial grievance in +the fact of his existence, and that he owes me reparation for it. + +It is perhaps from a natural reaction, and is a sort of unconscious +protest against the preposterous claims of kinship, that our +connections by marriage are so freely criticised, and, to say truth, +held in contempt. No one enjoins us to love our wife's relations, +indeed, our own kindred are generally dead against them, and especially +against her mother, to whom the poor woman very naturally clings. This +is as unreasonable in the way of prejudice, as the other line of +conduct is in the way of favouritism. It is, in short, my humble +opinion that, if everyone stood upon his or her own merits, and was +treated accordingly, this world of ours would be the better for it; and +of this I am quite sure—it would have fewer disagreeable people in it. +I am neither so patriotic nor so thorough-going as the American +citizen, who, during the late Civil War, came to President Lincoln, and +nobly offered to sacrifice on the altar of freedom 'all his able-bodied +relations;' but I think that most of us would be benefited if they were +weeded out a bit. + +[Illustration] + + + + +INVALID LITERATURE. + + +It has always struck me as a breach of faith in Charles Lamb to have +published the fact that dear, 'rigorous' Mrs. Battle's favourite suit +was Hearts: and is in my eyes, notwithstanding Mr. Carlyle's posthumous +outburst, the only blot on his character. His own confession, though +tendered with a blush, that there is such a thing as sick whist stands +on totally different grounds; it is not a relaxation of principle, but +an acknowledgment of a weakness common to human nature. One of the most +advanced thinkers and men of science of our time has frankly admitted +that his theological views are considerably modified by the state of +his health; and if one's ideas on futurity are thus affected, it is no +wonder that things of this world wear a different appearance when +viewed from a sick bed. It is not difficult to imagine that whist, for +example, played on the counterpane by three good Samaritans, to while +away the hours for an afflicted friend, differs from the game when +played on a club card-table. Common humanity prevents our saying what +we think of the play of an invalid who may be enjoying his last rubber; +and if the ace of trumps _is_ found under his pillow, we only smile and +hope it will not occur again. + +On the other hand, literary taste would, one would think, be the last +thing to vary with our physical condition; yet those who have had long +illnesses know better, and will, I am sure, bear me out in the +assertion that there are such things as sick books. I do not, of +course, speak of devotional works. I am picturing the poor man when he +is getting well after a long bout of illness; his mind clear, but +inert; his limbs painless, but so languid that they hardly seem to +belong to him; and when he regards their attenuated proportions with +the same sort of feeble interest that is evoked by eggshell china—they +are not useful, still it would be a pity if they broke. + +Then it is that one feels a loathing of the strong meats of literature, +and a liking for its milk diet. As to metaphysics, one has had enough +and to spare of _them_ when one was delirious; while the 'Fairy Tales +of Science' do not strike one just then as being quite so fairylike as +the poet represents them. As to science, indeed, there is but one thing +clear to us, namely, that the theory of evolution is a mistake; for +though one's getting better at all is undoubtedly a proof of the +survival of the fittest, we are well convinced that we have retrograded +from what we were. It would puzzle Darwin himself to fix our position +exactly, but though we lack the tenacity, and especially the colour, of +the sea-anemone, we seem to be there or thereabouts in the scale of +humanity. When last prostrated by rheumatic fever, or its remedies, I +remember, indeed, to have been inclined to mathematics. When very ill I +had suffered agonies in my dreams from the persecutions of an +impossible quantity, and perhaps the association of ideas suggested, as +I slowly gathered strength, a little problem in statics. It had been +taught me by my dear tutor at Cambridge, whom undergraduates have long +ceased to trouble, as a proof of the pathos that dwells in figures; and +I kept repeating it to myself, with the letters all misplaced, till I +became exhausted by tears and emotion. + +As a general rule, however, even mathematics fail to interest the +convalescent. 'Man delights not him; no, nor woman neither;' but +Literature, if light in the hand, and always provided that he has his +back to the window, is a pleasure to him only next to that of his new +found appetite and his first chicken. His taste 'has suffered a sick +change,' but that by no means implies it has deteriorated. On the +contrary, his critical faculty has fled (which is surely an immense +advantage), while he has recovered much of that power of appreciation +which rarely abides with us to maturity. He is not on the outlook for +mistakes, slips of style, anachronisms; he derives no pleasure from the +discovery of spots in the sun, but is content to bask in the rays of +it. He does not necessarily return to the favourites of his youth, +though he has a tendency that way, but the shackles of convention have +slipped away from him with his flesh, and he reads what he likes, and +not what he has been told he ought to like. He has been so long removed +from public opinion, that, like a shipwrecked crew in an open boat, it +has ceased to affect him; only, instead of taking to cannibalism, he +takes to what is nice. As his physical appetite is fastidious, so his +mental palate has a relish only for titbits. If ever there was a time +for a reasonable being to 'dip' into books, or to enjoy 'half-hours +with the best authors,' this is it; but weak as the patient is, he +commonly declines to have his tastes dictated to; perhaps there is an +unpleasant association in his mind, arising from Brand and Liebig, with +all 'extracts;' but, at all events, those literary compilations oppress +and bewilder him; he objects to the extraordinary fertility of 'Ibid,' +an author whose identity he cannot quite call to mind, and prefers to +choose for himself. + +Biography is out of the question. Long before he has got through that +account of the hero's great grandmother, from whom he inherited his +talents, which is, it seems, indispensable to such works, he yawns, and +devoutly wishing, notwithstanding its fatal consequences to the fourth +generation, that that old woman had never been born, falls into fitful +slumber. + +Travels are in the same condemnation; he has not the patience to watch +the traveller taking leave of his family at Pimlico, or to follow his +cab as he drives through the streets to the railway station, or to +share the discomforts of his cabin—all necessary, no doubt, to his +eventual arrival in Abyssinia, but hardly necessary to be described. +Moreover, the convalescent has probably travelled a good deal on his +own account during the last few weeks, for the bed of fever carries one +hither and thither with the velocity, though not the ease, of the +enchanted carpet in the 'Arabian Nights.' The desire of the sick man is +to escape from himself and all recent experiences. + +He thinks he will try a little History. Alison? No, certainly not +Alison. 'They will be proposing Lingard next,' he murmurs, and the +little irritation caused by the well-meant suggestion throws him back +for the next six hours. Presently he tries Macaulay, whom some +flatterer has fulsomely called 'as good as a novel,' but, though the +trial of Warren Hastings gives him a fillip, the rout of Sedgemoor does +away with the effect of it, and, happening upon the character of +Halifax, he suffers a severe relapse. As a bedfellow, Macaulay is too +declamatory, though, at the same time, strange to say, he does not +always succeed in keeping one awake. To the sick man Carlyle is +preferable; not his 'Frederick,' of course, and still less his 'Sartor +Resartus,' which has become a nightmare, without head or tail, but his +'French Revolution.' One lies and watches the amazing spectacle without +effort, as though it were represented on the stage. The sea of blood +rolls before our eyes, the roar of the mob sounds in our ears; we are +carried along with the unhappy Louis to the very frontier, and just on +the verge of escape are seized and brought back—King Coach—with him to +Paris, in a cold perspiration. + +Some people, when in health and of a sane mind (Mr. Matthew Arnold one +_knows_ of, and there may be others), take great delight in 'Paradise +Regained;' all we venture to say is that in sickness it does not +suggest its title. It is said that barley-water goes well with +everything; if so, the epic is the exception which proves the rule. +Milton is tedious after rheumatic fever, Spencer is worse. + +'"Not from the grand old masters, +Not from the bards sublime, +Whose distant footsteps echo +Through the corridors of Time,"' + +murmurs the invalid, 'I can't stand them.' He does not mean anything +depreciatory, but merely that— + +'Like strains of martial music +Their mighty thoughts suggest +Life's endless toil and endeavour,' + +which he is not fit even to think of. He cannot read Keats's +'Nightingale,' but for quite another reason. What arouses 'thoughts too +deep for tears' in the hale and strong is to the sick as the sinking +for an artesian well. 'The Chelsea Waterworks,' as Mr. Samuel Weller +observed of Mr. Job Trotter (at a time when the metropolitan water +supply would seem to have been more satisfactory than at present), 'are +nothing to him.' On the other hand, Shelley's 'Skylark,' and the +'Dramatic Fragments' of Browning, are as cordials to the invalid, while +the poems of Walter Scott are like breezes from the mountains and the +sea. In that admirable essay, 'Life in the Sick-room,' the authoress +justly remarks, speaking of the advantage of objectivity in sick books, +'Nothing can be better in this view than Macaulay's "Lays," which carry +us at full speed out of ourselves.' + +But it is not always that the invalid can read the poets at all; like +Mrs. Wititterley, his nerves are too delicately strung for the touch of +the muse. His chief enjoyment lies in fiction, to the producers of +which he can never feel too grateful. I remember, on one occasion when +I was very reduced indeed, taking up 'Northanger Abbey,' and reading, +with almost the same gusto as though I had been a novelist myself, Miss +Austen's defence of her profession. She says: + +'I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom, so common with +novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very +performances to the number of which they are themselves adding, joining +with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such +works, and scarcely even permitting them to be read by their own +heroine, who, if she accidentally takes up a novel, is sure to turn +from its insipid pages with disgust. Let us not desert one another; we +are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more +extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary +corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much +decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many +as our readers; and while the abilities of the +nine-hundred-and-ninety-ninth abridger of the history of England are +eulogised by a thousand pens, there seems a general agreement to slight +the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend +them.' + +I had quite forgotten till I came upon this passage that Miss Austen +had such 'a kick in her,' and I remember how I honoured her for it and +sympathised with her sentiments. 'When pain and anguish wring the +brow,' we all know who is the comforter; but next to her, and when the +brow is getting a little better, we welcome the novelist. + +With our face aslant on the pillow, we once more make acquaintance with +the characters that have been the delight of our youth, and find they +delight us still, but with a difference. The animal spirits of Smollett +and Fielding are a little too much for us; there is not sympathy enough +in them for our own condition; they seem to have been fellows who were +never ill. Perhaps 'Humphrey Clinker,' though it drags at the end, and +the political disquisitions are intolerable, is the funniest book that +ever was written; but the faculty of appreciation for it is not now in +us. We turn with relief to Scott, though not to 'Scott's Works,' in the +sense in which the phrase is generally used, as though they were a +foundry from which everything is issued of the same workmanship and +excellence; whereas there is as much difference between them as there +was in her Majesty's ships of old between the gallant seventy-four and +the crazy troopship. The invalid, however, as I have said, is far from +critical; he only knows what he likes. Judged by this fastidious +standard, he finds 'Waverley' somewhat wearisome, and, as to the first +part of it in particular, wonders, not that the Great Unknown should +have kept it in his desk for years as a comparative failure, but that +he should have ever taken it from that repository. 'The Antiquary,' +which in health he used to admire, or think he did, exceedingly, has +also a narcotic effect; but 'Rob Roy' revives him, and 'Ivanhoe' stirs +him like a trumpet-call. + +What is very curious, just as the favourite literature of a cripple is +almost always that which treats of force and action, so upon our +sick-bed we turn most gladly to scenes of heroism and adventure. The +famous ride in 'Geoffrey Hamlyn,' where the fate of the heroine, +threatened with worse than death from the bush-rangers, hangs upon the +horse's speed, seems to us, as we lie abed, one of the finest episodes +in fiction. 'Tom Cringle's Log,' too, becomes a great favourite, not +more from its buoyancy and freshness than from the melodramatic scenes +with which it is interspersed. + +In some moods of the sick man's mind, his morbid appetite tends, +strange to say, to horrors. He 'snatches a fearful joy' from the weird +and supernatural. I have known those terrible tales of Le Fanu, +entitled 'In a Glass Darkly,' which for dramatic power and eeriness no +other novelist has ever approached, devoured greedily by those whose +physical sustenance has been dry toast and arrowroot. + +The works of Thackeray are too cynical for the convalescent; he is for +the present in too good a humour with destiny and human nature to enjoy +them. He prefers the more cheerful aspects of life, and resents the +least failure of poetic justice. + +Taking the tenants of the sick ward all round, indeed, I have little +doubt that the large majority would give their vote for Dickens. His +pathos, it is true, is too much for them. Their hearts are as waxen as +though Mrs. Jarley herself had made them. They are just in the +condition to be melted by 'Little Nell,' and overcome by the death of +Paul Dombey. They read 'David Copperfield' with avidity, but are +careful to avoid the catastrophe of Dora and even the demise of her +four-footed favourite. The book that suits them best is 'Martin +Chuzzlewit.' Its genial comedy, quite different from the violent +delights of 'Pickwick,' is well adapted to their grasp; while its +tragedy, the murder of Montague Tigg—the finest description of the +breaking of the sixth commandment in the language—leaves nothing to be +desired in the way of excitement. But here we stray beyond our bounds, +for 'Martin Chuzzlewit' is not a 'sick book;' or rather, it is one of +the very few productions of human genius on the merits of which the +opinions of both Sick and Sound are at one. + + + + +WET HOLIDAYS. + + +Even poets when they are on their travels feel the depressing influence +of bad weather. Those lines of the Laureate— + +'But when we crossed the Lombard plain, +Remember what a plague of rain— +Of rain at Reggio, at Parma, +At Lodi rain, Piacenza rain,' + +are not among his best, but they evidently come from his very heart. +When he used prose upon that journey his language was probably +stronger. It is no wonder, then, that ordinary folks who have only a +limited time in which to enjoy themselves, free from the fetters of +toil, resent wet days. They are worst of all when we are touring on the +Continent, where it is a popular fallacy to suppose the skies are +always smiling, but at home they are bad enough. In Scotland, nobody +but a Scotchman believes in fine weather, and consequently there is no +disappointment; in England the Lake District is, perhaps, the most +unfortunate spot for folks to be caught in by rain, because if there is +no landscape there is nothing. _Spectare veniunt_, and when there are +only the ribs and lining of their umbrellas to look at, their lot is +hard indeed. + +Wastwater is a charming place in sunshine—almost the only locality in +England where things are still primitive and pastoral; but in rain! I +hate exhibitions, but rather than Wastdale in wet weather, give me a +panorama. Serious people may talk of 'the Devil's books,' but even a +pack of cards, with somebody to play with you, is better under such +circumstances than no book. + +There is no limit to what human beings may be driven to by stress of +weather, and especially by that 'clearing shower,' by which the +dwellers in Lakeland are wont euphemistically to describe its +continuous downpours. The Persians have another name for it—'the +grandmother of all buckets.' I was once in Wastdale with a dean of the +Church of England, respectable, sedate, and a D.D. It had poured for +days without ceasing; the roads were under water, the passes were +impassable, the mountains invisible; there was nothing to be seen but +waterfalls, and those in the wrong place; there was no literature; the +dean's guide-books were exhausted, and his Bible, it is but charitable +and reasonable to suppose, he knew by heart. As for me, I had found +three tourists who could play at whist, and was comparatively +independent of the elements; but that poor ecclesiastic! For the first +few days he occupied himself in remonstrating against our playing cards +by daylight; but on the fourth morning, when we sat down to them +immediately after breakfast, he began to take an enforced interest in +our proceedings. Like a dove above the dovecot, he circled for an hour +or two about the table—a deal one, such as thimble-riggers use, +borrowed, under protest, from his own humble bedroom—and then, with a +murmurous coo about the weather showing no signs of clearing up, he +took a hand. Constant dropping—and it was much worse than dropping—will +wear away a stone, and it is my belief if it had gone on much longer +his reverence would have played on Sunday. + +The spectacle that the roads of the district present at such a time is +most melancholy. Everyone is in a closed car—a cross between a bathing +machine and that convenient vehicle which carries both corpse and +mourners; all the windows seem made of bottle glass, a phenomenon +produced by the flattening of the noses of imprisoned tourists; and +nothing shines except an occasional traveller in oilskin. In such +seasons, indeed, oilskin (lined with patience) is your only wear. +Ordinary waterproofs in such a climate become mere blotting paper, and +with the best of them, without leggings and headgear to match, the poor +Londoner might, I do not say just as well be in London (for that is his +aspiration all day long), but just as well go to bed at once, and stop +there. 'But why does he not go home?' it may be asked: a question to +which there are several answers. In the first place (for one must take +the average in such cases) because he is a fool. Secondly, like the +rest of the well-to-do world, he has suffered the summer, wherein +warmth and sunshine are really to be had, to slip by, and has only the +fag end of it in which to take holiday. It is now or never—or at all +events now or next year—with him. All his friends, too, are out of +town, flattening _their_ noses against window panes; his club is under +repair, his house in brown holland, his servants on board wages. Like +the young gentleman in Locksley Hall, he is so absolutely at the end of +his resources, that an 'angry fancy' is all that is left to him. Of +course, under its influence he sits down and writes to the _Times_; +but, if the humblest of its correspondents may venture to say so +without offence, even that does not help him much. That suicides +increase in wet autumns is notorious; but that murders should in these +sequestered vales maintain the even tenor of their way is a feather in +the cap of human nature. In lodgings, where the pent-up tourist has no +one but his wife and family to speak to, where Dick and Tom _will_ romp +in his only sitting-room, and Eliza Jane practises all day on the crazy +piano, this forbearance is especially creditable. + +Even in hotels, however, there is great temptation. On the +north-eastern coast, in particular, when the weather has, as the phrase +goes, 'broken up,' and the sky and sea have both become one durable +drab, the best of women grow irritable, the men morose. At the _table +d'hôte_, which even the most exclusive are driven to frequent for +company, as sheep huddle together in storm, Dislike ripens to Hate with +frightful rapidity. Our neighbour, who always—for it seems always—gets +the last of the mushrooms at breakfast, or finishes the oyster sauce at +dinner before our very eyes, we are very far, indeed, from loving as +ourselves. Our _vis-à-vis_, the man on his honeymoon, is even still +more offensive. We resent his happiness, which is apparently +uninfluenced by the state of the weather, and our wife wonders what he +could have seen in that chit of a girl to attract his attention. To +ourselves she seems a great deal too good for him, and in our rare +intervals of human feeling we regard her with the tenderest +commiseration. The importance attached to meals, and the time we take +over them, have no parallel save among the Esquimaux. The least +incident that happens in the hotel is of more moment to us than the +overthrow of Empires. The whispered news that a fellow guest has been +taken seriously ill, and that a medical consultation has been held upon +the case, is a matter to be deplored, of course, but one which is not +without its consolations. 'Who is it? What is it? Nothing catching I do +hope?' (this last uttered with genuine anxiety) are questions that are +heard on every side. The general impression is that some lovely young +lady of fashion on the drawing-room floor has been seized with pains in +her limbs—and no wonder—from exposure to the elements. Her mother comes +down every morning and selects dainties for the sick-room from the +public breakfast table; those who are near enough to do so inquire in +dulcet tones, 'How is your invalid this morning?' The reply is, +'Better, much better,' which somehow falls short of expectation. Even +the most giddy and frivolous of girls has no excuse for frightening +people for nothing. + +At luncheon one day a very fat, strong boy makes his appearance, and is +supplied with soup. All his neighbours who have no soup are wild with +envy, though they are well acquainted with that soup at dinner, and +know that it is bad. 'What is the meaning of it? Why this favouritism?' +we inquire of the waiter furiously. 'Well, you see, sir, he is better +now; but that is the invalid.' The delicate, attractive creature we +have pictured to ourselves with pains in her limbs turns out, after +all, to be a hulking schoolboy, probably bilious from over-eating. The +public indignation is excessive, while the subject of it, quite +unconscious of the fact, has another plate of soup. + +The wild weather out of doors is not, of course, confined to the land, +and the sea would be a fine sight if it was not invisible. The waves, +indeed, are so high that the fishing-boats which have remained out all +night are often warned off, or, as it is locally termed, 'burned off,' +from the harbour bar. A tar barrel is lighted for this purpose on the +headland, and it is the only thing which the eternal rain cannot +utterly squelch and extinguish. Occasionally we venture down upon the +pier to see the boats make the harbour, which, not a little to our +disappointment, they never fail to do. There are huge buttresses of +stone against the pier-head, behind which the new comer imagines he may +crouch in perfect safety, till the third wave comes in and convinces +him to the contrary. No one ever dreams of 'burning' _him_ off—giving +him one word of warning of that unpleasant contingency; for to behold a +fellow creature more drenched and dripping than ourselves is very +soothing. As to the dangers of maritime life, we are all agreed that +they are greatly overrated; and some sceptics even go so far as to +suggest that the skeleton ship, half embedded in the sands, which so +impresses visitors in fine weather, is not a genuine wreck at all, but +has been placed there by the Town Corporation to delude the public. + +Now and then we splash down to the quay to see a few million of +herrings sold at four shillings a hundred, which will presently induce +philanthropic fishmongers in London to advertise 'a glut this morning,' +and to retail them at threepence apiece. At rare intervals we explore +the dripping town. It is amazing what a fascination the small +picture-shops, to which at home we should never give a glance, afford +us; even the frontispieces to popular music have unwonted attractions; +while the pottery-shops, full of ware made from clay 'peculiar to the +locality,' are only too seductive to our wives, who purchase largely +what they believe to be great bargains, till they find on their return +home the identical articles in Oxford Street, at half the price. In +London we never visit the British Museum itself, unless to escort some +country cousin, but at Barecliff-on-Sea, in wet weather, the miserable +little local Institute, with its specimens of strata, its calf with two +heads in spirits, and its petrified toad, is an irresistible +temptation. The great event of the day, however, is the wading down to +the railway-station (which is in a quagmire) to meet the express train +which brings more victims, 'unconscious of their doom,' to Barecliff, +and who evidently flatter themselves that the pouring rain is an +exceptional phenomenon; it also brings the London newspapers, for which +we fight and struggle (the demand being greatly in excess of the +supply) and think ourselves fortunate if we secure a supplement. It is +true there is a _Times_ in the smoking-room of the hotel, but it is +always engaged five deep, is the cause of terrible quarrels, and every +afternoon we expect to see it imbrued in gore. + +In the evening, when one does not mind the wet so much—'its tooth is +not so keen because it is not seen'—there are dissipations at 'the +Rooms by the Sea.' Amateur charitable concerts are given there, in +which it is whispered that this and that lady at the _table d'hôte_ +will take part, who become public characters and objects of immense +interest in consequence. Thither, too, come 'the inimitable Jones,' +from the Edgware Road Music Hall, with his 'unrivalled _répertoire_ of +comic songs;' the Spring Board Family, who have been 'pronounced by the +general consensus of the medical faculty in London to be unique,' as +having neither joints nor backbone; and Herr von Deft, 'who will repeat +the same astounding performances which have electrified the reigning +families of Europe.' The serious people (for whom 'the glee-singers of +Mesopotamia' are also suspected of dropping a line) are angled for by +white-cravatted lecturers, who enhance their statistics of conversion +by the exhibition of poisoned arrows, and of clubs, on which, with the +microscope, may be detected the hairs of missionary martyrs. In fine +weather, of course, these attractions would be advertised in vain; but +the fact is, our whole community has been reduced by the cruelty of the +elements to a sort of second childhood; the rain which permeates +everything is softening our brain. + +This is only too evident from the conversation in the hotel porch where +the men meet every morning to discuss the topic of the day—the weather. +A sullen gloom pervades them—the first symptom of mental aberration. +Those, on the other hand, who express their opinion that it 'really +seems to be clearing a little' are in more advanced stages. We who are +less afflicted shake our heads, and murmur painfully, but also with a +considerable touch of contempt, 'Poor fellows!' + +The piano in the ladies' drawing-room is always going, but it excites +no soothing influence; there is an impression in the hotel that the +performers are foreigners, and should be discouraged. But there is one +instrument hanging in the hall on which everyone plays, native or +alien, and every note is discord. It is the barometer. People talk of +the delicacy of scientific instruments; if they are right, the shocks +which that barometer survives proves it to be an exception. Batter it +as we may, and do, the faithful needle, with a determination worthy of +a better cause, maintains its position at 'Much Rain.' The manager is +appealed to vehemently, coarsely; he shrugs his shoulders, protests +with humility that he cannot help the weather, or affirms it is +unprecedented—which we do not believe. Other managers—in the Engadine, +for example—the papers say, are providing excellent weather; what does +he mean by it? + +At last one morning, wetter than ever, some noble spirit, the Tell of +our liberties, exclaims, 'Who would be free, himself must strike the +blow.' His actual words (if one was not writing history) are, 'Hang me +if I stand this any longer,' and they strike the keynote of everybody's +thought. He goes away by the next train, and his departure is followed +by the same effects as the tapping of a reservoir. The hotel company—I +mean the inmates; the company goes into bankruptcy—stream off at once +to their own homes. That journey through the pouring rain is the +happiest day of our wet holiday. How beautiful looms soaking, soppy, +smoky London! In that excellent town who cares for rain? + +'Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! +You cataracts and hurricanoes spout.' + +Pooh! pooh! Call a cab—call two! + + + + +TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. + + +It was held by wise men of old that adversity was the test of +friendship, but as his Excellency the Minister of the United States has +observed, _per_ Mr. Biglow, 'They did not know everything down in +Judee;' and among other subjects of which those ancient writers were +necessarily ignorant was that of Continental travel. The coming to +grief of a friend is unquestionably very inconvenient; as a millionaire +of my acquaintance observes (under the influence, as he confidently +believes, of benevolent emotion), 'One likes to see one's friends +prosperous;' but even when they are not so, it requires some effort to +follow the dictates of prudence and cast them off. And, after all, the +man, even though you may cut him, remains the same; as fit for the +purposes of friendship as ever, except for his pecuniary condition. +There is no such change in his relation to oneself as Emerson describes +in one of his essays; his words I forget, and his works are miles away, +but the man he has in his mind has in some way fallen short of +expectation—declined, perhaps, to lend the philosopher money. +'Yesterday,' he says, 'my friend was the illimitable ocean; to-day he +is a pond.' He had come to the end of him. And some friends, as my +little child complains as he strokes his black kitten, 'end so soon.' + +There are no circumstances, however, under which friendship comes so +often to a violent and sudden death as under the pressure of travel. It +is like the fate which the Scientific ascribe to a box sunk in the sea; +after a certain depth, which varies according to the strength of the +box, the weight of the superincumbent water bursts it up. It is merely +a question of how deep or how strong. Our travelling companion remains +our friend for a day, for a week, for even a month; but at the month's +end he is our friend no longer. Our relations have probably become what +the diplomatists term 'strained' long before that date, but a day comes +when the tension becomes intolerable; the cable parts and we lose him. +Unfortunately, not always, however; there are circumstances—such as +being on board ship, for example—when we thus part without parting +company. A long voyage is the most terrible trial to which friendship +can be subjected. It is like the old sentence of pressing to death, 'as +much as he can bear, and more.' It is doubtful, for example, whether +friendship has ever survived a voyage to Australia. I have sometimes +asked a man whether he knew So-and-So, who hails, like himself, from +Melbourne, and he has replied, 'We came over in the same ship'—'Only +that, and nothing more,' as the poet puts it; but his tone has an +unmistakable significance, and one perceives at once that the topic had +better not be pursued. + +A very dear friend of mine once proposed that we should go round the +world together; he offered to pay all my expenses, and painted the +expedition in rose-colour. But I had the good sense to decline the +proposal. I felt I should lose my friend. Even yachting is a very +dangerous pastime in this respect, especially when the vessel is +becalmed. In that case, like the sea itself, one's friend soon becomes +a pond. Conceive, then, what it must be to go round the world with him! +Is it possible, both being human, that we can still love one another +when we have got to Japan, for instance? And then we have to come back +together! How frightful must be that moment when he tells us the same +story he told at starting, and we feel that he has come to the end of +his tether, and is going to tell _all_ his stories over again! This is +why it so often happens that only one of two friends returns from any +long voyage they have undertaken together. What has become of the +other? A question that one should never put to the survivor. It is +certain that great travellers, and especially those who travel by sea, +have a very different code of morals from that which they conform to at +home. Human life is not so sacred to them. Perhaps it is in this +respect that travel is said to enlarge the mind. That it does not +sharpen it, however, whatever it may do for the temper, is tolerably +certain. In their habits travellers are singularly conventional. They +are compelled, of course, to suffer certain inconveniences, but they +endure others, and most serious ones, quite unnecessarily, merely +because it is the custom so to do. In crossing the Atlantic, for +example, a man of means will submit to be shut up in a close cupboard +for ten days with an utter stranger, though by paying double fare he +can get a cabin to himself. This arises from no desire for economy, but +simply because he does not think for himself; other travellers do the +like, and he follows their example. Yet what money could recompense him +for occupying for the same time _on land_ a double-bedded room—not to +say a mere china closet—with a man of whom he knows nothing except that +he is subject to chronic sickness? A pleasant sort of travelling +companion indeed, yet, strange to say, the commonest of all. Where +there is a slender purse this terrible state of things (supposing +travel under such circumstances to be compatible with pleasure at all, +which, for my part, I cannot imagine) is not a matter of choice; but +where it can be avoided why is it undergone? + +There is nothing that convinces me of the folly of mankind so much as +those advertisements we see in the summer months with respect to +travelling companions, from volunteers of both sexes: 'Wanted, a +travelling companion for a few months on the Continent, etc. The +highest references will be required.' The idea of going with a stranger +upon a tour of pleasure must surely originate in Hanwell, and the +adventurer may think himself fortunate if it does not end in Broadmoor. +References, indeed! Who can answer for a fellow-creature's temper, +patience, unselfishness, during such an ordeal as a protracted tour? No +one who has not travelled with him already; and one may be tolerably +certain his certificate does not come from _that_ quarter. It is true +some people are married to strangers by advertisement; but their +companionship, as I am given to understand, does not generally last for +months, or anything like it. + +Imagine two people, as utterly unknown to one another, except by letter +(and 'references'), as the _x_ and _y_ of an equation, meeting for the +first time at the railway-station! With what tremors must each regard +the other! What a relief it must be to X. to find that Y. is at least a +white man; on the other hand, it must rather dash his hopes, if they +are set on pedestrianism, to find that his _compagnon de voyage_ has a +wooden leg. Yet what are his mere colour and limbs compared with his +temperament and disposition? If one did not know the frightful risks +one's fellow-creatures incur every day for little pleasure and less +profit, one would certainly say these people must be mad. + +But if instead of X. and Y., it is even A. and B., men who have known +one another for years, and in every relation but as fellow-travellers, +there is risk enough in such a venture. One night, after dinner at the +club, they agree with effusion to take their autumn trip together; they +are warm with wine and with the remembrance of their college +friendship—which extended perhaps, when they afterwards come to think +about it, a very little way. What days they will have in Switzerland +together! What mornings (to see the sunrise) upon mountain-tops! What +evenings on Lucerne! What nights in Paris! A. thinks himself fortunate +indeed in having secured B.'s society for the next three months—a man +with such a reputation for conversation; even T., the cynic of the +club, has testified to his charm of manner. By-the-bye, what was +it—exactly—T. had said of B.? A. cannot remember it at the moment, but +recalls it on the night before they start together. 'B. is a charming +fellow, only he has this peculiarity—that if there is only one armchair +in a room, B. is sure to get it.' + +B., on the other hand, congratulates himself on A.'s excessive good +sense, which even T. had knowledged. What was it—exactly—T. had said of +A.? He cannot remember it at the moment, but recalls it on the night +before they start together. 'A. is such a thoroughly practical fellow; +he has committed many follies, and not a few crimes, but he can lay his +hand on the place where his heart should be, and honestly aver that he +has never given sixpence to anybody.' Full of misgivings, and with +demonstrations of satisfaction that are in themselves suspicious, they +meet at the terminus. A. has a little black bag, which contains his +all; it frees him from all trouble about luggage, and (especially) from +the necessity of paying a porter. He is resolved not to lose a moment, +nor spend a sixpence, in a Custom-house. To his horror, he perceives +that B., whose one idea is comfort, has a portmanteau specially +designed for him (apparently upon the model of Noah's Ark), and which +can scarcely be got into the luggage-van. This article delays them +twenty-four hours at every frontier, because the ordinary authorities +decline to open it upon the ground that it contains an infernal +machine, and have to telegraph to their Government for instructions. + +Again, B. is no doubt a charming conversationalist—in English; but he +does not know one single word of any other language. He requires every +observation of their alien fellow-travellers to be translated, and then +says 'Oh!' discontentedly, or 'It seems to me that foreigners have no +ideas.' And not for one moment can A. get rid of him. If there _is_ a +friend that sticketh closer than a brother, it is the Travelling +Companion who is dependent upon you for interpretation. It is needless +to say that under these circumstances the glass of Friendship falls +from 'Set Fair' to 'Stormy' with much rapidity. After A's fourth +quarrel with a waiter about half a franc, B. calls him a 'mean hound,' +and takes the opportunity of returning to his native land with a French +count, who speaks perfect English, and robs him of his watch and chain +and the contents of his pocket-book on board the steamer. A. and B. +meet one another daily at the club for years afterwards, but without +recognition. + +Their case, of course, is an extreme one; but that of C. and D. is +almost as bad. They are men of prudence, and persuade E. to go with +them, as a makeweight. 'If we should ever disagree,' they say, 'as to +what is to be done—which, however, is to the last degree improbable—the +majority of votes shall carry it'—an arrangement which only delays the +inevitable event— + +'Three little nigger boys went the world to view, +The third was left in Calais, and then there were two.' + +They find the makeweight intolerable before they have crossed the +Channel, and, having agreed to cut their cable from him, are from that +moment never in the same mind about anything else. It is a modern +version of the three brigands who stole the Communion plate. C. and D. +push E. over the precipice, and C. stabs D. at a supper for which D. +has purveyed poisoned wine. + +The only way to secure a really eligible travelling companion is to try +him first in short swallow-flights, or rather pigeon-flights, from +home. Take your bird with you for a few days' outing near home; then, +if he proves pleasant, for a week's tour in Cornwall; then for ten days +in Scotland, where, if you meet with the usual weather, and he still +keeps his temper and politeness, you may trust yourself to him +anywhere. Out of twenty failures there will, perhaps, be one success. +In this manner I have discovered in time, in my dearest and nearest +friends, the most undreamt of vices. One man, F., hitherto much +respected as a Chancery barrister, has, as it has turned out, been +intended by nature for a professional pedestrian. His true calling is +to walk 'laps' round the Agricultural Hall or at Lillie Bridge, with +nothing on to speak of save a handkerchief round his forehead. 'Let us +walk' is his one cry as soon as he becomes a travelling companion. And +he is not content to do this when he arrives at any place of interest, +but insists upon walking _there_—perhaps along a dusty road, or over +turnip-fields. I like walking myself in moderation—say a mile out and a +mile in; but not, certainly not, twenty miles at a stretch, and at a +speed which precludes conversation. This class of travelling companion +is very dangerous. If he does not get his walking he becomes malignant. +My barrister, at least, being denied the opportunity of drawing out +marriage-settlements, conveying land, or otherwise plundering the +community, took to practical jokes. Having a suspicion of his +pedestrian powers, from the extreme length of his legs, I took G. with +us, a man whom I could trust in that respect, and who fancied he had +heart complaint. G. and I took our exercise alone together in a fly. +One day we took a long drive—four miles or more—to a well-known bay. +The vehicle could not get down to the sea, so we descended on foot, +leaving it at the top of the cliff, with the strictest orders to the +man not to stir till we came back. When we returned the fly was gone. +How we reached our hotel, Heaven knows! but we did arrive there, in the +last stage of exhaustion. The driver of the carriage, whom we met next +day, informed us that a gentleman had been thrown from his horse on the +cliff-top and had broken his leg, and that, under the circumstances, he +had ventured to disobey our instructions and take the poor fellow home. +Years afterwards I discovered that nothing of the kind had happened, +but that the fiendish F. had given the driver a sovereign to play that +trick upon us. F. is a judge now, and has been lately trying election +cases. I wonder what he thinks of himself when he rebukes offenders for +the heinous crime of bribery! + +Again, I always thought H. a pleasant fellow till we went together to +Cornwall. He had gone through the first ordeal of a few days nearer +home to my satisfaction, but at Penzance he broke out. He was so +dreadfully particular about his food that nothing satisfied him—not +even pilchards three times a day; and the way he went on at the waiters +is not to be described by a decent pen. The attendant at Penzance was +not, I am bound to say, a good waiter. He said, though he habitually +put his thumb in every dish, he 'hadn't quite got his hand in,' and was +not used to the business.' 'Used! you know nothing about it!' exclaimed +H., viciously. Then the poor fellow burst into tears. 'Pray be patient +with me, good gentlemen,' he murmured. 'I do my best; but until last +Wednesday as ever was I was a pork-butcher.' One cannot stand a +travelling companion who makes the waiters cry. + +The worst kind of fellow-traveller is one who, to use his own +scientific phrase for his complaint, suffers from 'disorganisation of +the nervous centres.' At home his little weaknesses do not strike you. +You may not be on the spot when he flies across Piccadilly Circus, +pursued, as he fancies, by a Brompton omnibus which has not yet reached +St. James's Church, and is moving at a snail's pace; you may not have +been with him on that occasion when, in his eagerness to be in time for +the 'Flying Dutchman,' he arrives at Paddington an hour before it +starts, and is put into the parliamentary train which is shunted at +Slough to let the 'Dutchman' pass; but when you come to travel with him +you know what 'nerves' are to your cost. On the other hand, this is the +easiest kind of travelling companion to get rid of; for you have only +to feign a sore throat, with feverish symptoms, and off he flies on the +wings of terror, leaving you, as he thinks—if he _has_ a thought except +for his nervous centres—to the tender mercies of a foreign doctor, to +hireling nurses, and to a grave in the strangers' cemetery. + +THE END. + +BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD AND LONDON. + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Private Views, by James Payn + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13410 *** |