IN SOCIETY.
As to society in 1837, contemporary commentators differ. For, according
to some, society was always gambling, running away with each other’s
wives, causing and committing scandals, or whispering them, the men
were spendthrifts and profligates, the women extravagant and heartless.
Of course, the same things would be said, and are sometimes said,
of the present day, and will be said in all following ages, because
to the ultra-virtuous or to the satirist who trots out the old,
stale, worn-out sham indignation, or to the isn’t-it-awful, gaping
_gobemouche_, every generation seems worse than all those which
preceded it. We know the tag and the burden and the weariness of the
old song. As for myself, I am no indignant satirist, and the news
that certain young gentlemen have been sitting up all night playing
baccarat, drinking champagne, and ‘carrying on’ after the fashion of
youth in all ages, does not greatly agitate my soul, or surprise me,
or lash me into virtuous indignation. Not at all. At the same time, if
one must range oneself and take a side, one may imitate the example
of Benjamin Disraeli and declare for the side of the angels. And, once
a declared follower of that army, one may be allowed to rejoice that
things are vastly improved in the space of two generations. Of this
there can be no doubt. Making easy allowance for exaggeration, and
refusing to see depravity in a whole class because there are one or
two cases that the world calls shocking and reads eagerly, it is quite
certain that there is less of everything that should not be than there
used to be--less in proportion, and even less in actual extent. The
general tone, in short the general manners of society, have very much
improved. Of this, I say again, there can be no doubt. Let any one, for
instance, read Lady Blessington’s ‘Victims of Society.’ Though there is
an unreal ring about this horrid book, so that one cannot accept it for
a moment as a faithful picture of the times, such a book could not now
be written at all; it would be impossible.
[Illustration: M. Blessington
-THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON-]
Let us sing of lighter themes. Take, for instance, the great subject of
Swagger. There is still Swagger, even in these days; cavalry officers
in garrison towns are still supposed to swagger. Eton boys swagger
in their own little village; undergraduates swagger. The putting on
of ‘side,’ by the way, is a peculiarly modern form of swagger: it is
the assumption of certain qualities and powers which are considered
as deserving of respect. Swagger, fifty years ago, was a coarser
kind of thing. Officers swaggered; men of rank swaggered; men of
wealth swaggered; gentlemen in military frogs--there are no longer
any military frogs--swaggered in taverns, clubs, and in the streets.
The adoption of quiet manners; the wearing of rank with unobtrusive
dignity; the possession of wealth without ostentation; of wit without
the desire to be always showing it--these are points in which we are
decidedly in advance of our fathers. There was a great deal of cuff
and collar, stock and breastpin about the young fellows of the day.
They were oppressive in their gallantry: in public places they asserted
themselves; they were loud in their talk. In order to understand the
young man of the day, one may study the life and career of that gay and
gallant gentleman, the Count d’Orsay, model and paragon for all young
gentlemen of his time.
[Illustration: OFFICER OF THE DRAGOON GUARDS]
They were louder in their manners, and in their conversation they were
insulting, especially the wits. Things were said by these gentlemen,
even in a duelling age, which would be followed in these days by a
violent personal assault. In fact, the necessity of fighting a duel if
you kicked a man seems to have been the cause why men were constantly
allowed to call each other, by implication, Fool, Ass, Knave, and
so forth. So very disagreeable a thing was it to turn out in the early
morning, in order to be shot at, that men stood anything rather than
subject themselves to it. Consider the things said by Douglas Jerrold,
for instance. They are always witty, of course, but they are often mere
insults. Yet nobody seems ever to have fallen upon him. And not only
this kind of thing was permitted, but things of the grossest taste
passed unrebuked. For instance, only a few years before our period, at
Holland House--not at a club, or a tavern, or a tap-room, but actually
at Holland House, the most refined and cultured place in London--the
following conversation once passed.
They were asking who was the worst man in the whole of history--a
most unprofitable question; and one man after the other was proposed.
Among the company present was the Prince Regent himself. ‘I,’ said
Sydney Smith--no other than Sydney Smith, if you please--‘have always
considered the Duke of Orleans, Regent of France, to have been the
worst man in all history; and he,’ looking at the illustrious guest,
‘was a Prince.’ A dead silence followed, broken by the Prince himself.
‘For my own part,’ he said, ‘I have always considered that he was
excelled by his tutor, the Abbé Dubois; and he was a priest, Mr.
Sydney.’ Considering the reputation of the Prince, and the kind of life
he was generally supposed to be leading, one can hardly believe that
any man would have had the impudence and the bad taste to make such a
speech.
[Illustration: Alfred d Orsay
-COUNT d’ORSAY-]
We still constantly hear, in the modern School for Scandal, remarks
concerning the honour, the virtue, the cleverness, the ability, the
beauty, the accomplishments of our friends. But it is behind their
backs. We no longer try to put the truth openly before them. We stab in
the back; but we no longer attack in front. One ought not to stab at
all; but the back is a portion of the frame which feels nothing. So far
the change is a distinct gain.
Society, again, fifty years ago, was exclusive. You belonged to
society, or you did not; there was no overlapping, there were no
circles which intersected. And if you were in society you went
to Almack’s. If you did not go to Almack’s you might be a very
interesting, praiseworthy, well-bred creature; but you could not claim
to be in society. Nothing could be more simple. Therefore, everybody
ardently desired to be seen at Almack’s. This, however, was not in
everybody’s power. Almack’s, for instance, was far more exclusive
than the Court. Riff-raff might go to Court; but they could not get
to Almack’s, for at its gates there stood, not one angel with a fiery
sword, but six in the shape of English ladies, terrible in turbans,
splendid in diamonds, magnificent in satin, and awful in rank.
[Illustration: ‘A SKETCH IN THE PARK’--THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON AND MRS.
ARBUTHNOT.]
They were the Ladies Jersey, Londonderry, Cowper, Brownlow, Willoughby
d’Eresby, and Euston. These ladies formed the dreaded Committee. They
decided who should be admitted within the circle; all applications
had to be made direct to them; no one was allowed to bring friends.
Those who desired to go to the balls--Heavens! what lady did not
ardently desire?--were obliged to send in a personal request to be
allowed the honour. Not only this, but they were also obliged to
send for the answer, which took the form of a voucher--that is, a
ticket--or a simple refusal, from which there was no appeal. Gentlemen
were admitted in the same way, and by the same mode of application,
as the ladies. In their case, it is pleasing to add, some regard was
paid to character as well as to birth and rank, so that if a man
openly and flagrantly insulted society he was supposed not to be
admitted; but one asks with some trembling how far such rigour would
be extended towards a young and unmarried Duke. Almack’s was a sort
of Royal Academy of Society, the Academic diploma being represented
by the admitted candidate’s pedigree, his family connections, and his
family shield. The heartburnings, jealousies, and maddening envies
caused by this exclusive circle were, I take it, the cause of its
decline and fall. Trade, even of the grandest and most successful kind,
even in the persons of the grandchildren, had no chance whatever;
no self-made man was admitted; in fact, it was not recognised that
a man could make himself; either he belonged to a good family or he
did not--genius was not considered at all; admission to Almack’s was
like admission to the Order of the Garter, because it pretended no
nonsense about merit; wives and daughters of simple country squires,
judges, bishops, generals, admirals, and so forth, knew better than to
apply; the intrigues, backstairs influence, solicitation of friends,
were as endless at Almack’s as the intrigues at the Admiralty to
procure promotion. Admission could not, however, be bought. So far
the committee were beyond suspicion and beyond reproach; it was
whispered, to be sure, that there was favouritism--awful word! Put
yourself in the position, if you have imagination enough, of a young
and beautiful _débutante_. Admission to Almack’s means for you that
you can see your right and title clear to a coronet. What will you not
do--what cringing, supplication, adulation, hypocrisies--to secure
that card? And oh! the happiness, the rapture, of sending to Willis’s
Rooms and finding a card waiting for you! and the misery and despair of
receiving, instead, the terrible letter which told you, without reason
assigned, that the Ladies of the Committee could not grant your request!
[Illustration: Yrs. Sydney Smith
-SYDNEY SMITH-]
They were not expensive gatherings, the tickets being only 7_s._ 6_d._
each, which did not include supper. Dancing began at eleven to the
strains of Weippert’s and Collinet’s band. The balls were held in the
great room at Willis’s, and the space reserved for the dancers was
roped round. The two favourite dances were the Valse and the Galop--the
‘sprightly galoppade,’ as it was called. Quadrilles were also danced.
It may be interesting to those who have kept the old music to learn
that in the year 1836 the favourite quadrilles were _L’Eclair_ and
_La Tête de Bronze_, and the favourite valse was _Le Remède contre le
Sommeil_. They had also Strauss’s waltzes.
[Illustration: LINKMAN]
The decline and fall of Almack’s was partly caused by the ‘favouritism’
which not only kept the place exclusive, but excluded more than
was politic. The only chance for the continued existence of such an
institution is that it should be constantly enlarging its boundaries,
just as the only chance for the continued existence of such an
aristocracy as ours is that it should be always admitting new members.
Somehow the kind of small circle which shall include only the _crème de
la crème_ is always falling to pieces. We hear of a club which is to
contain only the very noblest, but in a year or two it has ceased to
exist, or it is like all other clubs. Moreover, a great social change
has now passed over the country. The stockbroker, to speak in allegory,
has got into Society. Respect for Rank, fifty years ago universal and
profound, is rapidly decaying. There are still many left who believe in
some kind of superiority by Divine Right and the Sovereign’s gift of
Rank, even though that Rank be but ten years old, and the grandfather’s
shop is still remembered. We do not pretend to believe any longer
that Rank by itself makes people cleverer, more moral, stronger, more
religious, or more capable; but some of us still believe that, in some
unknown way, it makes them superior. These thinkers are getting fewer.
And the decay of agriculture, which promises to continue and increase,
assists the decay of Respect for Rank, because such an aristocracy as
that of these islands, when it becomes poor, becomes contemptible.
The position of women, social and intellectual, has wholly changed.
Nothing was heard then of women’s equality, nothing of woman
suffrage; there were no women on Boards, there were none who lectured
and spoke in public, there were few who wrote seriously. Women
regarded themselves, and spoke of themselves, as inferior to men in
understanding, as they were in bodily strength. Their case is not
likely to be understated by one of themselves. Hear, therefore, what
Mrs. John Sandford--nowadays she would have been Mrs. Ethel Sandford,
or Mrs. Christian-and maiden-name Sandford--says upon her sisters. It
is in a book called ‘Woman in her Social and Domestic Character.’
‘There is something unfeminine in independence. It is contrary to
Nature, and therefore it offends. A really sensible woman feels
her dependence; she does what she can, but _she is conscious of
inferiority, and therefore grateful for support_.’ The italics are
mine. ‘In everything that women attempt they should show their
consciousness of dependence.... They should remember that by them
influence is to be obtained, not by assumption, but by a delicate
appeal to affection or principle. Women in this respect are something
like children--the more they show their need of support, the more
engaging they are. The appropriate expression of dependence is
gentleness.’ The whole work is executed in this spirit, the keynote
being the inferiority of woman. Heavens! with what a storm would such a
book be now received!
In the year 1835 Herr Räumer, the German historian, visited England,
and made a study of the English people, which he afterwards published.
From this book one learns a great deal concerning the manners of the
time. For instance, he went to a dinner-party given by a certain noble
lord, at which the whole service was of silver, a silver hot-water dish
being placed under every plate; the dinner lasted until midnight, and
the German guest drank too much wine, though he missed ‘most of the
healths.’ It was then the custom at private dinner-parties to go on
drinking healths after dinner, and to sit over the wine till midnight.
He goes to an ‘At Home’ at Lady A.’s. ‘Almost all the men,’ he tells
us, ‘were dressed in black coats, black or coloured waistcoats, and
black or white cravats.’ Of what colour were the coloured waistcoats,
and of what colour the coats which were not black, and how were the
other men dressed? Perhaps one or two may have been Bishops in evening
dress. Now the evening dress of a Bishop used to be blue. I once saw a
Bishop dressed all in blue--he was a very aged Bishop, and it was at a
City Company’s dinner--and I was told it had formerly been the evening
dress of Bishops, but was now only worn by the most ancient among
them. Herr Räumer mentions the ‘countless’ carriages in Hyde Park,
and observes that no one could afford to keep a carriage who had not
3,000_l._ a year at least. And at fashionable dances he observes that
they dance nothing but waltzes. The English ladies he finds beautiful,
and of the men he observes that the more they eat and drink the colder
they become--because they drank port, no doubt, under the influence of
which, though the heart glows more and more, there comes a time when
the brow clouds, and the speech thickens, and the tongue refuses to act.
The dinners were conducted on primitive principles. Except in great
houses, where the meat and game were carved by the butler, everything
was carved on the table. The host sat behind the haunch of mutton,
and ‘helped’ with zeal; the guests took the ducks, the turkey, the
hare, and the fowls, and did their part, conscious of critical eyes.
A dinner was a terrible ordeal for a young man who, perhaps, found
himself called upon to dissect a pair of ducks. He took up the knife
with burning cheeks and perspiring nose; now, at last, an impostor,
one who knew not the ways of polite society, would be discovered; he
began to feel for the joints, while the cold eyes of his hostess gazed
reproachfully upon him--ladies, in those days, knew good carving,
and could carve for themselves. Perhaps he had, with a ghastly grin,
to confess that he could not find those joints. Then the dish was
removed and given to another guest, a horribly self-reliant creature,
who laughed and talked while he dexterously sliced the breast and cut
off the legs. If, in his agony, the poor wretch would take refuge
in the bottle, he had to wait until some one invited him to take
wine--horrible tyranny! The dinner-table was ornamented with a great
épergne of silver or glass; after dinner the cloth was removed, showing
the table, deep in colour, lustrous, well waxed; and the gentlemen
began real business with the bottle after the ladies had gone.
[Illustration: WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY]
Very little need be said about the Court. It was then in the hands
of a few families. It had no connection at all with the life of the
country, which went on as if there were no Court at all. It is strange
that in these fifty years of change the Court should have altered so
little. Now, as then, the Court neither attracts, nor attempts to
attract, any of the leaders in Art, Science, or Literature. Now, as
then, the Court is a thing apart from the life of the country. For the
best class of all, those who are continually advancing the country in
science, or keeping alight the sacred lamp of letters, who are its
scholars, architects, engineers, artists, poets, authors, journalists,
who are the merchant adventurers of modern times, who are the preachers
and teachers, the Court simply does not exist. One states the fact
without comment. But it should be stated, and it should be clearly
understood. _The whole of those men who in this generation maintain the
greatness of our country in the ways where alone greatness is desirable
or memorable, except in arms, the only men of this generation whose
memories will live and adorn the Victorian era, are strangers to the
Court._ It seems a great pity. An ideal Court should be the centre of
everything--Art, Letters, Science, all.
As for the rest of society--how the people had drums and routs
and balls; how they angled for husbands; how they were hollow and
unnatural, and so forth--you may read about it in the pages of
Thackeray. And I, for one, have never been able to understand how
Thackeray got his knowledge of these exclusive circles. Instead of
dancing at Almack’s he was taking his chop and stout at the Cock;
instead of gambling at Crockford’s he was writing ‘copy’ for any paper
which would take it. When and where did he meet Miss Newcome and Lady
Kew and Lord Steyne? Perhaps he wrote of them by intuition, as Disraeli
wrote the ‘Young Duke.’ ‘My son, sir,’ said the elder Disraeli proudly,
‘has never, I believe, even seen a Duke.’
One touch more. There is before me a beautiful, solemn work, one in
which the writer feels his responsibilities almost too profoundly. It
is on no less important a subject than Etiquette, containing Rules for
the Conduct of Life on the most grave and serious occasions. I permit
myself one or two extracts:--
‘Familiarity is the greatest vice of Society. When an acquaintance says
“My dear fellow,” cut him immediately.’
‘Never enter your own house without bowing to every one you may meet
there.’
‘Never ask a lady any questions about anything whatever.’
‘If you have drunk wine with every one at the table and wish for
more’--Heavens! More! And after drinking with every one at the
table!--‘wait till the cloth is removed.’
‘Never permit the sanctity of the drawing-room to be violated by a
Boot.’