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THE SILVER DOMINO
* * * * * *
_OPINIONS OF THE PRESS._
"The 'Silver Domino' can handle words and phrases in a manner which
either proves an extraordinary original gift or a good deal of
practice.... The parody of Miss Olive Schreiner is one of the best and
severest parodies we have seen for years.... The book is one to read
and laugh over."--_Daily Chronicle, Oct. 14th._
"All unexpectedly one finds one's self in the midst of a most
up-to-date literary satire.... I am bound to say the 'thwackings' [in
the 'Silver Domino'] are entertaining."--_Star, Oct. 10th._
"The unknown author of the 'Silver Domino' has been good enough to send
me his book, which is very bright and amusing and outspoken. He has his
knife into a great many people."--_The World, Oct. 10th._
"An audacious little book called the 'Silver Domino' is causing a great
deal of amusement in literary circles.... There are some delightful
parodies; also a capital literary creed, which takes liberties with the
_Saturday Review_, which, by the way, is again for sale."--_Western
Daily Mercury, Oct. 15th._
"The 'Silver Domino' consists of truculently candid sallies at the
expense of men eminent in politics, literature, and journalism."--_The
Times, Oct. 15th._
"I must confess to have chuckled hugely over some of his [the 'Silver
Domino's'] diatribes."--_News of the World, Oct. 23rd._
"Pungent, mordant satire went out with Grenville Murray, but his mantle
has fallen upon the anonymous author of the 'Silver Domino,' who has
issued some intensely amusing social and literary side-whispers.... All
that he has to tell us is told with wonderful _verve_ and in an easy
flowing style which has a great charm for all who can appreciate such
satire.... I could dwell upon the 'Silver Domino' with great benefit
to my readers and satisfaction to myself, but space forbids; so I
will only say that the book is the most valuable contribution to our
satirical literature that has appeared for many, many years. Our advice
is: 'Get it; read it; and re-read it.'"--_Society, Oct, 19th._
"The 'Silver Domino' is a volume of essays.... There are pungency and
freshness about many of the writer's observations."--_Sunday Sun, Oct.
23rd._
"The 'Silver Domino' is suggestive of the gentle Malayan exercise of
running a-muck or the emancipated young person having a fling to its
own obvious enjoyment."--_Saturday Review, Oct. 29th._
"If it is to Mr. Lang's generosity that we owe the hatching of this
book, that gentleman must assuredly stand aghast."--_Vanity Fair, Oct.
29th._
"The literary puzzle of the hour is--Who wrote the 'Silver Domino'?...
The question of authorship apart, nothing at once so bitter and so
clever has appeared since the days of Lord Byron."--_The Literary
World, Nov. 4th._
"'Who is the author of the "Silver Domino"?' That is the question I am
asked wherever I go. Whoever it is, he is the author of an extremely
clever book.... Were I to make one single quotation from the 'Silver
Domino' you would be angry with me, yet there is not one of you but
will read it speedily."--_The Queen, Oct. 29th._
* * * * * *
THE SILVER DOMINO;
Or
Side Whispers, Social and Literary.
Eighth Edition.
With Author's Note to This Issue.
London:
Lamley and Co., Exhibition Road.
1893.
[All rights reserved.]
To
ANDREW LANG,
WHOSE LITERARY GENEROSITY TOWARDS ME
IS PAST ALL PRAISE,
I,
WITH THE UTMOST RECOGNITION,
DEDICATE THIS BOOK.
AUTHOR'S NOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
Since the first edition of this book was published, some three weeks
ago, a grave event has occurred, which may be said to have closed an
epoch in the history of Literature. Tennyson, Poet and Laureate, the
last, perhaps, of the exponents of a pure, refined, and musical school
of English poesy, has left us. I will not say he has "crossed the
bar," because I consider that phrase has been overdone. He has passed
away in the fulness of years and honours, amid the sorrowing regret
of all those thousands to whom his melodious muse was as a part of
home and country. No poet ever lived a more easy and amply rewarded
life,--no poet ever died a more easy and enviable death. And I have
nothing to recant in what I have said of him in my chapter entitled
"Of Certain Great Poets." I am only sorry that he did not live to
read my lines, as I know he would have readily understood the sincere
spirit of admiration for his great qualities that moved me to my candid
speech. My "reviewers" have not elected to quote any word of mine on
the subject of the late Laureate, they generally preferring to save
time and trouble by an all-round but rash declaration that there is no
good said of any one in my book. I therefore challenge my readers to
the perusal of "Certain Great Poets," for I will yield to no one in my
admiration of Tennyson, no, not even to Lewis Morris, who calls him
"Master," whereas I was privileged to call him "Friend." I have praised
his genius with as much fervour and possibly more sincerity than any of
the versifiers who have written rhymes to his memory while squabbling
for his vacant post; and, as regards his Diogenes-like unsociability
and distaste for the "outside vulgar," I have only said what every one
admits to be true. I transcribe here the copy of a letter received from
the great Poet not long before his death:--
"ALDWORTH, HASLEMERE, SURREY.
"MY DEAR ----,--I thank you heartily for your kind letter and
welcome gift. You do well not to care for fame. Modern fame is too
often a mere crown of thorns, and brings all the vulgarity of the
world upon you. I sometimes wish I had never written a line.
"Your friend,
"TENNYSON."
The "vulgarity of the world" and the "outside vulgar" are phrases
by which the literary folk designate the vast Public, without whose
substantial appreciation, they, the inside elect, would starve. The
"outside vulgar," however, with unerring good taste, have purchased
Tennyson's work for the past fifty years, and in the rich harvest
of thoughts they have thus gathered, they can smile with a tender
indulgence at their Kingly Minstrel's shrinking aversion to the
"crowd" who loved him. He was the greatest poet of the Victorian era;
and, draped in the flag of England, as befits his sturdy and splendid
patriotism, he sleeps the sleep of the just and pure-minded who have
served their Art, as worthy subjects serve their Queen, loyally and
unflinchingly to the end. It was "fitting," I suppose, that he should
be laid to rest in dismal "Poet's Corner"--(beside Browning, too! the
Real singer beside the Sham!)--but many would rather have seen him
placed in a shrine of his own,--a warm grassy grave under the "talking"
English oaks whose forest language he so well translated, than thus
pent up among the crumbling ashes of inferior and almost forgotten men.
Another change has come "o'er the spirit of my dream" since, in the
language of the _Daily Chronicle_, I flung back the curtain and made
my bow to the public "in a breezy, not to say slap-bang, manner." The
_Pall Mall Gazette_ has changed hands and politics. Once, as will
be seen in the ensuing pages, I adored the _Pall Mall Gazette_. Its
fads, its whimsies, its prize "booms," and above all its religious
notions, were my delight. It was, as I said, a "bright particular star"
in the sphere of journalism, but I doubt whether it will continue to
shine on. I much fear that its days of Whimsicality and Boom are over,
though it now has a serious and gentlemanly Scot for an editor, who
does not find his chief amusement in levelling cheap sneers at Crown
and Constitution, and advocating a dangerous and (at heart) unpopular
Democracy. However, we shall see. In the interim, though I may not now
"adore" the _Pall Mall_, I mournfully respect it.
I fancy I have made a slight error in that harmless, but Grundy-scaring
jest of mine entitled "The Journalist's Creed." I have alluded to the
excellent and brilliant Henry Labouchere, as "very Rad of very Rad." It
should have been "very Tory of very Tory." This is absurd? Incongruous?
Impossible? Well! Events will prove whether I am right or wrong. And
I beg to assure all whom it may concern, that I consider there is no
more "irreverence" in the "Journalist's Creed" than is displayed by the
respectable church-goer who murmurs an address or prayer to God in the
hollow of his stove-pipe hat, rather than spoil the set of his trousers
by kneeling down.
I very earnestly desire to thank my critics one and all for the
attention they have bestowed upon me. They have taken me very
seriously; much more seriously than I have taken myself. I am so
little "peculiar," that I confess to have copied the phraseology of
my diatribes on certain poets and novelists from the language of the
"reviews" in divers journals, and I am truly surprised to hear such
phraseology termed "vulgar." When I was a "known" author (I was, once!)
reviewers "reviewed" _me_ with a profuseness of vituperative force that
struck me as singular; but I did not presume to call their well-rounded
terms of abuse "vulgar" or "scurrilous." Now I see I might very well
have done so, as they all agree in a condemnation of their own
literary vernacular. One lives and learns (this is a platitude), and
when an author anonymously "slates" those who anonymously "slate" him,
it is curious and instructive to observe what a different view is taken
of his case! It is a strange world (platitude number two).
In conclusion I would fain express my gratitude for the diverting
entertainment which I have had out of the various "guesses" as to my
identity. They are guesses as wild and strange and erroneous as any
that ever followed the track of a "domino noir" through the mazes of
Carnival. I can, however, only repeat that I am not what I seem, and
that up to the present, so far as my personality has been hinted at, or
even boldly asserted, such supposititious "clues" are all random shots
and fall wide of the mark. With the utmost civility, I beg to inform
you, dear friends and enemies alike, that in this trivial matter of
"guessing," you are all, every one of you,--wrong!
THE SILVER DOMINO.
_Nov. 9th, 1892._
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. OPENETH DISCOURSE 3
II. SOLILOQUISETH ON LITTLE MANNERS 23
III. PRONOUNCETH ON LESSER MORALS 43
IV. OF SAVAGES AND SKELETONS 59
V. HOW NAMES ARE SUPERIOR TO PERSONS 79
VI. CONVERSETH WITH LORD SALISBURY 91
VII. CHATTETH WITH THE GRAND OLD MAN 109
VIII. OF THE TRUE JOURNALIST AND HIS CREED 127
IX. OF WRITERS IN GROOVES 137
X. OF THE SOCIAL ELEPHANT 165
XI. THE STORY OF A SOUTH AFRICAN DREAM 183
XII. QUESTIONETH CONCERNING THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND 197
XIII. DESCRIBETH THE PIOUS PUBLISHER 211
XIV. OF CERTAIN GREAT POETS 227
XV. OF MORE POETS 251
XVI. TO A MIGHTY GENIUS 267
XVII. CONCERNING A GREAT FRATERNITY 293
XVIII. EULOGISETH ANDREW 311
XIX. BYRON LOQUITUR 327
XX. MAKETH EXIT 359
I.
OPENETH DISCOURSE.
Well, old musty, dusty, time-trodden arena of Literature and Society,
what now? Are your doors wide open, and may a stranger enter? A
perpetual dance is going on, so your outside advertisements proclaim;
and truly a dance is good so long as it is suggestive of wholesome
mirth. But is yours a dance of Death or of Life? A fandango of mockery,
a rigadoon of sham, or a waltzing-game at "beggar my neighbour"?
Moreover, is the fun worth paying for? Let me look in and judge.
Nay, by the gods of Homer, what a dire confusion of sight and sense
and sound is all this "mortal coil" and whirligig of humanity! What
noise and laughter, interspersed with sundry groanings, as of fiends
in Hell! Listening, I catch the echoes of many voices I know; now
and again I have glimpses of faces that in their beauty or ugliness,
their smiling or sneering, are perfectly familiar to me. Friends? No,
not precisely. No man who has lived long enough to be wise in social
wisdom can be certain that he has a friend anywhere; besides, I do not
pretend to have found what Socrates himself could not discover. Enemies
then? Truly that is probable! Enemies are more than luxuries: they are
necessities; one cannot live strongly or self-reliantly without them.
One does not forgive them (such pure Christianity has never yet been in
vogue); one fights them, and fighting is excellent exercise. So, have
at you all, good braggarts of work done and undone! I am as ready to
give and take the "passado" as any Mercutio on a hot Italian day. Note
or disregard me, I care naught; it is solely for my own diversion, not
for yours, that I come amongst you. I want my amusement as others want
theirs, and nothing amuses me quite so much as the strange customs and
behaviour of the men and women of my time. I love them--in a way; but I
cannot, help laughing at them--occasionally. Sentiment would be wasted
on them; one does not "grieve" over folly and vice any more, unless
one is an ill-paid (and therefore ill-used) cleric, because folly and
vice assume such pettifogging and ludicrous aspects that one's risible
faculties are at once excited, and pity dries up at its fountain-head.
For we live in a little age, and nothing great can breathe in the
stifling atmosphere of our languid, listless indifference to God and
man.
Nevertheless, there is a curious touch of fantastic buffoonery in
everything that temporarily stirs our inertia nowadays. Consider
our Browning-mania! Our Stanley-measles! With what dubious and
half-bewildered enthusiasm we laid the mortal remains of our
incomprehensible "Sordello" to rest in Westminster Abbey! With what
vulgar staring and ridiculous parade we gathered together to see the
"cute" Welsh trader in ivory wedded to his "Tennant for life" in the
same wrongfully-used sacred edifice! Has not our "world of fashion"
metaphorically kissed the cow-boots of Buffalo Bill? and "once upon a
time," as the fairy-tales say, did not the great true heart of England
pour itself out on--Jumbo? A mere elephant, vast of trunk and small of
tail--a living representative of our Indian and African possessions;
sure 'twas an innocent beast-worship that became us well! What matter
if giddy France held her sides with hilarious laughter at us, and Spain
and Italy giggled decorously at us behind their fans and mantillas,
and Germany broke into a huge guffaw at our "goings-on" over the brim
of her beer-mug,--let those laugh who win! And have we not always
won? yea, though (in an absent-minded moment) we allowed Barnum, of
ever-blessed memory, to buy for vulgar dollars that which we once so
loved!
Ah, we are a marvellous and motley crowd at this huge gathering called
Life, dear gossips all!--gossips in society and out of society--a
motley, lying, hypocritical, crack-brained crowd! I glide in among
you, masked for the nonce; I hold my silver draperies well up to my
eyes that the smile of derision I now and then indulge in may not
show itself too openly. I am not wishful to offend, albeit I am oft
offended. Yet it is well-nigh impossible to avoid giving offence in
these days. We are like hedgehogs: we bristle at a touch, out of the
excess of our hog-like self-consciousness, and the finger of Truth
laid on a hair of our skins makes us start with feeble irritability
and tetchy nervousness. Christ's command to "bless them that curse
you, and pray for them which despitefully use you," is to us the
merest feeble paradox; for our detestation of all persons who presume
to interfere with our business, and who say unpleasant things about
us, is too burningly sincere to admit of discussion. I, for my part,
frankly confess to entertaining the liveliest animosity towards
certain individuals of my acquaintance, people who shake my hand with
the utmost cordiality, smile ingenuously in my eyes, and then go off
and write a lying paragraph about me in order to pocket a nefarious
half-crown. I never feel disposed to "bless" such folk, and certes, I
should be made of flabbier matter than a jelly-fish if I prayed for
them.
But then I am not a Christian; please understand that at once. I am a
Jew, a Gentile, a Pharisee, and--a devil! I may be all four if I like
and yet be Pope of Rome. Why not? since these are the days of free
thought, and one's private religious opinions are not made the subject
of inquisitorial examination. Moreover, all classes aid and abet the
truly pious hypocrite, provided his hypocrisy be strictly consistent.
With equal delightsomeness, all creeds, no matter how absurd, just now
obtain some kind of a hearing. We are at perfect liberty to worship any
sort of fetish we like, without interference. We can grovel before our
Divine Self, and sink to the lowest possible level of degradation in
ministering to its greedy wants, and yet we shall not for this cause be
ostracised from society or excommunicated from any sacred pale. With
clerics and with laymen alike, our Divine Self needs more care than our
soul's salvation; for our Divine Self, in its splendid egoism, is a
breathing, eating, drinking, digesting Necessity; our soul's salvation
is a hazy, far-off, dubious concern wherein we are but vaguely
interested, a sort of dream at night which we now and then remember
languidly in the course of the day.
Talking of dreams, one cannot but consider them with a certain respect.
They are such very powerful "factors," as the useful penny-a-liner
would say, in the world's history. We affect to despise them; and yet
how large a portion of the community are at this moment getting their
daily bread-and-butter out of nothing more substantial than the "airy
fabric" of a vision, which in this particular instance has proved
solid enough to establish itself as one of the foundations of European
civilisation.
"_The angel of the Lord appeared unto Joseph in a dream._"
It is all there. That dream of the good Joseph was the strange
nutshell in which lay the germ of all the multitudinous Churches,
Popes, Cardinals, Archbishops, bishops, confessors, priests, parsons,
and last (not least), curates. One wonders (when one is a doomed and
damned "masquer" like myself) what would have happened if Joseph had
dreamed a different dream? or, as might have chanced, if he had slept
so profoundly as not to have dreamed at all? We should have perhaps
been under the sway of Mahomet (another dream), or Buddha (another
dream); for certain it is we cannot do without dreams at any period of
our lives, from the celebrated "deep sleep" of Adam, when he dreamt he
lost a rib to gain a wife, down to the "hypnotic-trance" schools of
to-day, where we are gravely informed we can be taught how to murder
each other "by suggestion." The most abandoned of us has an Idea--or
an Ideal--of something better (or worse) than ourselves, according
to whether our daily potations be crushed out of burgundy grape, or
made of mere vulgar gin-and-water. Even Hodge, growing stertorous and
sleepy over his poisoned beer and _Daily Telegraph_ at his favourite
"public," takes his turn at castle-building, and drowsily muses on
a coming time of Universal Uproar, which _till_ it comes is proudly
called Socialism, when the "sanguinary" aristocrat will be laid low in
the levelling mire, and he, plain Hodge, will be proved a more valuable
human unit than any educated ruler of any realm. Alas for thee, good
Hodge, that thou should'st boozily indulge in such romantic flights of
fancy! Thou, who in uninstructed thirsty haste dost rush to vote for
him who most generously plies thee with beer, what would'st thou do
without the aristocrat or rich man thou would'st fain trample upon?
Who would employ thee, simple Hodge? Another Hodge like thyself? Grant
this, and lo! Hodge Number Two, by possessing the means, the will and
the power to make thee work for him, tacitly becomes thy master and
superior. Wherefore the Equality thou clamourest after, is wholly at an
end if thou, Hodge Number One, dost hire thyself out as labourer or
servant to Hodge Number Two! This is a plain statement, made plainly,
without Gladstonian periods of eloquence; think it over, friend Hodge,
when thou art alone, _sans_ beer and cheap news-sheet to obfuscate thy
simple intelligence.
Nevertheless, it would be cruel to deprive even Hodge of an idea,
provided the idea be good for him. For ideas are the only unalterable
suggestions of the eternal; their forms change, but themselves are
ever the same. One Idea, running through history, built Baal-bec,
the Pyramids, the temples of India, the Duomo of Milan, and in our
own poor day of brag, the hideous Eiffel tower. The idea has always
been the same; to compass great height and vastness of some kind, and
Eiffel has only dragged down to the level of his merely mechanical
intelligence Nimrod's fantastic notion of the Tower of Babel. Nimrod
had a belief that he could reach Heaven. M. Eiffel was convinced he
could advertise himself. _Voilà la difference!_ That "difference" is
the great gulf between ancient art and modern. In the past they went
star-gazing and tried to climb--in the present, we stay where we are,
look after ourselves, and put up an advertisement. Thus has the form of
the idea changed from the likeness of a god into a painted clown--yet,
fundamentally, it is still the same idea. And, reduced to its primeval
element, its first dim, nebulous hint, an idea is nothing but a dream.
Hence I return to my previous proposition, _i.e._, the respect we
owe to dreams, particularly when they result in fixed realities such
as, well!--such as curates, for example. I mention this class of
individuals particularly, because there are so many of them, and also
because they are generally so desperately poor, and (to young ladies
in country parishes) so desperately interesting. What English fiction
would do without a curate or a clerical personage of some kind or
other to figure in its pages I dare not imagine. The novels of other
countries do not produce such hosts of invaluable churchmen, but in
England the most successful books are frequently those which treat
of the clergy, from "Robert Elsmere," who found himself startled out
of orthodoxy by a few familiar and well-ventilated French and German
theories of creed, down to the gentle milksops of the church as found
in the novels of Anthony Trollope and the dreary stories of Miss
Edna Lyall. This well-intentioned lady's productions would assuredly
find few readers were it not for the "old-woman-and-faded-spinster"
fanaticism for clergymen. And yet--I once knew a wicked army man
(worshippers of Edna Lyall prepare to be disgusted! truth is always
disgusting) who for some years amused himself by collecting out of the
daily newspapers, cuttings of all the police reports and criminal cases
in which clergymen were implicated, and this volume, an exceedingly
bulky one, he brought to me, with a Mephistophelian twinkle in his bad
old eyes.
"Read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest!" said he. "These fellows in
'holy orders' have committed every crime in the calendar, and the only
mischief I have not found them out in yet is Arson!"
This was the fact. The calm, unromantic statements of the police, as
chronicled in that carefully-collected book of damnatory evidence,
bore black witness against clerical virtue and morality--a "reverend"
was mixed up in every sort of "abomination" which in old times called
down the judgments of the Lord--save and except the one thing--that
none of them had been convicted of wilfully setting fire to their own
or other peoples' dwellings. But I believe--I may be wrong--that Arson
is not a very common crime with any class. It is not of such frequent
occurrence as murder or bigamy--or if it is, it does not attract so
much attention. So I fancy it may be taken for granted that clergymen
are, on the whole, not a whit better, while they are very often worse,
than the laity they preach at--hence their "calling and election" is
vain, and nobody wonders that they are by their proven inefficiency
causing the very pillars of the Church to totter and fall. And has not
Parliament been seriously busying itself with a "Clerical Immorality"
Bill? This speaks volumes for the integrity of the preachers of the
Gospel!
As for me, who am no Churchman, but merely a stray masquerader
strolling through the social bazaar, I consider that all churches as
they at present exist, are mockeries, and as such, are inevitably
doomed. Nothing can save them; no prop will keep them up; neither
fancy spiritualism, nor theosophism, nor any other "ism" offered by
notoriety-hunting individuals as a stop-gap to the impending crash.
Not even the Booth-boom will avail--that balloon of cleverly-inflated
philanthropy which has been sent up just high enough to attract
attention from the gaping Britishers, who, like big children, must
always have something to stare at. Of course, my opinion, being the
opinion of an "anonymous," is worthless, and I do not offer it as
being valuable. In saying things, I say them for my own amusement, and
if I bore any one by my remarks, so much the more am I delighted.
As a matter of fact, I take peculiar pleasure in boring people. Why?
Because people always bore _me_, and I adore the sentiment of revenge!
And that I stand here, masked, a stranger to all the brilliant company
whirling wildly around me, is also for my own particular entertainment.
If I have said anything to offend any of the excellent clericals I see
running towards me with the inevitable "collection-plate," I am sorry.
But I will not bribe them for their good opinion, nor will I flatly
disobey the command received (which they all seem to forget), "Do not
your alms before men." Besides, I have nothing with me just now--not
a farthing. I am only in this great assembly for a few moments, and
my "silver domino," lavishly studded with stars, has cost me dear.
For the completion of churches, and the mending of chancels, and the
french-polishing of pews, I have no spare cash. Walls will not hold
me when I am fain to worship--I take the whole arching width of the
uncostly sky. There are rich old ladies in this vast throng of people,
doubtless?--dear Christian souls who hate their younger relatives,
and who are therefore willing to spend spare cash in order to prove
their love of God. From these gather your harvest while you may, all
ye ordained "disciples of the Lord," but excuse a poor wandering
Nobody from No-land from the uncongenial task of helping to provide
a new organ for parish yokels, and from sending out cheap Bibles to
the "heathen Chinee," who frequently disdains to read them. Let me
pass on--I am not worth buttonholing--and I want to take a passing
glance at things in general. I shall whisper, mutter, or talk loudly
about anything I see, just as the humour takes me. Only I will not
promise any polite lying. Not because I object to it, but simply
because it has become commonplace. Everybody does it, and thus it
has ceased to be original, or even diplomatic. To openly declare the
Truth--the truth of what we are now, and what, in the course of our
present down-hill "progress," we are likely to become; the truth that
is incessantly and relentlessly gnawing away at the foundations of
all our social sophistries--to do this, I say, and stand by it when
done, would be the only possible novelty that could really startle the
indolent and exhausted age. But nobody will undertake it. It would be
too troublesome. One would run so many risks. One would offend so many
"nice" people! True--very true. All the same, neither for convenience
nor amiability do I personally consider myself bound to tell lies
for the mere sake of lying. So, while elbowing a passage through the
crowd, I shall give expression to whatever thoughts occur to me,
inconsequentially or rationally, as my varying moods suggest; moreover,
I shall be very content to glide out of the "hurly-burly," and enter it
no more, when once I have said my say.
II.
SOLILOQUISETH ON LITTLE MANNERS.
One can hardly be among a great number of people more or less
distinguished, without observing the way they move, talk, walk,
and generally behave themselves. And the first impression received
on entering the throng over which the electric light flashes its
descriptive sky-sign "Present Day" is distinctly one of--bad manners;
yes, bad, ungainly, jostling, "higgledy-piggledy" manners. The general
effect (bird's-eye view) is as of motley-clothed lunatics hurrying
violently along to a land of Nowhere. Men stoop and shuffle and
amble from the knees, instead of walking with an erect and dignified
demeanour; women skip or waddle, making thereby an undue exhibition
of purely English feet. In art-collections one sees plenty of old
engravings wherein are depicted gallant, well-shaped gentlemen,
pressing three-cornered hats to the left sides of their lace-ruffled,
manly bosoms, and bending with exquisite deference and stately
deportment to demurely sweet dames, who, holding out gossamer skirts in
taper fingers, perform the prettiest curtsies in response. It must have
been charming to see them thus habitually realising the value of mutual
politeness in everyday life; one would like to witness a revival of the
same. Men lost nothing by outwardly expressing a certain reverence for
women; women gained a great deal by outwardly expressing their gentle
acknowledgment of that reverence. "Manner makyth the man," says the
old adage, and if that be true, then there are no men, for certainly
there are no manners--at least, not among the "upper ten." I am in a
position to judge, for I am somewhat of a favourite at Court, where
manners are not at a very high premium. I can only judge, of course, by
what I see, and in my observations of the fair sex I submit that, not
being a "fair" myself, I may be wrong. Yet I believe it is true that
ladies of high rank and good education are obliged to be taught (three
lessons for one guinea) how to make a proper obeisance to the Queen.
And the lesson is, I presume, too cheap to include any training in the
art of decently polite behaviour during the "wait" before entering
the Throne-room. The impudent push and self-assertion of these "noble
dames" is something amazing to witness: the looks at one another--looks
as bold as those of Jezebel--the scramble, the reckless tearing of
lace, and scratching of arms and shoulders in the heated _mêlée_
is--well--simply degrading to the very name of womanhood. Better,
dear ladies, not to go to a Drawing-room at all if you cannot get to
your Queen without tearing your fellow-woman's dress off her back and
inflicting scars on her unprotected shoulders. Men are better behaved
at the _levées_, but among them all scarce one knows how to bow.
Nevertheless, they are more polite to each other than women are; they
are obliged to be--no man will take insolence from another man without
instantly resenting it.
A strange thing it is to consider how poets have raved from time
immemorial about the "grace" of woman! It is pathetic to see how these
ingenuous verse-writers will persist in keeping up their illusions.
As a matter of fact, in England at least, there is scarce one woman
in a hundred who knows how to walk well. And that one is always such
a "peculiar" object that her movements are generally commented upon
as "affected." To a masculine observer this is very strange. A lady
who bundles up her clothes well behind, exposes thick legs, flat
feet, and ugly boots all at once in order to effect her entrance into
carriage, cab, or omnibus, is, by certain of her own sex, voted "a good
soul," "unaffected," "no nonsense about her," "as frank and simple
a creature as ever lived." But a lady who lifts her dress just high
enough to show the edge of a dainty lace on her petticoat, clean, trim
boots, the suspicion of an ankle, and only the pleasing suggestion
of a leg--she--ah! nasty designing creature! "No good, my dear!" "all
affectation, every bit of her!" "_Look at the lace on her petticoat!_"
This last clause, I have noticed, is always damnatory in the opinion
of super-excellent females with no lace on their petticoats. There is
enough in this suggestion to make even a strolling masquerader pause
and meditate, because, arguing from the point of view taken by many
eminently virtuous dames, it would seem that manners, _i.e._, walking
well, keeping clean, and holding one's self with a certain affable
grace and air of distinction, are indicative of latent cunning. This
curious but popular fallacy applies in England to men as well as women.
The awkward gawk, whose clothes never fit, and who appears to be always
encumbered and distressed by his own hands and feet, is frequently
declared to be a "good fellow," "heart in the right place," "regular
trump," and so forth, as probably he is. I do not for a moment imply
that he is not. But I will maintain that because a man holds himself
well, dresses well, and is perfectly at ease with the appurtenances of
his own body, he need not therefore be "a confirmed _roué_" "a turf
man," or "a club gamester." But this is what he frequently passes for
if he dares to indulge in a suspicion of "manner." In fact, the only
presumable effort of "style" now attempted by the men of to-day appears
to be concentrated in the art of twirling or stroking the moustache
whenever the owner of the moustache perceives a pretty woman. This
little trick is done in different ways, of course; the "twist" can be
rendered insolently, familiarly, aggressively, or with a caressing
feline movement, indicative of dawning amorousness. It is frequently
effective, particularly with schoolgirls and provincial misses, who
have been known to render up their susceptible hearts instantaneously
to one victorious twirl of a really well-grown moustache, but I have
also seen many creditable performances of moustache-twirling completely
thrown away on unappreciative women. It is, however, the only piece
of elegance--if elegance it can be called--indulged in by the true
"masher." And beyond it he never soars. He does not know how to lift
his hat gracefully; he does not know how to enter a room (without
looking vaguely surprised or beamingly idiotic), or leave it again with
any touch of affable dignity. His movements are generally stiff and
ungainly to the very last degree, and, worst of all, he seldom has any
brains to make up for his lack of breeding.
A good position from whence to observe the manners of the time is close
to the right hand of the Premier on the evening of a great crush at
the Foreign Office. If courtly Lord Salisbury be there, you get in his
bow, smile, and cordial handshake the finest essence of diplomatic
urbanity and ease. But when you have exchanged greetings with him and
his gracious lady you have seen nearly all you shall see of "manner."
The throng come tumbling in helter-skelter, treading on each other's
heels, for all the world like an untrained crowd of the "bas-peuple,"
all heated, all flustered, all vaguely staring ahead. Ambassadors,
foreign princes, military dignitaries, jerk their heads spasmodically
on entering the rooms, but evidently have no proper notion of a bow,
while some of them let their arms hang stiffly down at their sides,
and proffer a salutation that seems as though it were the result of a
galvanic wire working their spines by some curious patent process not
yet quite perfected. And the women!--the poets' goddesses! They arrive
in very ungoddess-like bundles of rich clothing, some waddling, some
ambling, some sidling, but only a rare few, a dozen at most, _walking_,
or carrying themselves as being at all superior to their gowns. Most
of these "fair" forget to curtsey properly to their distinguished
entertainers, and the general impression made on the mind of an
observer in looking at the "manner" of their entrance is distinctly
unpleasing. Most of them wear far too many diamonds, a notable sign
of egregious bad taste. A woman I saw there on one occasion wore a
sort of dish-cover of diamonds on her head. (A friend told me it was
a "garland"; it may have been, but it looked like a dish-cover.) Her
hair was straight and flat, and stuck close to her scalp, and beneath
the gorgeous headpiece of jewels was a fat red face profusely adorned
with wrinkles and pimples, on which the diamonds cast a cruel glare.
"Alas, good soul," I thought, as she went glittering past, "thou hast
fallen on the most evil hour of all thy span--the fateful time when thy
jewels are preferable to thyself!"--though, truly, as an unnoteworthy
personage, I may here remark that I do not like diamonds. I own that
a few choice stones, finely set and sparkling among old lace, are
effective, but the woman who can wear a soft white gown without any
ornaments save natural flowers would always carry away the palm of true
distinction for me. I confess my notions are old-fashioned, especially
those concerning women.
Talking of the Foreign Office, there was a terrible man there once
who trod on everybody's toes. He seemed born to do it. He was tall
and powerful, and wore the full Highland costume. I shall never
forget the bow he made to Lady Salisbury--it bent him double in true
Scottish fashion; for a _bonâ-fide_ Scot, you know, always yearns
to cast himself on his knees before a title. It is in his blood and
heritage so to do: the remains of the old humility practised by the
clans to their chiefs what time they were all robbers and rievers
together. This man literally divided himself to do fitting homage
to the Premier's lady--his head sank to the level of the hem of her
dress, while the back part of his kilt (not to be irreverent) rose
visibly in air in a way that was positively startling. The achievement
appeared to alarm some people, to judge by their anxious looks. Would
the noble Highlander ever come straight again? That was the question
that was evidently agitating the observers of his attitude. He did come
straight, with galvanic suddenness too, and marched off on the war-path
through the rooms, planting his foot, not "on his native heath," but on
every other foot he could find with a manly disregard of consequences.
He was a great man, he _is_ a great man; I feel sure he must be,
otherwise he would not have hurt so many people without apologising.
As a matter of fact, there is nothing so rare in these days as
distinguished and affable manners. An Arab thief has often more
external personal dignity than many an English peer. In some of
the best houses in the land I have seen the owners of the stately
surroundings comport themselves with such awkward sheepishness as to
suggest the idea that they were there by mistake. I have seen great
ladies sitting in their own drawing-rooms with a fidgety and anxious
air, as though they momentarily expected to be ordered out by their
paid domestics. When I was "green" and new to society I used to think
somewhat of dukes and earls. I had a foolish notion that the wearers
of great historic names must somehow look as if they inwardly felt
the distinction of race and ancestry. Now that I know a great many
of these titled folk, I have discovered my mistake. I find several
of them vote their "ancestors" a "bore." They carry no outward marks
to show that they ever had ancestors. They might indeed have been
ground into existence by means of a turning-lathe, for aught of
inherited beauty, stateliness or courtesy they exhibit. I have seen
great dukes bulge into a room with less grace than sacks of flour, and
I have watched "belted earls" sneaking timorously after the footman
who announced their lofty names, with a guilty air as though they
had picked that footman's plush pockets on the way. I once heard
a very, very "blue-blooded" duchess run through the items of her
chronic indigestion with as much weight and emphasis of detail as a
brandy-seeking cook. A famous lord, brother to a famous duke, has
shuffled into my study and sunk into a chair with the "manner" of
an escaped convict, and I have had much ado to drag him out of his
self-evident humiliation. He has picked his fingers and surveyed his
boots disconsolately. He has felt the leg of his trouser in doubtful
plight. That his "ancestry" performed acts of valour on Bosworth field
awakens in his flabby soul no pulse of pride. His heroic progenitors
might as well have been tallow-chandlers for all he cares. Yet he is
the living representative of their greatness, more's the pity! I often
wonder what those old Bosworth fellows would say if they could come to
life and see him--their descendant--as he is--with but two ideas in his
distinguished noddle--ballet-girls and brandy-and-soda!
I am here reminded of an incident which in this place may not come
amiss. I happened to be present on one occasion at a luncheon-party
made up chiefly of men, most of them well known in Parliament and
society. Our hostess was (and is) a lady who always has more men than
women at her parties, but on this particular day there was one stranger
present, a lady noted for a great literary success. After luncheon,
when this lady took leave of her hostess and went downstairs into
the hall, it was found that her carriage had not arrived. She waited
patiently, with the footman on guard staring at her. Meanwhile man
after man came downstairs, passed her in the hall as though she were a
stray servant (they had all eagerly conversed with her at luncheon,
and had tried to get as much entertainment out of her as possible),
and never uttered a word. Not one of them paused to say, "Allow me to
escort you upstairs till your carriage comes," or, "Can I do anything
for you?" or, "May I have the pleasure of waiting to see you into
your carriage?" or any other of the old-world chivalrous formalities
once _de rigueur_ with every gentleman. Not one man; except the last
who came down, and who (under the immediate circumstances) shall be
nameless, as he was evidently a fool. Because among the gentlemen who
thus passed the lady by, were Lord Randolph Churchill, Mr. Lockwood,
Q.C., and other "notabilities," so I am forced to argue from this
that it is the very essence of modern "good form" to ignore a lady
(with whom you have previously conversed) at the precise moment when
she might seem to require a little attention. So that the stupid and
ill-bred person was the nameless "he" who came down last, who spoke to
the solitary "damozel," escorted her upstairs again to her hostess,
waited with her, chatting pleasantly in the drawing-room till her
carriage arrived, then took her down to it, put her in, and lifted his
hat respectfully as she drove away. He was not "nineteenth-century
form"--and his "manner" was obsolete. Most people would rather be
considered downright vulgar than what they are pleased to term
"old-fashioned."
Hurry kills "manner," and there can be no doubt that in this day we
are all in a frantic hurry. I don't know what about, I'm sure. We are
after no good that I can see. I have tried to fathom the reason of
this extraordinary and vilely unbecoming haste, and the only apparent
cause I can discover is that we are trying to get as much out of life
as possible before we die. The means, however, entirely defeat the
object. We have no time to be generous, no time to be sympathetic, no
time to converse well, no time to do anything but feed and look after
our own interests, and we get so fatigued in the business of living
that life itself becomes worthless. At least, so it seems to me. I say
we are "all" in a terrible hurry, but this is not quite correct. There
are exceptions to the rule. I myself am one. I never hurry. I "laze"
through life and enjoy it. I never "scramble" for anything, and never
"fluster" myself for anybody. Even now I am sauntering, not rushing,
amidst you all with the utmost ease; I move softly and talk softly,
and, though frequently disposed to laughter, I never snigger aloud.
The loud snigger (sign of "well-bred" hilarity) is the muffled but
exact echo of the donkey's bray. It resembles it in tone and sense and
quality. I avoid it; because, though a donkey is an exceedingly clever
beast and much maligned, his voice might be easily surpassed. As it is,
_au naturel_, it does not appear to me worth imitating.
And now, pardon me, sirs and dames, but as I perceive a small crowd of
you engaged in the truly English occupation of staring, not at me, but
at my glittering domino, and as I do not wish to create an obstruction,
I will, with your very good leave, pass on. Observe how quietly I
glide; with only the very faintest rustle of my "star-spangled"
wrappings; striving not to tread on anybody's corns, carefully winding
my way in and out the busy throng, and only holding myself a little
more erect than some of you, because--well! because I have no favours
to ask of anybody, and therefore need not trouble myself to acquire the
nineteenth-century skulk and propitiatory grin. And so--on through the
motley!
III.
PRONOUNCETH ON LESSER MORALS.