the point I wished to arrive at, which is the narration of a singular
dream I once had; a vision which fell upon me, not in the "silence of
the night," but in the glaring heat of a midsummer afternoon while
I was seated on a penny chair in the middle of the Row. I had just
exchanged the usual greetings with my kindly young idiot friend the
duke (sucking the ivory skull on his cane as usual) and he had gone
on his way blandly grinning. I had shaken hands with a couple of
vagrant journalists. I had saluted a few charming women, chatted for
ten minutes with Lord Salisbury, and had imparted to a dear paunchy
diplomat the secret of stewing prawns in wine--a dish which I assure
you, on the faith of a true _gourmet_, is excellent. I had studied
the back of a massively fat woman's dress for several seconds, trying
to puzzle out the ways and means by which it got fastened over so
much rebellious flesh. Fatigued with these exertions, and lulled by
the monotonous noise of the rolling wheels of the carriages going to
and fro, I fell into a sort of semi-conscious doze, in which I was
perfectly aware of my surroundings, though more than half asleep. And
"a change came o'er the spirit" of the scene--a change which might
have alarmed unphilosophic people, but which to one like myself,
who am surprised at nothing, merely transformed a dull and ordinary
spectacle into a deeply interesting one. A curious white light pervaded
the atmosphere and tinged the overhanging foliage with a sickly shade
of green, the yellow sunshine took upon itself a jaundiced hue, and
lo! all suddenly and straightway the "row" was stripped of its "too,
too solid flesh" and appeared as too, too truthful Bones. Bones were
the fashion of the hour--skulls the order of the day. Clothes were
worn, of course, for decency's sake, clothes, too, of the very newest
fashion and cut; but flesh was discarded as superfluous. And so the
most elegant Paris "creations" in the way of lace parasols shaded
the sun from the delicate female death's-heads; skeleton steeds in
gorgeous trappings worked their ribs bravely, guided along by skeleton
coachmen superb in plush and wigs well powdered; and dear antiquated
Lady Doldrums, as she turned her eye-sockets to right and left with a
pleasant leer, seemed to be more cheerful than she had been for many a
long day. She still wore her favourite style of youthful hat, pinched
artistically about the brim and turned up with artificial roses,
but these handsomely-made French flowers now nodded quite waggishly
against her bare jaws, knowing there was no longer any painted flesh
there to eclipse their colour. Yes, Lady Doldrums was herself at
last--the terrible strain of pretending to be young was over, and the
only _coquetterie_ she practised in her honest condition of Bones,
was the wielding of a fan in her grisly sticks of fingers, not for
heat's sake--no, merely to keep away the flies. And the wonderful
crowd thickened every moment--bones, bones, nothing but bones;--they
multiplied by scores, and I began to find out a few of my dear society
friends by the armorial bearings on their carriages. I could guess
nothing by their faces, as these were nearly all alike, and there
was no variety of expression. True, there were short jaws and long,
high foreheads and low, wide skulls and narrow, but I was unable to
guide myself entirely by these hints. I found out Randolph Churchill,
though, in a minute, but then his head is of a curious shape one does
not easily forget. I should know his skull anywhere as thoroughly as
the gravedigger in _Hamlet_ knew Yorick's. He looked very cool and
comfortable in his bones, I thought. So did the delightful _danseuse_
who followed close behind him in a high-wheeled trap, with the
smartest little skeleton "tiger" possible to conceive, pranked out in
livery, an impudent little top-hat perched jauntily on his impudent
little half-grown skull, while as for the exquisite "dancing-girl"
herself, good heavens! her bones were positively fascinating! The wind
whistled in and out them with a breezy amorousness--and then her smile
was more than usually perfect owing to the admirable set of false
teeth which were so dexterously screwed into her jaw. It would take
years of mouldering away to loosen those teeth, and the mouldering
had evidently not yet begun. She wore a wig too--a bronze-red wig in
beauteous curl--and upon my soul, she looked almost as well arrayed
in bones as in her usual heavily enamelled flesh. Very different was
the aspect of the toothless old bundle that came after, seated in a
springy victoria, and wrapped in rich rugs to the chin. His skeleton
steeds pranced nobly, his skeleton coachman sat stiffly upright,
his skeleton footman preserved the accustomed dignified cross-armed
attitude, but he himself, poor wretch, rolled uneasily from side to
side, till it seemed that his yellow skull would sever itself from
the spinal attachment and fall incontinently into his own shaking
claws. I recognised him by the showy monogram on his carriage-rug; he
was the rich proprietor of several newspapers, the "impresario" of
several music-halls, and the dotard lover of several ballet-girls.
After him came a "four-in-hand," a marvellous sight to see with its
skeleton team, its "lordly" skeleton driver, and its "select" party
of skeleton "professional beauties" on top. It made quite a white
glare as it passed in the sickly sun, and scattered a good deal of
bone-dust from its wheels. Quite close to me there were a couple of
skeletons engaged in love dallyings of the most ethereal description.
The one, a female, was seated in a victoria, sheltering the top of her
skull (on which a fashionable bonnet was perched) with a black lace
parasol lined in crimson--a tint which flung a rouge-like reflection
on her fleshless but still sensually-shaped jaws. The other, a man,
clothed in "afternoon visiting" costume, leaned tenderly towards her
over the park-railing, proferring for her acceptance a spray of white
lilies which he had taken from his button-hole, and which he held
affectionately between his dry bone fingers. Anything more sublimely
chaste, yet "realistic," can never be imagined. The way their two
skulls nodded and grinned at each other was intensely edifying--it
was a case of purely "spiritual" love and platonic desire, in which
the wicked flesh had no existing part. And one of the most remarkable
features of the whole pageant was the intense stillness which
pervaded the movements of the elegant bony throng of "rank, beauty,
and fashion." Not a leaf on the trees rustled, not a joint in any
distinguished skeleton cracked. Two skeleton policemen kept order,
and the crowd itself kept silence. The skeleton horses rubbed against
each other in the press, but not a bone clattered, and not a wheel
grated. As noiselessly as mist or rolling cloud, the white-ribbed,
motley-clothed multitude moved on; the foot-passengers were skeletons
also, and 'Arry, turning empty eye-sockets about, looked quite as
"noble" as my lord the duke in his barouche, somewhat more so in fact,
though wearing shabbier clothes. A delightful equality ruled the
scene--a true "fraternity," fulfilling some of the socialistic ideas
to the letter. For once the "row" had cast off hypocrisy, and appeared
in its absolutely real aspect--everybody had found out everybody
else--there was no polite lie possible; frank Bones declared themselves
as Bones, and nothing more. Moreover, each skeleton was so like its
neighbour skeleton that there were really no differences left to argue
about. The famous beauty, Lady N., could no longer scowl at her rival,
the Duchess of L., because they looked precisely similar, save for a
trifling difference in length of jaw, and also for the more impressive
fact that one wore blue and the other grey. The bones were the same in
each "fair" composition, and as bones, the two ladies were, or seemed
to be, amiable enough--it was only the wretched flesh that had made
them quarrelsome. And of all things, the chief thing that was truly
beautiful to witness was the universal smile that beamed through the
vast assemblage. Never had the "row" presented itself to broad daylight
with such a sincerely unaffected, all-pervading Grin! From end to end
the grin prevailed--horses, dogs, and men--there was not one serious
exception. Into the air, into the very sky, the wide, perpetual, toothy
smile appeared to stretch itself out illimitably, everlastingly: like
a grim satire carved in letters of white bone, it seemed to inscribe
itself upon the blue of heaven; a mockery, a savagery, a protest, a
curse, and a sneer in one, it spread itself in ghastly dumb mirth to
the very edge of the far horizon, till I, watching it, could stand
the death's-head jollity no longer. Starting in my chair, I uttered
a smothered cry, and awoke. A friendly hand fell on my shoulder--a
pair of friendly eyes twinkled good-humouredly into mine. "Hullo! Were
you asleep?" And there beside me stood Labby--the genial Labby--with
"Truth" glittering all over him. Should I tell him of my queer vision,
I thought, as I took his arm and strolled away in his ever-delightful
company? No. Why should I bother him with the question of honest Bones
_versus_ dishonest Flesh? He was (and is) already too busy exposing
Shams.
V.
HOW NAMES ARE SUPERIOR TO PERSONS.
"What's in a name?" sighed the fair Juliet of Shakespeare's fancy. She
was very much in love when she propounded the question, so she must be
excused for coming to the conclusion that a name meant nothing. But
no one who is not in love, no one who is not absolutely mad, can be
pardoned for indulging in such an opinion. Romeo was more than his name
to Juliet, but out of romantic poesy, nobody is more than his name as a
rule. The Name is everything; the Person behind the Name is generally
nothing when you come to know him. A fine title frequently covers
the most unpretentious individual. Beginning with the very highest
example in the land, can there be anything more lofty-sounding than
this--"Her Majesty Victoria Regina, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland,
and Empress of India!" The full-mouthed, luscious, trumpet-roll of
this description calls up before the imagination something beyond
all speech to express; visions of great nations, glittering armies,
stately war-ships, kingdoms of the Orient, stores of wealth and wonder
untold--well, and after it all, when you come to stand face to face
with this so tremendous Victoria Regina, you find only a dear, simple
old lady attired in dowdy black, who might just as well be Mrs. Anybody
as the Queen, for all she looks to the contrary. She is a dreadful
disappointment to the young and enthusiastic, who almost expect to see
something of the enthroned goddess about her, with Athene's shield and
buckler bracing her woman's breast, and all the jewels of her Eastern
Empire blazing on her brow. Alas for the young and enthusiastic! They
are doomed to a great many such disillusions. They dream of Names,
and find only Persons, and the fall from their empyrean is an almost
paralysing shock as a rule. There are exceptions of course. There is a
majestic Cardinal in Rome who looks every inch a Cardinal--the others
might be anybodies or nobodies. The Pope is not entirely disappointing;
he has the air of a refined Spanish Inquisitor, a sort of etherialised
Torquemada. He is much more impressive in demeanour than our own
excellent Archbishop of Canterbury, who does not overawe us at any
time. In fact, we are seldom awed by persons at all, only by names.
A small boy of my acquaintance, taken to see the Shah, expressed his
disgust in a loud voice--"Why, he's only a man!" There is the whole
mischief of the thing. Only a man--only a woman. Nothing more. But the
Names seem so much more. Names spread themselves in a large, vast way
over the habitable globe--they are everywhere, while the Persons remain
limited to one place, or else are nowhere. The name of Shakespeare
is so all-pervading that we will not hear of Bacon being substituted
for it, even though Donelly should chance to be right. How well it is
for us that we never knew the Person (whoever he was) that wrote the
plays. Even Homer himself--should we have cared to know him? I doubt
it. His name has proved infinitely better than himself because more
lasting. And so, what slight amount of reverence I have in my nature
I bestow entirely on Names--for Persons I have little or no respect.
A great name possesses a great charm--a great person is generally a
great bore. Any one who takes the trouble to observe society closely
will support my theory of the superiority of names to individuals.
Try the mere sound of several names and see. "The Prince of Wales."
That is a fine historical designation, but, curiously enough, it does
not convey so much in the way of grand suggestions as it ought to do.
Yet he who bears it now is the first gentleman in the land; kindly,
courteous, chivalrous, and a veritable Prince of good fellows.
"Baron Rothschild"--a name suggestive of wealth galore--but the great
financier himself is not such wondrous company. "His Grace the Duke
of Marlborough" hath a pleasing roll in the utterance, but when you
get close to the distinguished biped so designated, you are conscious
of a dismal sense of failure somewhere. "Her Grace the Duchess of
Torrie MacTavish" suggests a "gathering of the clans" and bonfires
on the Highland hills, but her Grace herself is but a little mean
old Scotchwoman, with an avaricious eye upon every "bawbee" expended
in her household. "Prime Minister" is a fine title--"Prime Minister
of England"--the finest title in the world; but Salisbury is the
only man who looks the stately part. The G.O.M. is pure Plebeian--a
big-brained plebeian, if you like, but plebeian to the marrow. The
demagogue declares itself in the shape of his feet and hands, which are
as long and flat as it is the privilege of demagogue hands and feet
to be. Coming to the "dream-weavers," or men of letters, some of us
(young and enthusiastic) breathe the name "Tennyson" with reverential
tenderness, thinking the old man must be well-nigh a demi-god. Not a
bit of it. Crusty and perverse, he will have little of our company,
and against many of those who have bought his books he thunders
denunciation and bars his garden-gate. A little of the exquisite
vanity of old Victor Hugo, who used to show himself to passers-by
at his window, would better become our veteran Laureate than his
hermit-like sourness. "Ruskin" is another great name--but who can count
the intense disappointments entailed on ardent admirers of the Name
when they discover the Person! "Swinburne" suggests poetry, romance,
wild and wondrous things--a bitter awakening awaits those who will
insist on peering behind the Name to see the bearer thereof. And it
is nearly always so. Names open to us the gates of the Ideal--Persons
shut us up in the dungeon of Commonplace. Few famous people come up to
their names--still fewer go beyond them. If ever I chance to meet a
celebrated man or woman whose personal charm fascinates me more than
his or her celebrated name, I shall make a great fuss about it. I
shall--let me see, what shall I do?--why, I shall write to the _Times_.
The _Times_ is the only correct threepenny outlet for ebullitions of
sincere national feeling. But till I am otherwise convinced, I adhere
to my expressed opinion that Names are the chief motors of social
influence, and that individuals are of infinitely less account. Thus,
I think it a thousand pities that Stanley did not meet with the good
old style of melo-dramatic hero's death in the Dark Continent. His Name
might have become a glory and a watchword--as matters now stand his
Person has extinguished his Name.
Yes, my dear friends all, I assure you, on my honour as an honest
masquer, that both my opinion and advice in this matter are well worth
following. When you have selected a Name to hold in some particular
reverence, you will be unwise if you try to peep behind it in search
of the person belonging to it. The Name is like the door forbidden to
Bluebeard's wife: once opened, it shows no end of horrors, headless
corpses of good intentions weltering in their blood, and hacked
limbs of fine sentiment mouldering on the floor. Keep the door shut
therefore. Never unlock it. Let no light fall through the crannies.
Stand outside and worship what you imagine may be within. Do as I
do--know as many Names as you like and as few Persons as possible.
Life is more agreeable that way. For example, if you wanted to find
_me_ out, and you were to peep behind my name and tear off my domino,
you would only be disappointed. You would find nothing but--a person;
a Person who might possibly be your friend and might equally be your
foe. 'Twere well to be wary in such a doubtful business. Best accept me
as I appear, and entertain yourselves with the notion that there may
be a "Somebody" hidden behind the mask. Make an "ideal" of me if you
choose--ideal saint, or devil, whichever pleases your fancy, for I have
no taste either way. Only, for Heaven's sake, remember that if you do
persuade yourselves into thinking I am a Somebody, and I turn out after
all to be a Nobody, it is not my fault. Don't blame me; blame your own
self-deception. Inasmuch as it is especially necessary in my case to
bear in mind that the Name is not the Person.
VI.
CONVERSETH WITH LORD SALISBURY.
Excellent and courteous friend, one moment, I beseech you! I know
how busy you are, but I also know, much to my satisfaction, that,
like a true diplomat and wise man, you give ear to all, even to fools
occasionally, inasmuch as from fools sometimes emanate certain snatches
of wisdom. Therefore pause beside me for an instant with the patient
grace and friendliness I am accustomed to from you; for though I call
myself a fool with the heartiest good will, you have often thought and
spoken of me otherwise, for which condescension I thank you. It is
something to have won your good opinion, inasmuch as you are guiltless
of "booming" second-rate literature, in the style of the venerable
Woodcutter of Hawarden, for the sake of bringing yourself into notice.
Indeed, I think the admirable qualities of your head and heart have
hardly been sufficiently insisted upon by the party you serve. And the
genius of patriotism and love of Queen and country which inspire your
spirit--are these rightly, fairly, acknowledged? No. But what can you
or any one else expect from the weak, vacillating souls you are called
upon to lead, such as Randolph Churchill, for example, whose political
career is but a disappointment and mockery to public onlookers. I
consider that you fight single-handed. Your endeavours are noble and
fearless, but those who should support you are for the most part
cowards--and not only cowards, but selfish cowards; for to some of your
party whom I know, a matter of digestion is more paramount than the
good of the country. When a leading Conservative finds himself slightly
bilious through over-eating, he hastens away abroad, there to nurse his
miserable physical ills and pamper his worthless carcase, regardless
of, or indifferent to, the fact that, by virtue of his position, if not
his brains, his presence in England might be useful and valuable. There
are numerous such lazy hounds in your party, my dear Lord, who deserve
to be lashed with the whip of a Fox's or a Pitt's eloquence. And I have
wondered oft why you have not spoken the lurking reproach against them,
the indignant "Shame on you all!" that must have frequently burned for
utterance in your mind.
And "shame on you all!" is the cry that leaps to the lips of every true
Briton who thinks of the former historical glories of his country,
and at the same time observes the lamentable unsteadiness, the lack
of courage, the dearth of principle in politicians of every grade
to-day. Parliament gabbles; it does not speak. Often it resembles a
cackling chorus of old women striving to describe their own and their
friends' various ailments. Why is Radicalism rampant? Why is there
any Radicalism? Because so many Radicals are honest, hard-working
men--honest in their opinions, honest in the utterance of those
opinions, honest in thinking that their cause is good. And you, my
dear Lord, have a certain sympathy with this active, energetic, vital,
if wrong-headed honesty--you know you have. You love your Sovereign,
you love your country, you love the constitution, but for all that you
cannot but sympathise with integrity. You know that the Monarch has
left England pretty much to itself for the last thirty years, and that
she has allowed the people to realise that they can get on without
her, seeing she will take no part with them in their daily round. A
pity! but the evil is done, and it is too late to remedy it. There is
practically no social ruler of the realm, and you must confess, good
Salisbury, that this fact makes your work difficult. The mass of the
people can only be got to understand a monarch who behaves like one,
and the more intellectual food you put into them, the more obstinate
they become on the point. With similar pigheadedness they can only
understand the personality of a prince whose conduct is a princely
example; they are quite sure about themselves here, and have the most
appallingly distinct notions concerning right and wrong. They do not go
to church for these notions--no. Many cobblers and coalheavers would
be mentally refreshed if they were allowed to kick a few seeming-holy
clerics whose hypocrisies are apparent despite sermons on Sunday. It
must not be forgotten that education is making huge strides among the
populace; it has got its seven-leagued boots on, and is clearing all
manner of difficulties at a bound. When your greengrocer studies Plato
o' nights, when your shoemaker carries the maxims of Marcus Aurelius
about in his pocket to refresh himself withal in the intervals of
stitching leather, when the wife of your butcher sheds womanly tears
over Keats' "Pot of Basil," a poem which the "cultured" dame has "no
time" to read--these be the small signs and tokens of a wondrous
change by and by. Cheap literature, especially when it is a selection
of the finest in the world, is a dangerous "factor" in the making
of revolutions, and among other purveyors of literary food for the
million, one who calleth himself Walter Scott, of Newcastle-on-Tyne,
is unconsciously doing a curious piece of work. He is putting into the
hands of the "lower classes," for the moderate price of one shilling
(discount price ninepence) small volumes well bound and well printed,
which contain the grandest thoughts of humanity, such as "Epictetus,"
"Seneca," Mazzini's "Essays," "Sartor Resartus," "Past and Present,"
the "Religio Medici," the Emerson "Essays," and what not--and it is
necessary to take into consideration the fact that the people who buy
these books read them. Yes, they read them, every line, no matter how
slowly or laboriously; for whether they have expended a shilling or
the discount ninepence, they always want to know what they have got
for their money. This is the peculiar disposition of the "masses";
the "upper ten" are not so particular, and will lay out a few guineas
on Mudie by way of annual subscription, getting scarce anything back
of value in exchange. After this fashion, too, the "upper ten"
entertain the ungrateful, keep horses and carriages for display, and
trot the dreary round of season after season, striving to extract
amusement from the dried-up gourd of modern social life, and finding
nothing in it all but a bitter jest or a sneering laugh at the slips
in morality of their so-called "friends" and neighbours. And thus it
is, my dear Lord, that the balance of things is becoming alarmingly
unequal; the "aristocratic" set are a scandal to the world with their
divorce cases, their bankruptcies, their laxity of principle, their
listless indifference to consequences; they never read, they never
learn, they never appear to see anything beyond themselves. Whereas
the "bas-peuple" _are_ reading, and reading the books that have helped
to make national destinies--they _are_ learning, and they are not
afraid to express opinions. They do not think a duke who seduces his
friend's wife merely "unfortunate"--they call him in plain language
a low blackguard. They cannot be brought to believe that the heir
to a great name who has gambled away all his estates on the turf a
"gentleman"--they call him a "loose fish" without parley. Now you,
excellent and true-hearted Salisbury, have to look on two sides of
the question. On the one are your own people, the aristocrats, the
Tories, lazy, indifferent, inert, many of them--fond of what they term
"pleasure," and as careless of the interests of the country (with a
few rare exceptions) as they can well be. On the other hand you have
the sturdy, loyal, splendid English "masses," who in their heart of
hearts are neither Radicals, Whigs, or Tories, but are simply as they
always have been--"For God and the Right!" It matters not which party
expresses what they consider the Right; it is the Right they want, and
the Right they will have, and they will try all means and appliances
in their power till they get it. And it is with this clamour for the
Right that you, my Lord, sympathise, because you know how much there
is just now that is wrong; how politicians shuffle and lie and play
at cross-purposes simply to attain their own personal ends; how
over-competition is cutting the throat of Free Trade; how foolishly
the tricksters have played with poor distracted Ireland; how openly
we have lowered the standard of society by admitting into it men and
women of well-known degraded reputation, as well as the painted mimes
and puppets of the stage; how wives are bargained for and bought for
a price, almost as shamelessly as in an open market; how good faith,
chivalry, honour, and modesty are every day becoming rarer and rarer
among men; and how, worst of all, we try to cover our vices by a
cloak of hypocrisy--the most canting hypocrisy current in the world.
English hypocrisy, the ultra-pious form--oh! "it is rank; it smells
to heaven!" There is nothing like it anywhere--nothing--no devil so
well sainted by psalm-singing, church-going, Sunday observance, and
charitable subscription lists. The married woman of title and high
degree who sells the jewel of her wifely chastity for the trifling
price of a fool's praise, is ever careful to look after the poor,
and give her "distinguished" patronage to church-bazaars. Pah! such
things are as a sickness to the mind; one's gorge rises at them; and
yet they are, as the Queen said to Hamlet, "common." So common, i'
faith, that we are beginning to accept them as an inevitable part of
our "social observances." And, alas, my Lord of Salisbury, you can do
nothing to remedy these things, and yet it is precisely "these things"
that swell the rising wave of Radicalism. And despite all the power
of your keen, capacious brain, and all the love of country working in
your soul, believe me, the storm will break. Nothing will keep it back;
because, though there are men of genius in the realm, these men are not
permitted to speak. The tyrant Journalism forbids. Why "tyrant"? Is not
Journalism free? Not so, my Lord; it is not the "voice of the people"
at all; it is simply the voice of a few editors. Were the most gifted
man that ever held a pen to write a letter to any of the papers on a
crying subject of national shame, he would be refused a hearing unless
he were a friend of the proprietors of whatever journal he elected to
write to. And men of genius seldom are friends of editors--a curious
fact, but true. And so we never really hear the "voice of the people"
save in some great crisis, and when we do, it invariably astonishes
us. It upsets our nerves, too, for a long time afterwards. It is
always so horribly loud, authoritative and convincing! The "voices of
editors" die away on these occasions like the alarmed squealings of
cats chased by infuriated hounds, and into the place of such a smug
and well-satisfied person as the Editor of the _Times_, for example,
leaps a shabby, dirty, hungry, eager-eyed creature like Jean Jacques
Rousseau, who, instead of a clean and carefully prepared pen, uses for
the nonce a red, sputtering torch of revolution, which, setting fire to
old abuses, spreads wide conflagration through the land. And how the
heart leaps, how the blood thrills, when old abuses _are_ destroyed!
When the rats' nests of cliques are thrust out to perish in the gutter,
when the dirty cobwebs of self-interest and love of gain are swept
down, and the fat spiders within them trampled under foot, when the
great white palace of national Honour is cleansed and made sweet and
fresh for habitation, even at the cost of groaning labour, confusion,
and stress, how one breathes again, how one lives the life of a true
man in the purified strong air!