society. She is generally a person very much at leisure; for without
leisure, that natural preference of our own concerns to those of
others precludes all exertion of the faculty: she is also, in general,
placed in a tolerably secure position in the world, whence she may
survey, with compassionate and patronising eyes, the poor strugglers
beneath her. Virtuous she is, as virtuous can be; that is to say, she
is altogether beyond temptation. Herself and all her own immediate
friends have been fortunate; therefore she has a kind of prescriptive
title to speak freely of the misfortunes of others. It is incredible
what exertions this amiable person will make to procure data for her
remarks, or, to speak more properly, grounds whereon she may proceed
in her benevolent exertions. Charity being an excuse for every
thing, she will even descend so far from her dignity as to institute
inquiries, through servants and children, into the concerns of those
persons whom she has taken under her patronage. Her own Betty, having
the same turn with herself, takes frequent opportunities of visiting
the kitchens of her friends; and all the remarks that the girl has
been able to make upon the external state of things there, and all
the prattle she has been able to pick up from the servants in that
house, is brought home and faithfully detailed to her mistress, who
accidentally, for that purpose, opens a conversation with her. Nor is
this all. Through the impulse of her benevolent wishes, the good lady
will often take information from her servant, which _she_ has learned
from another servant, respecting the concerns of a family in which that
other servant has perhaps a sister or a friend; her sincere desire of
doing good being so strong as to reconcile her to every possibility
of misrepresentation, which a story may be supposed to undergo in its
progress through so many mouths. It is also to be observed, that she is
not exclusively attentive to the concerns of those whom she actually
knows. The acquaintances of her acquaintances, and their acquaintances
again, even to the third generation, she will inquire about with equal
solicitude; and if she knows any thing disagreeable connected with your
friends, or any thing that might be thought to unfit them for your
acquaintance, she always very kindly lets you hear of it, so that you
may be _quite upon your guard_.
“What do you think?” the talk, perhaps, thus proceeds; “they say she is
such a _fine lady_ that she never enters her kitchen: she never knows
any day what is to be for dinner: all that kind of thing she leaves
to her servants. And such quantities of company they keep! Hardly a
night but what there are more or less visitors. A neighbour of ours,
Mrs Blackwell, has an aunt who lives opposite them; and _she_ says that
the racket is without end. I’m sure I was just saying to our goodman
the other day, that if _we_ were to go on in such a way [be it marked,
the speaker is reputed to be in infinitely better circumstances than
the party commented on], we could not go on long. Puir young things!
I’m greatly concerned about them—although, to be sure, it’s not _my_
business. I was at the school with her mother, and I would like to see
them keep right, if it were possible. Young folk are often newfangled
about things at first. They think every body that they see is their
friend—and its ‘this one, come to your supper,’ and ‘that one, come to
your dinner,’ as if they could not get past it. When they come to my
time o’ life, they’ll not be sae flush.”
“They say she’s highly accomplished,” thus runs another strain of
remarks; “plays on the piano-forte and harp—draws—speaks French and
Italian. That would be all very well if _he_ had a fortune to keep it
up; but a poor man’s wife! Commend me to a woman that can darn her
husband’s stockings, and help to get ready his dinner. I think there’s
naething like a gude plain education—reading, writing, and sewing—what
mair does a woman need? The goodman and I were often advised to send
our girls to learn music, but I never thought it their station. It just
puts a parcel o’ nonsense into a girl’s head. Our lasses never learned
ony thing but what they could mak a gude use o’; while, there’s Mary
Foster does nothing but read novells from morning till night; she’s
one o’ your fine misses. If our girls were to bring a novell into our
house, I would put it at the back of the fire, though there was na
another novell i’ the world.”
It is said that in nunneries, where there is neither vice, nor the
possibility of it, the ladies, if unable to talk real scandal, make up
for it by censorious remarks upon the most trifling foibles in their
companions, or upon the most unimportant failures in the performance
of the most unimportant duties. If a holy sister has been observed to
smile at a wrong moment, if she has miscounted a bead, or tripped in
her gown while walking in a procession, there is as much prattle about
it as if she had committed a real offence. Just so, in a country town,
every trivial incident becomes a subject of comment for those amiable
people who make a point of attending to every body’s business but
their own. The consequence is, that every person moves in a country
town as if he were upon an ambuscading party: he sends by stratagem
for every necessary of life which he requires: he takes all kinds of
by-ways and back roads to escape observation, and cannot so much as
cross the street without fearing he will be circumvented. Any thing
like a good round thumping impropriety is hailed in such a place like
rain in a drought. The most of the matters of remark are very small
deer, hardly worth hunting down. When one of a more important character
arises, it is quite a godsend. Suppose, for instance, the failure of
some unfortunate merchant, who has been ruined by mere simplicity of
character. The country people, somehow, have a most exaggerated idea
of the mischiefs of bankruptcy. A bankrupt, in their eyes, is a person
of distinguished criminality—almost enough to make him be regarded as
a world’s wonder. In proportion, therefore, to their previous remarks
for the edification of the unhappy man, is their wholesome severity
afterwards. They are surprised to find that, after such an event, he
still bears the ordinary shape of a human being—that he has not become
signalised by some external transfiguration, of a kind sufficiently
awful to indicate his offence. Another thing they are astonished
at—that the family of a bankrupt should continue to have the usual
appetites of human beings—that they should not, indeed, have altogether
ceased to eat, drink, or sleep. The following is very nearly a
conversation which really occurred, on such an occasion, in a somewhat
humble rank of mercantile life.
“Weel, hae ye heard the news?”
“What news, woman?”
“Ou, hae ye no heard it?—James Sinclair’s shop’s no open this
mornin’—that’s a’.”
“Aih, weel, has it come to that at last? I aye thought it. It was
easy seeing _yon_ could na stand lang. Sic ongauns as they had for a
while—sic dresses—sic parties! But every thing comes to its level at
last. I wonder folk dinna think shame to gang on sae wi’ other folk’s
siller. It’s a perfect black-burning disgrace. And _she’s_ just as
muckle to blame as _him_. There was hersell, just last Sunday eight
days, at the kirk wi’ a new pelisse and a bannet, and the laddies ilk
ane o’ them wi’ new leather caps. I’se warrand there was nae bannocks
ever seen in their house—naething but gude wheat bread. Whenever a
bairn whinged for a piece, it buid to get a shave o’ the laiff. Atweel,
her grandfather, auld George Morrison, was na sae ill to serve. Mony a
claut o’ cauld parritch he gat frae my aunty Jess, and was thankfu’ to
get them.”
“Na, but, woman, I saw Jamie himsell gaun up the street this mornin’,
and a superfine coat on his back just the same as ever. Na, the lass
was seen this forenoon getting a leg o’ lamb—a fifteenpence leg it
was, for our Jenny got the neebor o’t—the same as if naething ava had
happened. But, of course, this’ll no gang on lang. They’ll be roupit
out, stab and stow, puir thochtless creatures; and I’m sure I dinna ken
what’s to come o’ them. She has nae faither’s house to gang back to
now. They’ll hae to set up some bit sma’ public, I reckon.”
“Heaven keep us a’ frae extravagance—I had never ony brow o’ that new
plan she had o’ pitting black silk ribands round the callants’ necks,
instead o’ cotton napkins.”
Such are a few of the remarks of our good friends the
controllers-general of society; and we are very sure that few people
alive but what must look upon them as a most useful, most exemplary,
and most benevolent class of persons.
A TURN FOR BUSINESS.
Next to a thorough grounding in good principles, perhaps the thing
most essential to success in life is a habit of communicating easily
with the world. By entering readily into conversation with others, we
not only acquire information by being admitted to the stores which
men of various modes of thinking have amassed, and thereby gain an
insight into the peculiarities of human character, but those persons
into whose society we may be accidentally thrown are gratified to
think that they have been able to afford instruction. Seeing that we
appreciate their favourite subject, they conceive a high opinion of
our penetration, and not unfrequently exert themselves wonderfully
to promote our interests. Men in business, particularly, who have
this happy turn of being able to slide as it were into discourse, and
to throw it into that train which is best suited to the capacities
and humours of others, are wonderfully indebted to it for the run
of customers it entices to their shops. A stately, grave, or solemn
manner, is very inappropriate in measuring stuffs by the yard; and
though a man be penetrated by the deepest sense of gratitude, if his
bow be stiff, and his countenance not of a relaxing cast, he makes not
half so favourable an impression as another who may not perhaps be a
more deserving person in the main, but has a more graceful method of
acknowledging his obligations. It is astonishing, too, at how cheap a
rate good-will is to be purchased. An insinuating way of testifying
satisfaction with the pleasantness of the weather, is often a very
effectual way of extending popularity; it is regarded as an act of
condescension when addressed to some, while with others it is received
as the indication of a happy temperament, which is at all times
attractive. A person who “has little to say,” or, in other words,
who does not deign to open his mouth except when it is indispensably
necessary, never proves generally acceptable. You will hear such a one
described as “a very good sort of man _in his way_;” but people rather
avoid him. He has neither the talent of conversing in an amusing vein
himself, nor of leading on others to do so; and they are only the
arrantest babblers who are contented with an inanimate listener. I
remember a striking example of the various fortune of two persons in
the same profession, who happened to be of those different dispositions.
Two pedlars made their rounds in the same district of country. The
one was a tall, thin man, with a swarthy complexion. Nothing could
exceed this fellow’s anxiety to obtain customers; his whole powers
seemed to be directed to the means of disposing of his wares. He no
sooner arrived at a farm-house than he broached the subject nearest
his heart—“Any thing wanted in my line to-day?” He entered into a most
unqualified eulogium on their excellency; they were all unequalled in
fineness; he could sell them for what might be said to be absolutely
nothing; and as for lasting, why, to take his word for it, they
would wear for ever. He chose the table where the light was most
advantageous, proceeded immediately to undo the labyrinth of cord with
which his goods were secured, and took the utmost pains to exhibit
their whole glories to the eyes of the admiring rustics. If the farmer
endeavoured to elicit from him some information concerning the state
of the crops in the places where he had been travelling, he could only
afford a brief and unsatisfactory answer, but was sure to tack to the
tail of it the recommendation of some piece of west of England cloth
which he held in his hand ready displayed. Nay, if the hospitality
of the good wife made him an offer of refreshment before he entered
upon business, he most magnanimously, but unpedlar-like, resisted the
temptation to eat, animated by the still stronger desire to sell. There
was no possibility of withdrawing him for a moment from his darling
topic. To the master he said, “Won’t you buy a coat?”—to the mistress,
“Won’t you buy a shawl?”—to the servant girls, “Won’t you buy a gown
a-piece?” and he earnestly urged the cowherd to purchase a pair of
garters, regardless of the notorious fact that the ragged urchin wore
no stockings. But all his efforts were ineffectual; even his gaudiest
ribands could not melt the money out of a single female heart; and
his vinegar aspect grew yet more meagre as he restored each article
untouched to his package.
The rival of this unsuccessful solicitor of custom was a short, squat
man, fair-haired and ruddy. He came in with a hearty salutation, and
set down his pack in some corner, where, as he expressed himself, it
might be “out of the way.” He then immediately abandoned himself to the
full current of conversation, and gave a detail of every particular
of news that was within his knowledge. He could tell the farmer every
thing that he desired to know—what number of corn-stalks appeared in
the barn-yards wherever he had been, and what quantity of grain still
remained uncut or in shock, and he took time to enumerate the whole
distinctly. He was equally well prepared in other departments of
intelligence, and so fascinating was his gossip, that, when the duties
of any member of the family called them out of hearing, they were apt
to linger so long, that the goodwife declared he was “a perfect offput
to a’ wark.” This, however, was not meant to make him abate of his
talkative humour; and neither did he: the whole budget was emptied
first, and he received in turn the narratives of all and sundry. Then
came the proposal from some of those whom he had gratified with his
news, to “look what was in the pack.” The goods were accordingly lugged
from their place of concealment, and every one’s hand was ready to pick
out some necessary or some coveted piece of merchandise. The master
discovered that, as he would be needing a suit ere long, it was as
well to take it now. The mistress was just waiting for Thomas coming
round to supply herself with a variety of articles, “for,” quoth she,
“mony things are needit in a house.” The servants exhorted each other
to think whether they did not require something, for it was impossible
to say when another opportunity of getting it might occur. The ellwand
was forthwith put into diligent requisition, the scissors snipt a
little bit of the selvage, and an adroit “screed” separated the various
cloths from the rapidly diminishing webs. The corners of many chests
gave up their carefully-hoarded gains, with which cheap remnants were
triumphantly secured. In the midst of this transfer of finery, the poor
herd-boy looked on with a countenance so wofully expressive of the
fact that he had not a farthing to spend, that some one took compassion
on him, and, having laid out a trifling sum, had the satisfaction of
making him perfectly happy with the equivalent, flinging it into his
unexpectant arms, and exclaiming, “Here, callant, there’s something
for you!” What a multiplicity of pleasing emotions had this trader the
tact of calling into exercise, all of them redounding tenfold to his
own proper advantage! It was impossible to say whether he cultivated
his powers of talk from forethought, as knowing that they would produce
a crisis favourable to his own interests, or if he indulged in them
because gossiping was congenial to his own disposition. He had a sharp
eye enough to what is called the main chance; but at the same time
he did not possess that degree of intellectual depth which we might
expect to find in one who could calculate upon exciting the purchasing
propensities by a method so indirect. Most probably, therefore, his
success in business was more the result of an accidental cast of mind
than of wisdom prepense, or any aptitude beyond common for the arts of
traffic, as considered by themselves.
Such, also, in most cases, is that talent which gets the name of “a
fine turn for business.” The possessor exerts his powers of pleasing,
alike when engaged in the concerns of his profession, and in society
when there is no object to serve but that of passing time agreeably.
His engaging address is productive of commercial advantages, but it is
not a thing acquired and brought into exercise solely for that end.
Some people, no doubt, finding themselves to have a prepossessing
manner, do employ it systematically to promote their views of business;
but by far the greater number employ it because they have it, and
without reference to the pecuniary profit that may accrue. The
pecuniary profit, however, follows not the less as its consequence;
and we have the satisfaction of seeing urbanity of manners almost
uniformly rewarded by attaining to easy circumstances, while the man
of a gruff unsocial humour has usually to maintain a hard struggle
with fortune. The mere packing of knowledge into the heads of children
is not the only thing required to ensure their future respectability
and happiness—the qualities of the heart also demand the fostering
care of the instructor; and since so much depends on their temper and
behaviour to those around them, parents cannot be too assiduous in the
cultivation of affability, the possession of which virtue is the grand
secret that confers “a fine turn for business.”
SETTING UP.
The taking of a shop, whether to set up a new business or translate
an old one, is always a matter of deep and anxious concernment. On
such an occasion, one generally gets into a state of fidgetiness and
perplexity, which is felt to be far from disagreeable. A sentiment of
unwonted enterprise rises in his mind. He is going, he thinks, to do
a great thing—at least something beyond the usual range of commercial
existence. In the first place, he pays a few sly and solitary visits
to the place—not that he goes in to look about him—no, no; he is
not for some time up to that point. He tries first how the premises
look when simply walked past as if by an unconcerned passenger. As
he passes, he casts an affectedly careless glance at the door and
windows, taking care, however, to receive as deep an impression as
possible of the whole bearing and deportment of the place. After
walking to a sufficient distance, he turns and walks back, and sees
how it looks when approached from a different point of the compass.
Then he takes a turn along the other side of the street, or perhaps,
if afraid to excite observation (and if the place be in Edinburgh),
goes up a common stair, and takes a deliberate and secure observation
from a window. His feeling is almost exactly the same as that of a
lover making observations of a mistress, whose figure he wishes to
ascertain before getting too deeply in love with her to put correct
judgment out of the question. As, in the one case, stature is perhaps
considered, complexion and outline of face duly weighed, and possibly
some very modest inquiries instituted as to what Master Slender calls
“possibilities,” so, in the other, does the shop-inspector consider
all the particulars of the aspect and likelihood of the contemplated
premises. Shops, it must be understood, have characters, exactly like
human beings. Some have an open, generous, promising countenance,
while others have a contracted, sinister, louring expression of phiz,
according to the quantity of mason-work there may be in front. Some
are of a far more _accessible_ character than others, with a kind
of _facilis descensus_ in the entry that is in the highest degree
favourable to custom. People can hardly avoid falling into such shops
as they pass along the streets, for positively they gape like so many
Scyllas for your reception, and goodwives, who, like Roderigo, have put
money in their purses, are caught like so many rats without thinking
of it. There are others, I grieve to say, with such a difficulty of
entrance, either from a narrow door, a shut door, an elevation of the
pavement, or a certain distance from the thoroughfare, that it requires
an absolute determination to purchase such and such articles in such
and such shops—a full _animus emendi_, as lawyers would say—to overcome
the obstacle. Perhaps it does not matter for some businesses, which are
not much overrun with competition, that they should be carried on in
shops of this kind. If there be only one music-seller in the town, he
might have his boutique in a twelfth story, and yet he would be sure
to get all the natural custom of the place; but in the case of one out
of some five hundred haberdashers, or some two thousand grocers, it is
absolutely imperative that he should be established in some place with
a fatal facility of access. In all cases, there is a combination of
qualities in shops, as well as in men and women. There is something
indescribable about it; but an experienced eye, pretty well acquainted
with the characters of the streets [this is another subject] and parts
of streets, could almost in a moment decide upon the probabilities of
any given shop in a large city. He would combine in an instant in his
own mind the various qualities, and, counting them into each other
after the manner of Lieutenant Drummond, but by a figureless kind of
arithmetic, assign at once the exact value of the shop to any class
of traders. And shops have characters, too, in another sense of the
word—that is, they have reputations. Let a shop have all the apparent
advantages in the world, yet, if it be a shop in which several persons
have committed _faux pas_ in business, it is naught. We often see an
excellent shop thus lose caste, as it were, and become of hardly any
value to its proprietor. Suppose some one has failed in it between
terms, and deserted it: then do all the bill-stickers come in the
first place, and paste it over with huge placards from top to bottom,
exactly as a man drowned in the sea, however fine a fellow he may have
been, gets encased in a few days in barnacles and shell-fish, the
conchological part of the world taking that opportunity to show their
contempt for the human. Though the character of the shop is not yet,
perhaps, at its worst, yet, as it happens to remain unleased over the
next term, the despairing landlord, some time in September or October,
begins to let it “by the month or week” to all kinds of nameless
people, who die and make no _sign_, such as men that show orreries, or
auctioneers selling off bankrupt stocks, till at last it is as hopeless
to think of getting a good tenant into it, as for a man with a bad
character to expect a good place in the Excise. The shop is marked for
ever; and unless, like the man in the Vicar of Wakefield, it can get a
thoroughly new face and form, it has no chance whatsoever of resuming
its place in the first rank of shops.
After having completely made up his mind to take a particular shop,
he goes and asks advice. His confessor[7] readily consents to take a
walk with him in that direction, and give his candid opinion upon the
subject. The two walk arm in arm past the premises, the confessor alone
looking, lest, in endeavouring to observe, they should themselves be
observed. “I’ll tell you what,” says the confessor, “I like that shop
very much. If the rent be at all suitable, I think you might do very
well in it.” It is then proposed that the confessor should step in to
inquire the rent; for though there be equal reasons why each should
not expose himself as being on the outlook for a shop, the person
not actually concerned has always least reluctance to submit to that
disadvantage, being borne up, it would appear, by a conscious absence
of design, while the guilt of the other would be betrayed by his first
question. If the confessor reports favourably, then the individual who
wants the premises ventures in himself, inspects the accommodations,
and makes farther inquiries. The two afterwards retire together, and
have a deep and serious consultation upon the subject.