[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 738. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1878. PRICE 1½_d._]
SOCIABLE AND UNSOCIABLE.
The pleasures of social intercourse are amongst the best and truest
enjoyments in which we can participate—the desire for the friendship
of others is more or less inherent in human nature. There are
nevertheless thousands upon thousands who are surrounded by every
opportunity for realising these pleasures, and who yet fail to benefit
by their influence, either for temporary and healthy pastime, or for
permanent good. Most people have doubtless many amongst their circle
of acquaintance who are easily distinguished from others by the term
‘unsociable.’ It would, however, be both unfair and incorrect to
estimate that a large proportion of a given number of people have a
decided objection to and shun all society. The habitually unsociable
people are frequently those who would readily confess to a liking for
society, but who do not enter into it on account of the various and
numerous obstacles which, they will tell you, are in the way. It is
not so much on account of an innate and acknowledged indisposition
for social intercourse that the saying, ‘Some folk are as unsociable
as milestones,’ is proverbially correct, as that many barriers have
been erected by the suspicious imaginations of those concerned. People
are often heard to complain of the unsociability of others; but it is
not unseldom that the very people who adopt this standpoint are those
who, at the least approach from others, retire almost entirely within
their insignificant individuality, and assume a reserve of manner and
constrained mode of conversation, that of itself forbids any attempt to
cultivate their acquaintance. Something like a hedgehog which, should
you happen to catch sight of it, instead of making friends, rolls
itself up into a ball, and shews off its bristles to the best advantage.
Perhaps nothing constitutes so great a hindrance to what may be
termed natural and unadulterated social intercourse as the unnatural
appearance which many folk strive to put upon themselves and their
belongings for the benefit of the objects of their acquaintance.
For the entertainment of their visitors, some good folk will change,
as far as they possibly can, the entire face and features of their
houses and themselves—in short, for the time being they seem to be
somebody else—they go to great pains to make things unreal. On such
show-occasions a profusion of apologies is sometimes showered upon
the unhappy and disappointed guests; they are begged to excuse the
unceremonious and very ordinary preparation made for their reception
and entertainment; whilst it is apparent that every available resource
has been utilised to make an imposing appearance. It was, we think,
John Wesley, who having been invited out to dine, was asked, soon
after his arrival at the house of the host, to excuse the fact that no
preparation had been made. ‘Then,’ replied he rather sharply, ‘there
ought to have been;’ and without waiting to see whether there was
reason for such an apology, left the house forthwith.
Feelings of rivalry and jealousy, and the existence of an ultra spirit
of caste, are responsible for much of the unsociability which prevails.
Mr and Mrs Jones do not fraternise with Mr and Mrs Smith, who may live
next door, because they, Mr and Mrs Jones, have concluded that they
have ascended two or three more rounds of the ladder of social status.
It is quite probable, moreover, that Mr and Mrs Smith may be duly
impressed with precisely the same sense of superiority. Mr Jenkins does
not wish to be patronised, and therefore cares not to cultivate the
acquaintance of Mr Jones. Mr Jones having a paramount consciousness
of his pre-eminence, would deem it undignified to be friendly with
Mr Jenkins. Thus people sit in judgment upon themselves and other
people, and form what they deem a sound opinion as to the disposition
of others without ever having had the smallest opportunity of arriving
at an accurate estimate. Imagination, hearsay, and the impressions
derived from mere appearance at first sight, are often the sole
materials employed in producing what is intended to pass as a detailed
character-photograph. The estimates thus formed are frequently
circulated as genuine and reliable in every particular; and yet there
may be as much difference between such estimates and the truth, as
between a genuine and a base coin of the realm. The estimate which may
be given you by one man of another is only reliable in so far as he is
capable and has had the opportunities of forming an _accurate_ judgment.
As the tenor of a man’s life will to some extent be the reflection
of his associations, it is essential that some discrimination be
employed. But a man may be sociable and yet avoid careless promiscuous
friendships. By the same rule that you cannot touch pitch without being
defiled, neither can you have the friendship of sensible men and true,
without profit. Nor need a sociable man eschew the duties and comforts
of home-life. The association with friends, at home, may be made to
take the place of association with mere acquaintances, sometimes of a
questionable sort, abroad; and hence home may be made more homely.
The plea is sometimes advanced, ‘Oh, we cannot afford to have company.’
Here is where a great mistake is made. Surely we should not measure the
value of our friendships on the basis of a knife-and-fork calculation!
The friendship which is measured by the amount of money expended on
it is surely worth little. It is not so much the good dinner society
which we would advocate, as the propagation of simple and genuine
friendships. Formal parties and dinings-out are by reason of modern
usages acknowledged to be for the most part dreary affairs, both for
the givers and the guests. Dinners got up for display, arranged with an
object, invitations given for sundry reasons—to the man, for instance,
whose only qualification a guest may be his ability to be a source of
entertainment; or to the titled gentleman and lady whose style and
title shall grace the list in the newspaper columns. This amongst the
upper ten thousand may be perhaps regarded as a necessary evil. Such
state ceremonies have become fashionable amongst what has come to be
popularly designated the _élite_ of society.
We especially refer, however, to the sociable traits of the great
middle class, amongst whom a large dinner-party scheme is neither
practicable nor desirable, but to whom the more frequent exchange
of civilities with their neighbours would be a boon. But the way is
frequently barred by the comparisons which are made. The ladies are
generally desirous that the furniture of their houses should not
compare unfavourably with that in the houses of those with whom they
may be intimate. A source of the greatest concern is it if they have
not Brussels carpet as good and as new as that of their neighbours.
Then their furniture it may be is in green rep, that of their friends
in crimson plush. Further anxieties are created as to plate, the size,
style, and number of servants, and a dozen other considerations of a
kindred sort. This everlasting contest to keep up appearances is at
once the bane of our tempers and our pockets. It is the main thing on
which the unreality of our time is fed, and upon which it thrives so
well. Whatever may be the real impediment to sociability, we ourselves,
while fostering the evil, uncharitably and inconsistently plead that
the unsociable tendency exists more in others than ourselves!
Were there an utter absence of opportunity for benefiting by
the society of others, the fact would be deemed a hardship and a
misfortune; and yet there are plenty of individuals who live in crowded
cities but are the most lonely of beings. Not only are they never seen
to speak to others, but apparently never even see them; the social
faculties are thus rarely called into play, and are left to rust out.
What do such men lose as the result of this isolation? Their knowledge
of the best side of human nature is at a low ebb; while on the other
hand the association with and knowledge of those around us teach us
not only to misjudge others less, but to know ourselves better; and
hence there comes a development and expansion of our sympathies. More
freedom of intercourse must tend not only to increase our pleasures but
to alleviate our troubles, for as we see that others have their ‘ups’
and ‘downs,’ we learn to look upon our own as less burdensome. The man
who neither sees, hears, nor participates in anything beyond his own
immediate surroundings, can know little or nothing beyond the narrow
boundary of his own individuality—a very circumscribed sphere to live
and work in, certainly. People often need friends who, under given
circumstances, will afford the benefit of their own experience. The
person whose only acquaintance is himself, complains of the hardness
of his lot, and whilst estimating what difference he imagines the
cultivation of friendships would make to his pockets, fails to estimate
what he would gain by the sympathy and good-will of others, and how his
dreary path would be brightened by less isolation.
There is, however, an inborn craving in most people for society of some
kind, though occasionally it is sought for in directions which are
not beneficial in their tendency; and this, we fear, is the result of
the swarm of conventionalities which, for the most part, surround the
social life of our day, some healthy counteraction of which—especially
in the interests of the young—would be welcome.
Happily the habits of isolation and unsociability are more prevalent
in some places than in others. Those who have travelled most will
readily admit that they have frequently found themselves amongst a
circle of individuals whose freedom from conventionalities, and whose
unconstrained and hearty mode of intercourse, made them forget for
the time being that they were in the company of strangers. It is
possible that some readers of these words may almost shudder at the
idea of such freedom, such a want of decorum on the part of people
who had never met before, and had not gone through the formality of
a proper introduction. And yet there may be decorum without painful
fastidiousness. Who has not met with unsociable railway travellers,
some in whose company he has been for many weary hours, and with whom
he may have succeeded, after supreme effort, in breaking the ice, only
to receive a solitary monosyllable in response! Such an experience is
certainly not the rule, for sometimes we meet with those, the incessant
wag of whose tongue may be such as to compel us to leave unread both
our newspaper and any favourite book that we may have promised ourself
to get through. And yet it is well on such occasions to go on the
principle of give and take. Anything rather than the company of an
individual who looks suspiciously at you should you be venturesome
enough to express to him an opinion on so commonplace a topic as the
state of the weather.
As a valuable element in connection with our social life, music does
not occupy the position which it might and ought to do. The rapid
growth during recent years of a knowledge of this charming solace is
out of all proportion to the extent of its social enjoyment. It is
unfortunately too often treated as a mere accomplishment. The friendly
and informal musical parties such as were enjoyed years ago, do not
receive much encouragement. It is of course indisputable that as a
concert-giving power, rapid strides have been made in music; but what
we contend for is the propagation of home harmony; the social glee, the
favourite ballad, the instrumental quartette, with no objection to an
occasional sonata for the pianoforte.
It is no less amusing than disagreeable to see so many otherwise worthy
people possessed of such a paramount sense of gentility and importance
as to make themselves and their surroundings uncomfortable, and often
miserable. The great desideratum is that people should appear more like
themselves than somebody else. We hear and read a good many sermons
on ‘Morality;’ but, excellent in their way as these are, a series of
lectures on ‘Reality’ are quite as necessary.
HELENA, LADY HARROGATE.
CHAPTER IX.—SIR SYKES’S WARD.
There may be pleasanter positions in life than that of a dependant,
especially when the claim to make one of the household rests on
conditions which it is impossible to define. The governess, who is so
often held up by moralists as an object for our conventional pity,
needs not, surely, to forfeit her self-respect, inasmuch as she earns
her salary and its contingent benefits by honest labour. The companion
too gives valuable consideration in the shape of a perpetual offering
up of her own time, tastes, and wishes, for her pay and maintenance.
There are others sometimes however, kindred strangers within the rich
man’s gates, who have no ostensible tasks to perform, who cannot
give monthly or quarterly notice and go away, and yet whose bread is
sometimes made very bitter to them—white slaves who get no compassion
from the world at large.
Miss Willis at Carbery Chase was oddly situated. An orphan, she found
herself domiciled amongst those who were allied to her neither by blood
nor by the still more tenacious tie of common and early associations.
She was exempt of course under that roof from many of the annoyances
which fall to the lot of the motherless elsewhere. There was no
domineering mistress of the house to resent every attention shewn to
the interloper as something deducted from the rightful due of her
own matchless girls; no niggard to grudge her every meal of which
she partook at the stinted family table; or tyrant to pile upon her
submissive shoulders the never-ending load of petty cares, which some
genteel drudges perform unthanked.
At Carbery there was plenty and to spare. Sir Sykes was a gentleman
bland and courteous; the girls as kind good girls as could easily be
met with; and the servants sufficiently well trained to take their cue
from their employers, and to be civil to one who was smiled on by the
higher powers. Yet a sensitive young lady in the position which Sir
Sykes’s ward now occupied, might well have been excused if her heart
at times was somewhat heavy. All her old habits of life had been in a
moment uprooted. She had been suddenly transferred from familiar scenes
and people whose ways she understood, to a country every feature of
which must have been strange and new to her. Under the circumstances
and in spite of the good-nature of those around her, it is not
surprising if Ruth Willis at times looked sad and pensive.
‘You cannot think how wonderful it seemed to me at first,’ she said
one day to the younger Miss Denzil, ‘not to hear the drums beat tattoo
at sundown, or how often I have started from my pillow in the early
morning, fancying that I heard again the bugles sounding for the
parade. Then the trumpeting of the elephants beside the tank, and the
shrill voices of the dusky children at play beneath the peepul trees,
and all the sights and sounds about my old home in India—I can’t forget
them yet.’
Blanche was sympathetic; but she felt rather than reasoned that the
grief for a father’s loss, the regrets for friends abruptly quitted
and a mode of life abandoned, could not be assuaged merely by a kiss
and a kind word. Yet it was evident that Ruth was by no means disposed
to play the part of a kill-joy in the house beneath whose roof she was
now established, or to enact the martyr. Her manner was very soft and
gentle, not obtrusively sad or unduly deferential, but that of one who
sincerely wishes to please. She had a way of bending her will as it
were to that of those with whom she now associated, which was really
very pretty and graceful, and harmonised well with the modest drooping
of her eyelids when she spoke. There were times (so her ill-wishers
said, the latter being some of those vigilant critics who take our wage
and wear our livery, or it may be caps and aprons and cotton prints
such as we sanction, but who are not always too lenient censors of
our conduct) when her whole face seemed to change its expression by
the mere opening of the fine dark eyes fraught with a singular look,
which the same critics averred to be that of ill-temper. But if Miss
Willis had not, as Lucy and Blanche Denzil believed her to have, the
temper of a lamb, it must be admitted that she was capable of very
great self-restraint, since in general conversation she was only too
ready to acquiesce with the opinions of others. Jasper had observed the
singular brightening of Ruth’s eyes sometimes, when she turned them on
Sir Sykes, but never towards himself; while his unsuspecting sisters
saw no peculiarity in the bearing of the stranger whom they had learned
to like.
‘I could really believe,’ said Jasper to himself more than once, ‘that
my father is afraid of that girl—and no wonder after all!’ he added,
after a moment’s reflection. Certainly Sir Sykes did appear somewhat
over-anxious that his ward should be happy and comfortable at Carbery,
that her tastes should be studied, and her inclinations consulted. Yet
he never seemed at ease in her company, and always escaped from her
presence as early as politeness permitted; so that his own daughters
set down his behaviour as merely prompted by an over-strained sense of
hospitality.
There was a fascination in the guest’s bearing and conversation, to
which even Jasper, with all his predisposition to dislike her, could
not but succumb. No great talker, Miss Willis had the power, somehow,
of making what she did say more effective than what fell from other
lips than hers. What this art or this gift might be, Jasper Denzil, who
was no stranger to women and their ways, could not divine. The girl’s
voice was rich though low, and admirably modulated, although of music,
as she frankly confessed, she knew nothing whatever. And her eyes—the
one redeeming feature of a plain pale face—could flash and glitter
with wondrously changing play of light; eyes and voice and words all
blending together to convey the expression which their owner desired
that they should impart.
There was one person to whom the baronet’s ward appeared in the light
of an enigma, and this was Lord Harrogate, himself a frequent visitor
at the home of the Denzils, between whose family and his own there was
indeed some kind of connection. He had given up as preposterous the
idea that he had ever seen Miss Willis before. _That_ was of course
erroneous, and he must have been the dupe of a fancied resemblance.
But he was sufficiently quick-sighted to perceive, what was apparent
neither to his sisters nor to Jasper, nor to the Earl or Countess,
that a strong sharply marked character was concealed behind the gentle
half-bashful demeanour which it pleased Miss Willis to assume.
‘I never saw the iron hand,’ he thought to himself, ‘so well hidden
before by the velvet glove; but it’s there for all that. Yonder girl
looks capable of turning the whole family round her finger.’
Meanwhile Jasper at anyrate had other subjects for contemplation than
were presented by a psychological study of the orphaned daughter of
the late Major Willis, of the Honourable East India Company’s Service.
Gentlemen who own and gentlemen who are going to ride horses intended
to win a race which had so suddenly swelled into importance as the
forthcoming one at Pebworth, have need of frequent communication
with one another. Jasper during the next ten days was often in his
principal’s company, sometimes at Pebworth, now and then at Exeter,
when the routine of military duty held the other captain to his post.
In the interim, Captain Denzil could tell by the language of the
newspapers which were the accredited organs of the turf, how
considerable was the excitement evoked by the selection of Pebworth as
a place where might be matched against one another some of the finest
weight-carriers chronicled in the Stud Book. The wildest rumours were
afloat, and an April sky was not more changeable than were the odds,
as reported from the headquarters of gambling, London and Liverpool.
Sometimes the bookmakers were reported to be assured of triumph;
sometimes it was hinted that the great betting firms would be severely
hit, so unexpected would be the finish of the race.
‘Why,’ indignantly demanded one influential paper, ‘should Pebworth be
dragged into the daylight?’ Nor were the other organs of the sporting
press slow to swell the chorus of complaint that a cramped and hitherto
unheard-of course, situated in an obscure nook of the far west, should
be the arena for a struggle such as was anticipated. And then followed
dark innuendos and vague suggestions as to the motives of the noble
lord who owned The Smasher, and the scarcely less illustrious commoner
to whom Brother to Highflyer appertained. During the period preceding
the race, the most contradictory rumours were incessantly published
with reference to the rival favourites. They were ill; they were well;
they had met with all the accidents slight or serious to which the
equine genus is liable. One of these important animals had a cough.
The other was not quite sound of limb. Both had been overtrained. No.
Their training was insufficient, and any nameless outsider could reach
the winning-post before them. Once again both horses were in the very
perfection of bloom and beauty, and would compete fairly for the prize.
Strange faces, some of which were not calculated to inspire confidence
in those who had silver spoons in the pantry or linen drying on
garden-hedge, began to appear at Pebworth and the parts adjacent.
Lodgings were in such request that the meanest rooms were eagerly
disputed at fancy prices, while inn and beershop drove a brisker trade
than had been known since Pebworth had been disfranchised.
‘Sad business, Denzil, this!’ exclaimed Jack Podgers as he dashed into
the private parlour of the _De Vere Arms_. ‘Here’s a private telegram,
and here a special edition of a sporting paper. Both agree as to the
facts.’
Jasper glanced at the telegram and at the paragraph. Yes. A most
unfortunate accident, due to the carelessness of a porter, had occurred
to Brother to Highflyer, just as that noble horse was being led from
his box to the platform. Mr Splint, the eminent veterinary surgeon,
summoned in hot haste, had examined the off fore-leg, and had expressed
a positive opinion; in deference to which Mr John Knavesmire the
trainer and Mr Wylie the owner had reluctantly decided to withdraw the
name of Brother to Highflyer from the list.
‘The race naturally must be won by the other favourite, The Smasher,’
said Captain Prodgers with a grim smile.