despair; for I know, by multifarious experience of men, that the curt
lines hint at profundities so vast as to baffle the best powers of
comprehension. As I think of the hundreds of men who are minor copies of
Burns, I have a passionate wish to call on the Power that sways us all
and pray for pity and guidance. A most wise--should I say "wise"?--and
brilliant man had brought himself very low through drink, and was dying
solely through the effects of a debauch which had lasted for years with
scarcely an interval of pure sanity. He was beloved by all; he had a
most sweet nature; he was so shrewd and witty that it seemed impossible
for him to be wrong about anything. On his deathbed he talked with
lovely serenity, and he seemed rather like some thrice-noble disciple of
Socrates than like one who had cast away all that the world has worth
holding. He knew every folly that he had committed, and he knew its
exact proportions; he was consulted during his last days by young and
old, who recognized the well-nigh superhuman character of his wisdom;
and yet he had abundantly proved himself to be one of the most unwise
men living. How strange! How infinitely pathetic! Few men of clearer
vision ever came on this earth; but, with his flashing eyes open, he
walked into snare after snare, and the last of the devil's traps caught
him fatally. Even when he was too weak to stir, he said that, if he
could move, he would be sure to take the old path again. Well may the
warning devotees cry, "Have mercy upon us!" Well may they bow themselves
and wail for the weakness of man! Well may they cast themselves humbly
on the bosom of the Infinite Pity! For, of a truth, we are a feeble
folk, and, if we depended only on ourselves, it would be well that
George Eliot's ghastly thought of simultaneous universal suicide should
be put into practice speedily.
Hark to the appalling words of wisdom uttered by the good man whose name
I never miss mentioning because I wish all gentle souls to refresh
themselves with his ineffable sweetness and tender fun! "Could the youth
to whom the flavour of his first wine is delicious as the opening scenes
of life or the entering upon some newly-discovered paradise look upon my
desolation, and be made to understand what a dreary thing it is when a
man shall feel himself going down a precipice with open eyes and a
passive will--to see his destruction and have no power to stop it, and
yet to feel it all the way emanating from himself--to perceive all
goodness emptied out of him, and yet not be able to forget a time when
it was otherwise--to hear about the piteous spectacle of his own
self-ruin--could he see my fevered eye, feverish with last night's
drinking and feverishly looking for this night's repetition of the
folly--could he feel the body of the death out of which I cry hourly,
with feebler and feebler outcry, to be delivered--it were enough to make
him dash the sparkling beverage to the earth in all the pride of its
mantling temptation, to make him clasp his teeth,
And not undo 'em
To suffer wet damnation to run thro' 'em."
Can that be beaten for utter lucidity and directness? Not by any master
of prose known to us--not by any man who ever wrote in prose or in
verse. The vision is so completely convincing, the sense of actuality
given by the words is so haunting, that, not even Dickens could have
equalled it. The man who wrote those searing words is to this day
remembered and spoken of with caressing gentleness by all men of
intellect, refinement, quick fancy, genial humour; the editing of his
works has occupied a great part of the lifetime of a most distinguished
ecclesiastic. Could he avoid the fell horror against which he warned
others? No. With all his dread knowledge, he went on his sorrowful
way--and he remained the victim of his vice until the bitter end. It was
Charles Lamb.
A gambler is usually the most prodigal of men in the matter of promises.
If he is clever, he is nearly always quite ready to smile mournfully at
his own infatuation, and he will warn inexperienced youngsters--unless
he wants to rob them.
In sum, intellect, wit, keenness, lucidity of vision, perfect reasoning
power, are all useless in restraining a man from proceeding to ruin
unless some steadying agency is allied with them. After much sad
brooding, I cannot but conclude that a fervent religious faith is the
only thing that will give complete security; and it will be a bitter day
for England and the world if ever flippancy and irreligion become
general.
_June, 1889._
_THE SOCIAL INFLUENCE OF THE "BAR."_
A great American writer has lately given a terrible account of "The
Social Influence of the Saloon" in his country. The article is very
grave, and every word is weighed, but the cold precision of the paper
attracts the reader with a horrible fascination. The author does not so
much regret the enormous waste of money, though he allows that about two
hundred millions of pounds sterling are spent yearly in the States on
strong drink; but he mourns most because of the steady ruin which he
sees overtaking the social happiness of his country. The saloon is
subtly corrupting the men of America, and the ghastly plagues of
selfishness, brutality, and immorality are spreading with cruel
swiftness. The great author's conclusion is more than startling, and I
confess to having caught my breath when I read it. He says in effect,
"We sacrificed a million men in order to do away with slavery, but we
now have working in our midst a curse which is infinitely worse than
slavery. One day we shall be obliged to save ourselves from ruin, even
if we have to stamp out the trade in alcohol entirely, and that by means
of a civil war." Strong words--and yet the man speaks with intense
conviction: and his very quietude only serves to emphasise the awful
nature of his disclosures. As I read on I saw with horror that the
description of the state of things in America accurately fits our own
country. We do not talk of a "saloon" here, but "bar" means the same
thing; and the "bar" is crushing out the higher life of the English
middle-class as surely as the saloon is destroying American manhood.
Amid all our material prosperity, amid all the complexities of our
amazing community, an evil is at work which gathers power daily and
which is actually assassinating, as it were, every moral quality that
has made England strong and beneficent. Begin with a picture. The long
curved counter glistens under the flare of the gas; the lines of gaudy
bottles gleam like vulgar, sham jewelry; the glare, the glitter, the
garish refulgence of the place dazzle the eye, and the sharp acrid
whiffs of vile odour fall on the senses with a kind of mephitic
influence. The evening is wearing away, and the broad space in front of
the bar is crowded. A hoarse crashing babble goes steadily on, forming
the ground-bass of an odious symphony; shrill and discordant laughter
rises by fits and starts above the low tumult; a coarse joke sets one
group sniggering; a vile oath rings out from some foul-mouthed
roysterer; and at intervals some flushed and bleared creature breaks
into a slavering laugh which has a sickly resemblance to weeping. At one
of the side-tables a sodden brute leans forward and wags his head to and
fro with ignoble solemnity; another has fallen asleep and snores at
intervals with a nauseous rattle; smart young men, dressed fashionably,
fling chance witticisms at the busy barmaids, and the nymphs answer with
glib readiness. This is the home of Jollity and Good-fellowship; this is
the place from which Care is banished; this is the happy corner where
the social glass is dispensed. Alas for the jollity and the sociability
and all the rest of it! Force yourself to study the vile spectacle, and
you will soon harbour a brood of aching reflections. The whole of that
chattering, swilling mob are employing their muddled minds on frivolity
or obscenity, or worse things still. You will hear hardly an intelligent
word; you will not catch a sound of sensible discussion; the scraps of
conversation that reach you alternate between low banter, low
squabbling, objectionable narrative, and histories of fights or swindles
or former debauches.
Middle-aged men tell interminable stories about money or smart strokes
of business; youngsters wink and look unspeakably wise as they talk on
the subject of the spring handicaps; wild spirits tell of their
experiences at a glove-fight in some foul East-end tavern; amorous
exploits are detailed with a fulness and freedom which would extremely
amaze the ladies who form the subject of the conversation. In all the
nasty confusion you never hear a word that can be called manly, unless
you are prepared to allow the manliness of pugilism. Each quarter-hour
sees the company grow more and more incoherent; the laughter gradually
becomes senseless, and loses the last indication of pure merriment; the
reek thickens; the dense air is permeated with queasy smells which rise
from the fusel oil and the sugared beer; the shrewd landlord looks on
with affected jollity, and hails casual friends with effusive imitation
of joy; and last of all "time" is called, and the host of men pour into
the street. They are ready for any folly or mischief, and they are all
more or less unfitted for the next day's work. Strangely enough, many of
those wretched fellows who thus waste time amid sordid surroundings come
from refined homes; but music and books and the quiet pleasant talk of
mothers and sisters are tame after the delirious rattle of the bar, and
thus bright lads go home with-their wits dulled and with a complete
incapacity for coherent speech. Now let it be remembered that no real
friendships are contracted in those odious drinking-shops--something in
the very atmosphere of the place seems to induce selfishness, and a
drinker who goes wrong is never pitied; when evil days come, the smart
landlord shuns the failure, the barmaids sneer at him, and his boon
companions shrink away as though the doomed man were tainted. Monstrous
it is to hear the remarks made about a lost soul who is plunging with
accelerated speed down the steep road to ruin. His companions compare
notes about him, and all his bodily symptoms are described with
truculent glee in the filthy slang of the bar. So long as the wretch has
money he is received with boisterous cordiality, and encouraged to rush
yet faster on the way to perdition; his wildest feats in the way of
mawkish generosity are applauded; and the very men who drink at his
expense go on plucking him and laughing at him until the inevitable
crash comes. I once heard with a kind of chilled horror a narrative
about a fine young man who had died of _delirium tremens_. The narrator
giggled so much that his story was often interrupted; but it ran
thus--"He was very shaky in the morning, and he began on brandy; he took
about six before his hand was steady, and I saw him looking over his
shoulder every now and again. In the afternoon a lot of fellows came in,
and he stood champagne like water to the whole gang. At six o'clock I
wanted him to have a cup of tea, but he said, 'I've had nothing but
booze for three days.' Then he got on to the floor, and said he was
catching rats--so we knew he'd got 'em on.[1] At night he came out and
cleared the street with his sword-bayonet; and it's a wonder he didn't
murder somebody. It took two to hold him down all night, and he had his
last fit at six in the morning. Died screaming!" A burst of laughter
hailed the climax, and then one appreciative friend remarked, "He was a
fool--I suppose he was drunk eleven months out of the last twelve." This
was the epitaph of a bright young athlete who had been possessed of
health, riches, and all fair prospects. No one warned him; none of those
who swilled expensive poisons for which he paid ever refused to accept
his mad generosity; he was cheered down the road to the gulf by the
inane plaudits of the lowest of men; and one who was evidently his
companion in many a frantic drinking-bout could find nothing to say but
"He was a fool!" At this moment there are thousands of youths in our
great towns and cities who are leading the heartless, senseless,
semi-delirious life of the bar, and every possible temptation is put in
their way to draw them from home, from refinement, from high thoughts,
from chaste and temperate modes of life. Horrible it is to hear fine
lads talking familiarly about the "jumpy" sensations which they feel in
the morning. The "jumps" are those involuntary twitchings which
sometimes precede and sometimes accompany _delirium tremens_; the
frightful twitching of the limbs is accompanied by a kind of depression
that takes the very heart and courage out of a man; and yet no one who
travels over these islands can avoid hearing jokes on the dismal
subject made by boys who have hardly reached their twenty-fifth
year. The bar encourages levity, and the levity is unrelieved
by any real gaiety--it is the hysterical feigned merriment of
lost souls.
[Footnote 1: This is the elegant public-house mode of describing
_delirium tremens_.]
There are bars of a quieter sort, and there are rooms where middle-aged
topers meet, but these are, if possible, more repulsive than the
clattering dens frequented by dissipated youths. Stout staid-looking
men--fathers of families--gather night after night to sodden themselves
quietly, and they make believe that they are enjoying the pleasures of
good-fellowship. Curious it is to see how the fictitious assertion of
goodwill seems to flourish in the atmosphere of the bar and the parlour.
Those elderly men who sit and smoke in the places described as "cosy"
are woeful examples of the effects of our national curse. They are not
riotous; they are only dull, coarse, and silly. Their talk is confused,
dogmatic, and generally senseless; and, when they break out into
downright foulness of speech, their comparatively silent enjoyment of
detestable stories is a thing to make one shiver. Here again
good-fellowship is absent. Comfortable tradesmen, prosperous dealers,
sharp men who hold good commercial situations, meet to gossip and
exchange dubious stories. They laugh a good deal in a restrained way,
and they are apparently genial; but the hard selfishness of all is plain
to a cool observer. The habit of self-indigence has grown upon them
until it pervades their being, and the corruption of the bar subtly
envenoms their declining years. If good women could only once hear an
evening's conversation that passes among these elderly citizens, they
would be a little surprised. Thoughtful ladies complain that women are
not reverenced in England, and Americans in particular notice with
shame the attitude which middle-class Englishmen adopt towards ladies.
If the people who complain could only hear how women are spoken of in
the homes of Jollity, they would feel no more amazement at a distressing
social phenomenon. The talk which is chuckled over by men who have
daughters of their own is something to make an inexperienced individual
redden. Reverence, nobility, high chivalry, common cleanliness, cannot
flourish in the precincts of the bar, and there is not an honest man who
has studied with adequate opportunities who will deny that the social
glass is too often taken to an accompaniment of sheer uncleanness. Why
have not our moral novelists spoken the plain truth about these things?
We have many hideous pictures of the East-end drinking-bars, and much
reproachful pity is expended on the "residuum;" but the evil that is
eating at the very heart of the nation, the evil that is destroying our
once noble middle-class, finds no assailant and no chronicler. Were it
not for the athletic sports which happily engage the energies of
thousands of young men, our middle-class would degenerate with appalling
rapidity. But, in spite of athletics, the bar claims its holocaust of
manhood year by year, and the professional moralists keep silence on the
matter. Some of them say that they cannot risk hurting the sensibilities
of innocent maidens. What nonsense! Those maidens all have a chance of
becoming the wives of men who have suffered deterioration in the reek
and glare of the bar. How many sorrowing wives are now hiding their
heart-break and striving to lure their loved ones away from the curse of
curses! If the moralists could only look on the mortal pathos of the
letters which I receive, they would see that the maidens about whom
they are so nervous are the very people who should be summoned as allies
in our fight against a universal enemy. If our brave sweet English girls
once learn the nature of the temptations to which their brothers and
lovers are exposed, they will use every force of their pure souls to
save the men whom they can influence from a doom which is death in life.
_May, 1887._
_FRIENDSHIP_.
The memoirs that are now poured into the book-market certainly tend to
breed cynicism in the minds of susceptible persons, for it appears that
to many eminent men and women of our generation friendship was almost an
unknown sentiment. As we read one spiteful paragraph after another, we
begin to wonder whether the living men around us resemble the dead
purveyors of scandal. The fashionable mode of proceeding nowadays is to
leave diaries crammed with sarcasm, give some unhappy friend orders to
wait until you are settled in the grave, and then confound your friends
and foes by attacks which come to the light long after your ears are
deaf to praise and blame. Samuel Wilberforce went into the choicest
society that Britain could show; he was the confidant of many people,
and he contrived to charm all but a few cross-grained critics. His good
humour seemed inexhaustible; and those who saw his cherubic face beaming
sweetly on the company at banquets or assemblies fancied that so
delightful a man was never known before. But this suave, unctuous
gentleman, who fascinated every one, from Queen to cottager, spent a
pretty fair share of his life in writing vicious witticisms and scandals
concerning the folk with whom he seemed to be on affectionate terms. At
nights, after spending his days in working and bowing and smiling and
winning the hearts of men, he went home and poured out all the venom
that was in his heart. When his memoirs appeared, all the most select
social circles in the country were driven into a serious flutter. No one
was spared; and, as some of the statements made by Wilberforce were, to
say the least, a little sweeping, a violent paper warfare began, which
has hardly ceased raging even now. Happy and contented men who believed
that the Bishop loved and admired them were surprised to find that he
had disliked and despised them. Moreover, the naughty diarist had an
ugly habit of recording men's private conversations; and thus a good
many sayings which should have been kept secret became public property.
A very irreverent wag wrote--
How blest was he who'd ne'er consent
With Wilberforce to walk,
Nor dined with Soapy Sam, nor let
The Bishop hear him talk!
and this crude epigram expressed the feelings of numbers of enraged and
scandalized individuals. The wretched book gave us an ugly picture of a
hollow society where kindness seemed non-existent, and where every man
walked with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. As more memoirs
appeared, it was most funny to observe that, while Wilberforce was
occupied in scarifying his dear friends, some of his dear friends were
occupied in scarifying him. Thus we find Abraham Hayward, a polished
leader of society, writing in the following way of Wilberforce, with
whom ostensibly his relations were of the most affectionate
description--"Wilberforce is really a low fellow. Again and again the
committee of the Athenaeum Club have been obliged to reprove him for
his vulgar selfishness." This is dreadful! No wonder that petty cynics
snarl and rejoice; they say, "Look at your great men, and see what mean
backbiters they are!" Alas!
Thomas Carlyle's memoirs are a kind of graveyard of reputations; and we
can well understand the rage and horror with which many individuals
protested against the fierce Scotchman's strictures. In the hearts of
thousands of noble young people Carlyle's memory was cherished like that
of some dear saint; and it was terrible to find that the strong prophet
had been penetrated by such a virus of malice. Carlyle met all the best
men and women in England; but the only ones whom he did not disparage
were Tennyson, the Duke of Wellington, Mr. Froude, and Emerson. He
could not talk even of Charles Darwin without calling him an imbecile;
and his all-round hitting at his closest intimates is simply merciless.
The same perversity which made him talk of Keats's "maudlin weak-eyed
sensibility" caused him to describe his loyal, generous, high-bred
friend Lord Houghton as a "nice little robin-redbreast of a man;" while
Mrs. Basil Montagu, who cheered him and spared no pains to aid him in
the darkest times, is now immortalized by one masterly venomous
paragraph. Carlyle was great--very great--but really the cultivation of
loyal friendships seems hardly to have been in his line. Men who know
his works by heart, and who derived their noblest inspiration from him,
cannot bear to read his memoirs twice over, for it sadly appears as
though the Titan had defiled the very altar of friendship.
What shall we say of the cunning cat-like Charles Greville, who crept
on tiptoe through the world, observing and recording the littleness of
men? His stealthy eye missed nothing; and the men whom he flattered and
used little thought that the wizened dandy who pleased them with his
old-world courtesy was chronicling their weakness and baseness for all
time. A nobly patriotic Ministry came before the world with a flourish
of trumpets, and declared that England must fight Russia in defence of
public law, freedom, and other holy things. But the wicked diarist had
watched the secret proceedings of his dear friends; and he informs us
that those beloved intimates were all sound asleep when a single
Minister decided on the movement which cost us forty thousand men and
one hundred millions of treasure. That close sly being used--to worm out
the secrets of men's innermost hearts; and his impassive mask never
showed a sign of emotion. To illustrate his mode of extracting the
information of which he made such terrible use, I may tell one trivial
anecdote which has never before been made public. When Greville was very
old, he went to see a spiritualistic "medium" who was attracting
fashionable London. The charlatan looked at the gray worn old man and
thought himself safe; four other visitors attended the _séance_, but the
"medium" bestowed all his attention on Greville. With much emotion he
cried, "There is an aged lady behind your chair!" Greville remarked
sweetly, "How interesting!" "She is very, very like you!" "Who can it
be?" murmured Greville. "She lifts her hands to bless you. Her hands are
now resting over your head!" shouted the medium; and the pallid
emotionless man said, with a slight tremor in his voice, "Pray tell me
who this mysterious visitant may be!" "It is your mother." "Oh," said
Greville, "I am delighted to hear that!" "She says she is perfectly
happy, and she watches you constantly." "Dear soul!" muttered the
imperturbable one. "She tells me you will join her soon, and be happy
with her." Then Greville said gravely, in dulcet tones, "That is
extremely likely, for I am going to take tea with her at five o'clock!"
He had led on the poor swindler in his usual fashion; and he never
hinted at the fact that his mother was nearly a century old. His friends
were "pumped" in the same subtle manner; and the immortally notorious
memoirs are strewn with assassinated characters.