whether they die amid loud battle or in the far-away dimness of a little
war!
_September, 1888._
_THE BRITISH FESTIVAL_.
Again and again I have talked about the delights of leisure, and I
always advise worn worldlings to renew their youth and gain fresh ideas
amid the blessed calm of the fields and the trees. But I lately watched
an immense procession of holiday-makers travelling mile after mile in
long-drawn sequence--and the study caused me to have many thoughts.
There was no mistake about the intentions of the vast mob. They started
with a steadfast resolution to be jolly--and they kept to their
resolution so long as they were coherent of mind. It was a strange
sight--a population probably equal to half that of Scotland all plunged
into a sort of delirium and nearly all forgetting the serious side of
life. As I gazed on the frantic assembly, I wondered how the English
ever came to be considered a grave solid nation; I wondered, moreover,
how a great percentage of men representing a nation of conquerors,
explorers, administrators, inventors, should on a sudden decide to go
mad for a day. Perhaps, after all, the catchword "Merry England" meant
really "Mad England"; perhaps the good days which men mourned for after
the grim shade of Puritanism came over the country were neither more nor
less than periods of wild orgies; perhaps we have reason to be thankful
that the national carnivals do not now occur very often. Our ancestors
had a very peculiar idea of what constituted a merry-making, and there
are many things in ancient art and literature which tempt us to fancy
that a certain crudity distinguished the festivals of ancient days; but
still the latter-day frolic in all its monstrous proportions is not to
be studied by a philosophic observer without profoundly moving thoughts
arising. As I gazed on the endless flow of travellers, I could hardly
help wondering how the mob would conduct themselves during any great
social convulsion. Some gushing persons talk about the good humour and
orderliness of the British crowd. Well, I allow that the better class of
holiday-makers exhibit a kind of rough good nature; but, whenever
"sport" is in question, we find that a certain class come to the
front--a class who are not genial or merry, but purely lawless. While
the huge carnival is in progress during one delirious day, we have a
chance of seeing in a mild form what would happen if a complete national
disaster caused society to become fundamentally disordered. The beasts
of prey come forth from their lairs, the most elementary rules of
conduct are forgotten or bluntly disregarded, and the law-abiding
citizen may see robbery and violence carried on in broad daylight. In
some cases it happens that organized bands of thieves rob one man after
another with a brutal effrontery which quite shames the minor abilities
of Macedonian or Calabrian brigands. Forty or fifty consummate
scoundrels work in concert; and it often happens that even the
betting-men are seized, raised from the ground, and shaken until their
money falls and is scrambled for by eager rascaldom. Wherever there Is
sport the predatory animals flock together; and I thought, when last I
saw the crew, "If a foreign army were in movement against England and a
panic arose, there would be little mercy for quiet citizens." On a hasty
computation, I should say that an ordinary Derby Day brings together an
army of wastrels and criminals strong enough to sack London if once the
initial impetus were given; and who can say what blind chance may supply
that impetus even in our day? There is not so much sheer foulness
nowadays as there used to be; the Yahoo element--male and female--is not
obtrusive; and it is even possible for a lady to remain in certain
quarters of the mighty Downs without being offended in any way. Our
grandfathers--and our fathers, for that matter--had a somewhat acrid
conception of humour, and the offscourings of the city ministered to
this peculiar humorous sense in a singular way. But a leaven of
propriety has now crept in, and the evil beings who were wont to pollute
the sweet air preserve some moderate measure of seemliness. I am willing
to welcome every sign of improving manners; and yet I must say that the
great British Festival is a sorry and even horrible spectacle. What is
the net result or purpose of the whole display? Cheery scribes babble
about "Isthmian games" and the glorious air of the Surrey hills, and
they try to put on a sort of jollity and semblance of well-being; but
the sham is a poor one, and the laughing hypocrites know in their hearts
that the vast gathering of people means merely waste, idleness,
thievery, villainy, vice of all kinds--and there is next to no
compensation for the horrors which are crowded together. I would fain
pick out anything good from the whole wild spectacle; but I cannot, and
so give up the attempt with a sort of sick despair. There is something
rather pleasant in the sight of a merry lad who attends his first Derby,
for he sees only the vivid rush and movement of crowds; but to a
seasoned observer and thinker the tremendous panorama gives suggestions
only of evil. I hardly have patience to consider the fulsome talk of the
writers who print insincerities by the column year by year. They know
that the business is evil, and yet they persist in speaking as if there
were some magic influence in the reeking crowd which, they declare,
gives health and tone to body and mind. The dawdling parties who lunch
on the Hill derive no particular harm; but then how they waste money and
time! Plunderers of all sorts flourish in a species of blind whirl of
knavery; but no worthy person derives any good from the cruel waste of
money and strength and energy. The writers know all this, and yet they
go on turning out their sham cordiality, sham congratulations, sham
justifications; while any of us who know thoroughly the misery and
mental death and ruin of souls brought on by racing and gambling are
labelled as un-English or churlish or something of the kind. Why should
we be called churlish? Is it not true that a million of men and women
waste a day on a pursuit which brings them into contact with filthy
intemperance, stupid debauch, unspeakable coarseness? The eruptive
sportsman tells us that the sight of a good man on a good horse should
stir every manly impulse in a Briton. What rubbish! What manliness can
there be in watching a poor baby-colt flogged along by a dwarf? If one
is placed at some distance from the course, then one may find the
glitter of the pretty silk jackets pleasing; but, should one chance to
be near enough to see what is termed "an exciting finish," one's
general conception of the manliness of racing may be modified. From afar
off the movement of the jockeys' whip-hands is no more suggestive than
the movement of a windmill's sails; but, when one hears the "flack,
flack" of the whalebone and sees the wales rise on the dainty skin of
the immature horse, one does not feel quite joyous or manly. I have seen
a long lean creature reach back with his right leg and keep on jobbing
with the spur for nearly four hundred yards of a swift finish; I saw
another manikin lash a good horse until the animal fairly curved its
back in agony and writhed its head on one side so violently that the
manly sporting-men called it an ungenerous brute. Where does the fun
come in for the onlookers? There is one good old thoroughbred which
remembers a fearful flogging that he received twenty-two years ago; if
he hears the voice of the man who lashed him, he sweats profusely, and
trembles so much that he is like to fall down. How is the breed of
horses directly improved by that kind of sport? No; the thousands of
wastrels who squander the day and render themselves unsettled and idle
for a week are not thinking of horses or of taking a healthy outing;
they are obeying an unhealthy gregarious instinct which in certain
circumstances makes men show clear signs of acute mania. If we look at
the unadulterated absurdity of the affair, we may almost be tempted to
rage like Carlyle or Swift. For weeks there are millions of people who
talk of little else save the doings of useless dumb animals which can
perform no work in the world and which at best are beautiful toys. When
the thoroughbreds actually engage in their contest, there is no man of
all the imposing multitude who can see them gallop for more than about
thirty seconds; the last rush home is seen only by the interesting
mortals who are on the great stand; and the entire performance which
interests some persons for a year is all over in less than three
minutes. This is the game on which Englishmen lavish wild hopes, keen
attention, and good money--this is the sport of kings which gluts the
pockets of greedy knaves! A vast city--nay, a vast empire--is partially
disorganized for a day in order that some dwarfish boys may be seen
flogging immature horses during a certain number of seconds, and we
learn that there is something "English," and even chivalrous, in the
foolish wastrel proceedings.
My conceptions of English virtues are probably rudimentary; but I quite
fail to discover where the "nobility" of horse-racing and racecourse
picnicing appears. My notion of "nobility" belongs to a bygone time; and
I was gratified by hearing of one very noble deed at the moment when the
flashy howling mob were trooping forward to that great debauch which
takes place around the Derby racecourse. A great steamer was flying over
a Southern sea, and the sharks were showing their fins and prowling
around with evil eyes. The _Rimutaka_ spun on her way, and all the
ship's company were cheerful and careless. Suddenly a poor crazy woman
sprang over the side and was drifted away by a surface-current; while
the irresistible rush of the steamer could not of course be easily
stayed. A good Englishman--honour for ever to his name!--jumped into the
water, swam a quarter of a mile, and, by heaven's grace, escaped the
wicked sea-tigers and saved the unhappy distraught woman. That man's
name is Cavell: and I think of "nobility" in connection with him, and
not in connection with the manikins who rush over Epsom Downs.
I like to give a thought to the nobility of those men who guard and rule
a mighty empire; but I think very little of the creatures who merely
consume food and remain at home in rascally security. What a farce to
talk of encouraging "athletics"! The poor manikin who gets up on a racer
is not an athlete in any rational sense of the term. He is a wiry
emaciated being whose little muscles are strung like whipcord; but it is
strange to dignify him as an athlete. If he once rises above nine stone
in weight, his life becomes a sort of martyrdom; but, abstemious and
self-contained as he is, we can hardly give him the name which means so
much to all healthy Englishmen. For some time each day the wondrous
specimen of manhood must stew in a Turkish bath or between blankets; he
tramps for miles daily if his feet keep sound; he starts at five in the
morning and perhaps rides a trial or two; then he takes his weak tea and
toast, then exercise or sweating; then comes his stinted meal; and then
he starves until night. To call such a famished lean fellow a follower
of "noble" sport is too much. Other British men deny themselves; but
then think of the circumstances! Far away among the sea of mountains on
our Indian frontier a gallant Englishman remains in charge of his lonely
station; his Pathans or Ghoorkas are fine fellows, and perhaps some
brave old warrior will use the privilege of age and stroll in to chat
respectfully to the Sahib. But it is all lonely--drearily lonely. The
mountain partridge may churr at sunrise and sundown; the wily crows may
play out their odd life-drama daily; the mountain winds may rush
roaring through the gullies until the village women say they can hear
the hoofs of the brigadier's horse. But what are these desert sounds and
sights for the laboriously-cultured officer? His nearest comrade is
miles off; his spirit must dwell alone. And yet such men hang on at
their dreary toil; and who can ever hear them complain, save in their
semi-humorous letters to friends at home? They often carry their lives
in their hands; but they can only hope to rest unknown if the chance
goes against them. I call those men noble. There are no excited
thousands for them to figure before; they scarcely have the honour of
mention in a despatch; but they go on in grim silence, working out their
own destiny and the destiny of this colossal empire. When I compare them
with the bold sportsmen, I feel something like disgust. The real
high-hearted heroes do not crave rewards--if they did, they would reap
very little. The bold man who risked everything to save the _Calliope_
will never earn as much in a year as a horse-riding manikin can in two
months. That is the way we encourage our finest merit. And meantime at
the "Isthmian games" the hordes of scoundreldom who dwell at ease can
enjoy themselves to their hearts' content in their own dreadful way;
they break out in their usual riot of foulness; they degrade the shape
of man; and the burly moralists look on robustly, and say that it is
good.
I never think of the great British carnival without feeling that the
dregs of that ugly crowd will one day make history in a fashion which
will set the world shuddering. I have no pity for ruined gamblers; but I
am indignant when we see the worst of human kind luxuriating in
abominable idleness and luxury on the foul fringe of the hateful
racecourse. No sumptuary law will ever make any inroad on the cruel
evil; and my feeling is one of sombre hopelessness.
_July, 1889._
_SEASONABLE NONSENSE_.
The most hard-hearted of cynics must pity the poor daily journalist who
is calmly requested nowadays to produce a Christmas article. For my own
part I decline to meddle with holly and jollity and general goodwill,
and I have again and again protested against the insane Beggars'
Carnival which breaks out yearly towards the beginning of December. A
man may be pleased enough to hear his neighbour express goodwill, but he
does not want his neighbour's hand held forth to grasp our Western
equivalent for "backsheesh." In Egypt the screeching Arabs make life
miserable with their ceaseless dismal yell, "_Backsheesh, Howaji!_" The
average British citizen is also hailed with importunate cries which are
none the less piercing and annoying from the fact that they are
translated into black and white. The ignoble frivolity of the swarming
circulars, the obvious insincerity of the newspaper appeals, the
house-to-house calls, tend steadily to vulgarize an ancient and a
beautiful institution, and alienate the hearts of kindly people who do
not happen to be abject simpletons. The outbreak of kindness is
sometimes genuine on the part of the donors; but it is often merely
surface-kindness, and the gifts are bestowed in a bitter and grudging
spirit. Let me ask, What are the real feelings of a householder who is
requested to hand out a present to a turncock or dustman whom he has
never seen? The functionaries receive fair wages for unskilled labour,
yet they come smirking cheerfully forward and prefer a claim which has
no shadow of justification. If a flower-seller is rather too importunate
in offering her wares, she is promptly imprisoned for seven days or
fined; if a costermonger halts for a few minutes in a thoroughfare and
cries his goods, his stock maybe confiscated; yet the privileged
Christmas mendicant may actually proceed to insolence if his claims are
ignored; and the meek Briton submits to the insult. I cannot
sufficiently deplore the progress of this spirit of beggardom, for it is
acting and reacting in every direction all over the country. Long ago we
lamented the decay of manly independence among the fishermen of those
East Coast ports which have become watering-places. Big bearded fellows
whose fathers would have stared indignantly at the offer of a gratuity
are ready to hold out their hands and touch their caps to the most
vulgar dandy that ever swaggered. To any one who knew and loved the
whole breed of seamen and fishermen, a walk along Yarmouth sands in
September is among the most purely depressing experiences in life. But
the demoralization of the seaside population is not so distressing as
that of the general population in great cities. We all know Adam
Bede--the very finest portrait of the old-fashioned workman ever done.
If George Eliot had represented Adam as touching his cap for a sixpence,
we should have gasped with surprise at the incongruity. Can we imagine
an old-world stonemason like Hugh Miller begging coppers from a farmer
on whose steading he happened to be employed? The thing is
preposterous! But now a strong London artizan will coolly ask for his
gratuity just as if he were a mere link-boy!
It is pleasant to turn to kindlier themes; it is pleasant to think of
the legitimate rejoicings and kindnesses in which the most staid of us
may indulge. Far be it from me to emulate the crabbed person who
proposed to form a "Society for the Abolition of Christmas." The event
to be commemorated is by far the greatest in the history of our planet;
all others become hardly worthy of mention when we think of it; and
nothing more momentous can happen until the last catastrophe, when a
chilled and tideless earth shall roll through space, and when no memory
shall remain of the petty creatures who for a brief moment disturbed its
surface. The might of the Empire of Rome brooded over the fairest
portions of the known world, and it seemed as though nothing could shake
that colossal power; the pettiest officer of the Imperial staff was of
more importance than all the natives of Syria; and yet we see that the
fabric of Roman rule has passed away like a vision, while the faith
taught by a band of poor Syrian men has mastered the minds of the
strongest nations in the world. The poor disciples whom the Master left
became apostles; footsore and weary they wandered--they were scorned and
imprisoned and tortured until the last man of them had passed away.
Their work has subdued princes and empires, and the bells that ring out
on Christmas Eve remind us not only of the most tremendous occurrence in
history, but of the deeds of a few humble souls who conquered the fear
of death and who resigned the world in order that the children of the
world might be made better. A tremendous Event truly! We are far, far
away from the ideal, it is true; and some of us may feel a thrill of
sick despair when we think of what the sects have done and what they
have not done--it all seems so slow, so hopeless, and the powers of evil
assert themselves ever and again with such hideous force. Some withdraw
themselves to fierce isolation; some remain in the world, mocking the
ways of men and treating all life as an ugly jest; some refuse to think
at all, and drag themselves into oblivion; while some take one frantic
sudden step and leave the world altogether by help of bullet or bare
bodkin. A man of light mind who endeavoured to reconcile all the things
suggested to him by the coming of Christmas would probably become
demented if he bent his entire intellect to solve the puzzles.
Thousands--millions--of books have been written about the Christian
theology, and half of European mankind cannot claim to have any fixed
and certain belief which leads to right conduct. Some of the noblest and
sweetest souls on earth have given way to chill hopelessness, and only a
very bold or a very thick-sighted man could blame them; we must be
tender towards all who are perplexed, especially when we see how
terrible are the reasons for perplexity. Nevertheless, dark as the
outlook may be in many directions, men are slowly coming to see that the
service of God is the destruction of enmity, and that the religion of
tenderness and pity alone can give happiness during our dark pilgrimage.