If the reader’s attention is now called to it for the first time, he will
be rather surprised, we dare say, to find how much humbug is incorporated
with our social system. It will rather surprise him to find, as a little
reflection will certainly enable him to do, that humbug forms, in fact,
the cement by which society is held together; that it pervades every
department of it, fills up all its crevices and crannies, and, in truth,
permeates its very substance. We, in short, all humbug one another;
that’s beyond all manner of doubt.
Don’t we every day write cards and letters beginning with “My dear, or
My _very_ dear sir,” and ending with, “Yours sincerely, truly, &c. &c.,”
knowing, in our conscience, that in ninety-nine instances out of the
hundred--always excepting cases where a man’s _interest_ is concerned--we
do not care one straw for these very dear sirs--not one farthing although
they were six feet below the ground to-morrow.
Suppose an intimation card of the death of one of these very dear sirs,
or of some “good friend” or intimate acquaintance, waits us on our
arrival home to dinner.
“Guess who’s dead?” says some member of our family, running towards us
with joyful anticipation of our perplexity.
“Can’t say, indeed,” reply we. “Who is it?”
“Mr O’Madigan.”
“Ah, dear me, poor follow, is he dead? Very sudden, very unexpected.--_Is
dinner ready?_”
What is the civility of the landlord and his waiters but humbug? What
the smirking, smiling, ducking and bowing of the shopkeeper, but humbug?
What his sweet and gentle “yes, sirs,” and “no, sirs,” and “proud to
serve you, sirs,” but humbug? You are not goose enough to believe for a
moment that he is serious, that he has either the least regard or respect
for you. Not he; he would not care a twopence although you were hanged,
drawn, and quartered before his shop-door to-morrow, except, perhaps, for
the inconvenience of the thing.
What is the civility of the servant to his employer but humbug? Do you
imagine for a moment that that man who, hat in hand, is looking up to you
with such a respectful air--looking up to you as if you were a god--as if
his very existence depended on your slightest breath--do you imagine for
a moment, we ask, that he has in his heart that deference for you that
he would make you believe? that he conceives you to be so very superior
a being as his manner would imply? Not he, indeed. Depend upon it, it is
all humbug; humbug all. And if you saw or heard him when he feels secure
that you can do neither the one nor the other, you would speedily be
convinced that it is.
But it is in the wheel-within-wheel of social life, the domestic circle,
in what are called the friendly relations of life, that the system of
humbug assumes, perhaps, its most deceptive character. See what a loving
and friendly set of people are gathered together around that dinner
table! See how blandly, how affectionately they look on each other!
How delighted they are with one another--with mine host and hostess in
particular! Why, they would die for them--die on the spot. They would go
any length to serve one another. See that shake of the hand, how cordial
it is! that smile, how affectionate! how winning! how full of kindly
promise! Now, do these people in reality feel the smallest interest in
each other’s welfare? Would they make the slightest sacrifice to serve
one another? Not they, indeed. If you doubt it, try any one of them next
day; try any of your “dear friends” if they will lend you a pound or
five, as the case may be. Until you do this, or something like it, depend
upon it you don’t know your men; no, nor your women either.
“Oh! but,” says the moralist, “mere civility, my good sir, mere civility;
absurd idea to suppose that every man to whom you are civil should have a
claim also on your purse.”
“But in the case of a ‘dear friend,’ Mr Moralist, or intimate
acquaintance--eh?--for it is of them only that I speak. Surely _they_
might do something for you.”
“Oh! that as it may be. But as a general rule”----
“Then all this cordiality of greeting, this affectionate shaking of
hands, these sweet smiles and sweeter words, are all to go for nothing?
They are to be understood as meaning nothing.”
“Certainly.”
“Then we are perfectly agreed--it is all deception.”
“Oh! you may call it what you please.”
“Thank you. Then with your leave I shall call it humbug. It is not a very
elegant word, but it is pretty expressive.”
But, lo! here comes a funeral. See how grave and melancholy these
sable-clad gentlemen look. Why, you would imagine that under that
dismal pall lay all the earthly hopes of every individual present, that
every heart in the solemn train was well-nigh broken. All this is very
becoming no doubt, and it would scarcely be decorous to go either singing
or laughing along the streets on such an occasion, when carrying the
poor remains of mortality to its last resting-place. But it’s humbug,
nevertheless--humbug all! Not one of these sorrowing mourners, excepting
perhaps one or two of the nearest relations, cares one twopenny piece for
the defunct. Not one of them would have given him sixpence to keep him
from starving.
Notwithstanding, however, the very general diffusion of humbug, it may be
classed under regular heads, and we rather think this would not be a bad
way of illustrating it. We shall try; beginning with