We have one room where high prices are charged. This place is kept very
select indeed, and the vulgar are excluded. I was not received very well
at first, and some of the assembly talked at me in a way which was
intended to be highly droll; but I never lost temper, and I fairly
established my position by dint of good humour. Moreover, I found out
who was the most unpopular man in the room, and earned much goodwill by
slyly administering the kind of strokes which a fairly educated man can
always play off on a dullard. I hate the parlour, and if I were to let
out according to my fancy I should use violent language. In that dull,
stupid place one learns to appraise the talk about sociality and
joviality at its correct value. I am afraid I must utter a heresy. I
have heard that George Eliot's chapter about the Raveloe Inn is
considered as equal to Shakespeare's work. Now I can only see in it the
imaginative writing of a clever woman who tried to dramatise a scene
without having any data to guide her. In all my life I never heard a
conversation resembling that of the farrier and the rest in the remotest
degree. In the first place, one element of public-house talk--the overt
or sly indecency--is left out. In an actual public-house parlour the man
who can bring in a totally new tale of a dirty nature is the hero of the
evening. Then the element of scandal is missing. When men of vulgar mind
meet together, you only need to wait a few minutes before you hear
someone's character pulled to pieces, and the scandal is usually of the
clumsiest sort. Again, it is easy to represent the landlord as a pliable
person who agrees with everybody; but the landlord of real life is a
person who is treated with deference, and who asserts his position in
the most pronounced fashion. If he has a good customer he is courteous
and obliging, but he keeps a strict hand on his company, and lets them
know who is master. Nearly all the landlords I have known since I became
a Loafer have been good fellows. They find it in their interest to be
generous, obliging, and friendly; but to represent them as timorous
sycophants is absurd. They are ordinary tradesmen; they have a good
opinion of themselves, and they hold their own with all classes of men.
The women are sometimes insolent, overdressed creatures, who heartily
despise their customers; but very often a landlord marries a lady who is
as far as possible from being like the hostess of fiction.
The temperance orators destroy their main chance of gaining a success by
their senseless attempts to be funny at the expense of the licensed
victuallers. Any spouter who chooses to rant about the landlady's gold
chain and silk dress can make sure of a laugh, and anyone who talks
about "prosperous Mr. Bung" is approved. For the sake of a good cause I
beg the abstainers to tell the plain, brutal truth as I do, and refrain
from scandalising a decent class of citizens. Why on earth should the
landlord be named as a pariah among the virtuous classes? He is a
capitalist who is tempted to invest money in a trade which is the
mainstay of our revenue; he is hedged in with restrictions, and the
faintest slip ruins him for ever. The very nature of his business
compels him to be smart, obliging, ostentatiously friendly; yet with all
this the Government treat him as if he were by nature a thief, while
thousands of earnest but ignorant and foolish people reckon him an enemy
of society.
Pray who is forced or solicited to buy the landlord's wares? Your
butcher cries "Buy, buy, buy!" your draper sends out bills and
sandwich-men; but the publican would be scouted if he went out touting
for custom. If a man asks for drink he knows quite well what he is
doing, and if he takes too much it is because of some morbid taint or
unlucky weakness.
Take away the taint, and strengthen the weakness; but do not pour
blackguard and unfair abuse on business men who are in no way answerable
for human frailty.
When I hear (as I often do) some flabby boozer whining and ascribing his
trouble to the drinkshop, I despise him. Who took him to the drinkshop?
Was it not to please himself that he went? Did he care for any other
being's gratification but his own when he slipped the alcohol down his
throat? Yet he appeals for pity. I reckon that I know England and
Scotland as well as most commercial travellers, and I have been
compelled to depend for my comfort and well-being on the men whom some
of the Alliance folk call pariahs. In all my experience I have come
across less than a dozen men whom I should imagine to rank among the
shady division. I should be a liar if I said that many public-houses are
highly moral and useful institutions; but the abuses are due to the rank
faults of human nature, and not to the class of traders who are
alternately described as venal sycophants or robbers. Let us be fair.
The Devil has enough to bear, and for any harm which we bring to
ourselves we should not lay the blame on him or fate.
The whole Raveloe scene is full of typical errors. It is too pretty, too
decent, too neat, too humourous. There is very little fun to be got out
of public-house humours, because the vanity of the various talkers is
offensive, and their stupidity has not the charm of simplicity. If such
a man as, say, Mr. Matthew Arnold wanted to test the accuracy of the
"Silas Marner" chapter for critical purposes, he would scarcely recover
the ordeal of a night spent in a haunt of the hardened toper. If the
company happened to be unembarrassed, their ribaldry would sicken the
philosopher; their coarse manners would revolt him; their political
talk--well, that would probably stupefy him and cause him to flee.
Here are my notes of one specimen conversation, given without any
dramatic nonsense or idealisation. My memory can be trusted absolutely,
and I have often reported a long interview in such a way that the person
interviewed saw nothing to alter.
Bowman guffawed, and his purple face swelled with merriment, for he had
been hearing a whispered story told by Bill Preston, an elderly retired
tradesman. Bill is a most respectable man whose daughters hold quite a
leading position in the society of our district. He is great on church
business, and he is the vicar's right-hand man. It is a noble sight to
see him on Sundays when he stalks down the aisle, nattily dressed in
black, and wearing a devotional air; but in our parlour his sole aim is
to tell the queerest stories in the greatest possible number, and his
collection--amassed by years of loving industry--is large and various.
He cannot hear the simplest speech without trying to extract some bawdy
significance from it, and when he has scored a thoroughly indecent
success, his clean, rosy, jolly face is lit up by a fascinating smile.
Ah! if ladies only heard these sober fathers of families when
conversational high jinks are in progress, they would be decidedly
enlightened.
When Bowman ended his guffaw he said, with admiration, "You naughty old
man! How dare you go for to corrupt my morals?" And Bill received the
tribute with modest gratification. Then a loud voice silenced us all,
and Joe Pidgeon, our great logician, began to hold forth.
"Wot did old Disraely do? Why, they was all frightened of him. He was a
masterpiece, I tell you. What was that there heppigram as he
made?--'Inebriated with the hexuberance of his own verbosity.' There's
langwidge for you! And he kep' it up, too, he did. He was the brightest
diadem in England's crown, he was. But this Gladstone!--wot's he? Show
me any trade as he's benefited! Ain't he taken the British Flag to the
bloomin' pawnshop? Gord love me, he oughter be 'ung, he did! I tell you
he ought to be 'ung. If you was to say to me to-morrow 'Will you 'ang
old Gladstone?' I'd 'andle the rope. He's a blank robber and a
scoundrel, he is.
"What's this new man, Lord Churchill, goin' to do? He's a red-hot 'un.
He does slip into 'em, and no mistake. He's a coming man, I reckon. I
never see such a flow of language as that bit where he called old Gommy
a superannuated Pharisee. That was up against him, wasn't it?"
An old man spoke. He is feeble, but he is regarded as an authority on
literature, politics, and other matters. "There's never been a good day
for anybody since the old-fashioned elections was done away with. All
the houses was open, fun going on for days, and the candidates was free
as free could be. Your vote was worth something then. I remember when
Horsley put up against Palmer. A rare man was Palmer! Why, that Palmer
drove down with a coach-and-four and postilions, and he kept us all
alive for a week. He'd kiss the children in the streets, and he'd set
all the taps free in any inn that he went into. It's all purity and
that sort of thing now.
"I don't see no good in talking politics. One of the jiggers says one
thing, and one of them says another thing. I think the first one's
right, then I think the other one's right, and then I think nothing at
all. I say, give us something good for trade, and let us have a fair
chance of making money. That's my motto.
"And, I say, let's have a law to turn those d----d Germans out of the
country. They come over here--the hungry, poverty-stricken brutes--and
they take the bread out of Englishmen's mouths, and they talk about
education. Education! who cares for education? I never could read a book
in my life without falling asleep, and I can give some of the educated
ones a start in my small way. Why, I've got a tenant--a literary
man--and he has about six pound of meat sent home in a week. There's
education for you. I say, out with the Germans!"
Rullock, the cultured man, was hurt when he heard education mentioned
lightly. He said, "Excuse _me_, friend Bowler, but I think we must
reckonise the claims of edgication. We all know you; we all respect
you, and we know you'll cut up well at the finish; but I must disagree
with you on that one subject. I'm a edgicated man--I may say that much.
My father paid sixty pound a year at boarding-school for me.
Sixty--pounds--a--year; so if I'm not edgicated, I should like to know
who is. It's a great advantage to you. Look at the position you take
when you go into a public room, and talk about any subject that comes
up. Suppose you're ignorant; well, there you sit; and what are you?
You're nobody. No, I approve of edgication--it improves the mind. It
does undoubtedly improve the mind. Look now at this Randolph Churchill
that's come to the front. What is it but edgication that brought him
forward? I should venture to say he's a learned man, and knows lots of
languages and sciences, else how'd he shut up such a wonderful orator as
Gladstone? We all know as old Beaky was edgicated. Look at his books.
How'd he write a book without it? I began "Cohningsby," and, I tell you,
it's grand--sublime. No, friend B., I think you must give in I'm
right."
"And I think you're a lot of ---- fools."
This interruption came from the devout Billy--Billy Preston. That pious
man liked to have the talk mainly to himself, and he thought that
anything not obscene was tame. By the way, these abrupt and insolent
remarks are characteristic of public-house wit. A favourite joke is to
ask a friend a serious question. When he fails to answer, then the joker
shouts some totally irrelevant and indecent word, and the questioned man
is regarded as "sold." I cannot repeat the interlude with which Billy
Preston favoured us, but it was very spicy indeed, and referred to some
of those sacred secrets which are known to all. For a pillar of the
Church, Billy displayed rather amazing tastes and abilities. Then the
talk fell into decency after the regulation merriment had greeted Mr.
Preston's closing effort.
"How long will you give Jobson to hold out?"
"I don't know. He's into everybody's books all round. I should like to
pick up that pony if he does smash."
"I heard Charley Dunn say that Mrs. Jobson was round at old Burdett's
asking for time. Jimmy Burdett's got a lot of Jobson's paper, and I
shouldn't wonder if he stole a march on the other creditors."
"Well, Jobson's a good sort, but he couldn't last. He's too free with
his money. I never wanted his champagne and his suppers, but you had to
drop in like the others, and there you are."
A strident voice drowned the scandal, and an admiring group ceased
smoking and listened spellbound to a characteristic anecdote. I cannot
put in all the expletives, but I may say that the speaker modelled his
style on that of the more eloquent betting men whom he knew.
"I says to him, you'll trot me, will you? Why, go on with you, run and
see your grandmother, and get her to wipe your nose for you. Strike me,
I could sweep the blank chimney with you! You want to get on to me, and
you know my cob can't go more than eleven at the outside. I was kiddin'
him on, do you see? Then I winks at old Sammy, and he says, very solemn,
'It's absurd for you, sir, to talk of trotting this gentleman. The cob's
out of condition, and rough as a badger.' You see I let the cob keep his
winter coat, and he was an object and no error. So this bloke was a fly
flat, don't you know, and I could see he bit. He says, 'I'd like to have
a match with you.' So I tips the office to Sammy, and blanked if he
didn't go and knock in a slice of bloomin' flint a little way between
the shoe and the near fore foot. I says very timid, 'Well, sir, I don't
mind having a try just for a bit of sport, if you'll lay £30 to £20.' He
says, 'Done with you,' and we staked. When I sees my pony walking
gingerly, I made as if I was took aback. He saw the same thing, and
says, 'Pony's wrong.' 'Yes,' says I, 'worse luck.' He says, 'I lay you
£50 to £30 I beat you.' I says, 'You have me at a disadvantage, sir, but
I'm on,' and I pulls out my three tenners. Then Sammy got the flint out,
and we went into the road. I let him go away, and after we'd done five
mile he waves and cries good-bye. I never hustled my cob, for I found I
could go by when I liked. Two mile from Dorking I gives the cob his
head. Lord love you, he can do seventeen inside the hour, and he left
that juggins as if he was standing still. When he drove up at Dorking,
he says, 'You're a red-hot member!' and, by God, I think I am!"
This interesting yarn was received with rapture, and a remarkably strong
anecdote of a lady and her footman fell flat, much to Mr. Preston's
disgust. Then came the hour for personalities. As the drink takes effect
our parlour customers attempt satire, and their efforts are always of a
strongly personal nature.
"If I'd a boiled beetroot face like you, I'd never show my 'ed in a
public room again."
"What's your wrong end like, you bloomin' Dutchman?"
"You shouldn't kiss and tell." (Rapturous applause.)
"Get away. You're too mean and miserable to do anything but count your
dibs. He's so mean, gentlemen, that when he dropped a sixpence into the
plate at church instead of a fourpenny-piece, he stopped his wife's
cat's-meat allowance for a week to make up."
"If I had a voice like you I'd have it stuffed."
"If I had a nose like you I'd pay no more gas bills. You know your wife
emptied the water-jug on you that night when you were lying boozed,
because she thought it was a red-hot cinder on the floor."
And so on. The company part without any goodwill, and a night of odious
stupidity is over. Personally, I regard every hour I have spent in this
public-house as wasted. I never in my life heard a word of real fun, or
real sense, excepting from men who were merely casual visitors. The
person whose mind is satisfied by the parlour dullness of that nightly
foolery only becomes animated when he is indecent. In tracing the
natural history of a public-house I have found the respectable dullards
the most revolting of my subjects.
But the mere fact that our one wretched hole is stupid and sometimes
revolting by no means proves that all other places are of the same sort.
I know one quiet, cleanly room where many smart young fellows go; their
trade compels them to be decorous, and you see nothing but courtesy, and
hear much good-natured and sensible chat.
The riverside 'Arry is always an awful being, but the gentle, respectful
lad who takes his lemonade and enjoys himself in German fashion is nice
company. I have seen all sorts, and, while I would gladly burst a
13-inch shell in such a cankered doghole as The Chequers, I am bound to
say that there are a few cosy, harmless places whereof the loss would be
a calamity.
* * * * *
I grow weary now, and often at nights, when the vast shadow of the lamp
shudders on the ceiling and the wind moans hoarsely outside, I fall back
in sheer luxury on the fine, straight, cut-and-thrust of old Boswell's
conversations as a relief from the slavering babble which I often hear.
Being a Loafer is all very good so far; but some of the men (and women)
who address me use a kind of familiarity that makes me long to lie down
and die. A man never loses the dandy instinct, and when you come to be
actually addressed in familiar, or even impudent, terms by a sort of
promoted housemaid, it makes you long for the soft-voiced, quiet ladies
to whom a false accent or a shrill word would be a horror.
So long as you are a Loafer you must be prepared to put up with much.
The better-class artisan is always a gentleman who never offers nor
endures a liberty; but some of the flash sort are unendurable, and their
womenkind are worse. With costers and bargemen one can always get on
familiarly: it is the pretentious, vulgar men and females who are
horrible.
Often and often I am tempted to creep back among the lights again, and
feel the old delicate joy from cultured talk, lovely music, steady
refinement, and beauty. Then comes the reckless fit, and I am off to The
Chequers. Here is a rhyme which takes my fancy. I suppose it is my own,
but have quite forgotten:--
This is the skull of a man,
Soon shall your head be as empty:
Laugh and be glad while you can.
* * * * *
Where, from the silver that rims it,
Glows the red spirit of wine,
Once there was longing and passion,
Finding a woman divine;
Blurred is the finished design,
This was the scope of the plan:
Death, the dry Jester's old bauble--
Drink and be glad while you can.
Sorry and cynical symbol,
Ghastly old caricature,
We, too, must walk in thy footsteps,
We but a little endure.
Bah! since the end is so sure,
Let us out-frolic our span,
Death is a hush and a darkness--
Drink and be glad while you can.