the health is impaired by illness or low vitality arising from any cause,
the invigorating effect of good wine is quite lost, owing to the system
having become accustomed to it. This prevents it from acting upon the
nerves and tissues as it would do most beneficially if there were any
novelty about it.
A third reason for not doing it is that for patients who have made a
continual practice of wine-drinking at meals, doctors are obliged, in
quite nine cases out of ten, to forbid it, especially to women. And almost
always they order whiskey instead. How often one hears people say
nowadays--both men and women--"My doctor won't let me drink wine. He says
I must have whiskey and water, _if I drink anything_."
[Sidenote: Sir Henry Thompson's verdict.]
[Sidenote: "A dietetic error."]
No doubt the doctor would generally prefer that his patients should not
drink even the whiskey, but he knows very well that the habit of a
lifetime is not to be overcome without an amount of resolution which is by
no means always forthcoming. Sir Henry Thompson, in his admirable book,
"Food and Feeding," gives it as his opinion that "the _habitual_ use of
wine, beer, or spirits is a dietetic error." He adds to this very straight
and direct pronouncement: "In other words, the great majority of people,
at any age or of either sex, will enjoy better health, both of body and
mind, and will live longer, without alcoholic drinks whatever than with
habitual indulgence in their use, even though such use be what is
popularly understood as moderate. But I do not aver that any particular
harm results from the habit of now and then enjoying a glass of really
fine, pure wine, just as one may occasionally enjoy a particularly choice
dish; neither the one nor the other, perhaps, being sufficiently innocuous
or digestible for frequent, much less habitual, use." And there is much
more to practically the same effect. So that this eminent authority
regards the habit of daily drinking wine as one that is likely to produce
more or less injurious results upon the body, and possibly upon the mind
as well.
[Sidenote: The greatest danger.]
And I have kept to the last another reason, and perhaps the strongest of
any, against it. That is, the ever-present danger of learning to like wine
too well, and of falling into the awful fault of drunkenness. I will add
no word to this argument, for the miseries, degradation, and horrors of
this kind of thing are only too well known.
[Sidenote: A telling example.]
Madame Sarah Bernhardt, who is as healthy, vigorous, and charming a woman
of her age (I won't mention what it is!) as it would be possible to find,
and who has preserved in a marvellous manner her dramatic powers,
attributes her condition of blithe well-being to her life-long habit of
abstinence from drinking wine or alcoholic beverages of any kind. It is
not that she never touches them. Not at all! The _Grande Sarah_ can enjoy
a glass of champagne or Burgundy as well as any one--better, in fact, than
most, since she has never accustomed herself to their constant use. She
likes milk, and if any woman wants to keep her complexion at its best she
should take to this unsophisticated beverage at once and abide by it.
[Sidenote: The habitual use only deprecated.]
There is no reason whatever that we should not enjoy wine at
dinner-parties. I am so afraid of being misunderstood that I must run
some risk of repeating myself. It is only with the habitual daily use of
wine at lunch and dinner that I am finding fault. It serves no good end.
But, on occasion, let it be enjoyed like other good gifts of a kindly
Providence. Because some misuse it and abuse it there is no compulsion to
avoid it upon those who do neither. If every one of the moderate drinkers
in England were to become teetotallers there would be just the same number
of drunkards left in the land, pursuing their own courses. They would not
be affected by the abstinence of others.
[Sidenote: A mournful dinner-party.]
A dinner-party without wine is rather a mournful business. I was at one
once. It was several years ago, but I have never forgotten it. It was the
first occasion on which I ever tasted a frightful temperance drink called
"gooseberry champagne." It is also likely to be the last! Oh, no! Do not
let us have wineless dinner-parties! The very point of my argument is that
if we refrain from the habit of drinking it daily our enjoyment of it on
such social occasions is very greatly enhanced. But what are we to drink?
I fully admit that the perfect drink has yet to be invented. Water would
be good enough for most of us if we could only get it pure. But this is
difficult indeed. And even if our water supply were to be immaculate we
should lack faith in its perfection! Could we have our glass jugs filled
at some far-off mountain rill, miles away from London smoke and its
infected atmosphere, we should have to look no further for a delicious
drink, pure, invigorating, and of so simple a character as leaves the
flavours of food unimpaired for the palate.
[Sidenote: A substitute.]
Sweet drinks are not recommended as accompaniments to solid food. But
there is no lack of good aerated waters, sparkling and most inviting of
aspect, as well as pleasant to the palate for those who have not spoiled
it by the constant use of wine.
Now, I wonder if any single reader of this will give up even one glass of
wine daily, or keep her young sons and daughters from falling into the
habit of constantly taking it at meals? I can assure the doubtful that
there is nothing unusual in dispensing with it. The question asked by
one's host or hostess at a restaurant: "What wine do you like?" is often,
and more especially at luncheon, answered by: "None, thanks; I like
apollinaris, distilled water," &c. The experiment of doing without wine is
worth trying.
_SOME OLD PROVERBS._
[Sidenote: "Discreet women have neither eyes nor ears."]
In an old book that is one of my treasures, having been published in the
year 1737, I find much wisdom that is applicable to our conduct in
everyday life. It purports to be a "Compleat Collection of English
Proverbs; also the most celebrated Proverbs of the Scotch, Italian,
French, and Other Languages." Very early in the volume comes the saying
that "Discreet women have neither eyes nor ears." Have we not all to
practise this kind of discretion in our home dealings? In vulgar parlance,
we "wink at" much that goes on in the kitchen, and profit largely in the
matter of peace and quiet by doing so. Should we hear the servants
disagree, a convenient deafness seizes us; for we know very well that if
we were to inquire into the bearings of the business a slightly boisterous
wind would very soon develop into a hurricane. And does not the exercise
of tact in many cases compel us to shut our eyes to the traces of tears on
dear faces when we know that any reference to the cause would upset
composure and bring with it the feeling of humiliation that follows loss
of self-control before others. The happiest homes are those in which
"discreet women have neither eyes nor ears," except when vigilance is
thoroughly in season.
[Sidenote: "A great dowry is a bed of brambles."]
From the Spanish comes the proverb, "A great dowry is a bed full of
brabbles." Was there ever an heiress yet who did not find it so? Who did
not, at least once in her life, long to be rid of the riches that made
life so difficult for her, obscuring true love, and making the parting of
the ways so impossibly difficult of choice? And even when the
disinterested lover is chosen there are many, many unhappy hours caused by
the miserable money. A man loves his pride far more than he loves any
woman, and often sacrifices home happiness to it. There is no lack of
"brabbles" (brambles) in any woman's life who possesses wealth. Riches
might be supposed to be a great easement to existence, but if the poorly
endowed could but realise their immunity from cares of a heavy kind they
would, like the psalmist, choose "neither riches nor poverty." Even a
small dowry serves to bring the sharks round a girl, and she is far safer
without more than the merest competence. To have to do some work in the
world is good for her, and many a devoted parent who works hard to leave
his girls well provided for would have done far better for them if he had
equipped them with the means of earning their own living. There would be
fewer "brabbles" in their path. There are thousands and thousands of
discontented women in England now who are weighted with their own idle and
selfish lives, and owe it all to the selfless affection of a father who
worked himself into his grave in order to place them beyond the reach of
want.
Oh! The waste of beautiful things in this weary world! The bootless love
that blindly strives for the welfare of the loved ones! The endless pains
and self-denial that elicit nothing but ingratitude! Who has not read
"Pere Goriot"? Have any of us forgotten King Lear? Fathers, do not burden
your daughters with great dowries. Life is hard enough on women without
adding the penalty of great riches to the weird they have to dree.
[Sidenote: "The best mirror is an old friend."]
"The best mirror is an old friend." Most truly 'tis so. There are we safe
from flattery. We sometimes see in our looking-glasses rather what we wish
to see than what is really reflected. Du Maurier had once in _Punch_ a
portrait of Mrs. Somebody as she really was, another sketch of the lady as
she appeared to herself, and a third as her husband saw her. The husband
represented the "old friend" in this instance, and his idea of his wife
was far from flattering. It is so with many husbands; but not with all.
Quite recently there was published a sonnet, written by an eminent man on
seeing his wife's portrait when she was well on into middle age. The
expression of surprise in discovering that any one could see an elderly
woman in the wife of his youth, in whom he saw always, when he looked at
her, her own young face, was exquisitely put, and the whole sonnet most
touchingly conveyed the truth that some "old friends" see dear but faded
faces through a glamour of affection, that equals that of even vanity
itself.
[Sidenote: "An hungry man is an angry man."]
"An hungry man an angry man." Well! Here is good guidance for us.
_Punch's_ immortal "Feed the brute!" endorses it with a note of modernity,
and the far-off echo from the early days of the eighteenth century proves
that human nature is not much altered in this respect. Is it not a good
recommendation for punctuality with meals? But how many men will approve
of the following: "Dry bread at home is better than roast meat abroad." In
these days of restaurant lunches and dinners all that kind of thing might
be supposed to have altered; but, even now, many a man prefers a chop at
home to mock turtle in the city. Home food does him more good, he thinks.
Is there anything in it beyond imaginings?
[Sidenote: "Life is half spent before we know what it is."]
[Sidenote: "God has His plan for every man."]
"Life is half spent before we know what it is." How often we wish we
could have our time over again, and how differently we should spend it,
with the light of experience to guide us! It was our tragic ignorance that
misled us, we think. We had no chart to show us where the quicksands lay.
We could so easily have avoided them, or so we believe. If we had only
taken the other turning, we say. It was at that parting of the roads that
we lost our way. There were no finger-posts for our understanding, and the
experience of friends we rejected as unsuitable to our own case. And, oh!
how "full of brabbles" have we found the path. We missed the smooth, broad
highway, and met many an ugly fence and trudged many a weary foot in muddy
lanes and across ploughed fields. If we had only known! The sweetness of
the might-have-been smiles upon us from its infinite distance, far, far
beyond our reach, with the light upon it that never was on land or sea.
_Si jeunesse savait!_ But, then, if it did, it would no longer be youth.
And, after all, we were not meant to walk firmly and safely and wisely at
the first trial, any more than the baby who totters and sways and balances
himself, only to totter again, and suddenly collapse with the deep and
solemn gravity of babyhood, under the laughing, tender eyes of the
watchful mother. Are there not wise and loving eyes watching our
wanderings and noting our sad mistakes? And cannot good come out of evil?
Thank God, it can, and many a life that looks like failure here on earth
may be one of God's successes.
Remember the good old Swiss proverb:--
"God has His plan
For every man."
_CANDOUR AS A HOME COMMODITY._
[Sidenote: The brutality of some qualities of candour.]
Why is it that members of some households consider themselves at liberty
to make the rudest remarks to each other on subjects that ought to be
sacred ground? We all know the old saying which tells us that fools rush
in where angels fear to tread, and when we find strangers from without the
home circle inter-meddling with the bitter griefs of its members, we are
full of condemnation. For instance, when a callous question was asked of a
girl in mourning as to whom she was wearing it for, the indignation of
those in hearing of it knew no bounds. But there are other griefs than
bereavement, and sometimes they are even harder to bear. If perfect
freedom of remark is habitually indulged in, the habit grows, and grows,
and the operator at last becomes so hardened to the sight of the pain she
inflicts that it makes no impression on her--no more than a hedgehog's
prickles make on their proprietor.
[Sidenote: The painfully frank person not always a model of justice.]
There is far too much candour in family life! Like all perversions of
good qualities, it is more aggravating than many wholly bad ones. The
possessor can always make out such a good case for herself. "I always say
what I think," is one of the favourite expressions of these candid folk.
"I never flatter any one," is another of their pet sayings, but I have
always observed that a painfully frank person is by no means rigidly "true
and just in all her dealings," as the Catechism puts it. Quite the
contrary, in fact. Such persons seem to use up all their stock of candour
in dealing round heart-aches and planting roots of bitterness wherever
they find an opportunity. They have none left for occasions when it is
obviously against their own interests to be very honest and open.
Double-dealing often lurks behind an exaggerated appearance of frankness.
[Sidenote: Politeness need not mean stiffness.]
The cultivation of politeness in the home averts much of this element of
_brusquerie_ and unnecessary candour with their consequences of ill-will
and wounded spirits. Politeness need not mean stiffness, as some folk seem
to fancy that it does. It is only when it is but occasionally donned and
not habitually worn that it becomes inseparable from a feeling of _gene_.
"Company manners" should not be very different from those of everyday
life, but those of every day are often lamentably insufficient.
[Sidenote: "A prophet is not honoured."]
[Sidenote: The alchemy of noble natures.]
The reason that so many wounds can be dealt to those at home by the
wielders of the weapon of candour is that we are known with all our faults
to the members of the home circle. Our weaknesses cannot expect to escape
the notice of those who see us every day, and it is only after long
practice that we learn to receive the thrusts of the over-candid with a
patient forbearance. Sometimes we are fain to acknowledge that we have
profited by the sound and wholesome home-truths conveyed to us by their
means, but it needs a noble nature to accept in this way what was meant as
a dagger-thrust. There are cases where some natural defect is made the
butt of sneers and rude remarks, as when a sister remarks to a brother,
"Pity you're so short, Jack!" when she knows very well that poor Jack
would willingly give a finger to be the length of it taller. These nasty
little jests are not forgotten, and when the day comes that the sister
might exert a beneficent influence over Jack, she finds that he is armed
against her by the memory of her own words.
[Sidenote: Revealing family secrets.]
A very hateful form of candour is that which impels people to reveal
family secrets, which have for some very good reason been kept from some
of the members. "They think it only right that he should know," and
straightway proceed to inform him, whoever he may be, without even giving
the unfortunate relatives the chance of telling him themselves. Such a
case occurred once in a family with which I had some acquaintance. A
woman, who was not even a relative, revealed a carefully-guarded secret to
a boy who was still too young to realise the importance of keeping it to
himself. Consequently it soon became public property, and when, after an
interval, the truth was discovered as to how the boy came to know the
facts, the person who had told him was heard to express surprise that she
was never invited to the So-and-so's now! It would have been more
surprising if she had been! There are officious people of this sort to be
found in every circle, and it is always safer to keep them at a distance.
Two such are enough to set a whole city by the ears.
[Sidenote: Candour and cold water.]
[Sidenote: That delightful word "Tact"!]
Candour is a delightful and a refreshing quality; of that there can be not
the smallest doubt. And cold water is refreshing! It is nice to have a
little drink or a pleasant bath, but no one likes his head held under the
pump, for all that! Nor do we enjoy being forced to drink cold water when
we are not thirsty, do we? But that is analogous to what the over-candid
people make us do. Hypocrisy is hateful enough, but we all know it for
what it is, and sometimes a small dose of it is really preferable to a
draught of candour, administered without compunction, the operator holding
the nose of the victim, as it were.
[Sidenote: "To be administered in small doses."]
[Sidenote: La peau de chagrin.]
It is, at least, not a commodity to be laid in in large quantities, is it?
And even when we feel very well supplied, we need not be lavish with it.
No one will be much poorer if we keep our stores untouched, and we
ourselves shall certainly be richer. For does not unnecessary
outspokenness rob us of the affection and sympathy of those without whom
the world would be an empty and a dreary place? We want all the love we
can get to help us through the world, and when we favour others with a
burst of candour we sadly diminish our share of goodwill. It is like the
_peau de chagrin_ in Balzac's famous story, which contracted whenever the
owner used up any of the joys of life, and when it shrank into nothingness
he had to die. So it is with our unkind speeches. They lose us the only
life worth living, that which is in the thoughts and affections of our
friends. And it is extraordinary how long they are remembered. They stick
like burrs long after the pleasant, kindly words of praise and
appreciation are forgotten.
_GOLDEN SILENCE._
"What did the Colonel's lady think?
Nobody never knew.
Somebody asked the Sergeant's wife,
An' she told 'em true!
When you get to a man in the case,
They're like as a row of pins,
For the Colonel's lady an' Judy O'Grady
Are sisters under their skins!"
RUDYARD KIPLING.
[Sidenote: The reticence of the Colonel's lady.]
[Sidenote: A delightful social quality.]
[Sidenote: Unintentional slights.]
"Under their skins." Perhaps. But note the reticence of the Colonel's
lady. "Nobody never knew" what she thought about it all, and what would
the world be if the typical gentlewoman did not exercise self-control? If
every woman were to be as outspoken as Judy O'Grady, society would rapidly
fall to pieces. The lesson of quiet composure has to be learned soon or
late, and it is generally soon in the higher classes of society. In fact
the quality of reticence, and even stoicism, is so early implanted in the
daughters of the cultivated classes that a rather trying monotony is
sometimes the result. After a while the girls outgrow it, learning how to
exercise the acquired habit of self-control without losing the charm of
individuality. When maturity is reached, one of the most useful and
delightful of social qualities is sometimes attained--not always--that of
silently passing over much that, if noticed, would make for discord. Truth
to tell, there is often far too much talking going on. A little incident
occurs over which some one feels slighted or offended. Perhaps the slight
or offence was most unintentional, but as we all know, there are many
"sensitive" women who are ever ready to make a molehill into a mountain.
This is the moment for a judicious and golden silence. The wise woman will
not imitate Judy O'Grady and make her moan to every one she meets about
the rudeness of that ill-bred Mrs. So-and-so. This is the very best means
of magnifying the affair. Let it rest. An explanation is sure, or almost
sure, to be given, but if, in the meanwhile, any quantity of talk has been
going on, the explanation which was perfectly adequate to the original
occasion, seems remarkably incomplete and lacking in spontaneity.
[Sidenote: How the "Colonel's lady" would treat the matter.]
Suppose that an omission has been made of some particular acquaintance in
sending out invitations to a ball. The lady who is left out in the cold,
unless she happens to be one of the "sensitive" contingent, immediately
comes to the conclusion that there is a mistake somewhere, that a note
has been lost in the post, or delivered at the wrong address, or something
of that kind. She keeps quiet about it, saying no unnecessary word on the
subject, except, perhaps, to a very intimate friend of her own, who also
knows the giver of the ball well, and who may be able to throw some light
on the matter. The chances are that the mistake will be cleared up. But
the "sensitive" beings whose feelings are always "trailing their coats,"
like the stage Irishman, make such a hubbub and to-do that they render it
difficult for the hostess of the occasion to remedy any oversight that may
have been made, without the appearance of having been forced into it.
[Sidenote: "The Sergeant's wife."]
Sometimes a whole "snowball" of scandal is collected by some one starting
the merest flake, so to speak. "I wonder if Mrs. Such-an-one is all
right," is quite enough to set the matter going. The person to whom this
remark has been made says to some one else, "Lady Blank thinks Mrs.
Such-an-one is a bad lot," and still more colour is given to the next
remark, so that the simile of the snowball justifies itself. Is not this a
case when silence proves itself to be golden indeed? And not only in the
interests of charity is this so, but sometimes for reasons of pure policy
as well. A lady who had permitted her expressions about a certain person
of her acquaintance to pass the bounds of discretion was, a few seasons
since, called to account by the husband of the libelled individual, and a
most unpleasant scene ensued. It was quite right that she should have had
to undergo some unpleasantness, for she had made at least one woman most
undeservedly miserable, and had almost caused a separation between her and
her husband. Had this really resulted no one would have believed in the
innocence of the unfortunate wife. A complete recantation and full apology
followed, and the perpetrator of the scandal disappeared for many months
from amid her circle of acquaintances.
[Sidenote: The little leaven in the home.]
[Sidenote: Blessed are the peacemakers.]