trick of transferring the grandiose nomenclature of palaces to his own
very modest domain of Hughenden. He called his simple drawing-room the
Saloon; he styled his pond the Lake; he expatiated on the beauties of
the terrace walks, and the "Golden Gate," and the "German Forest." His
style of entertaining was more showy than comfortable. Nothing could
excel the grandeur of his state coach and powdered footmen; but when the
ice at dessert came up melting, one of his friends exclaimed, "At last,
my dear Dizzy, we have got something hot;" and in the days when he was
Chancellor of the Exchequer some critical guest remarked of the soup
that it was apparently made with Deferred Stock. When Lady Beaconsfield
died he sent for his agent and said, "I desire that her Ladyship's
remains should be borne to the grave by the tenants of the estate."
Presently the agent came back with a troubled countenance and said, "I
regret to say there are not tenants enough to carry a coffin."
Lord Beaconsfield's last years were tormented by a bronchial asthma of
gouty origin, against which he fought with tenacious and uncomplaining
courage. The last six weeks of his life, described all too graphically
by Dr. Kidd in an article in the _Nineteenth Century_, were a
hand-to-hand struggle with death. Every day the end was expected, and
his compatriot, companion, and so-called friend, Bernal Osborne, found
it in his heart to remark, "Ah, overdoing it--as he always overdid
everything."
For my own part, I never was numbered among Lord Beaconsfield's
friends, and I regarded the Imperialistic and pro-Turkish policy of his
latter days with an equal measure of indignation and contempt. But I
place his political novels among the masterpieces of Victorian
literature, and I have a sneaking affection for the man who wrote the
following passage: "We live in an age when to be young and to be
indifferent can be no longer synonymous. We must prepare for the coming
hour. The claims of the Future are represented by suffering millions,
and the Youth of a Nation are the Trustees of Posterity."
FOOTNOTES:
[28] June 1897.
XXIV.
FLATTERERS AND BORES.
Can a flatterer be flattered? Does he instinctively recognize the
commodity in which he deals? And if he does so recognize it, does he
enjoy or dislike the application of it to his own case? These questions
are suggested to my mind by the ungrudging tributes paid in my last
chapter to Lord Beaconsfield's pre-eminence in the art of flattery.
"Supreme of heroes, bravest, noblest, best!"
No one else ever flattered so long and so much, so boldly and so
persistently, so skilfully and with such success. And it so happened
that at the very crisis of his romantic career he became the subject of
an act of flattery quite as daring as any of his own performances in the
same line, and one which was attended with diplomatic consequences of
great pith and moment.
It fell out on this wise. When the Congress of the Powers assembled at
Berlin in the summer of 1878, our Ambassador in that city of stucco
palaces was the loved and lamented Lord Odo Russell, afterwards Lord
Ampthill, a born diplomatist if ever there was one, with a suavity and
affectionateness of manner and a charm of voice which would have enabled
him, in homely phrase, to whistle the bird off the bough. On the evening
before the formal opening of the Congress Lord Beaconsfield arrived in
all his plenipotentiary glory, and was received with high honours at
the British Embassy. In the course of the evening one of his private
secretaries came to Lord Odo Russell and said, "Lord Odo, we are in a
frightful mess, and we can only turn to you to help us out of it. The
old chief has determined to open the proceedings of the Congress in
French. He has written out the devil's own long speech in French and
learnt it by heart, and is going to fire it off at the Congress
to-morrow. We shall be the laughing-stock of Europe. He pronounces
_épicier_ as if it rhymed with _overseer_, and all his pronunciation is
to match. It is as much as our places are worth to tell him so. Can you
help us?" Lord Odo listened with amused good humour to this tale of woe,
and then replied: "It is a very delicate mission that you ask me to
undertake, but then I am fond of delicate missions. I will see what I
can do." And so he repaired to the state bedroom, where our venerable
Plenipotentiary was beginning those elaborate processes of the toilet
with which he prepared for the couch. "My dear Lord," began Lord Odo, "a
dreadful rumour has reached us." "Indeed! Pray what is it?" "We have
heard that you intend to open the proceedings to-morrow in French."
"Well, Lord Odo, what of that?" "Why, of course, we all know that there
is no one in Europe more competent to do so than yourself. But then,
after all, to make a French speech is a commonplace accomplishment.
There will be at least half a dozen men at the Congress who could do it
almost, if not quite, as well as yourself. But, on the other hand, who
but you can make an English speech? All these Plenipotentiaries have
come from the various Courts of Europe expecting the greatest
intellectual treat of their lives in hearing English spoken by its
greatest living master. The question for you, my dear Lord, is--Will you
disappoint them?" Lord Beaconsfield put his glass in his eye, fixed his
gaze on Lord Odo, and then said, "There is much force in what you say. I
will consider the point." And next day he opened the proceedings in
English. Now the psychological conundrum is this--Did he swallow the
flattery, and honestly believe that the object of Lord Odo's appeal was
to secure the pleasure of hearing him speak English? Or did he see
through the manoeuvre, and recognize a polite intimation that a French
speech from him would throw an air of comedy over all the proceedings of
the Congress, and perhaps kill it with ridicule? The problem is well
fitted to be made the subject of a Prize Essay; but personally I incline
to believe that he saw through the manoeuvre and acted on the hint. If
this be the true reading of the case, the answer to my opening question
is that the flatterer cannot be flattered.
We saw in my last chapter how careful Lord Beaconsfield was, in the
great days of his political struggles, to flatter every one who came
within his reach. To the same effect is the story that when he was
accosted by any one who claimed acquaintance but whose face he had
forgotten he always used to inquire, in a tone of affectionate
solicitude, "And how is the old complaint?" But when he grew older, and
had attained the highest objects of his political ambition, these little
arts, having served their purpose, were discarded, like the green velvet
trousers and tasselled canes of his aspiring youth. There was no more
use for them, and they were dropped. He manifested less and less of the
apostolic virtue of suffering bores gladly, and though always delightful
to his intimate friends, he was less and less inclined to curry favour
with mere acquaintances. A characteristic instance of this latter manner
has been given to the world in a book of chit-chat by a prosy gentleman
whose name it would be unkind to recall.
This worthy soul narrates with artless candour that towards the end of
Lord Beaconsfield's second Administration he had the honour of dining
with the great man, whose political follower he was, at the Premier's
official residence in Downing Street. When he arrived he found his host
looking ghastly ill, and apparently incapable of speech. He made some
commonplace remark about the weather or the House, and the only reply
was a dismal groan. A second remark was similarly received, and the
visitor then abandoned the attempt in despair. "I felt he would not
survive the night. Within a quarter of an hour, all being seated at
dinner, I observed him talking to the Austrian Ambassador with extreme
vivacity. During the whole of dinner their conversation was kept up; I
saw no sign of flagging. _This is difficult to account for._" And the
worthy man goes on to theorize about the cause, and suggests that Lord
Beaconsfield was in the habit of taking doses of opium which were so
timed that their effect passed off at a certain moment!
This freedom from self-knowledge which bores enjoy is one of their most
striking characteristics. One of the principal clubs in London has the
misfortune to be frequented by a gentleman who is by common consent the
greatest bore and buttonholer in London. He always reminds me of the
philosopher described by Sir George Trevelyan, who used to wander about
asking, "Why are we created? Whither do we tend? Have we an inner
consciousness?" till all his friends, when they saw him from afar, used
to exclaim, "Why was Tompkins created? Is he tending this way? Has he an
inner consciousness that he is a bore?"
Well, a few years ago this good man, on his return from his autumn
holiday, was telling all his acquaintances at the club that he had been
occupying a house at the Lakes not far from Mr. Ruskin, who, he added,
was in a very melancholy state, "I am truly sorry for that," said one of
his hearers. "What is the matter with him?" "Well," replied the
buttonholer, "I was walking one day in the lane which separated Ruskin's
house from mine, and I saw him coming down the lane towards me. The
moment he caught sight of me he darted into a wood which was close by,
and hid behind a tree till I had passed. Oh, very sad indeed." But the
truly pathetic part of it was one's consciousness that what Mr. Ruskin
did we should all have done, and that not all the trees in Birnam Wood
and the Forest of Arden combined would have hidden the multitude of
brother-clubmen who sought to avoid the narrator.
The faculty of boring belongs, unhappily, to no one period of life. Age
cannot wither it, nor custom stale its infinite variety. Middle life is
its heyday. Perhaps infancy is free from it, but I strongly suspect that
it is a form of original sin, and shows itself very early. Boys are
notoriously rich in it; with them it takes two forms--the loquacious and
the awkward; and in some exceptionally favoured cases the two forms are
combined. I once was talking with an eminent educationist about the
characteristic qualities produced by various Public Schools, and when I
asked him what Harrow produced he replied, "A certain shy
bumptiousness." It was a judgment which wrung my Harrovian withers, but
of which I could not dispute the truth.
One of the forms which shyness takes in boyhood is an inability to get
up and go. When Dr. Vaughan was Head Master of Harrow, and had to
entertain his boys at breakfast, this inability was frequently
manifested, and was met by the Doctor in a most characteristic fashion.
When the muffins and sausages had been devoured, the perfunctory
inquiries about the health of "your people" made and answered, and all
permissible school topics discussed, there used to ensue a horrid
silence, while "Dr. Blimber's young friends" sat tightly glued to their
chairs. Then the Doctor would approach with Agag-like delicacy, and,
extending his hand to the shyest and most loutish boy, would say, "Must
you go? Can't you stay?" and the party broke up with magical celerity.
Such, at least, was our Harrovian tradition.
Nothing is so refreshing to a jaded sense of humour as to be the
recipient of one of your own stories retold with appreciative fervour
but with all the point left out. This was my experience not long ago
with reference to the story of Dr. Vaughan and his boy-bores which I
have just related. A Dissenting minister was telling me, with extreme
satisfaction, that he had a son at Trinity College, Cambridge. He went
on to praise the Master, Dr. Butler, whom he extolled to the skies,
winding up his eulogy with, "He has such wonderful tact in dealing with
shy undergraduates." I began to scent my old story from afar, but held
my peace and awaited results. "You know," he continued, "that young men
are sometimes a little awkward about making a move and going away when a
party is over. Well, when Dr. Butler has undergraduates to breakfast, if
they linger inconveniently long when he wants to be busy, he has such a
happy knack of getting rid of them. It is so tactful, so like him. He
goes up to one of them and says, '_Can't you go? Must you stay?_' and
they are off immediately." So, as Macaulay says of Montgomery's literary
thefts, may such ill-got gains ever prosper.
My Dissenting minister had a congener in the late Lord P----, who was a
rollicking man about town thirty years ago, and was famous, among other
accomplishments, for this peculiar art of so telling a story as to
destroy the point. When the large house at Albert Gate, which fronts the
French Embassy and is now the abode of Mr. Arthur Sassoon, was built,
its size and cost were regarded as prohibitive, and some social wag
christened it "Gibraltar, because it can never be taken." Lord P----
thought that this must be an excellent joke, because every one laughed
at it; and so he ran round the town saying to each man he met--"I say,
do you know what they call that big house at Albert Gate? They call it
Gibraltar, because it can never be let. Isn't that awfully good?" We all
remember an innocent riddle of our childhood--"Why was the elephant the
last animal to get into the Ark?"--to which the answer was, "Because he
had to pack his trunk." Lord P--asked the riddle, and gave as the
answer, "Because he had to pack his portmanteau," and was beyond measure
astonished when his hearers did not join in his uproarious laughter.
Poor Lord P--! he was a fellow of infinite jest, though not always
exactly in the sense that he intended. If he had only known of it, he
might with advantage have resorted to the conversational device of old
Samuel Rogers, who, when he told a story which failed to produce a
laugh, used to observe in a reflective tone, "The curious part of that
story is that stupid people never see the point of it," and then loud,
though belated, guffaws resounded round the table.
XXV.
ADVERTISEMENTS.
Lately, when hunting for some notes which I had mislaid, I came upon a
collection of Advertisements. No branch of literature is more suggestive
of philosophical reflections. I take my specimens quite at random, just
as they turn up in my diary, and the first which meets my eye is printed
on the sad sea-green of the _Westminster Gazette:_--
"GUARDIAN, whose late ward merits the highest encomiums, seeks for him
the POSITION of SECRETARY to a Nobleman or Lady of Position: one with
literary tastes preferred: the young gentleman is highly connected,
distinguished-looking, a lover of books, remarkably steady, and
exceptionally well read, clever and ambitious: has travelled much: good
linguist, photographer, musician: a moderate fortune, but debarred by
timidity from competitive examination."
I have always longed to know the fate of this lucky youth. Few of us can
boast of even "a moderate fortune," and fewer still of such an
additional combination of gifts, graces, and accomplishments. On the
other hand, most of us, at one time or another in our career, have felt
"debarred by timidity from competitive examination." But, unluckily, we
have had fathers of our flesh which corrected us, and college dons who
forced us to face the agonies of the Schools, instead of an amiable
guardian who bestowed on us "the highest encomiums," and sought to
plant us on Ladies of Position, "with literary tastes preferred."
Another case, presenting some points of resemblance to the last, but far
less favoured by fortune, was notified to the compassionate world by the
_Morning Post_ in 1889:--
"Will any rich person TAKE a gentleman and BOARD him? Of good family:
age 27: good musician: thoroughly conversant with all office-work: _no
objection to turn Jew_: lost his money through dishonest trustee:
excellent writer."
I earnestly hope that this poor victim of fraud has long since found his
desired haven in some comfortable Hebrew home, where he can exercise his
skill in writing and office-work during the day and display his musical
accomplishments after the family supper. I have known not a few young
Gentiles who would be glad to be adopted on similar terms.
The next is extracted from the _Manchester Guardian_ of 1894:--
"A Child of God, seeking employment, would like to take charge of
property and collect rents; has a slight knowledge of architecture and
sanitary; can give unexceptionable references; age 31; married."
What offers? Very few, I should fear, in a community so shrewdly
commercial as Manchester, where, I understand, religious profession is
seldom taken as a substitute for technical training. The mention of that
famous city reminds me that not long ago I was describing Chetham
College to an ignorant outsider, who, not realizing how the name was
spelt, observed that it sounded as if Mr. Squeers had been caught by the
Oxford Movement and the Gothic Revival, and had sought to give an
ecclesiastical air to his famous seminary of Dotheboys Hall by
transforming it into "Cheat'em College."
That immortal pedagogue owed much of his deserved success to his skill
in the art of drawing an advertisement:--
"At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall, at the delightful
village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, Youth are
boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket-money, provided with all
necessaries, instructed in all languages, living and dead, mathematics,
orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the use of the globes,
algebra, singlestick (if required), writing, arithmetic, fortification,
and every other branch of classical literature. Terms, twenty guineas
per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet unparalleled."
Now, mark what follows. Wackford Squeers the younger was, as we all
know, destined by his parents to follow the schoolmaster's profession,
to assist his father as long as assistance was required, and then to
take the management of the Hall and its pupils into his own hands. "Am I
to take care of the school when I grow up a man, father?" said Wackford
junior. "You are, my son," replied Mr. Squeers in a sentimental voice.
"Oh, my eye, won't I give it to the boys!" exclaimed the interesting
child, grasping his father's cane--"won't I make 'em squeak again!" But
we know also that, owing to the pressure of pecuniary and legal
difficulties, and the ill-timed interference of Mr. John Browdie, the
school at Dotheboys Hall was at any rate temporarily broken up. So far
we have authentic records to rely on; the remainder is pure conjecture.
But I am persuaded that Wackford Squeers the younger, with all the
dogged perseverance of a true Yorkshireman, struggled manfully against
misfortune; resolved to make a home for his parents and sister; and, as
soon as he could raise the needful capital, opened a private school in
the South of England, as far as possible from the scene of earlier
misfortune. Making due allowance for change of time and circumstances, I
trace a close similarity of substance and style between the
advertisement which I quoted above and that which I give below, and I
feel persuaded that young Wackford inherited from his more famous
father this peculiar power of attracting parental confidence by means
of picturesque statement. We have read the earlier manifesto; let us now
compare the later:--
"Vacancies now occur in the establishment of a gentleman who undertakes
the care and education of a few backward boys, who are beguiled and
trained to study by kind discipline, without the least severity (which
too often frustrates the end desired). Situation extremely healthy. Sea
and country air; deep gravelly soil. Christian gentility assiduously
cultivated on sound Church principles. Diet unsurpassed. Wardrobes
carefully preserved. The course of instruction comprises English,
classics, mathematics, and science. Inclusive terms, 30 guineas per
annum, quarterly in advance. Music, drawing, and modern languages are
extras, but moderate. Address--------, Chichester." Was it Vivian Grey
or Pelham who was educated at a private school where "the only extras
were pure milk and the guitar"?
I believe that there is no charitable institution which more thoroughly
deserves support than the Metropolitan Association for Befriending Young
Servants, affectionately contracted by its supporters into the "MABYS."
Here is one of its advertisements, from which, I am bound to say, the
alluring skill displayed by Mr. Squeers is curiously absent:--
"Will any one undertake as SERVANT a bright, clean, neat girl, who is
deceitful, lazy, and inclined to be dishonest? Address, Hon. Secretary,
M.A.B.Y.S., 21 Charlotte Street, S.E."
I remember some years ago an advertisement which sought a kind master
and a pleasant home for a large, savage dog; and I remember how
admirably _Punch_ described the kind of life which the "large, savage
dog" would lead the "kind master" when he got him. But really the vision
of a bright maid-servant who is "deceitful, lazy, and inclined to be
dishonest," and the havoc which she might work in a well-ordered
household, is scarcely less appalling. A much more deserving case is
this which I append:--
"Under-Housekeeper, under-Matron, desired by a Young Woman, age 22.
Energetic, domesticated. Great misfortune in losing right arm, but good
artificial one. Happy home, with small remuneration."
It is not, I fear, in my power to make a contribution of permanent value
to the "Great Servant Question." But, having given instances of
insufficient qualification in people seeking to be employed, I now turn
to the opposite side of the account, and, after perusing what follows,
would respectfully ask, Who is sufficient for these things?
"Can any lady or gentleman recommend a MAN and WIFE (Church of England)?
Man useful indoors and out. Principal duties large flower-garden, small
conservatory, draw bath-chair, must wait at table, understand lamps,
non-smoker, wear dress suit except in garden. Clothes and beer not
found. Family, lady and child, lady-help. House-parlourmaid kept. Must
not object to small bedroom. Wife plain cook (good), to undertake
kitchen offices, dining-room, and hall (wash clothes). Joint wages £50,
all found."
Now there is really a study in exacting eccentricity which Thackeray
might have made the subject of a "Roundabout Paper." In the first place,
the two servants must be man and wife--unmarried people need not
apply--and yet they must be contented with a small bedroom. The family
consists of a lady (apparently an invalid), a child, a lady-help, and a
house-parlourmaid. For these the wife must cook, and cook well, besides
cleaning the dining-room, hall and offices, and washing the clothes. Her
husband, yet more accommodating, must attend to a large flower-garden
and a small conservatory, must draw a bath-chair, wait at table and
clean lamps. After all these varied and arduous labours, he is denied
the refreshment of a pipe; but, as a kind of compensation, he is not
obliged to wear his dress suit when he is gardening! The joint wages are
£50, with all found except clothes and beer; and the lucky recipients of
this overpowering guerdon must be members of the Church of England.
This last requirement reminds me of a letter from a girl-emigrant
written to Lady Laura Ridding, wife of the Bishop of Southwell, who had
befriended her at home. "Dear Madam,--I hope this finds you as well as
it leaves me. The ship is in the middle of the Red Sea, and it is
fearfully hot. I am in a terrible state of melting all day long. But,
honoured Madam, I know you will be pleased to hear that I am still a
member of the Church of England." I hope the good plain cook and her
non-smoking, bath-chair drawing, large-gardening husband may be able to
comfort themselves with the same reflection when the varied toils of the
day are ended and they seek their well-earned repose in the "small
bedroom."
From these lowly mysteries of domestic life I pass to the Debatable Land
between servitude and gentility. "MAN AND WIFE, superior and active,
seek, in gentleman's family, PLACE OF TRUST; country, houseboat, &c.
Wife needlewoman or Plain Cook, linen, &c.: man ride and drive, waiting,
or useful. _Can teach or play violin in musical family;_ sight-reader in
classical works. Both tall, and refined appearance."
From the Debatable Land I pass on to the exalted regions of courtly
life.
"The Great-niece of a Lord Chamberlain to King George III. REQUIRES a
SITUATION as COMPANION to a lady, or Cicerone to young ladies. Her mind
is highly cultivated. _English habits and Parisian accent._"