'We Bachelors in Clubs are very much obliged to you,' says my old school
and college companion, Essex Temple, 'for the opinion which you hold of
us. You call us selfish, purple-faced, bloated, and other pretty names.
You state, in the simplest possible terms, that we shall go to the
deuce. You bid us rot in loneliness, and deny us all claims to honesty,
conduct, decent Christian life. Who are you, Mr. Snob, to judge us. Who
are you, with your infernal benevolent smirk and grin, that laugh at all
our generation?
'I will tell you my case,' says Essex Temple; 'mine and my sister
Polly's, and you may make what you like of it; and sneer at old maids,
and bully old bachelors, if you will.
'I will whisper to you confidentially that my sister was engaged to
Serjeant Shirker--a fellow whose talents one cannot deny, and be hanged
to them, but whom I have always known to be mean, selfish, and a prig.
However, women don't see these faults in the men whom Love throws in
their way. Shirker, who has about as much warmth as an eel, made up to
Polly years and years ago, and was no bad match for a briefless
barrister, as he was then.
Have you ever read Lord Eldon's Life? Do you remember how the sordid old
Snob narrates his going out to purchase twopence-worth of sprats, which
he and Mrs. Scott fried between them? And how he parades his humility,
and exhibits his miserable poverty--he who, at that time, must have been
making a thousand pounds a year? Well, Shirker was just as proud of his
prudence--just as thankful for his own meanness, and of course would not
marry without a competency. Who so honourable? Polly waited, and waited
faintly, from year to year. HE wasn't sick at heart; HIS passion never
disturbed his six hours' sleep, or kept his ambition out of mind. He
would rather have hugged an attorney any day than have kissed Polly,
though she was one of the prettiest creatures in the world; and while
she was pining alone upstairs, reading over the stock of half-a-dozen
frigid letters that the confounded prig had condescended to write
to her, HE, be sure, was never busy with anything but his briefs in
chambers--always frigid, rigid, self-satisfied, and at his duty. The
marriage trailed on year after year, while Mr. Serjeant Shirker grew to
be the famous lawyer he is.
'Meanwhile, my younger brother, Pump Temple, who was in the 120th
Hussars, and had the same little patrimony which fell to the lot of
myself and Polly, must fall in love with our cousin, Fanny Figtree, and
marry her out of hand. You should have seen the wedding! Six
bridesmaids in pink, to hold the fan, bouquet, gloves, scent-bottle,
and pocket-handkerchief of the bride; basketfuls of white favours in
the vestry, to be pinned on to the footmen and horses; a genteel
congregation of curious acquaintance in the pews, a shabby one of poor
on the steps; all the carriages of all our acquaintance, whom Aunt
Figtree had levied for the occasion; and of course four horses for Mr.
Pump's bridal vehicle.
'Then comes the breakfast, or DEJEUNER, if you please, with a brass band
in the street, and policemen to keep order. The happy bridegroom
spends about a year's income in dresses for the bridesmaids and
pretty presents; and the bride must have a TROUSSEAU of laces, satins,
jewel-boxes and tomfoolery, to make her fit to be a lieutenant's wife.
There was no hesitation about Pump. He flung about his money as if it
had been dross; and Mrs. P. Temple, on the horse Tom Tiddler, which her
husband gave her, was the most dashing of military women at Brighton or
Dublin.
How old Mrs. Figtree used to bore me and Polly with stories of Pump's
grandeur and the noble company he kept! Polly lives with the Figtrees,
as I am not rich enough to keep a home for her.
'Pump and I have always been rather distant. Not having the slightest
notions about horseflesh, he has a natural contempt for me; and in our
mother's lifetime, when the good old lady was always paying his debts
and petting him, I'm not sure there was not a little jealousy. It used
to be Polly that kept the peace between us.
'She went to Dublin to visit Pump, and brought back grand accounts
of his doings--gayest man about town--Aide-de-Camp to the
Lord-Lieutenant--Fanny admired everywhere--Her Excellency godmother to
the second boy: the eldest with a string of aristocratic Christian-names
that made the grandmother wild with delight. Presently Fanny and Pump
obligingly came to London, where the third was born.
'Polly was godmother to this, and who so loving as she and Pump now?
“Oh, Essex,” says she to me, “he is so good, so generous, so fond of his
family; so handsome; who can help loving him, and pardoning his little
errors?” One day, while Mrs. Pump was yet in the upper regions, and
Doctor Fingerfee's brougham at her door every day, having business at
Guildhall, whom should I meet in Cheapside but Pump and Polly? The poor
girl looked more happy and rosy than I have seen her these twelve years.
Pump, on the contrary, was rather blushing and embarrassed.
'I couldn't be mistaken in her face and its look of mischief and
triumph. She had been committing some act of sacrifice. I went to the
family stockbroker. She had sold out two thousand pounds that morning
and given them to Pump. Quarrelling was useless--Pump had the money; he
was off to Dublin by the time I reached his mother's, and Polly radiant
still. He was going to make his fortune; he was going to embark the
money in the Bog of Allen--I don't know what. The fact is, he was going
to pay his losses upon the last Manchester steeple-chase, and I leave
you to imagine how much principal or interest poor Polly ever saw back
again.
'It was more than half her fortune, and he has had another thousand
since from her. Then came efforts to stave off ruin and prevent
exposure; struggles on all our parts, and sacrifices, that' (here Mr.
Essex Temple began to hesitate)--'that needn't be talked of; but they
are of no more use than such sacrifices ever are. Pump and his wife are
abroad--I don't like to ask where; Polly has the three children, and Mr.
Serjeant Shirker has formally written to break off an engagement, on the
conclusion of which Miss Temple must herself have speculated, when she
alienated the greater part of her fortune.
'And here's your famous theory of poor marriages!' Essex Temple cries,
concluding the above history. 'How do you know that I don't want to
marry myself? How do you dare sneer at my poor sister? What are we
but martyrs of the reckless marriage system which Mr. Snob, forsooth,
chooses to advocate?' And he thought he had the better of the argument,
which, strange to say, is not my opinion.
But for the infernal Snob-worship, might not every one of these people
be happy? If poor Polly's happiness lay in linking her tender arms round
such a heartless prig as the sneak who has deceived her, she might have
been happy now--as happy as Raymond Raymond in the ballad, with the
stone statue by his side. She is wretched because Mr. Serjeant Shirker
worships money and ambition, and is a Snob and a coward.
If the unfortunate Pump Temple and his giddy hussy of a wife have ruined
themselves, and dragged down others into their calamity, it is because
they loved rank, and horses, and plate, and carriages, and COURT GUIDES,
and millinery, and would sacrifice all to attain those objects.
And who misguides them? If the world were more simple, would not those
foolish people follow the fashion? Does not the world love COURT
GUIDES, and millinery, and plate, and carriages? Mercy on us! Read the
fashionable intelligence; read the COURT CIRCULAR; read the genteel
novels; survey mankind, from Pimlico to Red Lion Square, and see how the
Poor Snob is aping the Rich Snob; how the Mean Snob is grovelling at the
feet of the Proud Snob; and the Great Snob is lording it over his humble
brother. Does the idea of equality ever enter Dives' head? Will it ever?
Will the Duchess of Fitzbattleaxe (I like a good name) ever believe that
Lady Croesus, her next-door neighbour in Belgrave Square, is as good a
lady as her Grace? Will Lady Croesus ever leave off pining the Duchess's
parties, and cease patronizing Mrs. Broadcloth whose husband has not got
his Baronetcy yet? Will Mrs. Broadcloth ever heartily shake hands with
Mrs. Seedy, and give up those odious calculations about poor dear Mrs.
Seedy's income? Will Mrs. Seedy who is starving in her great house, go
and live comfortably in a little one, or in lodgings? Will her landlady,
Miss Letsam, ever stop wondering at the familiarity of tradespeople, or
rebuking the insolence of Suky, the maid, who wears flowers under her
bonnet like a lady?
But why hope, why wish for such times? Do I wish all Snobs to perish? Do
I wish these Snob papers to determine? Suicidal fool, art not thou, too,
a Snob and a brother?