Everybody must have had some trouble in his time with imperfect
respectabilities. Nice, well-dressed, well-housed, civil, agreeable
people are they. No fault to find with them but that there is some
little flaw in their history, for which the very good (rigid) don't
visit them. The degree to which one is incommoded with imperfect
respectabilities, depends of course a good deal upon the extent of his
good-nature, or his dislike of coming to strong measures in social
life. Some have an inherent complaisance which makes them all but
unfit for any such operation as cutting, or even for the less violent
one of cooling off. Some take mild views of human infirmity, and
shrink from visiting it too roughly. They would rather that the
sinners did not cross them; but, since the contrary is the fact, what
can they do but be civil?
One great source of perplexity in the case, is the excessive urbanity
of the imperfect respectabilities themselves. They come up to you on
the street with such sunny faces, and have so many kind inquiries to
make, and so many pleasant things to say, that, for the life of you,
you cannot stiffen up as you ought to do. Some haunting recollection
of a bad affair of cards, or some awkward circumstances attending an
insolvency, will come across your mind, and make you wish the fellow
in the next street; but, unluckily, there he is, cheerful, even funny,
talking of all sorts of respectable things, such as the state of the
money-market, and what Sir George said to him the other day about the
reviving prospects of Protection; and what avails your secret
writhing? He holds you by the glittering eye. You listen, you make
jocular observations in reply; the cards and the insolvency vanish
from your thoughts; you at length shake hands, and part in a transport
of good-humoured old acquaintanceship, and not till you have got a
hundred yards away, do you cool down sufficiently to remember that you
have made a fool of yourself by patronising an imperfect
respectability.
It is, after all, _not_ a harsh and censorious world. Let the
imperfect respectabilities bear witness. If rigid justice held rule
below, or men were really persecutors of each other, there would be no
life for that class. In point of fact, they not only live, but
sometimes do tolerably well in the world. They only could do so by
virtue of a certain mutual tolerance which pervades society. It is a
nice matter, however, to say what degree of imperfect respectability
will be endured. Some things, we all know, cannot be forgiven upon
earth; and in such cases there is no resource but in obscurity. But
there is also a large class of offences, the consequences of which may
be overcome. Perhaps the facts do not come fully out into general
notice. Perhaps there may be some little thing to say in exculpation.
If the offender can, after a short space, continue to make his usual
personal appearances, he is safe, because the great bulk of his old
friends would rather continue to recognise him, than come to a
positive rupture--an event always felt as inconvenient. Of course,
they will be too well-bred to allude before him to any unpleasant fact
in his history. He will never recall it to their minds. By being thus
thrown out of all common reference, it will become obscured to a
wonderful degree, insomuch that many will at length think of it only
as a kind of domestic myth, to which no importance is to be attached.
Thus Time is continually bringing in his bills of indemnity in favour
of these unconfessing culprits. Were the world as harsh as is said, we
should rather be having _post-facto_ acts to punish them, supposing
that existing statutes were insufficient.
One of the most curious points in the physiology of an imperfect
respectability, is the fact of his almost always having something
remarkably agreeable and attractive about him. Going down a peg in
reputation seems somehow to have a specific effect upon the temper.
From a bear it will convert a man into a perfect lamb. He becomes
obliging to the last degree, has a kind word for everybody, and is
never so happy as when he is allowed to render you some disagreeable
piece of service. Scott, who knew everything, knew this, and hence it
was that he made Glossin so very polite to the ostler at
Kippletringan. When a stranger comes to settle in a country place, the
imperfect respectability is sure to be amongst the first to call and
offer his services. He likes a new family, and thinks it a duty to be
ready to do the honours of the place. He is also, to a remarkable
degree, a family man. None is seen so often going about with wife and
daughters. In fact, he is exemplary in this respect. Few pews,
moreover, so regularly filled as his. When a subscription is got up,
it is a positive pleasure to him to subscribe; ten times more to be
allowed to come upon the committee, and join other two in going about
with a paper. The effect of all this is, that the imperfect
respectable is often a highly popular character. Everybody likes him,
and wishes him at the devil.
When the case is so strong that disappearance is imperatively
necessary, then of course disappear he must. Every now and then, some
one of our old friends is thus dropping through the trap-doors of the
social stage, to be seen and heard of no more. In travelling, one is
apt to come upon some old-remembered face, which he had been
accustomed to in such different circumstances that he has a difficulty
in recognising it. It may be in some village obscurity of our own
country, some German watering-place, or some American wilderness.
There it is, however, the once familiar face; and you cannot pass it
unheeded. You soon discover that you have lighted upon an imperfect
respectability in exile. He is delighted to see you, seems in the
highest spirits, and insists on your coming home to see Mrs ----, and
dine or spend the night. He has never been better off anywhere. All
goes well with him. It was worth his while to come here, if only for
the education of his family. As he rattles on, speaking of everything
but the one thing you chiefly think of, you cannot help being touched
in spirit. You feel that there may be things you can respect more, but
many you respect that you cannot love so much.
While the imperfect respectability bears up so well before his old
acquaintance, who can tell what may be the reflections that visit his
breast in moments of retirement? Let us not be too ready to set him
down as indifferent to the consequences of the sin which once so
unfortunately beset him. Let us not too easily assume that he has not
felt the loss of place and reputation, because he laughs and chats
somewhat more than he used to do. I follow my poor old friend to his
home, and there see him in his solitary hours brooding over the great
forfeit he has made, and bitterly taxing himself with errors which he
would be right loath to confess to the world. He knows what men think
and say of him behind his back, notwithstanding that not a symptom of
the consciousness escapes him. And let us hope that, in many cases,
the contrite confession which is withheld from men is yielded where it
is more fitly due.