fact that nowadays age, instead of receiving the honour it merits, is
frequently made the butt of ignorant and vulgar ridicule. One exception
alone is allowed in the case of our gracious Queen Alexandra, who
supports her years with so much ease and scarcely diminished beauty.
But there are hosts of other women beside the Queen whom it would
seem that “age cannot wither,”--Sarah Bernhardt, for example, whose
brilliant vitality is the envy of all her feminine compeers; while
many leading “beauties” who never scored a success in their teens,
are now trampling triumphantly over men’s hearts in their forties.
Nevertheless the boorish sections of the Press and of society take a
special delight, (Mr. Lecky calls it “pure malevolence,”) in making
the advance of age a subject for coarse jesting, whereas if rightly
viewed, the decline of the body is merely the natural withering of
that chrysalis which contains the ever young and immortal Soul. Forced
asunder by the strength of unfolding wings, the chrysalis _must_ break;
and its breaking should not cause regret, but joy. Of course if faith
in God is a mere dead letter, and poor humanity is taught to consider
this brief life as our sole beginning and end, I can quite imagine that
the advance of years may be looked upon with dislike and fear,--though
scarcely with ridicule. But for the happy beings who are conscious that
while the body grows weaker, the Soul grows stronger,--who feel that
behind this mere passing “reflection” of Life, the real Life awaits
them, age has no drawbacks and no forebodings of evil. The prevailing
dread of it, and the universal fighting against it, betoken an insecure
and wholly materialistic mental attitude.
Of the feminine indulgence in complexion cures, combined with the
deplorable lack of common sense, which shows itself in the constant
consultation of palmists and clairvoyants, while home and family
duties are completely neglected or forgotten, the less said the better.
By such conduct women appear to be voluntarily straying back to the
dark ages when people believed in witches and soothsayers, and would
pay five shillings or more to see the faces of their future husbands
in the village well. Happy the man who, at the crucial moment, looked
over the shoulder of the enquiring maiden! He was sure to be accepted
on the value of his own mirrored reflection, apart altogether from
his possible personal merits. To this day in Devonshire, many young
women believe in the demoniacal abilities of a harmless old gentleman
who leads a retired life on the moors, and who is supposed to be able
to “do something to somebody.” It would be a hard task to explain
the real meaning of this somewhat vague phrase, but the following
solution can be safely given without any harm accruing. It works
out in this way: If you know “somebody,” who is unpleasant to you,
go to this old gentleman and give him five shillings, and he will
“do something”--never mind what. It may be safely prophesied that
he will spend the five shillings; the rest is involved in mystery.
Now, however silly this superstition on the part of poor Devonshire
maids may be, it is not a whit more so than the behaviour of the
so-called “cultured” woman of fashion who spends a couple of guineas
in one of the rooms or “salons,” near Bond Street, on the fraudulent
rascal of a “palmist,” or “crystal-gazer,” who has the impudence
and presumption to pretend to know her past and her future. It is a
wonder that the women who patronize these professional cheats have
not more self-respect than to enter such dens, where the crime of
“obtaining money on false pretences” is daily practised without
the intervention of the law. But all the mischief starts from the
same source,--neglect of home, indifference to home duties, and the
constant “gadding-about” which seems to be the principal delight and
aim of women who are amply supplied with the means of subsistence,
either through inherited fortune, or through marriage with a wealthy
partner, and who consider themselves totally exempt from the divine
necessity of Work. Yet these are truly the very ones whose duty it is
to work the hardest, because “Unto whom much is given even from him
(or her) shall much be required.” No woman who has a home need ever
be idle. If she employs her time properly, she will find no leisure
for gossiping, scandal-mongering, moping, grumbling, “fadding,”
fortune-telling or crystal-gazing. Of course, if she “manages” her
household merely through a paid housekeeper, she cannot be said to
govern the establishment at all. The housekeeper is the real mistress,
and very soon secures such a position of authority, that the lady who
employs and pays her scarcely dare give an order without her. Speaking
on this subject a few days ago with a distinguished and mild-tempered
gentleman, who has long ceased to expect any comfort or pleasure in
the magnificent house his wealth pays for, but which under its present
government might as well be a hotel where he is sometimes allowed
to take the head of the table, he said to me, with an air of quiet
resignation:--“Ladies have so many more interests nowadays than in my
father’s time. They do so many things. It is really bewildering! My
wife, for example, is always out. She has so many engagements. She has
scarcely five minutes to herself, and is often quite knocked up with
fatigue and excitement. She has no time to attend to housekeeping,
and of course the children are almost entirely with their nurse
and governess.” This description applies to most households of a
fashionable or “smart” character, and shows what a topsy-turveydom of
the laws of Nature is allowed to pass muster, and to even meet with
general approval. The “wife” of whom my honourable and distinguished
friend spoke to me, rises languidly from her bed at eleven, and
occupies all her time till two o’clock in dressing, manicuring,
“transforming” and “massaging.” She also receives and sends a few
telegrams. At two o’clock she goes out in her carriage and lunches with
some chosen intimates at one or other of the fashionable restaurants.
Lunch over, she returns home and lies down for an hour. Then she arrays
herself in an elaborate tea gown and receives a favoured few in her
boudoir, where over a cup of tea she assists to tear into piecemeal
portions the characters of her dearest friends. Another “rest” and
again the business of the toilette is resumed. When _en grande tenue_
she either goes out to dinner, or entertains a large party of guests at
her own table. A _tête-à-tête_ meal with her husband would appear to
her in the light of a positive calamity. She stays up playing “Bridge”
till two or three o’clock in the morning, and retires to bed more or
less exhausted, and can only sleep with the aid of narcotics. She
resumes the same useless existence, and perpetrates the same wicked
waste of time again the next day and every day. Her children she
scarcely sees, and the management of her house is entirely removed from
her hands. The housekeeper takes all the accounts to her husband, who
meekly pays the same, and lives for the most part at his club, or at
the houses of his various sporting friends. “Home” is for him a mere
farce. He knew what it was in his mother’s day, when his grand old
historical seat was a home indeed, and all the members of the family,
young and old, looked upon it as the chief centre of attraction, and
the garnering-point of love and faith and confidence; but since he
grew up to manhood, and took for his life-partner a rapid lady of the
new Motor-School of Morals, he stands like Marius among the ruins of
Carthage, contemplating the complete wreckage of his ship of life, and
knowing sadly enough that he can never sail the seas of hope again.
The word “Home” has, or used to have, a very sacred meaning, and
is peculiarly British. The French have no such term. “Chez-moi”
or “chez-soi” are poor substitutes, and indeed none of the Latin
races appear to have any expression which properly conveys the real
sentiment. The Germans have it, and their “Heimweh” is as significant
as our “home-sickness.” The Germans are essentially a home-loving
people, and this may be said of all Teutonic, Norse and Scandinavian
races. By far the strongest blood of the British is inherited from the
North,--and as a rule the natural tendency in the pure Briton is one
of scorn for the changeful, vagrant, idle, careless and semi-pagan
temperament of southern nations. As the last of our real Laureates
sang in his own matchless way:
Oh, tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North!
Oh, tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown;
Say that I do but wanton in the South,
But in the North, long since, my nest is made!
“My nest is made,” is the ultimatum of the lover,--the “nest” or the
home being the natural centre of the circle of man’s ambition. A happy
home is the best and surest safeguard against all evil; and where home
is not happy, there the devil may freely enter and find his hands
full. With women, and women only, this happiness in the home must find
its foundation. They only are responsible; for no matter how wild and
erring a man may be, if he can always rely on finding somewhere in
the world a peaceful, well-ordered, and _undishonoured_ home, he will
feel the saving grace of it sooner or later, and turn to it as the one
bright beacon in a darkening wilderness. But if he knows that it is a
mere hostelry,--that his wife has no pride in it,--that other men than
himself have found the right to enter there,--that his servants mock
him behind his back as a poor, weak, credulous fool, who has lost all
claim to mastership or control, he grows to hate the very walls of
the dwelling, and does his best to lose himself and his miseries in a
whirlpool of dissipation and folly, which too often ends in premature
breakdown and death.
One often wonders if the “smart” ladies who cast aside the quiet
joys of home life, in exchange for a jostling “feed” at the Carlton
or other similar resorts, have any idea of the opinion entertained of
their conduct by that Great Majority, the People? The People,--without
whom their favoured political candidates would stand no chance of
election,--the People, without whose willing work, performed under
the heavy strain of cruel and increasing competition, they would be
unable to enjoy the costly luxuries they deem indispensable to their
lives,--the People, who, standing in their millions outside “society”
and its endless intrigues,--outside a complaisant or subsidized
Press,--outside all, save God and the Right,--pass judgment on the
events of the day, and entertain their own strong views thereon, which,
though such views may not find any printed outlet, do nevertheless
make themselves felt in various unmistakable ways. Latterly, there has
been a great clamour about servants and the lack of them. It is quite
true that many ladies find it difficult to secure servants, and that
even when they do secure them, they often turn out badly, being of an
untrained and incompetent class. But why is this? No doubt many causes
work together to make up the sum of deficiency or inefficiency, but
one reason can be given which is possibly entirely unsuspected. It is
a reason which will no doubt astonish some, and awaken the tittering
ridicule of many, but the fact remains unalterable, despite incredulity
and denial. There is really no lack of competent domestic servants.
On the contrary, there are plenty of respectable, willing, smart,
well-instructed girls in the country, who would make what are called
“treasures” in the way of housemaids, parlourmaids and lady’s-maids,
but whose parents stubbornly refuse to let them enter any situation
until they know something of the character of the mistress with whom
they are expected to reside, and the general reputation of the house
or “home” they are to enter. I could name dozens of cases where girls,
on enquiry, have actually declined lucrative situations, and contented
themselves with work at lower wages, rather than be known as “in
service” with certain distinguished ladies. “My girl,” says a farmer’s
wife, “is a clean, wholesome, steady lass; I’d rather keep her by me
for a bit than see her mixing herself up with the fashionable folk,
who are always getting into the divorce court.” This may be a bitter
pill of information for the “smart set” to swallow; but there is no
exaggeration in the statement that the working classes have very little
respect left nowadays for the ladies of the “Upper Ten,” and many of
the wives of honest farmers, mechanics and tradesmen would consider
that they were voluntarily handing over their daughters to temptation
and disgrace by allowing them to enter domestic service with certain
society leaders, who, though bearing well-known names, are branded by
equally well-known “easy virtue.”
Does any one at this time of day recall a certain chapter in the
immortal story of _Bleak House_, by Charles Dickens, when Mr.
Rouncewell, the iron-master, a mere tradesman in the opinion of that
haughty old aristocrat, Sir Leicester Dedlock, desires to remove the
pretty girl, Rosa, lady’s-maid to Lady Dedlock, at once from her
situation, if she is to marry his son? An extract from this scene may
not here be altogether out of place.
Lady Dedlock has enquired of the iron-master if the love-affair between
her lady’s-maid and his son is still going on, and receives an answer
in the affirmative.
“‘If you remember anything so unimportant,’ he says--‘which is not
to be expected--you would recollect that my first thought in the
affair was directly opposed to her remaining here.’
“Dismiss the Dedlock patronage from consideration? Oh! Sir
Leicester is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been
handed down to him through such a family, or he really might have
mistrusted their report of the iron-gentleman’s observation!
“‘It is not necessary,’ observes my Lady, in her coldest manner,
before he can do anything but breathe amazedly, ‘to enter into
these matters on either side. The girl is a very good girl; I
have nothing whatever to say against her; but she is so far
insensible to her many advantages and her good fortune, that she
is in love--or supposes she is, poor little fool--and unable to
appreciate them.’
“Sir Leicester begs to observe that wholly alters the case. He
might have been sure that my Lady had the best grounds and reasons
in support of her view. He entirely agrees with my Lady. The young
woman had better go.
“‘As Sir Leicester observed, Mr. Rouncewell, on the last
occasion when we were fatigued by this business,’ Lady Dedlock
languidly proceeds, ‘we cannot make conditions with you. Without
conditions, and under present circumstances, the girl is quite
misplaced here and had better go. I have told her so. Would you
wish to have her sent back to the village, or would you like to
take her with you, or what would you prefer?’
“‘Lady Dedlock, if I may speak plainly----’
“‘By all means.’
“‘I should prefer the course which will the sooner relieve you of
the encumbrance, _and remove her from her present position_.’
“‘And to speak as plainly,’ she returns, with the same studied
carelessness, ‘so should I. Do I understand that you will take her
with you?’
“The iron-gentleman makes an iron bow.
* * * * *
“‘Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock,’ says Mr. Rouncewell, after a
pause of a few moments; ‘I beg to take my leave with an apology
for having again troubled you. I can very well understand, I
assure you, how very tiresome so small a matter must have become
to Lady Dedlock. If I am doubtful on my dealing with it, it is
only _because I did not at first quietly exert my influence to
take my young friend here away_ without troubling you at all.
I hope you will excuse my want of acquaintance with the polite
world.”
As a matter of fact, certain rumours against Lady Dedlock’s reputation,
and hints as to her “past,” have come to the ears of the honest
tradesman, and he prefers to remove his son’s betrothed wife from the
contact of a possible pernicious influence. The very same thing is
done scores of times over in many similar cases to-day.
No one knows the real character and disposition of the mistress of a
home better than the servants she employs, and if she is honoured and
loved by her domestics, she stands on surer ground than the praise or
flattery of her fashionable friends. It is all a question of “home”
again. A real home is a home to all connected with it. The very
kitchen-maid employed in it, the boy who runs errands for the house;
indeed every servant, from the lowest to the highest, should feel that
their surroundings are truly “homelike,”--that things are well-ordered,
peaceful and happy; that the presiding spirit of the place, the
mistress, is contented with her life, and cheerfully interested in
the welfare of all around her,--then “all things work together for
good,” and the house becomes a bulwark against adversity, a harbour
in storm, a “nest” indeed, where warmth, repose, and mutual trust and
help make the days sweet and the nights calm. But where the mistress
is scarcely ever at home,--when she prefers public restaurants to her
own dining-room,--when with each change of the seasons she is gadding
about somewhere, and avoiding home as much as possible, how is it to be
expected that even servants will care to stay with her, or ever learn
to admire and respect her? Peace and happiness are hers to possess in
the natural and God-given ways of home life, if she chooses,--but if
she turns aside from her real sovereignty, throws down her sceptre and
plays with the sticks and straws of the “half-world,” she has only
herself to blame if the end should prove but dire confusion and the
bitterness of strife.
Apart altogether from the individual dignity and self-poise which are
invariably lacking to the “vagrant,” or home despising human being,
the decay of home life in England is a serious menace to the Empire’s
future strength. If our coming race of men have been accustomed to see
their mothers indulging in a kind of high-class public house feasting,
combined with public house morals, and have learned from them an
absolute indifference to home and home ties, they in their turn will do
likewise and live as “vagrants,”--here, there and everywhere, rather
than as well-established, self-respecting citizens and patriots, proud
of their country, and proud of the right to defend their homes. Even as
it is, there are not wanting signs of a general “wandering,” tendency,
combined with morbid apathy and sickly inertia. “One place is as good
as another,” says one section of society, and “anything is better than
the English climate,” says another, preparing to pack off to Egypt or
the Riviera at the first snap of winter. These opinions are an exact
reversion of those expressed by our sturdy, patriotic forefathers,
who made the glory of Great Britain. “There is no place like England”
was their sworn conviction, and “no place like home” was the essence
of their national sentiment. The English climate, too, was quite good
enough for them, and they made the best of it. When will the “Smart
Set” grasp the fact that the much-abused weather, whatever it may be,
is pretty much the same all over Europe? The Riviera is no warmer than
the Cornish coast, but _certes_ it is better provided with hotels,
and--chiefest attraction of all--it has a Gambling Hell. The delights
of Monte Carlo and “Home,” are as far apart as the poles; and those
who seek the one cannot be expected to appreciate the other. But such
English women as are met at the foreign gambling-tables, season after
season, may be looked upon as the deliberate destroyers of all that is
best and strongest in our national life, in the sanctity of Home, and
the beauty of home affections. The English Home used to be a model to
the world;--with a few more scandalous divorce cases in high life, it
will become a by-word for the mockery of nations. The following from
the current Press is sufficiently instructive:
“The crowd of well-dressed women who daily throng the court during
the hearing of the ... case and follow with such intense eagerness
every incident in the dissection of a woman’s honour afford a
remarkable object-lesson in contemporary social progress.
“Ladies, richly garbed, who drive up in smart broughams,
emblazoned carriages, and motor-cars, and are representative of
the best known families in the land, fight and scramble for a
seat, criticize the proceedings in a low monotone, and, without
the smallest indication of a blush, balance every point made by
counsel, and follow with keen apprehension the most suggestive
evidence.
“Others, no less intensely interested in the sordid details of
divorce, come on foot--women of the great well-to-do middle-class,
who have all their lives had the advantage of refined and
educated surroundings. Some are old, with silvery hair; others
are middle-aged women, who bring comely daughters still in their
teens; others are in the first flush of womanhood; but they all
crowd into the narrow court and struggle to get a glimpse of the
chief actors in the drama, and listen to the testimony which would
convict them of dishonour.”
No one in their sober senses will call any of these women fit to
rule their homes, or to be examples to their children. Unblushingly
indecent, and unspeakably vulgar, their brazen effrontery and shameless
interest in the revolting details of a revolting case, have shown them
to be beyond the pale of all true womanhood, and utterly unfit to be
the mothers of our future men, or guardians of the honour of home and
family. There is no “railing” against society in this assertion; the
plain facts speak for themselves.
The charm of home depends, of course, entirely on the upbringing
and character of the inmates. Stupid and illiterate people make a
dull fireside. Morbid faddists, always talking and thinking about
themselves, put the fire out altogether. If I were asked my opinion as
to the chief talent or gift for making a home happy, I should without
a moment’s hesitation, reply, “Cheerfulness.” A cheerful spirit,
always looking on the bright side, and determined to make the best of
everything, is the choicest blessing and the brightest charm of home.
People with a turn for grumbling should certainly live in hotels and
dine at restaurants. They will never understand how to make, or to
keep, a home as it should be. But, given a cheerful, equable, and
active temperament, there is nothing sweeter, happier or safer for
the human being than Home, and the life which centres within it, and
the duties concerning it which demand our attention and care. There
is no need for women to wander far afield for an outlet to their
energies. Their work waits for them at their own doors, in the town
or village where they reside. No end of useful, kind and neighbourly
things are to hand for their doing,--every day can be filled, like
a basket of flowers, full of good deeds and gentle words by every
woman, poor or rich, who has either cottage or mansion which she can
truly call “Home.” Home is a simple background, against which the star
of womanhood shines brightest and best. The modern “gad-about” who
suggests a composition of female chimpanzee and fashionable “Johnny”
combined, is a kind of sexless creature for whom “Home” would only be a
cage in the general menagerie. She (or It) would merely occupy the time
in scrambling about from perch to perch, screaming on the slightest
provocation, and snapping at such other similar neuter creatures who
chanced to possess longer or more bushy tails. And it is a pity such
an example should be thought worthy of imitation by any woman claiming
to possess the advantage of human reason. But the Chimpanzee type of
female is just now singularly _en evidence_, having a habit of pushing
to the front on all occasions, and performing such strange antics as
call for public protest, and keep the grinding machinery of the law
only too busy. The Press, too, pays an enormous amount of unnecessary
attention to the performances of these more or less immodest animals,
so that it sometimes seems to our Continental neighbours as if we, as
a nation, had no real women left, but only chimpanzees. There are,
however, slight stirrings of a movement among the true “ladies” of
England, those who stand more or less aloof from the “smart set,”--a
movement indicative of “drawing the line somewhere.” It is possible
that there may yet be a revival of “Home” and its various lost graces
and dignities. We may even hear of doors that will not open to
millionaires simply _because_ they are millionaires. Only the other day
a very great lady said to her sister in my hearing: “No, I shall not
‘present’ my two girls at all. Society is perfectly demoralised, and
I would rather the children remained out of it, so far as London is
concerned. They are much happier in the country than in town, and much
healthier, and I want to keep them so. Besides, they love their home!”