Chapter VII: Part 7

Latterly there have been certain growlings and mutterings of discontent from husbands who have had to pay certain unexpectedly long bills for their wives’ “creations in costume”--but, as a matter of fact, it is really the men who are chiefly to blame for the wicked waste of money they afterwards resent and deplore. They are the principal instigators of the mischief,--the aiders and abettors of the destruction of their own credit and good name. For they openly show their admiration for women’s clothes more than for the women clothed,--that is to say, they are more easily captured by art than by nature. No group of male flatterers is ever seen round a woman whose dress is un-stylish or otherwise “out-of-date.” She may have the sweetest face in the world, the purest nature and the truest heart, but the “dressed” woman, the dyed, the artistically “faked” woman will nearly always score a triumph over her so far as masculine appreciation and attention are concerned.

The “faked” woman has everything on her side. The Drama supports her. The Press encourages her. Whole columns in seemingly sane journals are devoted to the description of her attire. Very little space is given to the actual criticism of a new play _as_ a play, but any amount of room is awarded to glorified “gushers” concerning the actresses’ gowns. Of course it has to be borne in mind that the “writing up” of actresses’ gowns serves a double purpose. First, the “creators” of the gowns are advertised, and may in their turn advertise,--which in these days of multitudinous rival newspapers, is a point not to be lost sight of. Secondly, the actresses themselves are advertised and certain gentlemen with big noses who move “behind the scenes,” and are the lineal descendants of Moses and Aaron, may thereby be encouraged to speculate in theatrical “shares.” Whereas criticism of the play itself does no good to anybody nowadays, not even to the dramatic author. For if such criticism be unfavourable, the public say it is written by a spiteful enemy,--if eulogistic, by a “friend at court,” and they accept neither verdict. They go to see the thing for themselves, and if they like it they keep on going. If not, they stay away, and there’s an end.

But to the gowns there is no end. The gowns, even in an _un_-successful play, are continuously talked of, continuously written about, continuously sketched in every sort of pictorial, small and great, fashionable or merely provincial. And the florid language,--or shall we say the ‘fine writing’?--used to describe clothes generally, on and off the stage, is so ravingly sentimental, so bewilderingly turgid, that it can only compare with the fervid verbosity of the early eighteenth century romancists, or the biting sarcasm of Thackeray’s _Book of Snobs_, from which the following passage, descriptive of ‘Miss Snobky’s’ presentation gown, may be aptly quoted:--

“_Habit de Cour_ composed of a yellow nankeen illusion dress, over a slip of rich pea-green corduroy, trimmed _en tablier_ with bouquets of Brussels sprouts, the body and sleeves handsomely trimmed with calimanco, and festooned with a pink train and white radishes. Head-dress, carrots and lappets.”

By way of a modern pendant to the above grotesque suggestion, one extract from a lengthy “clothes” article recently published in a daily paper will suffice:

“Among the numerous evening and dinner gowns that the young lady has in her _corbeille_, one, _a l’Impératrice Eugénie_, is very lovely. The foundation is of white Liberty, with a tulle overdress on which are four flounces of Chantilly lace arranged in zig-zags, connected together with shaded pink _gloria_ ribbons arranged in waves and wreaths. This is repeated on the low corsage and on the long drooping sleeves of the high bodice.

“A richer toilette is of white Liberty silk, with a flounce of magnificent Brussels lace festooned by leaves of the chestnut, formed of white satin wrought in iris beads and silver on white tulle. The whole gown is strewn with like leaves of graduating sizes, and the low corsage has a _berthe_ of Brussels lace ornamented with smaller chestnut leaves as are also the sleeves.” And so on, in unlimited bursts of enthusiasm.

I cannot say I am in the least sorry when “modistes” who ‘create’ costumes at forty, fifty and even one hundred and two hundred guineas per gown, are mulcted of some of their unlawful profits by defaulting creditors. In nine cases out of ten they richly deserve it. They are rightly punished, when they accept, with fulsome flattery and servile obsequiousness a “title” as sufficient guarantee for credit, and in the end find out that Her Grace the Duchess, or Miladi the Countess is perhaps more wickedly reckless and unprincipled than any plain Miss, or Mrs. ever born, and that these _grandes dames_ frequently make use of both rank and position to cheat their tradespeople systematically. The tradespeople are entirely to blame for trusting them, and this is daily and continuously proved. But the touching crook-knee’d worship of mere social rank still remains an ingredient of the mercantile nature,--it is inborn and racial,--a kind of microbe in the blood generated there in old feudal times, when, all over the world, pedlars humbly sought the patronage and favour of robber chieftains, and unloaded their packs in the ‘Castle hall’ for the pleasure of the fair ladies who were kept at home in “durance vile” by their rough, unwashen lords. And so perhaps it has chanced through long custom and heritage, that at this present day there is nothing quite so servile in all creation as the spectacle of the ‘modiste’ in attendance on a Duchess, or a ‘ladies’ tailor’ bending himself double while deferentially presuming to measure the hips of a Princess. It is quaint,--it is pitiful,--it is intensely, deliciously comic. And when the price of the garment is never clearly stated, and the bill never sent in for years lest offence is given to ‘Her Grace’ or ‘Her Highness’--by firms that will, nevertheless, have no scruple in sending dunning letters and legal threats to _un_-titled ladies, who may possibly keep them waiting a little for their money, but whose position and credit are more firmly established than those of any ‘great’ personages with handles to their names, it is not without a certain secret satisfaction that one hears of such fawning flunkeys of trade getting well burnt in the fires of loss and disaster. For in any case, it may be taken for granted that they always charge a double, sometimes treble price for a garment or costume, over and above what that garment or costume is really worth, and one may safely presume they base all their calculations on possible loss. It is no uncommon thing to be told that such and such an evening blouse or bodice copied ‘from the Paris model’ will cost Forty Guineas--“We _might_ possibly do it for Thirty Five,”--says the costumier meditatively, studying with well-assumed gravity the small, flimsy object he is thus pricing, a trifle made up of chiffon, ribbon, and tinsel gew-gaws, knowing all the while that everything of which it is composed could be purchased for much less than ten pounds. Twenty-five guineas, forty-five guineas, sixty-five guineas are quite common prices for gowns at any of the fashionable shops to-day. One cannot, of course, blame the modistes and outfitting firms for asking these absurd fancy prices if they can get them. If women are mad, it is perhaps wise, just, and reasonable to take financial advantage of their madness while it lasts. Certainly no woman of well-balanced brain would give unlimited prices for gowns without most careful inquiry as to the correct value of the material and trimming used for them,--and the feminine creature who runs into the elaborate show-rooms of Madame Zoë or Berenice, or Faustina, and orders frocks by the dozen, saying chirpingly: “Oh, yes! _You_ know how they ought to be made! Your taste is always perfect! Make them _very_ pretty, won’t you?--_much_ prettier than those you made for Lady Claribel! Yes!--thanks! I’ll leave it all in your hands!” this woman, I say, is a mere lunatic, gibbering nonsense, who could not, if she were asked, tell where twice two making four might possibly lead her in the sum-total of a banking account.

Not very long ago there was held a wonderful “symposium” of dress at the establishment of a certain modiste. It was intensely diverting, entertaining and instructive. A stage was erected at one end of a long room, and on that stage, with effective flashes of lime-light played from the “wings” at intervals, and the accompaniment of a Hungarian band, young ladies wearing “creations” in costume, stood, sat, turned, twisted and twirled, and finally walked down the room between rows of spectators to show themselves and the gowns they carried, off to the best possible advantage. The whole thing was much better than a stage comedy. Nothing could surpass the quaint peacock-like vanity of the girl _mannequins_ who strutted up and down, moving their arms about to exhibit their sleeves and swaying their hips to accentuate the fall and flow of flounces and draperies. It was a marvellous sight to behold, and it irresistibly reminded one of a party of impudent children trying on for fun all their mother’s and elder sisters’ best “long dresses” while the unsuspecting owners were out of the way. There was a “programme” of the performance fearfully and wonderfully worded, the composition, so we were afterwards “with bated breath” informed, of Madame la Modiste’s sister, a lady, who by virtue of having written two small skits on the manners, customs and modes of society, is, in some obliging quarters of the Press called a “novelist.” This programme instructed us as to the proper views we were expected to take of the costumes paraded before us, as follows:

FOR THE DINNER PARTY

Topas
Elusive Joy
Pleasure’s Thrall
Red Mouth of a Venomous Flower

The “Red Mouth of a Venomous Flower” was a harmless-looking girl in a bright scarlet toilette,--neither the toilette nor the sensational title suited her. But perhaps the “Cult of Chiffon” presented the most varied and startling phases to a properly receptive mind. Thus it ran:

THE CULT OF CHIFFON

The Dirge O’er the Death of Pleasure
The Fire Motif
The Meaning of Life is Clear
Moss and Starlight
Incessant Soft Desire
A Frenzied Song of Amorous Things
A Summer Night Has a Thousand Powers

Faint gigglings shook the bosoms of the profane as the “Incessant Soft Desire” glided into view, followed by “A Frenzied Song of Amorous Things,”--indeed it would have been positively unnatural and inhuman had no one laughed. Curious to relate, there were quite a large number of “gentlemen” at this remarkable exhibition of feminine clothes, many of them well known and easily recognizable. Certain _flaneurs_ of Bond Street, various loafers familiar to the Carlton “lounge,” and celebrated Piccadilly-trotters, formed nearly one half of the audience, and stared with easy insolence at the “Red Mouth of a Venomous Flower” or smiled suggestively at “Incessant Soft Desire.” They were invited to stare and smile, and they did it. But there was something remarkably offensive in their way of doing it, and perhaps if a few thick boots worn on the feet of rough but honest workmen had come into contact with their smooth personalities on their way out of Madame Modiste’s establishment, it might have done them good and taught them a useful lesson. Needless to say that the prices of the Madame Modiste who could set forth such an exhibition of melodramatically designated feminine apparel as “The Night has a Thousand Eyes,” or “Spring’s Delirium,” were in suitable proportion to a “frenzied song of amorous things.” Such amorous things as are “created” in her establishment are likely to make husbands and fathers know exactly what “a frenzied song” means. When the payment of the bills is concerned, they will probably sing that “frenzied song” themselves.

It is quite easy to dress well and tastefully without spending a very great deal of money. It certainly requires brain--thought--foresight--taste--and comprehension of the harmony of colours. But the blind following of a fashion because Madame This or That says it is “chic” or “le dernier cri,” or some parrot-like recommendation of the sort, is mere stupidity on the part of the followers. To run up long credit for dresses, without the least idea how the account is ever going to be paid, is nothing less than a criminal act. It is simply fraud. And such fraud re-acts on the whole community.

Extravagant taste in dress is infectious. Most of us are impressed by the King’s sensible and earnest desire that the Press should use its influence for good in fostering amity between ourselves and foreign countries. If the Press would equally use its efforts to discourage florid descriptions of dress in their columns, much of the wild and wilful extravagance which is frequently the ruin of otherwise happy homes, might be avoided. When Lady A sees her loathëd rival Lady B’s dress described in half a column of newspaper “gush” she straightway yearns and schemes for a whole column of the same kind. When simple country girls read the amazing items of the “toilettes” worn by some notorious “demi-mondaine,” they begin to wonder how it is she has such things, and to speculate as to whether they will ever be able to obtain similar glorified apparel for themselves. And so the evil grows, till by and by it becomes a pernicious disease, and women look superciliously at one another, not for what they are, but merely to estimate the quality and style of what they put on their backs. Virtue goes to the wall if it does not wear a fashionable frock. Vice is welcomed everywhere if it is clothed in a Paris “creation.” Nevertheless, Ben Jonson’s lines still hold good:

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder’d, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art’s hid causes are not found
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

“All is not sweet, all is not sound,” when women think little or nothing of ordering extravagant costumes which they well know they will never be able to pay for, unless through some dishonourable means, such as gambling at Bridge for example. Madame Modiste is quite prepared for such an exigency, for she does not forget to show “creations” in clothes which, she softly purrs, are “suitable for Bridge parties.” They may possibly be called--“The Tricky Trump”--or “The Dazzling of a Glance too long” or “The Deft Impress of a Finger nail”! One never knows!

Any amount of fashion papers find their way into the average British household, containing rabid nonsense such as the following:

“There were wonderful stories afloat about Miss B’s dresses. Rumour has it that a dressmaker came over specially from New York to requisition the services of the most important artistes in Paris, and gold lace and hand embroidery were used with no frugal hand; yet, _despite this_ and the warm welcome accorded her by an English audience, Miss B does not seem to have made up her mind to stay with us long, for it is said the end of June will see the end of her season. We have sketched her in her pink chiffon wrap, which is made in the Empire shape covered with chiffon and decorated with bunches of chiffon flowers and green leaves held with bows of pink satin--a most dainty affair, full of delicate detail and pre-eminently becoming.”

“Despite this,”--is rich indeed! Despite the fact that “gold lace and hand-embroidery” were used “with no frugal hand,” Miss B is determined to leave “the gay, the gay and glittering scene,” and deprive us of her “pink chiffon wrap in the Empire shape”! A positively disastrous conclusion! Nay, but hearken to the maudlin murmurs of the crazed worshippers of Mumbo-Jumbo “Fashion”--

“Do you yearn for a grey muslin dress? Half my ‘smart girl’ acquaintances are buying grey muslins as though their lives depended on it. I fell in love with one of them that was in bouilloné gathers all round the skirt to within eight inches of the hem, while the yoke had similar but smaller bouillonés run through, well below the shoulder-line, with a wide chiné ribbon knotted low in front. Beneath this encircling ribbon the bodice pouched in blouse fashion over a chiné waist-ribbon to match, with long pendant ends one side; the sleeves were a distinct novelty, being set in a number of small puffs below one big one, a chiné ribbon being knotted around the arm between each puff.”

“Do you ‘yearn’ for a grey muslin dress?” O ye gods! One is reminded of a comic passage in the “Artemus Ward” papers, where it is related how a lady of the “Free Love” persuasion rushed at the American humorist, brandishing a cotton umbrella and crying out: “Dost thou not yearn for me?” to which adjuration Artemus replied, while he “dodged” the umbrella--“Not a yearn!”

“I should like,”--says one of the poor imbecile “dress” devotees, “the skirt finished off with a wadded hem, or perhaps a few folds of satin, but otherwise it should be left severely plain. These satin, brocade, or velvet dresses should stand or fall by their own merits, and never be over-elaborated.”

True! And is it “a wadded hem” or a padded room that should “finish off” these people who spread the madness of clothes far and wide till it becomes a positively dangerous and immoral infection? One wonders! For there is no more mischievous wickedness in society to-day than the flamboyant, exuberant, wilful extravagance of women’s dress. It has far exceeded the natural and pretty vanity of permissible charm, good taste and elegance. It has become a riotous waste,--an ugly disease of moral principle, ending at last in the disgrace and death of many a woman’s good name.

THE DECAY OF HOME LIFE IN ENGLAND

When people tell the truth they are generally disliked. From Socrates, to the latest of his modern philosophic imitators, the bowl of death-dealing hemlock has always been mixed by the world and held to the lips of those who dare to say uncomfortably plain things. When the late W. E. H. Lecky set down the truth of Cecil Rhodes, in his book entitled _The Map of Life_, and I, the present writer, ventured to quote the passage in “The Vulgarity of Wealth,” when that article was first published, a number of uninformed individuals rashly accused me of “abusing Cecil Rhodes.” They were naturally afraid to attack the greater writer. Inasmuch, said they: “If Mr. Lecky had _really_ suggested that Cecil Rhodes was not, like Brutus, ‘an honourable man,’ he, Mr. Lecky, would never have received the King’s new ‘Order of Merit,’ nor would Mr. Rhodes have been the subject of so much eulogy. For, of course, the King has read _The Map of Life_, and is aware of the assertions contained in it.” Now I wish, dear gossips all, you would read _The Map of Life_ for yourselves! You will find, if you do, not only plain facts concerning Rhodes, and the vulgarity, i.e. the ostentation of wealth, but much useful information on sundry other matters closely concerning various manners and customs of the present day. For one example, consider the following:

“The amount of pure and almost spontaneous malevolence in the world is probably far greater than we at first imagine.... No one, for example, can study the anonymous press, without perceiving how large a part of it is employed _systematically_, _persistently_ and _deliberately_ in fostering class, or individual or international hatreds, and often _in circulating falsehoods to attain this end_. Many newspapers notoriously depend for their existence on such appeals, and more than any other instruments, they inflame and perpetuate those permanent animosities which most endanger the peace of mankind. The fact that such newspapers are becoming in many countries the main and almost exclusive reading of the million, forms the most serious deduction from the value of modern education.”

Let it be noted, once and for all, that it is not the present writer who thus speaks of “the anonymous press,” but the experienced, brilliant and unprejudiced scholar who was among the first to hold the King’s “Order of Merit.” And so once again to our muttons:--

“Some of the very worst acts of which man can be guilty are acts which are commonly untouched by law, and only faintly censured by opinion. Political crimes, which a false and sickly sentiment so readily condones, are conspicuous among them. Men who have been gambling for wealth and power with the lives and fortunes of multitudes; men who for their own personal ambition are prepared to sacrifice the most vital interests of their country; men, who in time of great national danger and excitement deliberately launch falsehood after falsehood in the public press, in the well-founded conviction that they will do their evil work before they can be contradicted, may be met shameless and almost uncensured in Parliaments and drawing-rooms. The amount of false statements in the world which cannot be attributed to mere carelessness, inaccuracy or exaggeration, but which is plainly both deliberate and malevolent, can hardly be overrated. Sometimes it is due to a mere desire to create a lucrative sensation, or to gratify a personal dislike, or even to an unprovoked malevolence which takes pleasure in inflicting pain. * * * Very often it (i.e. the false statement in the press) is intended for purposes of stock-jobbing. The financial world is percolated with it. It is the common method of raising or depreciating securities, attracting investors, preying upon the ignorant and credulous, and enabling dishonest men to rise rapidly to fortune. When the prospect of speedy wealth is in sight, there are always numbers who are perfectly prepared to pursue courses involving the utter ruin of multitudes, endangering the most serious international interests, perhaps bringing down upon the world all the calamities of war.... It is much to be questioned whether the greatest criminals are to be found within the walls of prisons. Dishonesty on a small scale nearly always finds its punishment. Dishonesty on a gigantic scale continually escapes.... In the management of companies, in the great fields of industrial enterprise and speculation, gigantic fortunes are acquired by the ruin of multitudes; and by methods which though they avoid legal penalties are essentially fraudulent. In the majority of cases these crimes are perpetrated by educated men who are in possession of all the necessaries, of most comforts, and of many luxuries of life, and some of the worst of them are powerfully favoured by the conditions of modern civilization. There is no greater scandal or moral evil in our time than the readiness with which public opinion excuses them, and the influence and social position it accords to mere wealth, even when it has been acquired by notorious dishonesty, or when it is expended with absolute selfishness or in ways that are absolutely demoralising. In many respects the moral progress of mankind seems to me incontestable, but it is extremely doubtful whether in this respect, social morality, especially in England and America, has not seriously retrograded.”

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Now had I written the foregoing lines, some hundred or so of pleasant newspaper friends would have accused me of “screaming” out a denunciation of wealth, or of “railing” against society. But as Lecky,--with the King’s “Order of Merit,” appended to his distinguished name,--was the real author of the quotation, I am not without hope that his views may be judged worthy of consideration, even though his works may not be as thoughtfully studied as their excellence merits. It is not I--it was Mr. Lecky, who doubted whether “social morality both in England and America, had not seriously retrograded.” But, if it has so retrograded, there need be very little difficulty in tracing the retrogression to its direct source,--namely, to the carelessness, vanity, extravagance, lack of high principle, and entire lapse of dignity in the women who constitute and lead what is called the Smart Set. These women cannot be termed as of the Aristocracy, for the Aristocracy, (by which term I mean those who are lineally entitled to be considered the actual British nobility, and not the mushroom creations of yesterday), will, more often than not, decline to have anything to do with them. True, there are some “great” ladies, who have deliberately and voluntarily fallen from their high estate in the sight of a scandalised public, and who, by birth and breeding, should assuredly have possessed more pride and self-respect, than to wilfully descend into the mire. But the very fact that these few have so lamentably failed to support the responsibilities of their position, makes it all the sadder for the many good and true women of noble family who endeavour, as best they may, to stem the tide of harmful circumstance, and to show by the retired simplicity and intellectual charm of their own lives, that though society is fast becoming a disordered wilderness of American and South African “scrub,” there yet remains within it a flourishing scion of the brave old English Oak of Honour, guarded by the plain device “Noblesse Oblige.”

The influence of women bears perhaps more strongly than any other power on the position and supremacy of a country. Corrupt women make a corrupt State,--noble, God-fearing women make a noble, God-fearing people. It is not too much to say that the prosperity or adversity of a nation rests in the hands of its women. They are the mothers of the men,--they make and mould the characters of their sons. And the centre of their influence should be, as Nature intended it to be, the Home. Home is the pivot round which the wheel of a country’s highest statesmanship should revolve,--the preservation of Home, its interests, its duties and principles, should be the aim of every good citizen. But with the “retrogression of social morality,” as Mr. Lecky phrased it, and as part and parcel of that backward action and movement, has gone the gradual decay of home life, and a growing indifference to home as a centre of attraction and influence, together with the undermining of family ties and affections, which, rightly used and considered, should form the strongest bulwark to our national strength. The love of home,--the desire to _make_ a home,--is far stronger in the poorer classes nowadays than in the wealthy or even the moderately rich of the general community. Women of the “upper ten” are no longer pre-eminent as rulers of the home, but are to be seen daily and nightly as noisy and pushing frequenters of public restaurants. The great lady is seldom or never to be found “at home” on her own domain,--but she may be easily met at the Carlton, Prince’s, or the Berkeley (on Sundays). The old-world châtelaine of a great house who took pride in looking after the comfort of all her retainers,--who displayed an active interest in every detail of management,--surrounding herself with choice furniture, fine pictures, sweet linen, beautiful flowers, and home delicates of her own personal make or supervision, is becoming well-nigh obsolete. “It is such a bore being at home!” is quite an ordinary phrase with the gawk-girl of the present day, who has no idea of the value of rest as an aid to beauty, or of the healthful and strengthening influences of a quiet and well-cultivated mind, and who has made herself what is sometimes casually termed a “sight” by her skill at hockey, her speed in cycling, and her general “rushing about,” in order to get anywhere away from the detested “home.” The mother of a family now aspires to seem as young as her daughters, and among the vanishing graces of society may be noted the grace of old age. Nobody is old nowadays. Men of sixty wed girls of sixteen, women of fifty lead boys of twenty to the sacrificial altar. Such things are repulsive, abominable and unnatural, but they are done every day, and a certain “social set,” smirk the usual conventional hypocritical approval, few having the courage to protest against what they must inwardly recognize as both outrageous and indecent. The real “old” lady, the real “old” gentleman will soon be counted among the “rare and curious” specimens of the race. The mother who was _not_ “married at sixteen,” will ere long be a remarkable prodigy, and the paterfamilias who never explains that he “made an unfortunate marriage when quite a boy,” will rank beside her as a companion phenomenon. We have only to scan the pages of those periodicals which cater specially for fashionable folk, to see what a frantic dread of age pervades all classes of pleasure-loving society. The innumerable nostrums for removing wrinkles, massaging or “steaming” the complexion, the “coverings” for thin hair, the “rays,” of gold or copper or auburn, which are cunningly contrived for grey, or to use the more polite word, “faded,” tresses, the great army of manicurists, masseurs and “beauty-specialists,” who, in the most clever way, manage to make comfortable incomes out of the general panic which apparently prevails among their patrons at the inflexible, unstoppable march of Time,--all these things are striking proofs of the constant desperate fight kept up by a large and foolish majority against the laws of God and of Nature. Nor is the category confined to persons of admittedly weak intellect, as might readily be imagined, for just as the sapient Mr. Andrew Lang has almost been convicted of a hesitating faith in magic crystals, (God save him!) so are the names of many men, eminent in scholarship and politics, “down on the list” of the dyer, the steamer, the padder, the muscle-improver, the nail-polisher, the wrinkle-remover, and the eye-embellisher. Which facts, though apparently trivial, are so many brief hints of a “giving” in the masculine stamina. “It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving as would perhaps trouble a woman.” Vide _Hamlet_. Such it may be,--let us hope that such it is.

No doubt much of this fantastic dread of “looking old,” arises from the 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.