Part 4

There is nothing like a good telescope, if you want to see well.

That is evident.

* * * * *

The most striking feature of the English language is euphemism: it is its very genius. So, "to be taken in adultery" is in English law phraseology, "to be surprised in criminal conversation." Conversation! Charming, is it not? A cosy talk, a bit of a chat, you know.

If, in France, you must turn your tongue in your mouth seven times before speaking, in England, you must turn it at least eight. You get used to it in time.

In France, when something is offered us at table we say: "With pleasure," or "No, thank you, not any more." "Thank you," alone, is sufficient, if you wish to refuse. In England, _thank you_, alone, signifies that you are ready to allow yourself to be helped to such-and-such a dish, as I once or twice found to my dismay and the distress of my poor stomach.

However, these are not the usual ways of accepting or refusing. At the family table, when the master of the house asks you if you will have a little more of the dish he has before him, if you are still hungry, you reply: "I think I will." If you are satisfied, you answer: "I don't think I'll have any more," or, "I would rather not have any more."

A Frenchman, taking leave of his friends, says: "Well, I must leave you; so, good-bye," and he shakes hands and goes. An Englishman will say: "I am afraid I must go." He is _afraid_ it must be late; he _thinks_ he must leave you; he _fears_ so: anyhow, he is not very sure; and if you were to ask an Englishman if it is true that his nose is in the middle of his face, he would reply that he hopes and presumes it is in the place you mention:

"Dubius is such a scrupulous good man, Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can. He would not, with a peremptory tone, Assert the nose upon his face his own; With hesitation, admirably slow, He humbly hopes--presumes--it may be so."

I happened the other day to be travelling, in a first-class carriage, with half a dozen young people who were going to Hammersmith, to do a little boating on the Thames. One of the young men was smoking. Up comes the guard to the carriage door. "You are not in a smoking-compartment, sir," said he to the young fellow, "and I see you are smoking."

----"You make a mistake, I am not," promptly replied my smoker, who had taken his pipe from his mouth at the approach of the guard, and was holding it out of sight.

He was right: while he was answering the guard, it was his pipe that was smoking, not he.

In a nation that boasts of its truthfulness, that punishes perjury with transportation, but which is not more virtuous than its neighbours, it was necessary to find _avec le ciel des accommodements_, and so white lies were invented: lies more or less innocent.

How many good Englishmen do I know who would not for the world say, "My God," but who get over the difficulty by saying _mon Dieu_ or _mein Gott_, as if the Deity only understood English!

* * * * *

But it is the Puritans that you should hear, if you would form an idea of the genius of the English language. Their phraseology hangs about their tongues like so much treacle.

It is quite a study apart.

If you would be thoroughly edified, take a walk along the Strand in the month of May.

There stands in this thoroughfare an immense hall belonging to the Young Men's Christian Association. This building, which ought to be called Salvation Hall, is simply named Exeter Hall. It is in this place that, from the first to the thirty-first of May, the various angelical, evangelical, and archangelical societies, successively hold their annual conferences, called May Meetings.

It is Salvation Fair.

To Exeter Hall throng _la gent trotte-menu_ from all parts of the United Kingdom to do their souls' spring-cleaning.

For a whole month, the air of the Strand is impregnated with an odour of sanctity ... of which it stands sadly in need, to speak the truth: it is a spectacle thoroughly English, to see on one side of a street--the north side of the Strand--edifying groups, unctuous specimens of the most austere virtue; on the other side, a few yards off, groups of unfortunate, shameless women, dirty, intoxicated, daring specimens of the lowest debauch: on the right, hymns; on the left, obscene songs: on the right, the Bible and the Gospel; on the left, beer, gin ... and the rest.

In this pious society the note resembles the plumage.

Look at the Puritan, trotting along the Strand, going religiously to the meeting of his sect. He walks with light, short, jaunty steps, his head a little on one side. He is dressed in black shiny raiment, and a wide-brimmed felt hat covers his head: it is the uniform of piety in England. He wears all the imaginable symbols of English goodness, including a brand-new piece of blue ribbon in his buttonhole; and he carries his indispensable umbrella in his hand. The umbrella is the _fidus Achates_ of every true-born Briton. You will never see one of them so lost to the sense of propriety as to carry a walking-stick to these meetings of male and female cherubim.

Does he enter into conversation? he _trusts_ you are pretty well (pronounced _pooty well_). He will never push his presumption so far as to imagine that, in this world of trials and sufferings, you can be quite well. We must not expect too much; we must be content with the small mercies Providence sends. Does he give you an appointment for the morrow? "he _hopes_ to have the pleasure of seeing you, if the Lord will." If you are to meet together to pray, to dine, nay, were it only to take tea, the invitation invariably bears the proviso, D.V.

This prudent and wise person enters and leaves the tabernacle of the West-end noiselessly. He would walk upon eggs without breaking them. He casts right and left little grimaces that are so many forced smiles; then takes his seat, and says a short prayer in his hands or in his hat. It is generally in their hats that the Englishmen of Low Church and dissenting sects address their prayers to Heaven.

The secretary's report of the state of the Association's finances is read to the audience; some monotonous and endless hymns are sung; and an edifying conference follows, showing the flourishing condition of the society, and the benefits it confers upon humanity in general, and its ministers in particular.

The meeting then breaks up, and at the door, little groups are formed, a great deal of hand-shaking goes on, accompanied with felicitations on the subject of the success of the good cause. Here is a sample conversation that I caught one day in passing, and which I give word for word:--

1st _Cherub_ (male).--"How do you do, Mrs. Jones? Are you pooty well?"

2nd _Cherub_ (female).--"Pooty well, thank you; are you pooty well?"

1st _Cherub_.--"Pooty well. How is dear Miss Evans? Is she pooty well?"

3rd _Cherub_ (female).--"Not very well; she has such a bad cold!"

4th _Cherub_ (male).--"Has she really? This is a dreary world, is it not? Dear soul, I hope she will take care of herself."

5th _Cherub_ (female).--"Glorious meeting, was it not?"

_Chorus._--"Glorious, indeed!"

I make my way to the door of the Hall. The entrance and lobby are covered with advertisements: the programmes of the performances. In this steeple-chase of people, who know how to believe in God and make a snug little income out of it, it is the General of the Salvation Army that carries off the palm: he announces assets to the amount of over 350,000 pounds sterling, and an army of 500,000 soldiers, male and female, well disciplined, and devoted to the cause. He has outshone Messrs. Moody and Sankey, the American evangelists, who, in 1875, were preaching every evening to London audiences of thirty and forty thousand persons, and that for months running! It is all over. Mr. Sankey accompanies himself on a harmonium; the general has big drums, cymbals and trombones; long live the general! Since the imprisonment of Miss Booth, in Switzerland, the shares of the Salvation Army have gone up steadily: there is no more lucrative profession than that of a martyr, when it is properly carried out ... and the "General" knows how to _battre la caisse et la remplir_.

As in this weary world, people do not live on the word of life alone, Exeter Hall keeps a restaurant. I notice the bill of fare, posted up at the door. This bill of fare fills my soul with sadness and regret. My illusions vanish; I am no longer in paradise. I had expected something in this way:--

_Potage alleluia aux flageolets_, _Petit Agneau sauce Pénitence_, _Haricots bon jeune homme_, _Lentilles sauce Esaü_, _Crême à la Vertu_, _Soufflé aux petits Anges_, _Paradise pudding_.

But I was doomed to be disappointed.

VIII.

The Boas of the Aristocracy--The prettiest Women in London--Shop girls--Barmaids--Actresses and Supernumeraries--Miss Mary Anderson.

According to the account of Lady John Manners, this is how the ladies of the upper classes in England fare. As this _haulte dame_ should be an authority on the matter, not only will we accept her statements as perfectly correct, but we will also profit by her observations to draw some judicious conclusions.

"In well-appointed sporting country houses," says Lady John Manners,[3] "before the ladies--indeed, before most of the gentlemen--leave their beds, dainty little services of tea and bread-and-butter are carried to them. Sometimes the younger men prefer brandy and soda. Fortified by these refreshments, the non-sporting guests come to breakfast about ten. Four hot dishes, every sort of cold meats that might fitly furnish forth a feast, fruits, cakes, tea, coffee, cocoa, claret, constitute a satisfactory breakfast, often prolonged till within two hours and a half of luncheon. The important institution of luncheon begins at two. Again, the table is spread with many varieties of flesh and fowl, hot and cold proofs of the cook's ability, plain puddings for those who study their health, creations in cream for those who have not yet devoted themselves to that never-failing source of interest. Coffee is often served after lunch, which is usually over soon after three. If a shooting party has gone out, Norwegian stoves, crammed with hot dishes of an appetizing character, have been despatched to the scene of action. The ladies gather round the tea-table about five, usually showing much appreciation of any little surprises in the way of muffins, or tea-cakes, provided by a thoughtful hostess. When the shooters come in, some will probably join the ladies, perhaps a few may like a little champagne, but tea and talk tempt the majority. Dinner is served at eight or half-past, and two hours more are then spent at table. After dinner, coffee is brought into the dining-room, while the gentlemen smoke. It is whispered that some of the ladies enjoy a post-prandial cigarette. Liqueurs and tea are offered during the evening, and keep up flagging energies till the ladies ostensibly go to bed, after a little money has changed hands at poker or loo." The gentlemen then have whisky, brandy, claret, effervescing waters, and lemons brought them, to help them support existence till one or two o'clock in the morning.

[3] _National Review_, March, 1844.

Such is the ordinary of the aristocracy. Quite a choker this ordinary, is it not?

Now this prodigious voracity seems to account for many things.

But first, it is impossible not to admire the wisdom of Providence in arming these carnivora, I will not say with tusks of defence, but with those tusks of attack that betray their nationality in any part of the world.

We can understand now why English women over forty have shrunken gums; we can understand now why their poor teeth very sensibly protest against their superhuman task, and slant outwards, so as to get a little help from the gums in this gigantic work of mastication; we understand at last how it is that the eyes of most of the _habituées_ of Rotten Row seem to be starting from their sockets, and you need not smile, for your eyes would soon do the same, if your digestive apparatus were kept in perpetual movement of deglutition. It is a facial panic.

The fact is that, in the fashionable promenade of Hyde Park, you see very few pretty women. With the exception of some children that certainly are lovely, the majority of the faces you see in the carriages are sulky and stupid-looking; they have lobster eyes that throw you an indifferent and half-dead glance: they are the faces of digesting boas in a comatose state, the faces of women who seem to have not a pleasure in life. No smiles, no little graceful gestures of recognition from one carriage to another: it is Madame Tussaud's exhibition out for an airing: a solemn and stupid procession.

If you would refresh your eyes with the sight of pretty faces, young, rosy, plump and fresh,--if you would see them by the hundred, go and take a stroll, between nine and ten o'clock in the morning, in Regent Street, Oxford Street, New Bond Street, and Piccadilly. There you will see the prettiest national produce that John Bull has to show you. The finest specimens of Englishwomen are the assistants in the great drapery, bonnet and mantle shops. The English tradesmen of importance, who know their business, only employ women that are young, pretty, in face and figure, and well behaved; and the sight of these hundreds of independent, respectable, and well-mannered girls, going to their shops every morning, is one of the most refreshing and edifying to be seen in this immense city.

I have many times accompanied ladies to bonnet shops in the West-end, where I have sometimes witnessed very amusing little scenes. I have seen young spinsters of thirty-nine summers, make a pretty shop girl put on all the hats in the shop, and then go to the glass and try them on one after another. The disappointed looks of these poor dears were quite diverting. It is a curious thing, they seemed to say to themselves, making a wry face the while, none of these hats suit me as they do that girl! And with what a mischievous, wicked little smile, those pretty milliners of twenty-five--that pitiless age--said: "Oh! that hat suits you so beautifully!" I admired the angelic patience with which they tried the whole stock of the shop upon those ugly heads. This occupation cannot fail to be often very amusing, and in the evening, on returning home, what funny stories they must have to tell each other!

It was in a fashionable milliner's shop in New Bond Street. A scarecrow in petticoats had just chosen, after an hour's hesitation, a sweet little white hat, that a girl of twenty would have thought too childish for herself. Two pretty assistants bowed the lady out with a very grave look, and closed the door. "I think women ought to expire at forty, don't you?" said one of them to her companion. And the two wicked creatures were near exploding with fun.

The fashionable shops are not the only ones that keep a good stock of nice-looking English girls. Some of the finest specimens are to be seen in the restaurants and buffets. Messrs. Spiers and Pond have legions of them under their orders. These magnificent daughters of Albion are of an inferior social grade, but they are well behaved, and, for the most part, remarkably handsome. They are not so modest as to be unable to bear the gaze of the sterner sex, or to allow a few dandies to have a little flirtation with them over their glass of wine; but still women who consent to stand behind a counter from ten in the morning to twelve at night, for a salary of about thirty shillings a week, are evidently respectable. In the case of a young and handsome woman, a modest income is a certificate of virtue.

Once more, it is in the theatre that, in default of talented actresses, you may admire beautiful women. I am bound, however, to make an exception here in favour of Mrs. Stirling, the greatest _comédienne_ in England, who, in spite of her talent as a teacher, will leave no one after her to replace her; of Mrs. Bernard Beere, so _sympathique_, so refined; of silver-voiced Mrs. Bancroft, so gay, so sparkling with fun and mischief; of Miss Ellen Terry, so gracefully youthful, frolicsome, and coaxing; of Mrs. Kendall, the first among sentimental heroines of the English stage, with her delicacy, pathos, and irreproachable purity of diction.

With the exception of the actresses just mentioned, you will see very little to admire on the London stage but pretty women. And, after all, this is not to be despised; one may pass an evening very agreeably in looking at pretty faces and fine shoulders, especially after dining _à l'anglaise_. When you have partaken of the fifth repast spoken of by Lady John Manners, your intellect is not very exacting. So, I will not hesitate to advise you, when you come to London, to go and see the grand spectacular pieces, the Drury Lane pantomimes included, even if the great impresario (to do him justice, no one knows how to mount a play as he does) were to mention, in his next advertisements, that I gave you such advice.

It is impossible to speak of English actresses without mentioning the beautiful American lady who drew crowds to the Lyceum this year, in the absence of Mr. Irving and Miss Terry, who were at the time delighting the Yankees.

Miss Mary Anderson may boldly be proclaimed the champion beauty of the world.

Her acting is good, but her beauty is such as to make one oblivious of her talent. Her face is divinely sweet and beautiful; her gaze ingenuous, her grace indescribable, her sculptural lines classic in their purity; her proportions perfect: it is a feast for the eyes. Gérard would not have desired a more chaste or purer model for his Psyche receiving the first kiss of Cupid.

IX.

The _Demi-monde_--Sly Dogs--The Disreputable World--The Society for the Protection of Women--Humble Apologies for grave Mistakes.

In a country where, as M. Taine says in his _History of English Literature_, religion and morality are coins which you must have in your pocket either good or counterfeit, the _monde où l'on s'amuse_ is here the _monde où l'on se cache_. The _demi-mondaine_ is not a prominent personage over here, and the Englishman who glides into her house at nightfall, with his coat-collar turned up to his ears, and his hat lowered over his eyes, would never think of taking her to a theatre or of putting her into his carriage in Hyde Park. For this, I think he deserves a good mark. Call it hypocrisy if you like; it is deference to public opinion, and I prefer the vice that hides its head to the vice that gives itself airs.

I heard with my own ears, a few years ago, in a Parisian drawing-room, a lady of good society compliment a young man on the pretty sinner she had seen him with in a box at a theatre. And the receiver of the compliment seemed mightily pleased. His look said, "Yes, it is So-and-So, who is on the best of terms with me."

Men do not meet around the dining-table of the English _cocotte_, nor in her drawing-room. They do not go to her house to have a chat, much less to pay her court: her sittings are held within closed doors. It is not Aspasia nor Lais, it is a fine animal of a girl that friend John pays a visit to, when he has not time to go to Boulogne. He returns home, and no one, not even his most intimate friend, is the wiser for his little nocturnal expeditions. Next day, with rosy cheeks and downcast eyes, he accompanies his mother and sisters to church, bearing a goodly number of books of devotion under his arm.

Hypocrisy! you will cry. No, it is not. Unless you accept La Rochefoucauld's definition of hypocrisy: "homage that vice renders to virtue;" for, thanks to this hypocrisy, the virtuous woman has not in public to yield her rightful place to the other, who, conscious of her degradation, keeps in the shade. The virtuous woman can reign, her rights undisputed; and, in the inner family circle, the conduct of the young men is rarely a subject of scandal for the ladies, who are the honour of the house, and who certainly have a right to exact a little consideration for their feelings.

I know a good Englishman, whose abode is about nine miles distant from Brighton. Every Saturday he pays a little anonymous visit to this town.

"What on earth takes you to Brighton every Saturday?" said one of his sisters laughingly to him one day.

----"My dear child, I go to have my hair cut," replied the sly dog, without wincing.

Next best to the whole truth, is the truth.

I know another, who, Briton though he be, begins to feel the effects of the motion of the Ocean, as he invests in a railway ticket at Charing Cross. Yet this does not prevent his passing a couple of days at Boulogne about once a fortnight. He has never satisfactorily explained the reason of these little trips to me. All I know is, that if you want to tease him, you have only to say to him: "You have been to Boulogne, I think?" or, "Do you know Boulogne?"

* * * * *

There are no recognised houses of ill-fame in England, a fact of which the virtuous John is immensely proud. Not that there is much cause for it. If English law refuses to officially recognise vice and to regulate it within four walls, it tolerates it in the open air, in the streets, and above all, in the parks; and I cannot see what public morality gains by it, unless it be the encouragement to deny, even in the face of evident facts, something which is not recognised by law, and the satisfaction of knowing that Nemesis follows the nocturnal frequenters of the parks, in the shape of colds in the head ... and the rest. I have spoken elsewhere of the processions of Regent Street and the Strand, of the fair that is held in the shameless crowd that swarms about the Haymarket and in the parks, from sunset to two in the morning. I will not return to the subject; it would be out of place to dwell long on the matter and enter into sickening details. Thanks to the efforts of Lord Dalhousie, one of the most popular and intelligent members of the House of Lords, it is probable that before long one of the most hideous sights of London--a sight certainly unique in Europe, will no longer meet the eyes of people unfortunate enough to be out of doors after nightfall. Lord Dalhousie will, I think, succeed in passing an Act of Parliament which will close the career of the streets to girls under sixteen. That will be a grand improvement.

By-the-bye, it is high time that I should repair, whilst I think of it, a grave error that I committed. I said, alas! I even put it down in black and white, that there was a Society in England for the protection of animals, and I was ill-inspired enough to add, "a Society for the protection of women does not yet exist." Well, it appears it does. You would never have thought it, would you? Nor I either. Nothing is more certain, however: this Society has existed for years, it appears. Consequently, the other day, on taking up my paper, I was not surprised to see that a London magistrate had not feared to fine a brute of a husband ten shillings, for having smashed his wife's head with the tongs.[4] My compliments to a Society that inspires such terror in a magistrate of the great city. After such an example as that, few husbands will be opening their wives' heads to see what there is inside. Let me hasten to make my most humble apologies to the Society.

[4] See Appendix (b).