Horace Smith - Interludes
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Horace Smith >> Interludes
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II. ON LUXURY.
An eminent lawyer of my acquaintance had a Socratic habit of interrupting
the conversation by saying, "Let us understand one another: when you say
so-and-so, do you mean so-and-so, or something quite different?" Now,
although it is intolerable that the natural flow of social intercourse
should be thus impeded, yet in writing a paper to be laid before a
learned and fastidious society one is bound to let one's hearers a little
into the secret, and to state fairly what the subject of the essay really
is. I suppose we shall all admit that bad luxury is bad, and good luxury
is good, unless the phrase good luxury is a contradiction in terms. We
must try to avoid disputing about words. The word luxury, according to
its derivation, signifies an extravagant and outrageous indulgence of the
appetites or desires. If we take this as the meaning of the word, we
shall agree that luxury is bad; but if we take luxury to be only another
name for the refinements of civilization, we shall all approve of it. But
the real and substantial question is not what the word means, but, what
is that thing which we all agree is bad or good; where does the bad begin
and the good end; how are we to discern the difference; and how are we to
avoid the one and embrace the other. In this essay, therefore, I intend
to use the word luxury to denote that indulgence which interferes with
the full and proper exercise of all the faculties, powers, tastes, and
whatever is good and worthy in a man. Enjoyments, relaxations, delights,
indulgences which are beneficial, I do not denominate "luxury." All
indulgences which fit us for our duties are good; all which tend to unfit
us for them are bad; and these latter I call luxuries. Some one will
say, perhaps, that some indulgences are merely indifferent, and produce
no appreciable effect upon body or mind; and it might be enough to
dismiss such things with the maxim, "_de minimis non curat lex_." But
the doctrine is dangerous, and I doubt if anything in this world is
absolutely immaterial. De Quincey mentions the case of a man who
committed a murder, which at the time he thought little about, but he was
led on from that to gambling and Sabbath breaking. Probably in this
weary world any indulgence or pleasure which is not bad is not
indifferent, but absolutely good. The world is not so bright, so
comfortable, so pleasant, that we can afford to scorn the good the gods
provide us. In Mr. Reade's book on _Study and Stimulants_, Matthew
Arnold says, a moderate use of wine adds to the agreeableness of life,
and whatever adds to the agreeableness of life, adds to its resources and
powers. There cannot be a doubt that the bodily frame is capable of
being wearied, and that it needs repose and refreshment, and this is a
law which a man trifles with at his peril. The same is true of the
intellectual and moral faculties. They claim rest and refreshment; they
must have comfort and pleasure or they will begin to flag. It must also
be always remembered that in the every-day work of this world the body
and the mind have to go through a great deal which is depressing and
taxing to the energy, and a certain amount of "set off" is required to
keep the balance even. We must remember this especially with respect to
the poor. Pipes and cigars may be a luxury to the idle and rich, but we
ought not to grudge a pipe to a poor man who is overworked and miserable.
Some degree of comfort we all feel to be at times essential when we have
a comfortless task to perform. With good food and sleep, for instance,
we can get through the roughest work; with the relaxation of pleasant
society we can do the most tedious daily work. If, on the other hand, we
are worried and uncomfortable, we become unfitted for our business. We
all have our troubles to contend against, and we require comfort,
relaxation, stimulation of some sort to help us in the battle. There are
certain duties which most of us have to perform, and which, to use a
common expression, "take it out of us." Thus most of us are compelled to
travel more or less. An old gentleman travelling by coach on a long
journey wished to sleep off the tediousness of the night, but his
travelling companion woke him up every ten minutes with the inquiry,
"Well, sir, how are you by this." At last the old gentleman's patience
was fairly tired out. "I was very well when I got into the coach, and
I'm very well now, and if any change takes place I'll let you know." I
was coming from London to Beckenham, and in the carriage with me was a
gentleman quietly and attentively reading the newspaper. A lady opposite
to him, whenever we came to a station, cried out, "Oh, what station's
this, what station's this?" Being told, she subsided, more or less, till
the next station. The gentleman's patience was at last exhausted. "If
there is any _particular_ station at which you wish to alight I will
inform you when we arrive."
Such are some of the annoying circumstances of travel. Then, at the end
of the journey, are we sure of a comfortable night's rest? It was a rule
upon circuit that the barristers arriving at an inn had the choice of
bedrooms according to seniority, and woe betide the junior who dared to
infringe the rule and endeavour to secure by force or fraud the best
bedroom. The leaders, who had the hardest work to do, required the best
night's rest. A party of barristers arrived late one night at their
accustomed inn, a half-way house to the next assize town, and found one
of the best bedrooms already occupied. They were told by some wag that
it was occupied by a young man just joined the circuit. There was a rush
to the bedroom. The culprit was dragged out of bed and deposited on the
floor. A venerable old gentleman in a nightcap and gown addressed the
ringleader of his assailants, Serjeant Golbourne, "Brother Golbourne,
brother Golbourne, is this the way to treat a Christian judge?" I should
not have liked to have been one of those who had to conduct a cause
before him next day. Who can be generous, benevolent, kindly, and even-
tempered if one is to be subjected to such harassing details as I have
above narrated? and I have no doubt that a fair amount of comfort is
necessary to the exercise of the Christian virtues. I am not at all sure
that pilgrims prayed any better because they had peas in their shoes, and
it is well known that soldiers fight best when they are well fed. A
certain amount of comfort and pleasure is good for us, and is refreshing
to body and spirit. Such things, for instance, as the bath in the
morning; the cup of warm tea or coffee for breakfast; the glass of beer
or wine and variety of food at dinner; the rest or nap in the arm-chair
or sofa; an occasional novel; the pipe before going to bed; the change of
dress; music or light reading in the evening; even the night-cap
recommended by Mr. Banting; games of chance or skill; dancing;--surely
such things may renovate, soothe, and render more elastic and vigorous
both body and mind.
While, therefore, I have admitted fully that we all require "sweetness
and light," that some indulgence is necessary for the renovation of our
wearied souls and bodies; yet it very often will happen that the thing in
which we desire to indulge does not tend at all in this direction, or it
may be that, although a moderate indulgence does so tend, an immoderate
use has precisely the reverse effect. My subject, therefore, divides
itself, firstly, into a consideration of those luxuries which are _per
se_ deleterious, and those which are so only by excessive use.
I suppose you will not be surprised to hear that I think we are in
danger, in the upper and middle classes at all events, of going far
beyond the point where pleasures and indulgences tend to the improvement
of body and mind. Surely there are many of us who can remember when the
habits of our fathers were less luxurious than they are now. In a
leading article in a newspaper not long ago the writer said, "All classes
without exception spend too much on what may be called luxuries. A very
marked change in this respect has been noticed by every one who studies
the movements of society. Among people whose fathers regarded champagne
as a devout Aryan might have regarded the Soma juice--viz., as a beverage
reserved for the gods and for millionaires--the foaming grape of Eastern
France is now habitually consumed. . . ." He goes on, "The luxuries of
the poor are few, and chiefly consist of too much beer, and of little
occasional dainties. What pleasures but the grossest does the State
provide for the artisan's leisure?" "It does not do," says the writer,
"to be hard upon them, but it is undeniable that this excess of
expenditure on what in no sense profits them is enormous in the mass."
Not long ago a great outcry was heard about the extravagance and luxury
of the working man. It was stated often, and certainly not without
foundation, that the best of everything in the markets in the way of food
was bought at the highest prices by workmen or their wives; and although
the champagne was not perhaps so very freely indulged in, nor so pure as
might be wished, yet, that the working men indulged themselves in more
drink than was good for their stomachs, and in more expensive drinks than
was good for their purses, no man can doubt.
If this increase of luxury is observable in the lower classes, how much
more easily can it be discerned in the middle classes. Take for instance
the pleasures of the table. I do not speak of great entertainments or
life in palaces or great houses, which do not so much vary from one age
to another, but of the ordinary life of people like ourselves. Spenser
says:--
"The antique world excess and pryde did hate,
Such proud luxurious pomp is swollen up of late."
How many more dishes and how many more wines do we put on the table than
our ancestors afforded. Pope writes of Balaam's housekeeping:--
"A single dish the week day meal affords,
An added pudding solemnized the Lord's."
Then when he became rich:--
"Live like yourself was soon my lady's word,
And lo, two puddings smoked upon the board!"
Then his description of his own table is worth noting:--
"Content with little, I can manage here
On brocoli and mutton round the year,
'Tis true no turbots dignify my boards,
But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords.
To Hounslow Heath I point, and Banstead Down;
Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own,
From yon old walnut tree a show'r shall fall,
And grapes, long lingering on my only wall,
And figs from standard and espalier join--
The deuce is in you if you cannot dine."
Now, however, the whole world is put under contribution to supply our
daily meals, and the palate is being constantly stimulated, and in some
degree impaired by a variety of food and wine. And I am sure that the
effect of this is to produce a distaste for wholesome food. I daresay we
have all heard of the Scotchman who had drunk too much whisky. He said,
"I can't drink water; it turns sae acid on the stomach." This increase
of the luxuries of the table, beyond what was the habit of our fathers,
is shown chiefly, I think, when we are at home and alone; but if one is
visiting or entertaining others, how often is one perfectly bored by the
quantity of food and drink which is handed round. Things in season and
out of season, perhaps ill assorted, ill cooked, cold, and calculated to
make one extremely ill, but no doubt costing a great deal of money, time,
and anxiety to the givers of the feast. Then we fall to grumbling, and
are discontented with having too much, but having acquired a habit of
expecting it we grumble still more if there is not as much as usual
provided.
"He knows to live, who keeps the middle state,
And neither leans on this side or on that;
Nor stops, for one bad cork, his butler's pay;
Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away;
Nor lets, like Nevius, every error pass--
The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass."
But what is the modern idea of a dinner?--
"After oysters Sauterne; then sherry, champagne,
E'er one bottle goes comes another again;
Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above,
And tell to our ears in the sounds that they love,
How pleasant it is to have money,
Heigh ho;
How pleasant it is to have money!
Your Chablis is acid, away with the hock;
Give me the pure juice of the purple Medoc;
St. Peray is exquisite; but, if you please,
Some Burgundy just before tasting the cheese.
So pleasant it is to have money,
Heigh ho;
So pleasant it is to have money!
Fish and soup and omelette and all that--but the deuce--
There were to be woodcocks and not Charlotte Russe,
And so suppose now, while the things go away,
By way of a grace, we all stand up and say--
How pleasant it is to have money,
Heigh ho;
How pleasant it is to have money!
This, of course, is meant to be satirical; but no doubt many persons
regard the question of "good living" as much more important than "high
thinking." "My dear fellow," said Thackeray, when a dish was served at
the Rocher de Cancalle, "don't let us speak a word till we have finished
this dish."
"'Mercy!' cries Helluo. 'Mercy on my soul!
Is there no hope? Alas!--then bring the jowl.'"
A great peer, who had expended a large fortune, summoned his heir to his
death-bed, and told him that he had a secret of great importance to
impart to him, which might be some compensation for the injury he had
done him. The secret was that crab sauce was better than lobster sauce.
"Persicos odi," "I hate all your Frenchified fuss."
"But a nice leg of mutton, my Lucy,
I prithee get ready by three;
Have it smoking, and tender, and juicy,
And, what better meat can there be?
And when it has served for the master,
'Twill amply suffice for the maid;
Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster,
And tipple my ale in the shade."
Can anything be more awful than a public dinner--the waste, the
extravagance, the outrageous superfluity of everything, the enormous
waste of time, the solemn gorging, as if the whole end and aim of life
were turtle and venison. I do not know whether to dignify such
proceedings by the name of luxury. But what shall I say of gentlemen's
clubs. They are the very hotbed of luxury. By merely asking for it you
obtain almost anything you require in the way of luxury. I am aware that
many men at clubs live more carefully and frugally, but I am aware also
that a great many acquire habits of self-indulgence which produce
idleness and selfish indifference to the wants of others. In a still
more pernicious fashion, I think that refreshment bars at railway
stations minister to luxury; at least I am sure they foster a habit of
drinking more than is necessary, or desirable; and that is one form of
luxury, and a very bad one. The fellows of a Camford college are
reported to have met on one occasion and voted that we do sell our chapel
organ; and the next motion, carried _nem. con_., was that we do have a
dinner. As to ornaments for the dinner table what affectation and
expense do we see. But in the days of Walpole it was not amiss. "The
last branch of our fashion into which the close observation of nature has
been introduced is our desserts. Jellies, biscuits, sugar plums, and
creams have long since given way to harlequins, gondoliers, Turks,
Chinese, and shepherdesses of Saxon china. Meadows of cattle spread
themselves over the table. Cottages in sugar, and temples in barley
sugar, pigmy Neptunes in cars of cockle shells trampling over oceans of
looking glass or seas of silver tissue. Gigantic figures succeed to
pigmies; and it is known that a celebrated confectioner complained that,
after having prepared a middle dish of gods and goddesses eighteen feet
high, his lord would not cause the ceiling of his parlour to be
demolished to facilitate their entree. "_Imaginez-vous_," said he, "_que
milord n'a pas vouler faire oter le plafond_!"
To show how much luxurious living has increased during the present
century I propose to quote a portion of that wonderfully brilliant third
chapter of Macaulay's _England_ which we all know. Speaking of the
squire of former days, he says, "His chief serious employment was the
care of his property. He examined samples of grain, handled pigs, and,
on market days, made bargains over a tankard with drovers and hop
merchants. His chief pleasures were commonly derived from field sports
and from an unrefined sensuality. His language and pronunciation were
such as we should now expect to hear only from the most ignorant clowns.
His oaths, coarse jests, and scurrilous terms of abuse were uttered with
the broadest accent of his province. It was easy to discern from the
first words which he spoke whether he came from Somersetshire or
Yorkshire. He troubled himself little about decorating his abode, and,
if he attempted decoration, seldom produced anything but deformity. The
litter of a farm-yard gathered under the windows of his bed-chamber, and
the cabbages and gooseberry bushes grew close to his hall door. His
table was loaded with coarse plenty; and guests were cordially welcomed
to it. But as the habit of drinking to excess was general in the class
to which he belonged, and as his fortune did not enable him to intoxicate
large assemblies daily with claret or canary, strong beer was the
ordinary beverage. The quantity of beer consumed in those days was
indeed enormous. For beer was then to the middle and lower classes not
only what beer is now, but all that wine, tea, and ardent spirits now
are. It was only at great houses or on great occasions that foreign
drink was placed on the board. The ladies of the house, whose business
it had commonly been to cook the repast, retired as soon as the dishes
were devoured, and left the gentlemen to their ale and tobacco. The
coarse jollity of the afternoon was often prolonged till the revellers
were laid under the table."
I quote again from another portion of the same chapter in
Macaulay:--"Slate has succeeded to thatch, and brick to timber. The
pavements and the lamps, the display of wealth in the principal shops,
and the luxurious neatness of the dwellings occupied by the gentry,
would, in the seventeenth century, have seemed miraculous." Speaking of
watering-places he says:--"The gentry of Derbyshire and of the
neighbouring counties repaired to Buxton, where they were crowded into
low wooden sheds and regaled with oatcake, and with a viand which the
hosts called mutton, but which the guests strongly suspected to be dog."
Of Tunbridge Wells he says--"At present we see there a town which would,
a hundred and sixty years ago, have ranked in population fourth or fifth
among the towns in England. The brilliancy of the shops and the luxury
of the private dwellings far surpasses anything that England could then
show." At Bath "the poor patients to whom the waters had been
recommended, lay on straw in a place which, to use the language of a
contemporary physician, was a covert rather than a lodging. As to the
comforts and luxuries to be found in the interior of the houses at Bath
by the fashionable visitors who resorted thither in search of health and
amusement, we possess information more complete and minute than generally
can be obtained on such subjects. A writer assures us that in his
younger days the gentlemen who visited the springs slept in rooms hardly
as good as the garrets which he lived to see occupied by footmen. The
floors of the dining-room were uncarpeted, and were coloured brown with a
wash made of soot and small beer in order to hide the dirt. Not a
wainscot was painted. Not a hearth or chimney piece was of marble. A
slab of common freestone, and fire-irons which had cost from three to
four shillings, were thought sufficient for any fireplace. The best
apartments were hung with coarse woollen stuff, and were furnished with
rush-bottomed chairs."
Of London Macaulay says:--"The town did not, as now, fade by
imperceptible degrees into the country. No long avenues of villas,
embowered in lilacs and laburnum, extended from the great source of
wealth and civilization almost to the boundaries of Middlesex, and far
into the heart of Kent and Surrey." In short, there was nothing like the
Avenue and the Fox Grove, Beckenham, in old times, and we who live there
ought to be immensely grateful for our undeserved blessings. "At
present," he says, "the bankers, the merchants, and the chief shopkeepers
repair to the city on six mornings of every week for the transaction of
business; but they reside in other quarters of the metropolis or suburban
country seats, surrounded by shrubberies and flower gardens." Again, "If
the most fashionable parts of the capital could be placed before us, such
as they then were, we should be disgusted by their squalid appearance,
and poisoned by their noisome atmosphere. In Covent Garden a filthy and
noisy market was held close to the dwellings of the great. Fruit women
screamed, carters fought, cabbage stalks and rotten apples accumulated in
heaps at the thresholds of the Countess of Berkshire and of the Bishop of
Durham."
Well, you will say, all this proves what a vast improvement we have
achieved. Yes; but we must remember that Macaulay was writing on that
side of the question. Are we not more self-indulgent, more fond of our
flowers, villas, carriages, etc., than we need be; less hard working and
industrious; more desirous of getting the means of indulgence by some
short and ready way--by speculation, gambling, and shady, if not
dishonest dealing--than our fathers were? I need not follow at further
length Macaulay's description of these earlier times--of the black
rivulets roaring down Ludgate Hill, filled with the animal and vegetable
filth from the stalls of butchers and greengrocers, profusely thrown to
right and left upon the foot-passengers upon the narrow pavements; the
garret windows opened and pails emptied upon the heads below; thieves
prowling about the dark streets at night, amid constant rioting and
drunkenness; the difficulties and discomforts of travelling, when the
carriages stuck fast in the quagmires; the travellers attacked by
highwaymen. He narrates how it took Prince George of Denmark, who
visited Petworth in wet weather, six hours to go nine miles. Compare
this to a journey in a first-class carriage or Pullman car upon the
Midland Railway, and think of the luxuries demanded by the traveller on
his journey if he is going to travel for more than two or three hours:
the dinner, the coffee, the cigar, the newspaper and magazine, etc., etc.
There is a passage in the beginning of _Tom Brown's School Days_ in which
the author ridicules the quantity of great coats, wrappers, and rugs
which a modern schoolboy takes with him, though he is going to travel
first class, with foot-warmers. Then, in our houses, what stoves and hot-
water pipes and baths do we not require! How many soaps and powders,
rough towels and soft towels! Sir Charles Napier, I think, said that all
an officer wanted to take with him on a campaign was a towel, a tooth-
brush, and a piece of yellow soap. The great excuse for the bath is that
if it is warm it is cleansing; if it is cold, it is invigorating; but
what shall we say to Turkish Baths? Surely there is more time wasted
than enough, and, unless as a medical cure, it may become an idle habit.
I have seen private Turkish Baths in private houses. What are we coming
to? We used to be proud of our ordinary wash-hand basins, and make fun
of the little saucers that we found provided for our ablutions upon the
Continent. At the time of the great Exhibition of 1851 _Punch_ had a
picture of two very grimy Frenchmen regarding with wonder an ordinary
English wash-stand. "_Comment appelle-t'on cette machine la_," says one;
to which the other replies, "_Je ne sais pas_, _mais c'est drole_." A
great advance has been made in the furniture of our houses. We fill our
rooms, especially our drawing-rooms or boudoirs, with endless arm-chairs
and sofas of various shapes--all designed to give repose to the limbs;
but I am sure they tend towards lazy habits, and very often interfere
with work. Surely there has lately risen a custom of overdoing the
embellishment and ornamentation of our houses. We fill our rooms too
full of all sorts of knick-knacks, so much so that we can hardly move
about for fear of upsetting something. "I have a fire [in my bedroom]
all day," writes Carlyle. "The bed seems to be about eight feet wide. Of
my paces the room measures fifteen from end to end, forty-five feet long,
height and width proportionate, with ancient, dead-looking portraits of
queens, kings, Straffords and principalities, etc., really the
uncomfortablest acme of luxurious comfort that any Diogenes was set into
in these late years." Thoreau's furniture at Walden consisted of a bed,
a table, a desk, three chairs, a looking-glass three inches in diameter,
a pair of tongs, a kettle, a frying-pan, a wash-bowl, two knives and
forks, three plates, one cup, one spoon, a jug for oil, a jug for
molasses, and a japanned lamp. There were no ornaments. He writes, "I
had three pieces of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified to find
that they required to be dusted daily, and I threw them out of the window
in disgust."
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