Chapter I (6)

Let no one fancy that these remarks are an introduction to a novellistic plot. To dispel all suspicions on this head, I proceed at once to unmask Dr. Keif's abominable perfidy--one which the ladies of the house vow they will forgive, but which they cannot forget. Only fancy their disappointment! Keif's "Don Juan," his "amiable hero," his "capital fellow," for thus it pleased the doctor to call him--Mr. Baxter, in fact, is a grey-haired old man. Dr. Keif was cunning enough to excuse the incorrectness of his description by pleading short-sightedness. "It never had struck him--indeed it had not--and,--

"After all," said our learned friend; "though not exactly young, Mr. Baxter is youthful. His whiskers, for instance, are brown; and his large, clear eyes, how free and open do they look at all and everything! Has he not an aristocratic hand? Is not his chin round, his forehead white, and his toilet irreproachable? In short, the more I think of it, the more firmly am I persuaded, that Mr. Baxter is quite a Don Juan if compared with your absurd London greenhorns, whose lengthy faces make all the French shop-girls in Regent-street gape."

"True!" said I. "In my opinion, Mr. Baxter's grey hair is his best recommendation, for none but children and old men are truly amiable in England. No creature on earth more excels in charming merriness and bold natural freshness, than your little freeborn, trouserless Briton. But the moment the boy sports the very ghost of a stray hair on his upper lip--the moment he lays in a stock of razors and stiff shirt collars--that very moment does your English boy undergo a most shocking metamorphosis, and one which even Doyle would despair to depict. The '_Flegeljahre_'--the period of sowing wild oats--with other nations a mere transition period, scarcely longer than a northern spring, is, in the case of an Englishman, protracted through ten years and more. With the very brightest character it lasts up to six-and-twenty; but it also frequently happens that the modern Englishman, like unto Tully's Roman, remains an '_adolescens_' up to forty. There is something altogether indescribable in this English _Flegeljahr_ character. Fancy a cross between an unctuous missionary and a fast under-graduate, duly coated, cravated brushed up and dressed out for the dining-room; and you will have a tolerably approximating idea of the _Flegel_-youth, who eager to be very respectable and romantic at one and the same time, succeeds in appearing either insufferably tedious or unconstitutionally comical. Is it their hypochondriacal climate? So do the continentals ask every year, when the English exodus arrives on their shores. Or is it Church and State? Is it a fault of education, or a want of digestion, which causes these wealthy, tall islanders, with their red faces and costly coats, to stand forth so queer, and out of the common order of human creatures? They are neat to perfection, and got up regardless of expense in all their details; but take the fellow as a whole, and you find him mighty unsavoury.

"You will find the reason neither in the fog, nor in constitutional liberty. No Act of Parliament forbids a man to cultivate the graces; and the climate enacts flannel only, but by no means the '_Zopf_.' It is not a want of education, but a superabundance of it. It is the education of a rigidly puritanical governess, whose name we never pronounce without a feeling of secret awe. That governess is more fervently adored than the Established Church; people fear her more than they did the Spanish Inquisition. As Fate sat enthroned in mysterious majesty above the gods of Greece, so does this cruel mistress lord it over Magna Charta, Habeas Corpus, and all the other glories of Old England. Her name is _Gentility_! Liberty of the Press and popular agitation avail not against her. The Commons of England have conquered the strongholds of Toryism; Mr. Cobden and his Cotton Lords have trampled Protection under foot, and light is being let even into the gloomy caverns of Chancery. But what agitator dares to league the cunningly separated classes of English society against only one of the one thousand three hundred positive and negative enactments of Gentility, whereby the favoured people of the isles are distinguished from the pagans of the continent--from the immoral, uneducated barbarians--from those 'soap-renouncing' foreigners! Who liberates the freeborn Briton from the fear of 'losing caste' (a genuine British phrase this!), which follows him as his shadow, whithersoever he may direct his steps--which haunts him even in rural retirement--and which, in a town containing near three millions of inhabitants, admits not even of one single circle of free and general sociability! At a political meeting, perhaps, there may exist something like an approximation of the upper and lower classes, and peers and draymen, cheese-mongers and guardsmen, may, on such occasions, breathe the same air, and fill it with their cheers and groans. But I will rather believe that St. Peter's of Rome and St. Paul's of London can come together, than that the cousin of a Right Honourable will knowingly, and with tolerance prepense, eat his dinner at the same table with the keeper of a cheese-shop.

"We, the foreigners, are blind to the graces of the English _Flegel_-youth. His manners, which we liken to those of a dancing bear, are, in the eyes of the natives, respectable; what we contemn as a mincing chilliness of address, is exalted as the decent reserve of the true Briton. Of course there are exceptions, especially within these latter days. Now and then we meet with daring innovators, who doubt the exclusive decency of English manners. There are bold sceptics, proclaiming in the East and in the West that a man with a coloured neck-tie ought to be able to appear in the pit of the Italian Opera, without thereby obliging all proper-minded females in the five rows of boxes to faint away and be carried out forthwith. Others pretend that at table you may take the fork with your right hand, without by so doing affixing an indelible stigma to your name; and that there is a possibility of pardon, even for the man who eats mustard with his mutton. The very boldest assert that you may take a pea with your knife, and eat the pea too, and yet be a gentleman for all that. These are charming signs of the times; they awaken hopes which another generation will perhaps justify. But, generally speaking, there is no denying it, that the free social spirit of merry Old England is most frequently to be found among the elderly men."

Grey hair, with red cheeks, is pleasing to look at; and doubly pleasing are those colours when they ornament the head of a gentleman, for in such a case they announce the presence of all sorts of manly amiabilities. The word "gentleman" has been shockingly profaned in England. According to Sir John's cynical definition, any man is a gentleman who pays his tailor's bill. The correctness of that definition would appear to be generally allowed, for the name is most liberally bestowed on dandies and blockheads, wealthy tradesmen and sporting men. But in these pages I speak of the "Gentleman" in the truest and noblest sense of the term. He is a joint production of nature, art, and accident; and there are many conditions to the perfection of this _beau ideal_.

Imprimis, he must not be compelled to eat his roast-beef by the sweat of his brow; for he who has to work for his existence in England cannot, of course, be said to be independent. He must have made the grand tour; for to the English the continent is in a manner a social high school and academy. How miraculously is the innate and indestructible kernel of English character developed in such a man! As he ripens in years, he breaks through that icy covering which in his earlier years surrounded him, and he shakes off the chains of etiquette or bears them with a grace which proves that to him they are not a restraint, but an ornament.

A few years later, he eclipses the flower of the male part of society in Germany and France; his jovial humour is restrained by an exquisite tact; his politeness acquires substance from a free and hearty manner. There is in him so grave and natural a manliness, that to oblige him and to be obliged by him is equally agreeable. It would seem that he becomes younger as he advances in years.

Such a man was Robert Baxter, Esq. The history of his development is short and simple enough: shortly after his introduction into our circle he related it one evening--after dinner, of course. For what does the code of family morals enact and prescribe?

"Thou shalt invite a gentleman to a good and solid dinner, the which consisteth of fish and roast-meat, and pudding and wine. But thou shalt not invite him to the eating of cakes and sugar-plums, and much less shalt thou tempt him to a _soirée dansante_, where he would have much labour and no sustenance. And at table thou shalt not, as the wicked do, make the said gentleman talk of politics, business, science, and divers other heavy matters, lest peradventure his attention should be diverted from the enjoyment of the various dishes which thou shalt set before him."

Obedient to this law, Sir John gave a grand dinner to all his family to celebrate Mr. Baxter's acquaintance. It was after that dinner that our friend, reclining in an easy chair, gave us the following sketch of his former life:--

"'Story--God bless you, I have none to tell, sir.' My life has been that of a gentleman--comfortable and monotonous throughout. I was brought up by an uncle--of course, he was rich; most uncles are. He spoilt me and left me his property. I went to Harrow and Oxford, where I learnt that no one ever learns anything in those seats of learning, except fighting, hunting, and the art and mystery of writing Latin verses. And after all, to think of the lots of very clever men we have in spite of those places--truly it is miraculous! Old England,--thank goodness!--can't be ruined; but it wants ventilation. Ventilation in foreign climes is a necessity for the free-born Englishman. That was my idea when I crossed the Channel to Calais. On that occasion I had a curious adventure. Not a duel--no nothing of the kind. I pitched into a Frenchman and knocked him down. The wretch had called me '_un étranger_.' I did not understand his mode of speech, but a friend who was with me said the words meant 'a foreigner.' 'A foreigner, you scoundrel!' cried I. 'How dare you say a free-born Briton is a foreigner!' and I knocked him down. He got up and challenged me to fight a duel with him, but the police interfered, and I was arrested. The lieutenant of the police who had to examine me, told me, with a kindness which was altogether undeserved on my part, that the word 'foreigner' was quite harmless, that it had a relative meaning, and that it might even be complimentary. I could not stand that. I had a dim perception of my being wrong, and of having made an egregious fool of myself, but still I could not get over the contemptuous meaning which we connect with the term; and pig-headed as I was, I replied in English:--

"'Sir, I'd thank you for not addressing such compliments to me. You may call me a non-Frenchman--of course you may; for I am an Englishman and glory in the fact, but I would not be a foreigner--no! not for the world! Rather than submit to such an indignity I'd leave your country at once.'

"He laughed and bowed me out, and that very day I returned to Dover.

"On my second continental tour, I went through Belgium to Germany, and when, after a few years' residence in that country, I came back to England, I was not alone. I was accompanied by a foreigner--a lady who bore my name. She was not strong, and could not bear the climate. She yearned for her country, but concealed her wish to return. When at length I brought her back to the sunnier clime of Southern Germany, it was too late. That sad event happened many years ago, but though she left me, I was not solitary. Heaven be thanked, I have a son, a dear boy, who is now at college at Heidelberg."

"Of course, your son is half a foreigner!" said Miss Lollypop, with a slight toss of her head.

"Nothing of the kind," said Mr. Baxter, with a smile. "He is a Cockney by birth, for he was born within the sound of Bow-bells. But," added our friend, "I wish him to become so much of a foreigner as to enjoy the brighter sides of English life without a superstitious admiration of the darker ones."

A pause of general embarrassment followed the conclusion of this short and fragmentary autobiography. The children looked at Mr. Baxter curiously, enquiringly, for a couple of stories and anecdotes seemed still hovering on his lips. But he sat silent and lost in thought. Probably his thoughts were with his son, the Heidelberg student; perhaps he fancied he accompanied that son in his wanderings through some valley in the Alps or to the ruins of some ancient abbey, rich with curious carvings and relics of the olden time. For Mr. Baxter rides the antiquarian hobby as he does his other hobbies, of which many are as laborious as useless. For it ought to be remarked, that a real gentleman hates absolute idleness; some purpose or object, fantastic though it be, he must have: he defies dangers and courts fatigues. The odd freaks which English gentlemen have, and which they are guilty of, to the signal astonishment and amusement of continental _feuilleton_-writers and Gothamites, are mere excrescences of that restless desire of activity which is one of the most splendid qualities of the Anglo-Saxon race. Many thousands of Englishmen, each of whom can afford to make his life one long spell of rest, devote their time and energies to an honourable servitude in the nation's service, and slave for a single word of thanks from posterity, quite as much as the continental _bureaucrats_ do for orders and pensions. If they want the talents or the ambition necessary for such a career, they will devote themselves to farming or support some one of the numerous charitable institutions of the metropolis or their own county--not only with money, for that were no sacrifice--but also by giving it their time, personal attention, and influence. The active charity of the women is quite as great as that of the men; and this explains the reason why, although in England the gulf between wealth and poverty is wider than in every other country, nevertheless up to the present day there are no symptoms of that patient bitterness of hatred among the lower classes--that harbinger of an approaching doom--which has come to other nations with the gloomy evangel of the future on its pale lips.

As a third class, we have the amateurs and patronisers of arts and sciences; the passionate and most persevering observers of nature, who for many months will watch a swallow's nest, or fill their diaries with observations on the signs and marks of instinct in cockroaches and snails; the travellers in every clime, who take their coffee with the Shah of Persia, converse with the Sultan on the superior excellence of English railroads; rhyme on, and in presence of, the cypress trees of Scutari; smoke the pipe of peace with the Camanchees and the Last of the Mohicans; and who now and then watch and register the hangman's tricks of an accomplished despot, in order to recount them to their countrymen, who never believe such shocking stories, unless published under the authority of a gentleman of known respectability, and conservative principles. Those who are altogether unable to employ their leisure hours--that is to say, their lives--usefully, devote themselves to some "sport" with a touching fanaticism, and ride their hobbies with the heroism of world-betterers. Such a man sails in a nut-shell of a yacht to the polar regions, or travels about in Spain to effect the conversion of Jews and gipsies; or he ascends Mont Blanc, and writes a letter to the _Times_ to commemorate his fatigue and folly.

Mr. Baxter, however, had never been up Mont Blanc, and what is more, it is not likely he will ever make the ascent. He is too old, and too clever. On the evening in question, he gave convincing proof of his shrewd good nature and tact for while we were all silent and embarrassed, he leant back, with the most comfortable air in the world, and with a look of innocent slyness at our long-drawn faces. Our embarrassment and silence were caused by a word of which Mr. Baxter had made a liberal use in his autobiography, and which he pronounced with a provoking emphasis. It is a word on which whole chapters and books might be written--the word "_Foreigner_."

The ancient Greeks spoke of all other nations on the face of the earth as "barbarians"; and for a period, I believe, they were quite right. It is said, whether truly or falsely I will not here investigate; but it is said, that every Englishman thanks God in his morning's prayers, that he has not been created a foreigner. "He is a foreigner, but a very nice man!" "A very gentlemanly foreigner, indeed!" "What a pity he is a foreigner!" Offensive compliments of this sort fall very frequently from British lips. The tone of pity, contempt, and condescension, with which those disagreeable words are pronounced, is applied, not only with respect to the foreigner, but also to the produce of his country. Bad cherries or plums, are at once declared to be foreign; there is no doubt they come from France, Belgium, or Holland. When our cook opens an egg which offends her olfactory nerves, and when she flings it indignantly into the dust-hole, she accompanies it with the sneering hiss of "foreign"! That wretched egg was laid by a Dutch hen. Of course it was; and probably the passage from Holland was very long and stormy. But alas! all Dutch hens come into evil repute; it is at once understood that, "Them nasty furrin hanimals halways lays bad heggs, Sir."

A bold attempt to vindicate the rights and the honor of foreigners was, on one Sunday evening, made in Guildford Street, at dinner time, when the glorious roast beef of Old England graced Sir John's hospitable board.

"This glorious bulwark of your nation," said Dr. Keif, "is of foreign extraction."

Sir John dropped his knife with the shock these words gave him.

"I dont understand you, sir," said he, rather sternly.

"Is not your loin of beef cut from Jütish ox, that was fattened on the Holstein marshes? Go to Smithfield, and ask the sellers where they got that Homeric beef, to which the British owe their strength, humour, and political superiority?"

Sir John was mute with astonishment and vexation. He could not deny the truth of the learned Doctor's sally; yet if he admitted it, what--ay, what was to become of the roast beef of Old England?

"Come!" said Dr. Keif, following up his advantage, and raising his glass, "'Here's a health to Father Rhine!' What do you say, Sir," added he, turning to Mr. Baxter; "Is there anything equal to the delight of a walking expedition down the Rhine, or up the Ahr or Mosel?"

Mr. Baxter took the hint.

"Charming!" said he. "Even Sir John must confess that we have some reason for our love of continental life; and that travelling Englishmen, after all, know what is good when they stick to the banks of the Rhine, the Danube, or the Neckar."

"Certainly," said Sir John; "to see those countries, and the queer sort of people that live in them, is certainly worth while; but to the English heart there's no place like home. They have not anything extra in those countries, have they?"

"Yes, they have," said Mr. Baxter peremptorily. To whom Sir John replied--

"It's an old proverb, that there's nothing choice or precious in the world, but money will procure it for you in England."

"I beg your pardon," replied Mr. Baxter, with great determination; "there are things rich and rare which could not be had in England--no, not for all the money in the Bank!"

Sir John was extremely shocked. "Sir," said he; "you astonish me: oblige me by proving your assertion. What is it you allude to?"

"Why, of a _Volksfest_, a people's festival, really and truly a festival in the open air, when all ranks and classes join and mix without any thought or possibility of a mob; where the wine calls forth songs and laughter, but where not a single fist is raised to threaten or strike."

And Mr. Baxter continued, in rather too flattering colours, giving a sketch of the merry German life, and contrasting it with life in England. He expatiated on the general cultivation of the lower classes, on the toleration of German social life--in short, he lost his way in producing so brilliant an apotheosis of German affairs, that he did not, or would not, pay attention to Sir John, who shook his head in an ominous manner.

At first, Dr. Keif rubbed his hands triumphantly, for on Mr. Baxter's free-born British lips each word had the charm of authority. But as our friend went on, the Doctor could not but confess to himself, that Mr. Baxter's victory might possibly lead to that gentleman's utter ruin in the worthy baronet's good opinion.

There was a long and awful pause. At length Sir John rose, and with a smile, by no means a natural one, he walked up to Mr. Baxter, held out his hand, dropped it, and said--

"Sir! It's my opinion you are a respectable man, and I believe you mean what you say; but moderation is good in all matters. You may be just to foreign countries: so am I. But you idolize the Continent, and despise your own country. That--I beg your pardon--but that is not the conduct of an English gentleman!"

Dr. Keif looked very pale and uncomfortable.

"Nonsense, Sir John," said Mr. Baxter good-humouredly. "Let me say a word to you, and then you may judge whether I love my country less than you do. I have never meddled with politics, but I am something of a Tory; for I take the world as it is, and hold that everything which is, is, if not _pour le mieux_, according to Voltaire's _Candide_, at least not without good reason. But no one ought to claim all honour and glory for him and his. The people of this beautiful island have the inestimable treasures of liberty, power and honour. England is an impregnable fortress; a charming garden fenced in by the ocean and by rocks; her tranquil safety is cheap at any price! No venomous reptiles creep on her soil; the wolves have been exterminated for centuries past. But in return, the sweets of existence are open only to hard labour and high birth. A consequence of this is, a spirit of _caste_, a tendency to seclusion, a stubborn and rugged independence. Look at the Continent. What would those poor nations come to, plagued and hunted down as they are, if deprived of the comforting amenities of a kindly sociability? What, they have no unity in their states, no protection abroad, no sacredness of law, no safety at home, and yet you would dispute with them the paltry consolation of having better actors than you have! If their towns, with their eternal state of siege, had our fogs and clouds of smoke, our penitential Sundays and breathless week-days, whoever could resist the temptation of committing suicide? Why, such a state of things were a hell upon earth! And can you believe that Providence could allow such a state of things to exist? But to return to England. This country has the greatest Parliament, the most powerful orators, the most humane police, the freest newspapers, the most untouchable liberty; and with all this you lay claim to a monopoly of good potatoes and manners! You would have all the gifts and perfections of earth! But if this our England could, in addition to her solid political heritage, have the charms of continental leisure hours, why then this same England were a Paradise on earth--literally a Paradise, where no one could ever think of dying."

Sir John was pacified and happy, and said he was. He went about the room singing "God save the Queen," and would not leave off shaking hands with Mr. Baxter.

SAUNTERINGS IN AND ABOUT LONDON.

THE SECOND PART.