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.
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“‘Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock,’ says Mr. Rouncewell, after a pause of a few moments; ‘I beg to take my leave with an apology for having again troubled you. I can very well understand, I assure you, how very tiresome so small a matter must have become to Lady Dedlock. If I am doubtful on my dealing with it, it is only because I did not at first quietly exert my influence to take my young friend here away without troubling you at all. I hope you will excuse my want of acquaintance with the polite world.”
As a matter of fact, certain rumours against Lady Dedlock’s reputation, and hints as to her “past,” have come to the ears of the honest tradesman, and he prefers to remove his son’s betrothed wife from the contact of a possible pernicious influence. The very same thing is done scores of times over in many similar cases to-day.
No one knows the real character and disposition of the mistress of a home better than the servants she employs, and if she is honoured and loved by her domestics, she stands on surer ground than the praise or flattery of her fashionable friends. It is all a question of “home” again. A real home is a home to all connected with it. The very kitchen-maid employed in it, the boy who runs errands for the house; indeed every servant, from the lowest to the highest, should feel that their surroundings are truly “homelike,”—that things are well-ordered, peaceful and happy; that the presiding spirit of the place, the mistress, is contented with her life, and cheerfully interested in the welfare of all around her,—then “all things work together for good,” and the house becomes a bulwark against adversity, a harbour in storm, a “nest” indeed, where warmth, repose, and mutual trust and help make the days sweet and the nights calm. But where the mistress is scarcely ever at home,—when she prefers public restaurants to her own dining-room,—when with each change of the seasons she is gadding about somewhere, and avoiding home as much as possible, how is it to be expected that even servants will care to stay with her, or ever learn to admire and respect her? Peace and happiness are hers to possess in the natural and God-given ways of home life, if she chooses,—but if she turns aside from her real sovereignty, throws down her sceptre and plays with the sticks and straws of the “half-world,” she has only herself to blame if the end should prove but dire confusion and the bitterness of strife.
Apart altogether from the individual dignity and self-poise which are invariably lacking to the “vagrant,” or home despising human being, the decay of home life in England is a serious menace to the Empire’s future strength. If our coming race of men have been accustomed to see their mothers indulging in a kind of high-class public house feasting, combined with public house morals, and have learned from them an absolute indifference to home and home ties, they in their turn will do likewise and live as “vagrants,”—here, there and everywhere, rather than as well-established, self-respecting citizens and patriots, proud of their country, and proud of the right to defend their homes. Even as it is, there are not wanting signs of a general “wandering,” tendency, combined with morbid apathy and sickly inertia. “One place is as good as another,” says one section of society, and “anything is better than the English climate,” says another, preparing to pack off to Egypt or the Riviera at the first snap of winter. These opinions are an exact reversion of those expressed by our sturdy, patriotic forefathers, who made the glory of Great Britain. “There is no place like England” was their sworn conviction, and “no place like home” was the essence of their national sentiment. The English climate, too, was quite good enough for them, and they made the best of it. When will the “Smart Set” grasp the fact that the much-abused weather, whatever it may be, is pretty much the same all over Europe? The Riviera is no warmer than the Cornish coast, but certes it is better provided with hotels, and—chiefest attraction of all—it has a Gambling Hell. The delights of Monte Carlo and “Home,” are as far apart as the poles; and those who seek the one cannot be expected to appreciate the other. But such English women as are met at the foreign gambling-tables, season after season, may be looked upon as the deliberate destroyers of all that is best and strongest in our national life, in the sanctity of Home, and the beauty of home affections. The English Home used to be a model to the world;—with a few more scandalous divorce cases in high life, it will become a by-word for the mockery of nations. The following from the current Press is sufficiently instructive:
“The crowd of well-dressed women who daily throng the court during the hearing of the ... case and follow with such intense eagerness every incident in the dissection of a woman’s honour afford a remarkable object-lesson in contemporary social progress.
“Ladies, richly garbed, who drive up in smart broughams, emblazoned carriages, and motor-cars, and are representative of the best known families in the land, fight and scramble for a seat, criticize the proceedings in a low monotone, and, without the smallest indication of a blush, balance every point made by counsel, and follow with keen apprehension the most suggestive evidence.
“Others, no less intensely interested in the sordid details of divorce, come on foot—women of the great well-to-do middle-class, who have all their lives had the advantage of refined and educated surroundings. Some are old, with silvery hair; others are middle-aged women, who bring comely daughters still in their teens; others are in the first flush of womanhood; but they all crowd into the narrow court and struggle to get a glimpse of the chief actors in the drama, and listen to the testimony which would convict them of dishonour.”
No one in their sober senses will call any of these women fit to rule their homes, or to be examples to their children. Unblushingly indecent, and unspeakably vulgar, their brazen effrontery and shameless interest in the revolting details of a revolting case, have shown them to be beyond the pale of all true womanhood, and utterly unfit to be the mothers of our future men, or guardians of the honour of home and family. There is no “railing” against society in this assertion; the plain facts speak for themselves.
The charm of home depends, of course, entirely on the upbringing and character of the inmates. Stupid and illiterate people make a dull fireside. Morbid faddists, always talking and thinking about themselves, put the fire out altogether. If I were asked my opinion as to the chief talent or gift for making a home happy, I should without a moment’s hesitation, reply, “Cheerfulness.” A cheerful spirit, always looking on the bright side, and determined to make the best of everything, is the choicest blessing and the brightest charm of home. People with a turn for grumbling should certainly live in hotels and dine at restaurants. They will never understand how to make, or to keep, a home as it should be. But, given a cheerful, equable, and active temperament, there is nothing sweeter, happier or safer for the human being than Home, and the life which centres within it, and the duties concerning it which demand our attention and care. There is no need for women to wander far afield for an outlet to their energies. Their work waits for them at their own doors, in the town or village where they reside. No end of useful, kind and neighbourly things are to hand for their doing,—every day can be filled, like a basket of flowers, full of good deeds and gentle words by every woman, poor or rich, who has either cottage or mansion which she can truly call “Home.” Home is a simple background, against which the star of womanhood shines brightest and best. The modern “gad-about” who suggests a composition of female chimpanzee and fashionable “Johnny” combined, is a kind of sexless creature for whom “Home” would only be a cage in the general menagerie. She (or It) would merely occupy the time in scrambling about from perch to perch, screaming on the slightest provocation, and snapping at such other similar neuter creatures who chanced to possess longer or more bushy tails. And it is a pity such an example should be thought worthy of imitation by any woman claiming to possess the advantage of human reason. But the Chimpanzee type of female is just now singularly en evidence, having a habit of pushing to the front on all occasions, and performing such strange antics as call for public protest, and keep the grinding machinery of the law only too busy. The Press, too, pays an enormous amount of unnecessary attention to the performances of these more or less immodest animals, so that it sometimes seems to our Continental neighbours as if we, as a nation, had no real women left, but only chimpanzees. There are, however, slight stirrings of a movement among the true “ladies” of England, those who stand more or less aloof from the “smart set,”—a movement indicative of “drawing the line somewhere.” It is possible that there may yet be a revival of “Home” and its various lost graces and dignities. We may even hear of doors that will not open to millionaires simply because they are millionaires. Only the other day a very great lady said to her sister in my hearing: “No, I shall not ‘present’ my two girls at all. Society is perfectly demoralised, and I would rather the children remained out of it, so far as London is concerned. They are much happier in the country than in town, and much healthier, and I want to keep them so. Besides, they love their home!”
Herein is the saving grace of life,—to love one’s home. Love of home implies lovable people dwelling in the charmed circle,—tender hearts, quick to respond to every word of love, every whisper of confidence, every caress. The homeless man is the restless and unhappy man, for ever seeking what he cannot find. The homeless woman is still more to be pitied, being entirely and hopelessly out of her natural element. And the marked tendency which exists nowadays to avoid home life is wholly mischievous. Women complain that home is “dull,” “quiet,” “monotonous,” “lonely,” and blame it for all sorts of evils which exist only in themselves. If a woman cannot be a few hours alone without finding her house “dull,” her mind must be on the verge of lunacy. The sense of being unable to endure one’s own company augurs ill for the moral equilibrium. To preserve good health and sound nerves, women should always make it a rule to be quite alone at least for a couple of hours in the course of each day. Let them take that space to think, to read, to rest, and mentally review their own thoughts, words and actions in the light of a quiet conscience-time of pause and meditation. Home is the best place so to rest and meditate,—and the hours that are spent in thinking how to make that home happier will never be wasted. It should be very seriously borne in mind that it is only in the home life that marriage can be proved successful or the reverse, and, to quote Mr. Lecky once more:
“A moral basis of sterling qualities is of capital importance. A true, honest and trustworthy nature, capable of self-sacrifice and self-restraint, should rank in the first line, and after that, a kindly, equable and contented temper, a power of sympathy, a habit of looking at the better and brighter side of men and things. Of intellectual qualities, judgment, tact and order, are perhaps the most valuable.... Grace and the charm of manner will retain their full attraction to the last. They brighten in innumerable ways the little things of life, and life is mainly made up of little things, exposed to petty frictions, and requiring small decisions and small sacrifices. Wide interests and large appreciations are in the marriage relation more important than any great constructive or creative talent, and the power to soothe, to sympathize, to counsel and to endure than the highest qualities of the hero or the saint. It is by this alone that the married life attains its full perfection.”
And when we hear, as we so often do, of the complete failure and deplorable disaster attending many marriages, let us look for the root of the evil at its foundation,—namely the decay of home life, the neglect and avoidance of home and home duties,—the indifference to, or scorn of home influence. For whenever any woman, rich or poor, high in rank or of humble estate, throws these aside, and turns her back on Home, her own natural, beautiful and thrice-blessed sphere of action, she performs what would be called the crazed act of a queen, who, called to highest sovereignty, casts away her crown, breaks her sceptre, tramples on her royal robes, and steps from her throne, down;—down into the dust of a saddened world’s contempt.