HUMBUG.
If the reader’s attention is now called to it for the first time, he will be rather surprised, we dare say, to find how much humbug is incorporated with our social system. It will rather surprise him to find, as a little reflection will certainly enable him to do, that humbug forms, in fact, the cement by which society is held together; that it pervades every department of it, fills up all its crevices and crannies, and, in truth, permeates its very substance. We, in short, all humbug one another; that’s beyond all manner of doubt.
Don’t we every day write cards and letters beginning with “My dear, or My very dear sir,” and ending with, “Yours sincerely, truly, &c. &c.,” knowing, in our conscience, that in ninety-nine instances out of the hundred—always excepting cases where a man’s interest is concerned—we do not care one straw for these very dear sirs—not one farthing although they were six feet below the ground to-morrow.
Suppose an intimation card of the death of one of these very dear sirs, or of some “good friend” or intimate acquaintance, waits us on our arrival home to dinner.
“Guess who’s dead?” says some member of our family, running towards us with joyful anticipation of our perplexity.
“Can’t say, indeed,” reply we. “Who is it?”
“Mr O’Madigan.”
“Ah, dear me, poor follow, is he dead? Very sudden, very unexpected.—Is dinner ready?”
What is the civility of the landlord and his waiters but humbug? What the smirking, smiling, ducking and bowing of the shopkeeper, but humbug? What his sweet and gentle “yes, sirs,” and “no, sirs,” and “proud to serve you, sirs,” but humbug? You are not goose enough to believe for a moment that he is serious, that he has either the least regard or respect for you. Not he; he would not care a twopence although you were hanged, drawn, and quartered before his shop-door to-morrow, except, perhaps, for the inconvenience of the thing.
What is the civility of the servant to his employer but humbug? Do you imagine for a moment that that man who, hat in hand, is looking up to you with such a respectful air—looking up to you as if you were a god—as if his very existence depended on your slightest breath—do you imagine for a moment, we ask, that he has in his heart that deference for you that he would make you believe? that he conceives you to be so very superior a being as his manner would imply? Not he, indeed. Depend upon it, it is all humbug; humbug all. And if you saw or heard him when he feels secure that you can do neither the one nor the other, you would speedily be convinced that it is.
But it is in the wheel-within-wheel of social life, the domestic circle, in what are called the friendly relations of life, that the system of humbug assumes, perhaps, its most deceptive character. See what a loving and friendly set of people are gathered together around that dinner table! See how blandly, how affectionately they look on each other! How delighted they are with one another—with mine host and hostess in particular! Why, they would die for them—die on the spot. They would go any length to serve one another. See that shake of the hand, how cordial it is! that smile, how affectionate! how winning! how full of kindly promise! Now, do these people in reality feel the smallest interest in each other’s welfare? Would they make the slightest sacrifice to serve one another? Not they, indeed. If you doubt it, try any one of them next day; try any of your “dear friends” if they will lend you a pound or five, as the case may be. Until you do this, or something like it, depend upon it you don’t know your men; no, nor your women either.
“Oh! but,” says the moralist, “mere civility, my good sir, mere civility; absurd idea to suppose that every man to whom you are civil should have a claim also on your purse.”
“But in the case of a ‘dear friend,’ Mr Moralist, or intimate acquaintance—eh?—for it is of them only that I speak. Surely they might do something for you.”
“Oh! that as it may be. But as a general rule”——
“Then all this cordiality of greeting, this affectionate shaking of hands, these sweet smiles and sweeter words, are all to go for nothing? They are to be understood as meaning nothing.”
“Certainly.”
“Then we are perfectly agreed—it is all deception.”
“Oh! you may call it what you please.”
“Thank you. Then with your leave I shall call it humbug. It is not a very elegant word, but it is pretty expressive.”
But, lo! here comes a funeral. See how grave and melancholy these sable-clad gentlemen look. Why, you would imagine that under that dismal pall lay all the earthly hopes of every individual present, that every heart in the solemn train was well-nigh broken. All this is very becoming no doubt, and it would scarcely be decorous to go either singing or laughing along the streets on such an occasion, when carrying the poor remains of mortality to its last resting-place. But it’s humbug, nevertheless—humbug all! Not one of these sorrowing mourners, excepting perhaps one or two of the nearest relations, cares one twopenny piece for the defunct. Not one of them would have given him sixpence to keep him from starving.
Notwithstanding, however, the very general diffusion of humbug, it may be classed under regular heads, and we rather think this would not be a bad way of illustrating it. We shall try; beginning with