where change comes not—where the main object seems to be how not to do it—where antiquated routine has its stronghold—is a government office.
Those of our readers who have read—and who has not?—Captain Marryatt’s graphic descriptions of seafaring life, entitled “The King’s Own,” will remember the scene in which Captain Capperbar ingeniously manages to supply, from the ship’s stores, all his own and her ladyship’s domestic wants. The ship’s carpenters are engaged in framing chests of drawers, and building dining-tables. Fully aware of the mischievous effects of idleness, the captain’s lady finds employment for the ship’s painters in her attics. The armourers, instead of preparing the murderous weapons of war, are peacefully occupied in making rakes and hoes for the especial benefit of the junior members of the same devoted family. Does the fair spouse of the gallant captain need even a pole for the clothes-line, a boat-mast is immediately dedicated to that important service. Thus, the captain turns his devotion for his country to some account; and if his patriotism be a virtue, it is one that brings with it its own reward.
Granting, which we readily do, that the above scene is an exaggeration, still we believe it to be nearer the mark than the opposite representations, which would lead us to believe that all persons in the employ of Government are overworked and underpaid. Their places are sinecures; bread for life. Every merchant or employer of labour has the power of instant dismissal; but in Government offices this great check on idleness and stupidity is ignored. Officials are happy fellows. The ills of life do not affect them. Mills may stop, panics may take place, commerce may decline, ships may rot in deserted harbours; docks and warehouses, once teeming with busy life, may be silent as the grave—but their income knows no change, save when death causes a general promotion in their ranks. The agricultural mind may be weighed down with grief—it may find its idols but clay. There, where it must live, or bear no life, it may find all hollow, delusive, and false. The seasons may be unpropitious. The common ills farmers are heir to, such as potato disease, the fly at the turnips, the rot in the sheep, may be theirs in no common degree; nevertheless, the Clapham omnibus duly deposits at the Treasury in Downing-street
Mr. Smith, who, with the exception of two hours for lunch, and another hour or so for miscellaneous conversation, and the perusal of the Times, will, from ten till four, magnanimously devote himself to his country’s good. At the hour of four, Mr. Smith is again on the omnibus, about to seek, in the bosom of his family, that relaxation which, did his country deny him, it would be ungrateful indeed. Mr. Smith is a family man; and, regardless of London temptations, he hastens to his mutton at five. On the contrary, the junior clerk, Mr. Adolphus Blaser, is a young man about town; and just as Mr. Smith retires to his night’s rest, our young roué, having recovered from the effects of a good dinner, is ready to commence the diversions, or, as they may be more fitly termed, the follies of a night. At a good old age Mr. Smith is gathered to his fathers, and a tombstone in Norwood Cemetery calls upon the public to admire those virtues, the loss of which has left such a blank in the Clapham annals of domestic life. One of Mr. Smith’s companions, a much-maligned individual, has just written to the Times, indignantly asking if it be nothing to attend every day at Somerset-house, in wet
weather or fine? But, upon the whole, we think few men were more fortunate than our deceased friend. Like many of his schoolfellows, he did not make and lose a fortune; his hair did not become prematurely grey. There were storms, but they never reached him. He never missed his church: he had always a friend, and a bottle to give him; for your true Church and King man is generally reared on fine old port. His sons were placed in his office; and his daughters (good-looking, as most of the daughters of well-to-do, jolly old gentlemen, generally are) settle comfortably in life. And so endeth the chapter.
If this imaginary sketch be not true, it is not far from the truth. A Government situation is known to be a pleasant berth, and is jumped at as a man would jump at a freehold estate or a lump of Californian gold. A man who has any influence with the powers that be, or a younger son, instead of trying a trade or profession, will often seek a Government situation, trusting, with the income arising from it, he may live in town almost in idleness—at any rate in comparative luxury and ease. By the side of a Rothschild he may be poor, but really he is not so badly off, after all. The life of a Government employé is
considered gentlemanly, easy, and not under-paid. Hence the doors of those who have places to dispose of are furiously besieged by an eager and avaricious mob. The higher offices are equally greedily seized, and equally as preposterously over-paid. During one of the recent examinations before the committee of the House of Commons, a quondam ambassador had the coolness to inform the committee that the reason why the American ambassadors managed to perform their duties for less money than the English ones was, that they lived so much more economically; as if economy were a crime, and a thing to be shunned by any of the numerous representatives of John Bull: and one celebrated ambassador does not see how diplomacy can be carried on at all unless the money of the nation be lavished on banquets, such as even Soyer might envy and admire.
This is the climax of absurdity; and the time has come for such absurdity to be treated with merited contempt. The axe must be laid at the root of the tree. A reduction of salaries commensurate with the increased cheapness of living, and with the difficulties the tax-payers have in meeting the tax-gatherers’ demands, must be
made at once. It is childish to suppose that such a man as Mr. Bancroft was less respected at Paris than the Marquis of Normanby, or that Lord Cowley would less powerfully represent England were his salary of £10,000 cut down to £2,000. A thoughtful man can see, in the glitter and glare of gilded saloons, filled with flunkies and worshippers of the golden calf, nothing very creditable, or worthy of admiration. At the same time it must be remembered that, if the nation has efficient service, it is not grudging as regards expense.