The Word and the Thing — Little Essay on the English Language — There is nothing like a good telescope if you want to see well — Master Dubius — Puritan Parlance — Salvation Fair — May Meetings and Spring Cleanings — Are you Pooty Well? — A suitable Menu.
It is the name of a thing that shocks an English woman, not so much the thing itself.
That which we call a pair of indispensables goes by the name of a pair of unmentionables over here. If you remark in a room, that the trousers Mr. So-and-so wears are always irreproachable, you will send all the ladies behind their fans. If you were to follow up the subject, you would soon create a veritable panic in the room. But go to any athletic meeting—to Lord’s Cricket Ground, or Lillie Bridge—there you will see gentlemen who, for all covering, have on their skin a thin flannel jersey, and drawers of the same, about the size of a fig leaf; saturated with perspiration, these elementary articles of the toilette cleave to the form as if their wearers had come straight out of a bath. Nevertheless, all around the course, looking, admiring, and applauding, you will see a crowd of the fair sex, that will convince you that an Englishwoman’s eyes are not so easily shocked as her ears.
In the room that contains the Elgin marbles, at the British Museum, I have seen young girls shading Apollos, whose nakedness was distressing. The glance of the passer-by did not disconcert them; with a firm hand, they continued their work unmoved. I have more than once run away blushing from those faithful reproductions.
Some English girls make studies from the nude figure, under the guidance of a male professor. I must add, however, in order to be just, that this latter does not make his observations directly to his pupils: the young ladies retire to another room, while the master writes on the margin of their drawings the remarks that their work suggests to him. I am told that Sir Frederick Leighton, the celebrated English painter, interdicts the undraped model to his pupils of the Royal Academy, of which he is President.
Everyone must still remember the indignation which was aroused among righteous upper circles by the revelations of the Daily News, when that paper had the courage to make known the atrocities that were being committed in Bulgaria. The ancient spinsters of philanthropic England have never forgiven the great organ of the Liberal party for having dared to enter into those details that froze the whole civilized world with horror and affright. “To think that I should have lived until to-day,” wrote one of them to a Conservative paper, “to read such things in a newspaper! Have we lost all sentiment of shame? Must we women be exposed to see these hideous, revolting accounts in print? That such things should be is bad enough; but that they should be described in detail ought not to be allowed.”
Thanks to the courage of the lamented Mac Gahan, the valorous correspondent of the Daily News, these atrocities were brought to light, too late, perhaps, to repair the evil already done, but not too late to hinder the utter annihilation of a poor nation, which was trying to shake off a shameful yoke that had weighed it down for four centuries. Let us hope that, in future, the worthy maiden lady will not venture to open any other paper than her Myra’s Journal and the Animal World.
I find the following anecdote in the Pall Mall Gazette:—
“A foreigner well known in English society sends us the following amusing account of his bathing experiences in England:—
“‘I have been much amused by your suggesting to the ladies who object to bathers in the River Thames the use of their inevitable companion, the parasol. Let me relate what happened to me last year while a temporary resident in a quiet seaside place of great renown. I was in the habit of bathing off a boat, for which purpose I was rowed out a couple of hundred yards or so from the shore, where I divested myself of my “many” clothes and donned the “few” generally worn by bathers. I practised this favourite pursuit of mine unmolested for several days; but one fine afternoon I indulged in a game of tennis with the vicar of some parish or other in the neighbourhood, and he gravely “took the opportunity” to inform me that among his pious flock there were two venerable old ladies, who—having a house facing the sea and close to the spot whence I embarked for my daily revelry—were much distressed in their minds by my proceedings, and, as they had disburdened their souls to him for consolation, he earnestly begged me to see my way to relieve the old ladies from their dire grievance. I told him I should get myself rowed out a hundred yards further from shore, and the good priest much applauded this resolution which would in his opinion prevent any further mischief. However, the gods willed it otherwise. The next day the vicar informed me—not without a suspicion of a smile on his face—that the two “venerable dames” could still see me quite plainly ... by means of a “capital binocular.”’”