FASHION AND DEMOCRACY.
AFEW days ago, there took place a wedding, in itself not an uncommon occurrence in London, nor one that would be likely to excite much interest ; but in this particular case, though neither bridegroom nor bride was very well known to the world at large, there would appear to have been present such a formidable number of fashionable guests, that it was only with a feeling of mild surprise that one found the most important daily paper devoting half-a-column to their names and titles. The wonder, however, grew considerably when it was found that several other papers bad devoted an equal ,portion of their space to recording this interesting event; but when it was seen that the most popular, the most democratic, -the most scornfully Radical journals of all had given the longest and most detailed accounts of it, astonishment passed all bounds. Can it really be a fact, then, that these dry and uninteresting lists of mere names, these unintelligible descriptions of dresses, these inventories of jewellers' shops that represent the wedding-presents, are inserted, not for the benefit of the few people concerned, but as a matter of absorbing interest to the multitudinous public P Do they really care to learn that a bride whom they have never seen or heard of, was draped in shrimp-coloured crepe de Chine, -garniture de Gelge d' Aspic, and wore a tiara of sapphires and emeralds, the gift of the bridegroom ; or that she went away in a dainty confection of sky-blue plush, decorated with choux an Naturel ? It would seem that they do care very much indeed, for the wider the circulation of the paper and the more popular the class of its readers, the more full and accurate is its account of such details.
There is a daily paper, which we will call the Morning Tatler for want of a better name, that is largely devoted to the dis- semination of fashionable intelligence of this kind, and is published at the moderate price of one penny. It was not always so cheap ; once it cost threepence, a price that, con- sidering the very limited number of people who could possibly -be expected to take an interest in such matters, could hardly be called excessive. But the proprietor of that paper is a man who knows his British public well; without changing the character of the paper in the least, he simply published it at the popular price of one penny, and straightway the outside world bought it eagerly, its circulation increased tenfold, and a fortune fell into his lap. He did know his public, and what it wanted; but surely his knowledge was of a melancholy kind. For what is there more melancholy than the reflection that the lives of the great mass of people are so empty, so utterly devoid of interest, that they are driven to find amuse- ment in reading of the lives of a select few, of interests that they cannot understand, and of pleasures that they cannot share P There are few sights more pathetic than one which may often be seen in the big London squares. Inside the garden, a few well-fed, well-dressed children, laughing, shouting, chasing each other, playing at hide-and-seek, and any such games as can be invented by childish imagina- tions and are dear to childish hearts ; and outside in the road, a number of poorly clad little mortals, pressing their grimy little faces between the grimier railings, having no heart to play themselves, but filled with a consuming wonder and envy of the joy and gaiety that they see within. There is nothing to prevent their playing together also; the iron railings are but an imaginary barrier, for the scene would not be altered if it took place in a public park that was common to all. It is simply that the sight of that brighter and more light- hearted play has robbed them of all pleasure in their own; they can only wistfully watch and wonder, contrasting with a dull feeling of envy the dullness of their own little lives and the brightness of others'. And somehow, it seems to us as if that feeling, engendered in childhood, is carried by most of them all through life, and the attitude of lookers-on at the games of a fortunate few is the one that they have adopted then and for always. The old Provençal proverb of "Joy in the streets and sorrow in the house," may be changed with us into " Joy in the house and envy in the streets,"—not a malicious nor an angry envy, but a dull wonder that patiently waits and watches and goes away unsatisfied. Outside the house, they stand in thick ranks upon the pavement to watch the guests that come and go from the entertainment to which they themselves are not bidden ; outside the church, the wedding party struggles through crowds of these same idle and listless sightseers ; outside the Row, they stand for hours looking at the horses and carriages that pass, gazing with a vacant stare that shows neither pleasure nor any other emotion, always on the outside, always looking on at amusements in which they do not partake. Their attitude is much the same as that of the children out- side the Square railings Five centuries do not seem to have removed the reproach of Froissart, that the English people are wont to take their pleasures moult tristement ; for few forms of pleasure can be ranch more dull and sad than looking on at amusements in which one cannot join. But what a Barmecide's feast must be the perusal of a paper which records all these entertainments ! There is little wonder that an appetite for these records, if such an appetite exists, should go on increasing, since it is hardly likely to be surfeited with so unsatisfying a fare. And, indeed, the existence of this appetite is beyond a doubt ; not only are the newspapers that are most popular with the masses full of fashionable intelli- gence and the doings of society, but the novels in which they chiefly delight are those that are occupied with the same theme. Thackeray's production of " Lords and Liveries," by the author of "Dukes and Dejefiners," is but a faint and feeble imitation of the kind of story that finds a place in a journal that announces itself to be written for the people by the people. Wealth and titles are distributed among the characters with a lavish hand by an author who also rejoices in making his heroes and heroines all supremely beautiful, and supremely virtuous or villainous, as the case may be. It is to be hoped that his readers do not put too great faith in these presentments, otherwise they would have fair reason to regard the aristocracy as made up of strange and inhuman monsters. As to the cause of this curious attraction that is exercised by a small portion of society over the imagination of the rest, we can only fall back upon the one already suggested,—namely, that the lives of the great mass of the people are to themselves so dull, so unpicturesque, and so devoid of romance and interest, that they get no pleasure from contemplating them, and despair of improving them. And why this should be so it is beyond our power to suggest; perhaps it is a matter of temperament, an unchangeable phase of the English character, or perhaps it is that the Puritanism from which the upper classes rebounded so quickly, really succeeded in crushing the gaiety and stifling the merriment of the bulk of the population.
In the last number of a weekly paper of democratic prin- ciples, a paper in which the doings of the aristocracy are recorded for admiration upon one sheet, while its vices are lashed on another—a proceeding, by-the•way, which at least contains an element of impartiality—there appeared an article which made very severe reflections upon the unequal distribu- tion of pleasure and amusement in this country,—a very able and a very well-written article, but, as it seemed to us at least, a rather illogical and wrong-headed one. The main contention was to the effect that a small portion of the com- munity amused itself too much, and the rest amused itself too little. That might or might not be entirely true ; but certainly the latter statement was true. But the writer went further yet, and stated that the rest of the community could not amuse itself enough because that small portion amused itself too much. That, to characterise it mildly, is simple nonsense. It is to suppose that a certain and limited amount of amusement has been thrown into the world to be scrambled for, and that the upper classes have grabbed more than their fair share. Ridiculous though this supposition is, it seems to have taken a strong hold on the imaginations of the working classes. As a matter of fact, we believe, the labouring man has just as much leisure at his disposal as the hard-working professional man, and, as leisure is almost the only con- dition by which amusement is limited, he has just as much opportunity for amusement. That he does not profit by it, is entirely his own fault ; and if his life in consequence is dull and monotonous, he has only himself to blame. For what does the man want P He is not a baby, that has to be led with pleasure as with a spoon. It is hard to believe that
• the " poor working man," as he loves to describe himself, is quite so poor-spirited a creature, quite so devoid of will and initiative, that he cannot amuse himself. Nevertheless, that seems to be the main idea entertained by himself and his friends, that the only possible pleasures and amusements in this world have been wickedly monopolised by the wealthier ',classes, and that there is nothing left for him but to look on from the outside, no other interest but to watch others at play. It is a thousand pities that he does not know how to amuse himself better, for, as the writer of that article justly .remarked, the measure of enjoyment is largely dependent upon 'the amount of labour or pain by which it is preceded, and, consequently, a hard-working man has a greater capacity for enjoyment than any other. We believe that there are people -who have undertaken the charitable task of teaching the East-End Londoner how to enjoy himself. Probably there is -no other country in the world—certainly no other that we have ever heard of—in which such a lesson would be necessary.
For what other European nation is there in which the lower -classes are content to trail behind the lead of a fashionable few, like the draggled tail of a kite P to inherit their cast-off ,clothes and finery, and to copy humbly their folly and extrava- gance P The sturdy independence of the Continental peasant -which causes him to cling to his own dress, as better suited to 'the requirements of his life, and infinitely more comfortable and picturesque than that of his wealthier neighbours, causes grim also to cling to his own distinctive customs and amuse- ments, to make his own music, to sing his own songs, and dance `his own dances. It is good to hear a sturdy Breton express his -contempt for the bourgeois broadcloth or Parisian finery. The Englishman, on the other hand, cannot believe that he is as _good as his neighbour unless he is dressed in the same manner ; 'to wear any distinctive dress seems to him a degradation. As for dancing, if he were dependent on his own piping he would never dance at all. In other countries, the national and characteristic games are the property of the people, and are played by the people ; in England, the national game is played by the upper class, while the people look on. As far as their pleasures and amusements go, 'they seem to be utterly dependent, utterly incapable of com- 'bluing to amuse themselves ; and the exceeding dullness of 'their daily life is beyond doubt in a great measure the cause of their curiosity as to the lives of others. It is easy to say that the ordinary Englishman dearly loves a Lord, and to talk of the innate snobbishness of the English character that is _prone to worship wealth, titles, and finery ; but that worship must have some further cause. It is the dullness of Democracy `that makes it cling to the skirts of Fashion.
Previous page
