Punch (32.1857)

" GOOD GRACIOTS ! SHE'S AT HOME !

" Mb. Punch,—What holds Society together ? Mutual services,
acts of kindness done in moments of need or sorrow, self-interest, the
pleasure of conversation, the love of scandal, weariness of ourselves,
enjoyment of the company of others, or mere instinctive gregariousness ?

" None of these, so far as I can gather from my experiences as a
married man, and a London householder. Society here seems to me
to be built up of pasteboard—a veritable house of cards.

" Nine-tenths of the social intercourse of this Metropolis appears to
be carried on either as a solemn and costly ceremonial, or as a dreary
penance.

" Dinners, routs, balls, breakfasts—wedding and others—belong to the
first, or ceremonial order of social rites.

" Calling is the principal form of social penance. It is against this
penance I wish to pour out my feelings.

" It is only married men who know at what cost of time, money,
and temper this penance is performed. A bachelor's calls are seldom
penal. Your bachelor, if he ever makes calls, does it because he likes
it. What more natural than that Jack Easy, on his stroll from the
Club to the Park, should drop in of an afternoon on pretty Mrs.
Bellairs in May Eair? The chances are ten to one he will find
Mrs. Bellairs at home, for he knows her hours, and wants to see
her. And as he is certain to come in for a bright face, a pretty morn-
ing-dress, an elegant little boudoir, and a lively half-hour's gossip—
with perhaps a cup of tea, at the end of it-Jack has treated himself
to a pleasure. He called with that object. Mrs. Bellairs will have
half-a-dozen such calls, this afternoon, most of them from her male
acquaintance. The ladies purse their lips, when Mrs. Bellairs is
mentioned. She is too agreeable. She has flung off the ceremonies,
and refuses to perform the penances of society. Her dinners are un-
pretending and proportioned to her kitchen and her establishment.
She ^does not swell her household with green-grocers, or have her
entrees from the pastrycook's. When you call, as I have said, you find
her at home. She has arranged her house and ways for enjoyment, and
not as if for the discharge of a painful duty. Hence, perhaps, the
undeniable fact that she counts, in her circle, three bachelors for one
wedded-pair. The married couples you do meet at her house are apt
to be young_ ones, and of the unceremonious or off-hand kind, who
take life as if it concerned themselves more than their neighbours.

"Women, too, have their non-penal calls. When two young ladies
for example,—dear friends,—meet to exchange patterns or experiences
—to talk over the triumphs and trials of last night's ball,—to compare
notes as to husbands, and house-keeping—to bewail the backslidings of
butlers, the contrariness of cooks, or the high-flyings of housemaids,
I do not doubt that they really enjoy themselves. I can readily
imagine two vicious old maids, keenly relishing a good 'go-in' at
the reputation or circumstances of their friends. I can conceive their
bitter pleasure in tearing to pieces some fair young fame—or in routing
out some grim skeleton from its closet in the house of a common
acquaintance ; or in letting loose from its bag some cat, likely to run
about freely, and to bite and scratch a great many people in the neigh-
bourhood.

" There is enjoyment in a call on an artist in his studio, provided you
know him well enough to rummage his portfobos, or turn his canvases
from the wall while he continues at work. Unless you are on these
terms with him, you have no business to interrupt an artist, except on
invitation, and on ceremonial or penal occasions; as, for instance,
when Podgers A.R.A. has expressed in writing the pleasure it will give
him to see you for inspection of his pictures intended for the Academy
on the 3rd, 4th, or 5th of April. That is one of the penal performances.
If you go, you must make one of a shoal of people, who flock into the
place on each other's heels the whole day through, most of them
knowing nothing of Art. The few who do, are debarred by politeness
from speaking their mind on the works before them, where they cannot
honestly approve, but they are all pouring out the same commonplaces
of compliment to Podgers's face, and venturing on ' shys' of criticism
whenever the poor man's back is turned, while poor Podgers is
beaming about, full of himself, feeding on honey and butter, and
believing all the compliments sincere in spite of his better judgment—
so sweet is praise—till the Times comes out, the day after the Private
View, and omits all mention of Podgers, or damns him with faint
praise, or cuts him up, perhaps, root and branch.;

"But the real penance of penances is that social performance called
' leaving cards.' Every day, when I come home from my office, I find
my hall-table littered with these pieces of pasteboard. There is a
physiognomy about them. Take the newly-married card, for instance,
on which Mr. and Mrs. Coobiddy always figure in couples, a sort of