As to society in 1837, contemporary commentators differ. For, according to some, society was always gambling, running away with each other’s wives, causing and committing scandals, or whispering them, the men were spendthrifts and profligates, the women extravagant and heartless. Of course, the same things would be said, and are sometimes said, of the present day, and will be said in all following ages, because to the ultra-virtuous or to the satirist who trots out the old, stale, worn-out sham indignation, or to the isn’t-it-awful, gaping gobemouche, every generation seems worse than all those which preceded it. We know the tag and the burden and the weariness of the old song. As for myself, I am no indignant satirist, and the news that certain young gentlemen have been sitting up all night playing baccarat, drinking champagne, and ‘carrying on’ after the fashion of youth in all ages, does not greatly agitate my soul, or surprise me, or lash me into virtuous indignation. Not at all. At the same time, if one must range oneself and take a side, one may imitate the example of Benjamin Disraeli and declare for the side of the angels. And, once a declared follower of that army, one may be allowed to rejoice that things are vastly improved in the space of two generations. Of this there can be no doubt. Making easy allowance for exaggeration, and refusing to see depravity in a whole class because there are one or two cases that the world calls shocking and reads eagerly, it is quite certain that there is less of everything that should not be than there used to be—less in proportion, and even less in actual extent. The general tone, in short the general manners of society, have very much improved. Of this, I say again, there can be no doubt. Let any one, for instance, read Lady Blessington’s ‘Victims of Society.’ Though there is an unreal ring about this horrid book, so that one cannot accept it for a moment as a faithful picture of the times, such a book could not now be written at all; it would be impossible.

Let us sing of lighter themes. Take, for instance, the great subject of Swagger. There is still Swagger, even in these days; cavalry officers in garrison towns are still supposed to swagger. Eton boys swagger in their own little village; undergraduates swagger. The putting on of ‘side,’ by the way, is a peculiarly modern form of swagger: it is the assumption of certain qualities and powers which are considered as deserving of respect. Swagger, fifty years ago, was a coarser kind of thing. Officers swaggered; men of rank swaggered; men of wealth swaggered; gentlemen in military frogs—there are no longer any military frogs—swaggered in taverns, clubs, and in the streets. The adoption of quiet manners; the wearing of rank with unobtrusive dignity; the possession of wealth without ostentation; of wit without the desire to be always showing it—these are points in which we are decidedly in advance of our fathers. There was a great deal of cuff and collar, stock and breastpin about the young fellows of the day. They were oppressive in their gallantry: in public places they asserted themselves; they were loud in their talk. In order to understand the young man of the day, one may study the life and career of that gay and gallant gentleman, the Count d’Orsay, model and paragon for all young gentlemen of his time.

They were louder in their manners, and in their conversation they were insulting, especially the wits. Things were said by these gentlemen, even in a duelling age, which would be followed in these days by a violent personal assault. In fact, the necessity of fighting a duel if you kicked a man seems to have been the cause why men were constantly allowed to call each other, by implication, Fool, Ass, Knave, and so forth. So very disagreeable a thing was it to turn out in the early morning, in order to be shot at, that men stood anything rather than subject themselves to it. Consider the things said by Douglas Jerrold, for instance. They are always witty, of course, but they are often mere insults. Yet nobody seems ever to have fallen upon him. And not only this kind of thing was permitted, but things of the grossest taste passed unrebuked. For instance, only a few years before our period, at Holland House—not at a club, or a tavern, or a tap-room, but actually at Holland House, the most refined and cultured place in London—the following conversation once passed.

They were asking who was the worst man in the whole of history—a most unprofitable question; and one man after the other was proposed. Among the company present was the Prince Regent himself. ‘I,’ said Sydney Smith—no other than Sydney Smith, if you please—‘have always considered the Duke of Orleans, Regent of France, to have been the worst man in all history; and he,’ looking at the illustrious guest, ‘was a Prince.’ A dead silence followed, broken by the Prince himself. ‘For my own part,’ he said, ‘I have always considered that he was excelled by his tutor, the AbbÉ Dubois; and he was a priest, Mr. Sydney.’ Considering the reputation of the Prince, and the kind of life he was generally supposed to be leading, one can hardly believe that any man would have had the impudence and the bad taste to make such a speech.

We still constantly hear, in the modern School for Scandal, remarks concerning the honour, the virtue, the cleverness, the ability, the beauty, the accomplishments of our friends. But it is behind their backs. We no longer try to put the truth openly before them. We stab in the back; but we no longer attack in front. One ought not to stab at all; but the back is a portion of the frame which feels nothing. So far the change is a distinct gain.

Society, again, fifty years ago, was exclusive. You belonged to society, or you did not; there was no overlapping, there were no circles which intersected. And if you were in society you went to Almack’s. If you did not go to Almack’s you might be a very interesting, praiseworthy, well-bred creature; but you could not claim to be in society. Nothing could be more simple. Therefore, everybody ardently desired to be seen at Almack’s. This, however, was not in everybody’s power. Almack’s, for instance, was far more exclusive than the Court. Riff-raff might go to Court; but they could not get to Almack’s, for at its gates there stood, not one angel with a fiery sword, but six in the shape of English ladies, terrible in turbans, splendid in diamonds, magnificent in satin, and awful in rank.

They were the Ladies Jersey, Londonderry, Cowper, Brownlow, Willoughby d’Eresby, and Euston. These ladies formed the dreaded Committee. They decided who should be admitted within the circle; all applications had to be made direct to them; no one was allowed to bring friends. Those who desired to go to the balls—Heavens! what lady did not ardently desire?—were obliged to send in a personal request to be allowed the honour. Not only this, but they were also obliged to send for the answer, which took the form of a voucher—that is, a ticket—or a simple refusal, from which there was no appeal. Gentlemen were admitted in the same way, and by the same mode of application, as the ladies. In their case, it is pleasing to add, some regard was paid to character as well as to birth and rank, so that if a man openly and flagrantly insulted society he was supposed not to be admitted; but one asks with some trembling how far such rigour would be extended towards a young and unmarried Duke. Almack’s was a sort of Royal Academy of Society, the Academic diploma being represented by the admitted candidate’s pedigree, his family connections, and his family shield. The heartburnings, jealousies, and maddening envies caused by this exclusive circle were, I take it, the cause of its decline and fall. Trade, even of the grandest and most successful kind, even in the persons of the grandchildren, had no chance whatever; no self-made man was admitted; in fact, it was not recognised that a man could make himself; either he belonged to a good family or he did not—genius was not considered at all; admission to Almack’s was like admission to the Order of the Garter, because it pretended no nonsense about merit; wives and daughters of simple country squires, judges, bishops, generals, admirals, and so forth, knew better than to apply; the intrigues, backstairs influence, solicitation of friends, were as endless at Almack’s as the intrigues at the Admiralty to procure promotion. Admission could not, however, be bought. So far the committee were beyond suspicion and beyond reproach; it was whispered, to be sure, that there was favouritism—awful word! Put yourself in the position, if you have imagination enough, of a young and beautiful dÉbutante. Admission to Almack’s means for you that you can see your right and title clear to a coronet. What will you not do—what cringing, supplication, adulation, hypocrisies—to secure that card? And oh! the happiness, the rapture, of sending to Willis’s Rooms and finding a card waiting for you! and the misery and despair of receiving, instead, the terrible letter which told you, without reason assigned, that the Ladies of the Committee could not grant your request!

They were not expensive gatherings, the tickets being only 7s. 6d. each, which did not include supper. Dancing began at eleven to the strains of Weippert’s and Collinet’s band. The balls were held in the great room at Willis’s, and the space reserved for the dancers was roped round. The two favourite dances were the Valse and the Galop—the ‘sprightly galoppade,’ as it was called. Quadrilles were also danced. It may be interesting to those who have kept the old music to learn that in the year 1836 the favourite quadrilles were L’Eclair and La TÊte de Bronze, and the favourite valse was Le RemÈde contre le Sommeil. They had also Strauss’s waltzes.

The decline and fall of Almack’s was partly caused by the ‘favouritism’ which not only kept the place exclusive, but excluded more than was politic. The only chance for the continued existence of such an institution is that it should be constantly enlarging its boundaries, just as the only chance for the continued existence of such an aristocracy as ours is that it should be always admitting new members. Somehow the kind of small circle which shall include only the crÈme de la crÈme is always falling to pieces. We hear of a club which is to contain only the very noblest, but in a year or two it has ceased to exist, or it is like all other clubs. Moreover, a great social change has now passed over the country. The stockbroker, to speak in allegory, has got into Society. Respect for Rank, fifty years ago universal and profound, is rapidly decaying. There are still many left who believe in some kind of superiority by Divine Right and the Sovereign’s gift of Rank, even though that Rank be but ten years old, and the grandfather’s shop is still remembered. We do not pretend to believe any longer that Rank by itself makes people cleverer, more moral, stronger, more religious, or more capable; but some of us still believe that, in some unknown way, it makes them superior. These thinkers are getting fewer. And the decay of agriculture, which promises to continue and increase, assists the decay of Respect for Rank, because such an aristocracy as that of these islands, when it becomes poor, becomes contemptible.

The position of women, social and intellectual, has wholly changed. Nothing was heard then of women’s equality, nothing of woman suffrage; there were no women on Boards, there were none who lectured and spoke in public, there were few who wrote seriously. Women regarded themselves, and spoke of themselves, as inferior to men in understanding, as they were in bodily strength. Their case is not likely to be understated by one of themselves. Hear, therefore, what Mrs. John Sandford—nowadays she would have been Mrs. Ethel Sandford, or Mrs. Christian-and maiden-name Sandford—says upon her sisters. It is in a book called ‘Woman in her Social and Domestic Character.’

‘There is something unfeminine in independence. It is contrary to Nature, and therefore it offends. A really sensible woman feels her dependence; she does what she can, but she is conscious of inferiority, and therefore grateful for support.’ The italics are mine. ‘In everything that women attempt they should show their consciousness of dependence.... They should remember that by them influence is to be obtained, not by assumption, but by a delicate appeal to affection or principle. Women in this respect are something like children—the more they show their need of support, the more engaging they are. The appropriate expression of dependence is gentleness.’ The whole work is executed in this spirit, the keynote being the inferiority of woman. Heavens! with what a storm would such a book be now received!

In the year 1835 Herr RÄumer, the German historian, visited England, and made a study of the English people, which he afterwards published. From this book one learns a great deal concerning the manners of the time. For instance, he went to a dinner-party given by a certain noble lord, at which the whole service was of silver, a silver hot-water dish being placed under every plate; the dinner lasted until midnight, and the German guest drank too much wine, though he missed ‘most of the healths.’ It was then the custom at private dinner-parties to go on drinking healths after dinner, and to sit over the wine till midnight. He goes to an ‘At Home’ at Lady A.’s. ‘Almost all the men,’ he tells us, ‘were dressed in black coats, black or coloured waistcoats, and black or white cravats.’ Of what colour were the coloured waistcoats, and of what colour the coats which were not black, and how were the other men dressed? Perhaps one or two may have been Bishops in evening dress. Now the evening dress of a Bishop used to be blue. I once saw a Bishop dressed all in blue—he was a very aged Bishop, and it was at a City Company’s dinner—and I was told it had formerly been the evening dress of Bishops, but was now only worn by the most ancient among them. Herr RÄumer mentions the ‘countless’ carriages in Hyde Park, and observes that no one could afford to keep a carriage who had not 3,000l. a year at least. And at fashionable dances he observes that they dance nothing but waltzes. The English ladies he finds beautiful, and of the men he observes that the more they eat and drink the colder they become—because they drank port, no doubt, under the influence of which, though the heart glows more and more, there comes a time when the brow clouds, and the speech thickens, and the tongue refuses to act.

The dinners were conducted on primitive principles. Except in great houses, where the meat and game were carved by the butler, everything was carved on the table. The host sat behind the haunch of mutton, and ‘helped’ with zeal; the guests took the ducks, the turkey, the hare, and the fowls, and did their part, conscious of critical eyes. A dinner was a terrible ordeal for a young man who, perhaps, found himself called upon to dissect a pair of ducks. He took up the knife with burning cheeks and perspiring nose; now, at last, an impostor, one who knew not the ways of polite society, would be discovered; he began to feel for the joints, while the cold eyes of his hostess gazed reproachfully upon him—ladies, in those days, knew good carving, and could carve for themselves. Perhaps he had, with a ghastly grin, to confess that he could not find those joints. Then the dish was removed and given to another guest, a horribly self-reliant creature, who laughed and talked while he dexterously sliced the breast and cut off the legs. If, in his agony, the poor wretch would take refuge in the bottle, he had to wait until some one invited him to take wine—horrible tyranny! The dinner-table was ornamented with a great Épergne of silver or glass; after dinner the cloth was removed, showing the table, deep in colour, lustrous, well waxed; and the gentlemen began real business with the bottle after the ladies had gone.

Very little need be said about the Court. It was then in the hands of a few families. It had no connection at all with the life of the country, which went on as if there were no Court at all. It is strange that in these fifty years of change the Court should have altered so little. Now, as then, the Court neither attracts, nor attempts to attract, any of the leaders in Art, Science, or Literature. Now, as then, the Court is a thing apart from the life of the country. For the best class of all, those who are continually advancing the country in science, or keeping alight the sacred lamp of letters, who are its scholars, architects, engineers, artists, poets, authors, journalists, who are the merchant adventurers of modern times, who are the preachers and teachers, the Court simply does not exist. One states the fact without comment. But it should be stated, and it should be clearly understood. The whole of those men who in this generation maintain the greatness of our country in the ways where alone greatness is desirable or memorable, except in arms, the only men of this generation whose memories will live and adorn the Victorian era, are strangers to the Court. It seems a great pity. An ideal Court should be the centre of everything—Art, Letters, Science, all.

As for the rest of society—how the people had drums and routs and balls; how they angled for husbands; how they were hollow and unnatural, and so forth—you may read about it in the pages of Thackeray. And I, for one, have never been able to understand how Thackeray got his knowledge of these exclusive circles. Instead of dancing at Almack’s he was taking his chop and stout at the Cock; instead of gambling at Crockford’s he was writing ‘copy’ for any paper which would take it. When and where did he meet Miss Newcome and Lady Kew and Lord Steyne? Perhaps he wrote of them by intuition, as Disraeli wrote the ‘Young Duke.’ ‘My son, sir,’ said the elder Disraeli proudly, ‘has never, I believe, even seen a Duke.’

One touch more. There is before me a beautiful, solemn work, one in which the writer feels his responsibilities almost too profoundly. It is on no less important a subject than Etiquette, containing Rules for the Conduct of Life on the most grave and serious occasions. I permit myself one or two extracts:—

‘Familiarity is the greatest vice of Society. When an acquaintance says “My dear fellow,” cut him immediately.’

‘Never enter your own house without bowing to every one you may meet there.’

‘Never ask a lady any questions about anything whatever.’

‘If you have drunk wine with every one at the table and wish for more’—Heavens! More! And after drinking with every one at the table!—‘wait till the cloth is removed.’

‘Never permit the sanctity of the drawing-room to be violated by a Boot.’