SUGGESTIONS FROM A MANIAC.
_______
The
communication here given to the readers of this periodical reached the
office of its publication under circumstances of unparalleled singularity.
An immense package appeared on the table one morning, which had been left,
as was stated ingenuously outside, “on approval.” It must be owned that the
dimensions of the supposed manuscript were, to judge from the outside,
rather alarming, but it was none the less determined that in this, as in
other cases, justice should be done to the volunteer contributor. The parcel
was opened. What was the surprise of “the management” to find nothing inside
but an old and much worn copy of Goldsmith’s Abridgment of the History of
England.
The book was about to be flung aside, when Mr. Thomas Idle, who was
loitering in the office at the time, happening in sheer listlessness to turn
over the pages of the volume, suddenly uttered the dissyllable “Hullo.” A
general rush was made towards the spot from which this sound emanated, and
it was then found that the volume of Goldsmith was covered, as to the
fly-leaves and the margins of the pages, with manuscript written in pencil,
which, when it had been deciphered with much difficulty, came out in the
form of the subjoined article.
All endeavours to trace the authorship of the paper have been made in vain.
It had been left at the office—this was all the information that was to be
got—by a stout good-natured-looking personage, with bushy whiskers, and
dressed in a shooting-jacket: who had handed the package in with a grin, and
with the remark, “You won’t often get anything like
that, I’ll be bound!”
The manuscript begins thus:
The straw with which my hair is decorated has failed lately to afford me the
pleasure which it was wont to give. The lath which I have furbished up, and
made into a sceptre, will not do, either. It was a great consolation to me
at first, but it has ceased to be so now. Nothing will give me any
satisfaction except the possession of pens, ink, and paper, by means of
which to impart my rapidly flowing ideas to the public. Ideas! Flowing
ideas! They crowd and rush into my brain, trampling on one another’s heels
at such a rate that I can keep them in no sort of order—and they are such
valuable ideas, that they would set the whole world to rights if the whole
world only knew about them.
And the world shall know about
them. I asked for pens, ink, and paper, and they would not let me have them;
but, I’ve got a book—what’s it called?—Goldsmith’s Abridgment of the History
of England—and Struddles, the keeper, who is my dear friend, has lent me a
pencil, and I can write all I want to say on the flyleaves and round the
margins of the pages of this book, and then Struddles promises to take it
away for me and to get it published. As to the pencil point, they won’t let
me have a knife to cut it with, so when I’ve worked it down to the cedar (as
if I was mad! Why see, I know what wood the lead of a pencil is set in), I
give it to Struddles, and he cuts it for me; or if Struddles is out of the
way, I bite the wood away, till there is lead enough bare to write with. But
I must not waste my space. I want to get to my ideas at once. I am going to
begin. Where shall I begin? Anywhere.
Why not raise your pavements up to the first floors of the houses. Not all
the pavements in London at once (that
would be a mad notion), but by degrees, and as opportunity offered?
Take Regent-street, for instance. Bless you, I know Regent-street well, and
have often nearly been run over at that awful crossing at the Circus where
it joins Oxford-street. Why not have an iron balcony the whole length of
Regent-street on a level with the first-floor windows, to be used as the
promenade for foot-passengers? You couldn’t do it at once, but by degrees
you might, beginning at the Circus. Then might a suggestion made once by a
dear friend of mine (Columbus Startles) be carried out completely. His idea
was, that light iron bridges should be thrown up over the crossings at the
Circus, and a capital idea it was. Well, my iron balcony would be like a
continuation of these bridges, or the bridges would be a continuation of the
iron balcony, and so you would be able to walk straight on when you came to
the crossing, and take no account of the carriages, omnibuses, and carts,
roaring along underneath you. But the wiseacres who think that I have not
weighed all the difficulties of my plan will say, “And pray what is to
become of the shops?” My answer is ready instantly. Raise them too, and let
the shop-fronts be on the first, instead of the ground floor, which should
then be used for storehouses, or whatever the upper portions of the houses
are used for now. Once more I repeat, you must do all this by degrees. That
is the great secret. Do it gradually.
How pretty it would be as well as convenient! The balcony or iron pavement
would be supported on pillars of the same metal, and would communicate with
the carriage-road by occasional staircases at the crossings. All the smaller
streets would be left as they are. There is no difficulty in crossing over
them; and supposing you were on my raised pavement in Regent-street, and
wanted to turn into Conduit-street, for instance, you would descend the
staircase at the corner, on which side you liked, and would proceed along
the pavement of the latter thoroughfare exactly as usual. (The pavement,
by-the-by, might remain just as it is under the iron arcade, and would be a
pleasant refuge in rainy weather.)
Now something of this sort—I am not bigoted to my own scheme—but something
of this sort will have to be done. Even when I was a gentleman at large,
some two years ago now, I have waited and waited at some of the principal
crossings in London for an opportunity of getting over, till my poor nerves
got into such a state that I could hardly take advantage of the chance when
it did come. Of course the thing is much worse now, and what will it be five
years hence? Modern nerves are more delicate and susceptible than ancient
nerves, and yet they are in some respects more severely tried. I am told
that already people collect in groups at some of the London crossings
waiting till the police come to their assistance. What will this come to, I
ask again, five years hence?
So much for that idea. Now for the next. Let me see, what
is the next?
When I kept house—an undertaking of such fearful difficulty, and surrounded
with such severe mental trials, that my having anything to do with it is one
of the causes of my being here, by mistake—when I kept house I observed, for
my occupation led me to look out of window a good deal, that the street in
which I resided was much frequented by a class of gentry with greasy hair,
wearing caps instead of hats, with a general second-hand look about
everything they had on, with villanous faces, and with bags or sacks slung
over their shoulders. Sometimes these individuals carried work-boxes or
tea-caddies in their hands: the boxes in question being held open, in order
to show the splendour of their interiors. Now, I remarked that these men
were always looking down into the areas, that they always appeared to be
communicating by signs, or sometimes by word of mouth, with the servants,
and that everything they did was done in a furtive and sheepish manner, very
disagreeable to witness. Their communications with the servants would often
terminate in a descent of the area steps, but it was always remarkable that
no one of the individuals of whom I speak ever opened an area gate, or,
indeed, did anything else without first glancing over his shoulder to right
and left, looking first up the street and then down the street. On emerging
from the area, that same look was repeated before the man would venture out
into the street.
Sometimes it would happen, naturally enough, that one of these men would, in
the course of his day’s work—what work?—arrive at the house then tenanted by
me, and, little suspecting that I was hiding behind the wire blind and
listening with all my might, would go through his usual manœuvres in front
of my dining-room window. Watching till one of the servants chanced to
approach the kitchen window, he would try to attract her attention by gently
rattling a tea-caddy against the railings, and then, attention once
caught—it was easily done, Heaven knows—he would begin cajoling the women,
and calling the cook “mum:” an offence in itself which ought to be visited
with transportation.
“Want a nice work-box, mum—nice tea-caddy, mum?” the sneak would begin.
The servants, I suppose, answered only by signals: at any rate, I could hear
nothing of their replies. The sneak looked up and down the street again, and
then crouched down so as to be nearer the kitchen window. He also swung the
bag off his shoulder, to be able to get at its contents.
“Nice work-box or caddy, mum! very reasonable, mum. Nice ribbings of all
colours! Bit of edging, ladies, for your caps.”
The telegraphing from below would seem to be in the negative, though not
sufficiently so to discourage this wretched sneak. He got nearer to the
gate, and again looked up and down the street.
“Make an exchange, mum, if you like! A old pair of gentleman’s boots, if
you’ve got such a thing, mum, or a gentleman’s old ’at or coat, ladies. Take
a’most anythink in change, ladies, if it was even so much as a humbrella, or
an old weskit, or a corkscrew.”
And what business, pray, had my female servants with boots, hats,
waistcoats, or corkscrews, in their possession? If these articles were given
to that disgusting sneak, who, at the conclusion of the last sentence
quoted, made his way furtively down the kitchen steps, where could they
possibly come from? Women servants do not wear coats and waistcoats and
hats, nor do they generally have corkscrews
of their own in their possession.
Why are these area sneaks allowed? They may be identified by anybody, but by
a policeman especially, at a single glance. Why are they allowed to pursue
their avocations? My beloved friend Featherhead here, who has continual
information from outside the walls, tells me that lately several robberies
have been traced to these detestable creatures. Featherhead has a bee in his
bonnet, poor fellow, but he is truth itself; I can depend implicitly upon
what he tells me, and it really seems to me, that if you go on allowing
these area-sneaks to spend their days in wandering about the less frequented
streets, corrupting the servants, and making them as great thieves as they
(the sneaks) are themselves, you must be much madder than any of us poor
fellows who are living——well, in retirement.
I want to know, not that this has anything to do with the last subject—why
should it? I suppose I may adopt a disjointed style if I choose—I want to
know why, among you outside, the young men, the bachelors, are made so much
more comfortable than they ought to be? You cannot keep them out of some of
their luxuries and comforts, it is true. They live in central situations at
trifling rents. They take their meals at clubs, where they are provided with
such food as is hardly to be obtained anywhere else. They have no
responsibilities, no anxieties worthy of the name. And, as if this was not
enough, what else do you do to encourage them in celibacy? You allow them at
any age to accept your hospitalities, and you expect no return, and you
charge them twelve shillings only for the privilege of wearing a demi-griffin
rampant on their little fingers, while the married man has to pay
twenty-four. Now this, I say, is too bad. The bachelor is a selfish
luxurious wretch, able to do more with three hundred a year than the family
man can with three thousand. Tax him then—tax him heavily. He is young and
strong, and able to endure—grind him down with taxation till he groans under
the load, and then when he becomes a married man, and a worthy useful
citizen, lighten his load instead of increasing it. And at the same time
that we bully these selfish young dogs of bachelors, would it not be
judicious to take a hint or two from them. How is it that they manage to get
a maximum of enjoyment out of a minimum of expenditure? By combination. And
why shouldn’t married people combine as well as bachelors? Not combine
socially, I don’t mean that, but pecuniarily; as they already do to get
their supplies of water, their gas, the books that they want to read. We
ought to have club chambers for families. Great big handsome houses let off
in floors. For want of these we have ruined our town; we have made
metropolitan distances so vast that we want railways from one part of the
town to another; we are involved, each one of us, in an enormous expenditure
for which we only get the smallest amount of comfort. In the present state
of society, the providing for families should be the work of a professional
man. Why are you a householder, which is another name for a persecuted
miserable swindled wretch?—why are you to be bothered with mysterious papers
about gas-rates, and water-rates, and poor-rates, and police-rates, besides
ten thousand other cares and botherations, which are at once vexatious and
unworthy of your attention. Let it be the business—and a very profitable
business it might be—of a professional man to take a house or houses, to
attend to the rates, taxes, and repairs, and to superintend and watch its
kitchen arrangements as carefully as such matters are looked after by the
committee of a club.
“If you please, sir, the thor has set in and all the pipes is burst;”—“ If
you please, sir, the man ’ave called to see about the biler, and he says
could he speak to you about it;”—“There’s a party in the ’all, sir, as
wishes to see you about the gas-meter, which he says a new one is wanted.”
Such announcements as these, together with incessant intimations that, “A
gentleman has called for the pore-rate, and has been twice before,” are
familiar to every British householder. What bliss to hear no more allusions
to such matters, and to make over a cheque once a quarter to an individual
who would take all such troublesome matters off your hands for ever!
I have no space to dwell longer on this particular suggestion. I was
thinking just now of something else that I wanted to say—what was it? Oh, I
remember:
Why don’t you improve your street conveyances? As to omnibuses, they are
beyond hope. A faint attempt was made to do something with them, but it soon
subsided, and you have lapsed back into your old grooves again. But don’t
you think something might be done with the cabs? Why not follow the plan
adopted on railways, and have first and second-class cabs. According to the
present arrangement, you go to the play with your wife, in a vehicle which
just before has been occupied by six drunken blackguards returning from a
foot race, or even by worse customers. If there were first-class and
second-class cabs, such objectionable people would hail the latter, on
account of the difference in price. And keeping still to the cab question,
why don’t you have some means of communicating with the driver without
thrusting your head and half your body out of the window? Even by doing
that, you can hardly make yourself heard, in a crowded thoroughfare, till
you have got past the house you wanted to stop at, or the street up which
you should have turned. By means of a flexible tube you might give your
direction with ease, without stirring from your place, or bawling yourself
hoarse. And would it be too much to ask that in close cabs there should
always be a light inside after nightfall? As it is, you plunge into the
interior of that dark receptacle for locomotive humanity, compelled to take
your chance of plumping down upon a seat on which some inconsiderate person
has just before deposited a pair of boots thickly encrusted with mud. There
is a lamp outside the Hansom; why
don’t you have a lamp inside the four-wheeler? And talking of Hansoms, how
is it that the public puts up with that guillotine window? We have a very
nice fellow in this establishment who once broke one of those windows with
his nose—the feature is a large one, and the scar is upon it to this hour.
If it is not possible to make a window altogether outside the cab, allowing
a good space between it and the apron for ventilation, at least the window
as at present existing might be left to the management of the individual
inside the cab. The majority of persons who have sense enough to find their
way into one of these vehicles, would probably be capable of the mental and
bodily effort of dealing with the window. But it is a curious thing, and
difficult to account for, that all persons who are professionally mixed up
with horses and carriages always treat you as if in all matters connected
with either you were a perfect baby. I must leave this subject of Hansoms
and four-wheelers. I come to my most important suggestion. It is new. It is
practical. It gets us—the country generally—the government—the people—out of
a difficulty. It is economical.
I have to propose a new method of rewarding merit in this country: a new way
of distinguishing those among our citizens who have earned a right to our
approval, and on whom it is the general wish to confer some great public
evidence of our respect and gratitude. Hitherto, when we have sought to do
honour to a great man, or to render an illustrious name additionally
illustrious, it has been our custom to erect a monument.
Now, my desire is to establish a system the very reverse of this. I propose
that in grateful remembrance of every great man who arises among us, instead
of putting up a statue, or other monument, we go to work with axe and
hammer, and pull one down!
Here would be a stimulus to exertion! Gracious powers! who that loved his
country or—rather his town—would not strain every nerve to excel in his own
particular department, when the hope was before him of delivering his
fellow-creatures from one of those terrific monsters, the public statues!
Once let the edict go forth, once let it be distinctly understood that any
man who achieved greatness might not only feel secure himself from ever
appearing in one of our public places with a scroll in one of his hands, and
tights on both his legs, but that he would secure to himself the glory of
abolishing a London statue—once let this be understood, and I believe there
would be no end to our greatness as a nation. How would the flagging
energies of a virtuous rising man revive as he passed the Duke of York’s
Column, or George the Third’s Pigtail, or George the Fourth’s curly wig, and
said to himself, “ A little more labour, a little longer effort, and, thou
monstrosity, I shall lay thee level with the dust.”
Some one has remarked that we are not a military nation. From the moment
when this plan of mine is adopted—as of course it will be—we shall become
so. What will a man not do, what hardship will he not encounter, what danger
will he not face, with the thought deep down in the recesses of his heart,
that he is not only combating his country’s foes, but that he is helping to
lift that load of horror off the arch at the top of Constitution-hill!
From one end of our social scale to the other our whole community would feel
this additional stimulus to exertion. Even the illustrious prince in whose
presence it has never been my good fortune to bask, would be urged on in a
glorious and virtuous career by the thought that one day the statue of his
great-uncle might by his greatness be swept away from the surface of
Trafalgar-square, or that his noble acts would remove another great-uncle
from King William-street, where he interrupts the traffic by vainly offering
a coil of rope for sale, and depresses the spirits of the passers-by in a
perfectly inexcusable manner. All classes, I say, would feel this stimulus.
The politician would look at Lord George Bentinck, and, shaking his fist at
him, would mutter, “Thy days are numbered.” The medical man would think of
Jenner, and sign his prescription with a bolder hand. “Fiat pilula, ruat
Jennerum!”
And consider how remarkable it is that the bronze coinage should have come
into existence just at the moment when we are likely to have so much bronze
thrown upon our hands. What unnumbered pennies there must be in the length
and breadth of that fearful statue of the Duke of Wellington. Why, there
must be change for a five-shilling-piece in his nose. The cocked hat would
be a dowry for a princess. The stirrups—but. the mind shrinks before the
contemplation of such wealth.
Proposed Form.
To His Excellency General
Lord * * * * * *,
Field-Marshal, &c. &c. &c.
My Lord,
We hasten to approach your lordship with our heartfelt congratulations on
your safe arrival on these shores, and also on the success which has
attended your arms in every action in which you have been engaged while
defending the interests of that great country which you so adequately and
nobly represent.
We are directed to convey to your lordship the acknowledgments of your
gracious sovereign for the services rendered by you to your country, and we
are further directed to add to the honourable titles which already adorn
your name, those of:—&c. &c. &c.
But a prouder distinction yet awaits your lordship; one which it will be
more glorious to you to receive, and for us to confer.
It has been decided that such services as those by which you have recently
so eminently distinguished yourself, are worthy of some more marked
commemoration than any which mere titles, however illustrious, can afford.
We have to announce to you that it is the intention of the sovereign of this
country to confer upon you the highest honour which a monarch can give, or a
subject receive.
It has, doubtless, not escaped the notice of one so well acquainted with our
metropolis as your lordship, that in one of its principal thoroughfares, at
the entrance to one of its principal parks, in the immediate vicinity of its
clubs and its Tattersall’s, there exists a monster of noisome and appalling
proportions, which, besides being the terror of the neighbourhood in which
it is located, has disgraced the name of Britain in those foreign countries
which the rumour of its existence has unfortunately reached.
This monster it has been your proud privilege to depose from his high place.
An enemy to the fair name of this country, almost as much so as those other
enemies over whom you have lately triumphed—that monster has fallen before
your victorious approach, and beneath the spot which was once its lair may
now be seen your lordship’s name, in bold characters, and underneath it the
simple inscription—“Overthrown by this
public Benefactor.”
As your lordship’s fellow-countrymen pass that inscription in their daily
walks, not only will the remembrance of the numerous exploits with which
your name is associated be kept continually before them, but their gratitude
towards the man who has delivered his country from a terror and a shame,
will be reawakened from day to day, and from hour to hour.
Feeling that nothing we could add would give any additional value to this
tribute which we
have thus the honour of offering to your lordship, we will now withdraw,
wishing your lordship long life and health, and many
a pleasant ride under that arch on Constitution-hill which will
henceforth be always associated with your
proudest triumphs and your most glorious
achievements.
We
are,
&c.
&c.
(Signed)
There!
I’ve
come
to
the
end
of
the
space
at
my
disposal,
and
can
say
no
more;
but
if
you’ll only
send
me
another
big
book—say
Hansard’s Debates—I’ll
annotate
it
with
suggestions
by the
dozen.
By-the-by,
does
it
strike
you,
or
any
of
your
readers,
that
Oliver
Goldsmith
was
at
all mad?
First published: All The Year Round vol. XI, 13 February
1864, pp. 9-13