Eclectic Magazine of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, March 1885

“Quite true, and he is far from being the most wealthy man you might name, I believe the Californian Mackay has about seventy millions of income. Rothschild, of Frankfort, left more than a milliard. Astor and Vanderbilt, of New York, and other millionaires on both sides the ocean, have untold wealth.”

“There, you see,” said Pierre; “and what appears to me the worst wrong of all is that these huge incomes belong to people who do next to nothing, while poverty is oftenest the lot of those who work and toil the hardest. I call this downright injustice. A chacun selon son travail. The riches ought to be with those that work. That's my way of looking at it.”

“All right, Pierre,” said I; “there is a good deal of truth in what you say. It is quite true that in regard to the distribution of wealth, as in regard to many other things, this world is far from being perfect. But do you think that if you had the re-arrangement of society, and the redistribution of riches, you could proceed on some other and better plan?”

“Certainly. I believe, without any presumption, that I could,” said Pierre. “What seems to me difficult is not to make things better, but to make them any worse than they are now!”

One of the workmen here said that nothing was simpler than to take the surplus wealth of these rich men, and divide it amongst the deserving poor.

“That plan is just a little too simple,” I remarked. “All the millions of a Rothschild would go a very little way, if divided among the population of Paris alone, and we should soon have to resort to other schemes to redress the ever-renewed inequalities. No; no; what I want Pierre to show us is some better system of society, and he thinks he has the key to the problem in his favorite motto, A chacun selon son travail. But just let me remind you that in ancient times there was a king of Spain who was a bit of an astronomer; and looking at the heavens, and wondering at the complicated movements of the stars, he said that if he had been consulted in the matter he could have made a much better and simpler arrangement. Your purpose is not so ambitious and presumptuous as his, for the heavens are the work of the Almighty, who has imposed upon Nature certain fixed laws; whereas the laws of society are the work of men, and men are liable to err. Let us then hear what improvement you can suggest in the laws and usages which regulate the distribution of wealth.”

Pierre was somewhat taken aback, for he felt that the existing arrangements of society were very complex, and it was not easy to determine where the reform should begin.

“Well,” said I, “let us suppose that a number of persons were set on shore upon an island, where none had any rights or property beyond the others. Let us suppose that there are as yet no laws, that there is no government, no past history: all are free and equal, and you have full power to organise the distribution of wealth in this new society, and to decide what is to be the share of each. Come now, you have a carte blanche, let us hear what you would do.”

“Well,” said Pierre, “I should begin by deciding that every one was to do what he would and what he could, and that every one should keep what he was able by his work and industry to obtain. A chacun selon son travail: behold my fundamental rule!”

“It is an excellent rule,” I said, “and I do not think any one could find a better. It appears to me to be just, and also eminently practical, for it would stimulate every one to produce by his industry as much as he could. I see by this that you are no advocate of Communism.”

“Certainly not,” said Pierre. “Communism is a very good thing in a family, where every one exerts himself to work for those he loves, and accepts without murmur his share of work, certain that the mother, or whoever is housekeeper, manages the common purse with thrift, and in the interest of all. But in a large society, I do not think that men are equally willing to exert themselves for those whom they have no knowledge of and no special attachment to. Besides, in Communism under the State, the manager holding the purse strings would be no other than the Government, and I would not have confidence in its management being wise and economical.”

“I quite agree with you. But let us return to your plan. After establishing your principle, “to each one the produce of his labor,” what would you do then?”

“Nothing at all; every one would then stand on his own bottom. He that works well would have sufficient, and he who did no work would have nothing.”

“You do not imagine,” I observed, “that you would obtain equality by these conditions? Since every one has to take his part in the work, it is evident that these parts will be small or great, according as each is industrious or not. You would soon come to have in your new society the rich and the poor.”

“Well, perhaps; but at all events there would be none too rich or too poor.”

“How do you know that? Here are two families: in one the habits of work, of order, of economy, are hereditary; the other is given, from father to son, to idleness, improvidence, and dissipation. The distance that separates these families, small at first, must go on increasing, till in the natural course of things, sooner or later, there would come to be the same inequality as between Rothschild and a beggar. It would only be a question of time.”

Pierre's companions, who were listening attentively to the discussion, here murmured assent, or what would correspond to the “Hear, hear!” of more formal debates. Pierre, however, merely remarked that this result might seem opposed to his views, but that he nevertheless accepted it; “because,” said he, “in this case the inequality of riches would at least be the result of work and of the efforts of each worker. There would be no injustice.”

“Pardon me, Pierre, but I think that your motto is still causing you to cherish some illusions. Let me show you my way of looking at it. A chacun selon son travail, you say, To every one the product of his own industry. But what is the proprietor to do with the product of his labor? He will no doubt sell all that is over and above what he needs for his own use, and the price of what is sold will form his income. But the price of things depends on a variety of conditions independent of our personal labor and our own will; such for instance, as the vicissitudes of seasons and the variations of the markets. Out of a difference of ten francs in the price of wine may result the fortune or the ruin of a proprietor, and that proves nothing as to his having himself labored well or ill. The revenue or net profit is rarely in exact proportion to the labor bestowed, in farming or vine-growing or any other industry. What we call chance will always play its part in the affairs of this world, and in the new world which you are planning you cannot hinder Fortune from dispensing her favors in an unequal fashion; it is not without reason that she is represented with a bandage over her eyes!”

“Ah, bah!” exclaimed Pierre; “you disconcert me with your suppositions. What do you want? I firmly believe that in my colony, as everywhere, there will be good and bad luck, but while the chances are equal for all, and there is no place for wrong-doing or trickery, I console myself. At least you will admit that my principle, A chacun le produit de son travail, will have this good result, that it will render impossible the existence of rich idle people who pass their life in doing nothing.”

“Are you quite sure of that, Pierre? If any one after working ten or twenty years has produced enough property to suffice for his wants during the remainder of his days, do you pretend to hinder him from spending in his own way, in idleness if he pleases, what he had amassed by his labors?”

“Certainly not, because such a one would be living on the product of his own toil. Let a man rest in the evening after having worked hard in the morning, and let him live in ease in his old age after having produced enough by the toil of his youth; I see no harm in that. I have no wish to condemn the members of my colony to forced labor in perpetuity. The only idlers that I wish to exclude are those who live without ever having worked at all or produced anything – the rentiers, as they call them, or idle people, who live on their income, or the interest of their money.”

“Stop now, Pierre; do you admit that a man who has obtained anything by his labor has the right to do what he pleases with it?”

“Assuredly.”

“Here is a man who has made a loaf of bread. You admit his right to eat it all if he is hungry, or to set part of it aside if he has not appetite at the time for all of it, or even to throw some of it away, as he pleases.”

“Yes, it is a consequence of my principle, A chacun le produit de son travail. He who creates wealth has the right to dispose of it as he pleases. But what has that to do with your argument?”

“Just this. If he who produces a thing can do what he pleases with it, he can surely give it where he pleases. If, then, it suits me to make every day a loaf for you, and to give it to you; still more, if it pleases me to give to you out of my property or to bequeath to you after my death enough bread, or, what comes to the same thing, enough money to support you during your life, you will have acquired the means of walking about with your hands in your pockets like an idle gentleman. You will, in fact, have become a rentier.”

Never,” said Pierre, “never. If I allowed such parasites to exist in my new society it would be no better than the old.”

“Then don't talk any more about your motto, A chacun le produit de son travail. If you adopt this principle you must adopt also its consequences, whether you like them or not. If, according to your system, you admit to every one the right of disposing of the fruit of his labor, you must admit the right to receive as well as to give. Where the worker is master of his own property it depends on him whether he will create a rentier, and you cannot prevent him except by decreeing that he is incapable of disposing of what belongs to him. Beware of what must happen otherwise. If in your new society you prevented parents from giving or leaving to their children the property they have amassed, there would be risk of their amassing far less or of dissipating what they had already been able to accumulate by their industry and thrift, which would be a great loss for all. We must allow, in fact, and it is to the honor of human nature, that there are very many in this world who work more and save more for their children and for others rather than for themselves.”

“Well, sir, if in my new society there must eventually be rich and poor, workers and non-workers: if the portion of each is not necessarily proportioned to their labor then how, I wish to know, would this new society which I have taken such trouble to plan and organise, how would it differ from the society in which we now live?”

“In nothing at all, my good friend, and this it just what I wished to demonstrate to you. You see that the world in which we live is, after all, not so badly organised, seeing that the new one which you have tried to create on better principles, as you imagined, turns out, at the end of the account, to be an exact reproduction of the existing system.” —Leisure Hour.

BEHIND THE SCENES

BY F. C. BURNAND

During the past year there has been a considerable amount of discussion, within the circumference of a comparatively inconsiderable circle, as to the social position of the professional actor. It is a subject that crops up from time to time, attracting more or less attention to itself, from those outside the boundary, according to whatever may happen to be the prevalent artistic development, or the latest fashionable craze. The tone of the disputants and the weight of their individual character must, of course, be taken into account. The actor is of all professors of any kind of art the one who is most before the public. The result of his study is ephemeral: “he struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more,” though nowadays the strutting and fretting are not by any means limited to the hour upon the stage; and at the present time there seems to be some anxiety on the part of the children of Thespis to obtain such an authoritative definition of their status, as shall put their position in society above all question, by placing them on a level with the members of the recognised professions. It is asserted that the professional actor is far differently situated now from what he was fifty, or even thirty years ago. Actor and actress are, it is pointed out, received everywhere, petted, fêted, lionized, and made much of; our young men of birth and education but of limited purse, take to the stage, professionally, as a honorable means of earning their livelihood, just as the youngest son of a good, but impoverished family, used to be sent into the Church in order to hold a family living. Further, it has been said that for our young ladies to go on the stage is not now considered, as heretofore, a disgrace, but, on the contrary, rather a plume in their bonnet. Altogether it may be fairly inferred that there has recently been a movement theatrewards, favorable to the social prospects of the professional actor. But has it been anything more than this? Is the actor's calling one whit nearer being recognised as on a social equality with the regular professions than it was fifty years ago?

Throughout this article I shall use the word “society” in its widest and most comprehensive acceptation, except of course where its limitation is expressly stated.

A “status in society” means a certain standing among one's fellow subjects, fixed by law, recognised by traditional usage, and acknowledged by every one, from the highest to the lowest. Formerly, it must be admitted, that as one of the “rogues and vagabonds” by Act of Parliament the actor, quâ actor, had no more status in society than the professional beggar with whom he was unjustly classed.

“The strolling tribe, a despicable race,
Like wandering Arabs, shift from place to place.”

And even now, when this blot on our statute-book has been erased, a respectable theatrical company, travelling in the provinces, is described in the law courts as “a company of strolling players.” Undoubtedly, in a liberal age, the actor's disabilities have been removed; but is he not asking for what is an impossibility from the very nature of the case, when he advances a claim for the recognition of his “calling” as on an equality with the acknowledged professions, which, of themselves, confer a certain honorable status on their members, stamping them, so far, gentlemen? A man who is a gentleman by birth and education is, as Mrs. Micawber phrases it, “eligible” for the best society; and he can only forfeit his social position by misconduct. Now, one question is, does “going on the stage” imply forfeiture of social position? To consider this impartially we must get entirely away from Leo Hunter associations and cliques established on the mutual-admiration principle. The test cases are soon and easily put. Let us suppose the case of the son of an impoverished peer. He cannot afford to be idle. He has a liking for the bar: he passes his examination and becomes a barrister; or he has an inclination for the Church, and there being a family living vacant, and plenty of interest to get him on, he takes orders. In either case does he forfeit his social position? Certainly not: if anything, he improves it by becoming a member of an honorable and dignified profession. Supposing he has money, and prefers soldiering or sailoring to doing absolutely nothing, does he forfeit his social position by becoming an officer? Certainly not: on the contrary he improves his already good social status. I maintain that, prima facie, for a man to be an officer, a barrister, or a clergyman, is in itself a passport to any English society. Wherever he is personally unknown, it is assumed that he is a gentleman, until the contrary is proved; and this assumption is on the strength of his profession only. Let the rank of our hypothetical peer's son be subsequently discovered, and for that representative portion of society which has “entertained an angel unawares,” he has the recommendation of his nobility plus the social position implied by his profession.

But how if the son of our “poor nobleman” have a taste for theatricals, and, after being at Eton and Oxford, determine on “adopting the stage as a profession,” or, as it might be more correctly put, “in lieu of a profession.” What will his noble father and his relatives say to this step? Will they be as pleased as if he were going into the army, or to the bar, or into the Church? Not exactly. If he became an officer, a barrister, or a clergyman, the event would be officially notified in due form; but if he went on the stage there would be startling paragraphs in the papers announcing “The Son of an Earl on the Stage,” “The Honorable Mr. So-and-So has adopted the profession of the stage, &c., &c.” “Well, and why not?” some will exclaim; and others will commend his pluck, and say, “Quite right too.” I entirely agree with them. But the point is, has the young gentleman taken a step up the social ladder, or has he gone more than two or three down? Has he improved his position, or injured it? Certainly, as matters stand, there can be but one answer, – the step he has taken has seriously affected the position to which his birth and education entitle him.

As a barrister on circuit I have supposed him received quâ barrister with his legal brethren; as an officer, quartered in a garrison town, we know he will be received quâ officer, with his brother officers, and no questions asked; and I have alluded to the satisfaction that will be felt (snobbery of course is taken for granted everywhere) when his rank is discovered. But as a player with other players in a country town, will he be received by society, it being understood that because he is a player, therefore he is a gentleman by birth and education? On becoming a soldier, or a barrister, does any one change his name? No: but on going “on the stage” it is the rule for any one to conceal his identity under some name widely different from his own, just as he conceals his individuality behind the footlights with cosmetics, burnt cork, and an eccentric wig. When it is ascertained who he is, will this same society, which would have received him as a barrister, be satisfied and delighted? No, probably scandalised. It will be with these simple, old-fashioned persons a foregone conclusion that this scion of a noble house must be a loose sort of fellow, and they will decide that the less they see of him the better.

There is one reason why the aspirant for Thespian honors (if such he really be) should change his name, and that is the chance of failure. If he goes on the stage as somebody else, and fails as somebody else, very few will hear of it, and he may quit “the boards” none the worse, perhaps for the experience; but for some considerable time, until in fact he has “lived it down,” he will be very careful to conceal this episode in his career from the world at large.

Before getting at the very essence of the difficulty, I will ask in what light do our upper-middle class, and upper-lower middle class, and the remainder of that form (the public school divisions are useful) regard the stage as a means of earning a livelihood?

We must put out of the case entirely all instances of genius. An histrionic genius will be an actor, and his success will justify his choice. The force of his genius will take him everywhere. Genius excuses a multitude of faults and solecisms. We must, too, leave out of the question cases of exceptional talent, where there is more than an occasional spark of the feu sacré. Whether histrionic genius could be better utilised than on the stage, may occur to some serious minds with a decided anti-theatrical bias. But the histrion for the stage, and the stage for the histrion, and we must take the stage as it is for what it is, and not for what it is not. Such a reform of the stage, as shall give its members something like the status they very properly covet, is a matter for future consideration. Let it be understood then – and I cannot impress this too often on those who do me the honor of reading my contribution towards the discussion, – that I am only speaking of very ordinary men and women taking to the stage as a means of earning their livelihood. The men first; it is not yet awhile place aux dames, when professions are concerned.

Whatever theatrical biography I have taken up, I can call to mind but very few instances of a man going on the stage with the full approbation of his relatives. Let his parents be small or large tradesmen, civil servants, clerks in the City, no matter what, they rarely took kindly to their son “going on the stage.” It was so: is it not so now? The bourgeois is as dead against his son becoming an actor as ever he was. Scratch the British bourgeois and you'll come upon the puritan.

Supposing a tradesman, free from narrow prejudices, and theatrically inclined, a regular theatre-goer in fact, – will he be one whit more favorable to his son's becoming an actor? No: rather the contrary. He will not indeed regard him as going straight to a place unmentionable, as probably he will not consider the religious bearings of the “vocation” at all, but he will not give the youth his blessing, and he may contemplate omitting his name from his will. Supposing this same son had told his father that he wanted to be a barrister, and in order to do so he should like, as a first step, to serve as a clerk in a solicitor's office, wouldn't the old tradesman be pleased? Certainly. He might, indeed, prove to the lad that if he would stick to the business he would be better off for a certainty, but, all the same, the youth's aspirations would give his parent considerable pleasure. And, to be brief, here is a case which will bring the question directly home to every one; given equality in every other respect, and which would be preferred as a son-in-law, the ordinary actor, or the briefless barrister?

The question of the social status of the stage is still more important as affecting ladies who have to earn their livelihood. At the present day there are more chances of suitable employment for educated, respectably-connected girls than there were fifty years ago. As yet, however, the demand exceeds the supply. Few occupations insure to successful ladies such good pay as stage-playing; but, as in the previous instances, “on the spear side,” so now we must consider the case of girls of ordinary intelligence, well brought up, not by any means geniuses, with no particular talent, and who have to earn their living. If they cannot paint plates and doileys, or copy pictures in oils, if they object to any clerkly drudgery that has something menial in it, and if, as has been affirmed, they “turn with a sigh of relief towards the vista of the stage,” let us see what this “vista” has to offer, and on what terms. And to do this we had better take a glance at “professional,” i. e., “theatrical” life.

What Tom Robertson, whose personal experience of every variety of theatrical life was considerable, in his thoroughly English (let us be grateful for this, at all events) play of Caste left to the imagination, in giving us Eccles as a widower, and bestowing an honest, hard-working lover on Polly (this was a mistake, except as a concession to respectability, for Polly was never meant to be a Mrs. Sam Gerridge, a small tradesman's wife, or, if she were, so much the worse for Sam), M. Halévy in his Monsieur et Madame Cardinal has put before his readers very plainly. The scenes in Georges Ohnet's Lise Flueron are not merely peculiar to the French stage; and only to those who want to know the seamy side of a strolling player's life would I recommend A Mummer's Wife, but not otherwise, as the realism of Mr. Moore's story is repulsive. Be it remembered, however, that the best chance for girls who seek an engagement at a London theatre, is to travel with a company “on tour,” and so learn experience by constant and frequently varying practice. “The Stage” is an art, and not a profession, and an art which, as a means of obtaining a bare livelihood, is open to everybody possessing ordinary natural faculties, offering employment without requiring from the applicants any special qualification or any certificate from schoolmaster, pastor, or master, and therefore it must be the resort of all who, unable or unwilling to do anything else, are content to earn their few shillings a week, and to be in the same category with Garrick, Macready, Phelps, and Kean; for the “super” who earns his money by strict attention to business, and who has night after night, for a lifetime, no more than a few lines to say, is briefly described in the census as “Actor,” as would be the leading tragedian or comedian of the day. He is a supernumerary, i. e., a supernumerary actor; and a supernumerary, abbreviated to “super,” attached to the theatre, he lives and dies. In civil and Government offices there are supernumeraries. They are supernumerary clerks, and none the less clerks on that account. If taken on to the regular staff they cease to be called supernumeraries, and if a super on the stage should exhibit decided histrionic talent, he, too, would cease to be a super and become an actor, that is, he would drop the qualification of “supernumerary.” So for the “extra ladies,” as they are politely termed, who are the female supers. As a rule, the extras are a good, hard-working people as you will find anywhere. They have “come down” to this, and in most cases consider their position as a descent in the social scale, no matter what they may have been before. A few may take the place for the sake of obtaining “an appearance,” with a view to something better; some as a means of honest livelihood, and to help the family in its “little house in Stangate;” and others, to whom a small salary is not so much an object as to obtain relief from the monotony of evenings at home, take to the stage in this, or any other capacity, as “extras” in burlesque, in pantomime, or as strengthening a chorus; and to these the theatre is a source of profitable amusement. These being some of the essential component parts of most theatrical companies, would any of us wish our daughters to “go on the stage?”

There can be but one answer to this: No; certainly we would rather they did not choose the stage as the means of earning a livelihood. But some objector will say, “Surely my daughter need not associate with such persons as you describe.” I answer No; she need not off the stage, but how is she to avoid it in the theatre? Your daughter, my dear sir, is not all at once a Mrs. Siddons; she is a beginner. Perhaps she never will be a Mrs. Siddons; perhaps she will never get beyond playing a soubrette, or, if she cannot deliver her lines well, and has not the fatal gift of beauty, she may, being there only to earn her livelihood, be compelled to remain among the extras. At all events, she cannot expect to consort in the theatre with the stars and with the leading ladies. The manageress may “know her at home,” and do everything she can for her; but she cannot be unjust to others, and your daughter must dress in the same room with the “extras,” just as Lord Tomnoddy, should he choose to take the Queen's shilling, must put up with the other privates in barracks. The officers may have “known him at home,” but that can't be helped now. Your daughter, my dear lady, goes on to the stage in preference to being a governess, to earn money to relieve her parents of a burden, and to replenish the family purse. Excellent motive! But can you, her mother, always be with her? Can you accompany her to rehearsals, and be with her every evening in the dressing-room of the theatre, where there are generally about a dozen others, more or less according to the accommodation provided by the theatre? If you make your companionship a sine quâ non, will it not prevent any manager from engaging your daughter? They cannot have the dressing-rooms full of mothers; they cannot spare the space, and mothers cannot be permitted to encumber green-rooms and the “wings.” You may have implicit confidence in your child and in her manager and manageress, but the latter have something else to do besides looking after your daughter. “Some theatres,” you will say, “are more respectable than others.” True; but your daughter having to earn her daily bread by her profession, cannot select her theatre. It is a hard saying, that beggars must not be choosers. Lucky for your daughter if she obtains employment in a small theatre where only comedy is played.[38 - The process of obtaining an engagement is the same for a lady as a gentleman, i. e. a visit to an agent's office, &c., &c. Here is an advertisement which evidently offers a rare chance: —“Wanted, ladies of attractive appearance, with good singing voices. Can be received for long pantomime season. Dresses found. Salaried engagement (an exceptionable opportunity for clever amateurs desirous of adopting the profession).”] But the chances are against her, and she will be compelled to take the first engagement that offers itself, which will probably be at some large theatre where there is employment for any number of extra ladies, and where the salaries are really very good, if your daughter is only showy enough to make herself an attraction. You ask “what sort of attraction?” Well, have you any objection to her appearing as a page in an extravaganza? Consider that anyone who plays Shakespeare's heroines, Viola or Rosalind, must wear much the same costume; but the other ladies who play pages, and some of whom will be her companions in the dressing-room, are they just the sort of girls you would like your daughter to be with every evening of her life? If your well-brought-up daughter does go there one of two things will happen, – she will be either so thoroughly disgusted at all she hears and sees that she will never go near the place after the first week, or she will unconsciously deteriorate in tone, until the fixed lines of the moral boundary have become blurred and faint. If among these surroundings a girl remain pure in heart, it is simply nothing short of a miracle of grace. Would you like to expose your daughter to this atmosphere? Of course not. How can I put the question? but I do put the question, after giving you the information of the facts of the case. Even in a first-class theatre, for a Shakespearian revival, there must be a large number of all sorts engaged, and with them, your daughter, as beginner, will have to consort, and she cannot have her mother always at her elbow. Besides her mother cannot neglect her other daughters, or her household duties, to attend to the youthful actress.

Now supposing a young lady at once obtains an engagement at a reputable theatre, and is cast for a good part. What then? Then the atmosphere of the theatre at its best is not a pleasant one. Your daughter will be astonished at the extraordinary variations of manner, from the abjectly servile to the free-and-easy, described in Mr. Namby's case as “Botany Bay gentility.” She will hear everybody “my dearing” one another. At first she will not understand half that is said, and very little that is meant. When they all warm to their work, the veneer of politeness is soon rubbed off, and actor and actress are seen as the real artistes they are. The stage manager comes out strongly too; strange words are used, and whether it be high art or not that is being illustrated, there is pretty sure to be a considerable amount of forcible language employed in the excitement of the moment. Your daughter's ideas of propriety will be rudely shocked at every turn. When she ceases to be even astonished, she will be unconsciously deteriorating.

There is one sort of girl to whom all this does no harm, and that is the girl who comes of a hard-working professional theatrical family, who has been decently brought up in the middle of it all from a child, whose father and mother are in the theatre, thoroughly respectable people, and as careful of their daughter s morals as though she were the niece of a bishop. Such a girl as this, if she remain on the stage, will be a tolerable actress, always sure of an engagement. She will marry a decent, respectable actor, of some one connected with theatricals, will bring up a family excellently, will be really religious without ostentation, will never lose her self-respect, and in her own way be perfectly domesticated, happy and contented. Or she may marry some one in a good social position: if so, she will quit the stage without regret, because she is not of the stuff of which great actresses are made; but she will look back on her theatrical experience with affection for her parents to whom she owed so much. She is neither Esther, nor Polly Eccles, nor is she in the position of the well-brought-up young lady we have been considering. But she is an admirable woman, in whatever station of life her lot may be cast, and not a bit of a snob.