_For the Table Book._
In my humble opinion an arm-chair is far superior to a sofa; for
although I bow to Cowper’s judgment, (who assigned the superiority to
the sofa,) yet we must recollect that it was in compliance with the
request of a fair lady that he chose that subject for praise: he might
have eulogized in equal terms an arm-chair, had he consulted his own
feelings and appreciation of comfort. I acknowledge the “soft recumbency
of outstretched limbs,” so peculiar to the sofa--the opportunity
afforded the fair sex of displaying grace and elegance of form, while
reposing in easy negligence on a Grecian couch--but then think of the
snug comfort of an easy-chair. Its very name conveys a multitude of
soothing ideas: its commodious repose for your back; its generous and
unwearied support of your head; its outstretched arms wooing you to its
embraces:--think on these things, and ask yourself if it be possible to
withstand its affectionate and disinterested advances.
On entering a room where there is an easy-chair, you are struck by the
look of conscious self-importance which seems to distinguish it as the
monarch of all the surrounding chairs; there is an appearance of regal
superiority about it, blended, however, with such a charming
condescension, that you immediately avail yourself of its gracious
inclination to receive the _burden_ of your homage.
There is one kind of arm-chair for which I entertain a very resentful
feeling, it _assumes_ the title of an _easy_-chair to induce you to
believe it one of that amiable fraternity, whereas it only claims
kindred on account of its shape, and is in reality the complete
antipodes of ease--I mean the horse-hair arm-chair. Its arms, like those
of its brethren, invite you to repose; but, if you attempt it, you are
repulsed by an ambush of sharp shooting prickles. It is like a person
who has a desire to please and obtain you for his friend, but who is of
so incorrigibly bad a temper that attachment is impossible. If you try
to compose yourself with one of these pretenders, by endeavouring to
protect the back of your head with your pocket-handkerchief for a
pillow, you either dream that you are under the hands of a surgeon who
is cupping you on the cheek, or that you are transformed into your
cousin Lucy, and struggling to avoid being kissed by old Mr. D----, who
does not shave above once a week. When you awake, you discover that your
face has slipped off the handkerchief, and come immediately in contact
with the _chevaux de frise_ of bristles.
As an excellent specimen of an easy-chair, I select the one I at present
occupy. Its ancient magnificence of red damask silk--embossed in wavy
flowers and curved arabesques, surrounded by massive gilt carving--is
now shrouded with an unostentatious covering of white dimity. This,
however, does not compromise its dignity--it is rather a resignation of
fatiguing splendour, and the assumption of the ease suitable to
retirement in old age. Perhaps a happy father once sat in it surrounded
by his smiling offspring: some climbing up the arms; others peeping over
the lofty back, aiming to cling round his neck; his favourite little
girl insinuating herself behind him, while he gazes with affectionate
but anxious thoughts on the countenance of his eldest son, standing
between his knees. Perhaps two lovers once sat in it _together_,
although there were plenty of other chairs in the room. (For fear some
of my fair readers should be incredulous, I beg leave to assure them
that it is quite possible for two people to sit together in an
arm-chair, if they choose to be accommodating; therefore I would not
have them dislike an easy-chair on the plea of its being _unsocial_.)
Perhaps it may have been the means of concealment--in a similar way with
the arm-chair in “Le Nozze di Figaro.” Often have I when a child curled
myself round in it, and listened to my old nurse’s wonderful stories,
till I have fallen fast asleep. Often have I since enjoyed many a
delightful book, while lolling indolently enclosed in its soft, warm,
cushioned sides--