Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was one of those models of perfection of which
a human father and mother can produce but a single example,--Mr.
Ferdinand Fitzroy was therefore an only son. He was such an amazing
favourite with both his parents that they resolved to ruin him;
accordingly, he was exceedingly spoiled, never annoyed by the sight of
a book, and had as much plum-cake as he could eat. Happy would it have
been for Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy could he always have eaten plum-cake, and
remained a child. "Never," says the Greek Tragedian, "reckon a mortal
happy till you have witnessed his end." A most beautiful creature was
Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy! Such eyes--such hair--such teeth--such a
figure--such manners, too,--and such an irresistible way of tying his
neckcloth! When he was about sixteen, a crabbed old uncle represented to
his parents the propriety of teaching Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy to read and
write. Though not without some difficulty, he convinced them,--for he
was exceedingly rich, and riches in an uncle are wonderful arguments
respecting the nurture of a nephew whose parents have nothing to leave
him. So our hero was sent to school. He was naturally (I am not joking
now) a very sharp, clever boy; and he came on surprisingly in his
learning. The schoolmaster's wife liked handsome children.--"What a
genius will Master Ferdinand Fitzroy be, if you take pains with him!"
said she, to her husband.
"Pooh, my dear, it is of no use to take pains with _him_."
"And why, love?"
"Because he is a great deal too handsome ever to be a scholar."
"And that's true enough, my dear!" said the schoolmaster's wife.
So, because he was too handsome to be a scholar, Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy
remained the lag of the fourth form!
They took our hero from school.--"What profession shall he follow?" said
his mother.
"My first cousin is the Lord Chancellor," said his father, "let him go
to the bar."
The Lord Chancellor dined there that day: Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was
introduced to him; his lordship was a little, rough-faced,
beetle-browed, hard-featured man, who thought beauty and idleness the
same thing--and a parchment skin the legitimate complexion for a lawyer.
"Send him to the bar!" said he, "no, no, that will never do!--Send him
into the army; he is much too handsome to become a lawyer."
"And that's true enough, my lord!" said the mother. So they bought Mr.
Ferdinand Fitzroy a cornetcy in the ---- regiment of dragoons.
Things are not learned by inspiration. Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy had never
ridden at school, except when he was hoisted; he was, therefore, a very
indifferent horseman; they sent him to the riding-school, and everybody
laughed at him.
"He is a d--d ass!" said Cornet Horsephiz, who was very ugly; "a horrid
puppy!" said Lieutenant St. Squintem, who was still uglier; "if he does
not ride better he will disgrace the regiment," said Captain Rivalhate,
who was very good-looking; "if he does not ride better, we will cut
him!" said Colonel Everdrill, who was a wonderful martinet; "I say, Mr.
Bumpemwell (to the riding-master,) make that youngster ride less like a
miller's sack."
"Pooh, sir, _he_ will never ride better."
"And why the d---l will he not?"
"Bless you, colonel, he is a great deal too handsome for a cavalry
officer!"
"True!" said Cornet Horsephiz.
"Very true," said Lieutenant St. Squintem.
"We must cut him!" said the Colonel.
And Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was accordingly cut.
Out hero was a youth of susceptibility--he quitted the ---- regiment,
and challenged the colonel. The colonel was killed!
"What a terrible blackguard is Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy!" said the
colonel's relations.
"Very true!" said the world.
The parents were in despair!--They were not rich; but our hero was an
only son, and they sponged hard upon the crabbed old uncle! "he is very
clever," said they both, "and may do yet."
So they borrowed some thousands from the uncle, and bought his beautiful
nephew a seat in parliament.
Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was ambitious, and desirous of retrieving his
character. He fagged like a dragon--conned pamphlets and reviews--got
Ricardo by heart--and made notes on the English constitution.
He rose to speak.
"What a handsome fellow!" whispered one member.
"Ah, a coxcomb!" said another.
"Never do for a speaker!" said a third, very audibly.
And the gentlemen on the opposite benches sneered and _heard!_--Impudence
is only indigenous in Milesia, and an orator is not made in a day.
Discouraged by his reception, Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy grew a little
embarrassed.
"Told you so!" said one of his neighbours.
"Fairly broke down!" said another.
"Too fond of his hair to have any thing in his head," said a third, who
was considered a wit.
"Hear, hear!" cried the gentlemen on the opposite benches,
Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy sat down--he had not shone; but, in justice, he
had not failed. Many a first-rate speaker had began worse; and many a
country member had been declared a phoenix of promise upon half his
merit.
Not so, thought the heroes of corn-laws.
"Your Adonises never make orators!" said a crack speaker with a wry
nose.
"Nor men of business either," added the chairman of a committee, with a
face like a kangaroo's.
"Poor devil!" said the civilest of the set. "He's a deuced deal too
handsome for a speaker! By Jove, he is going to speak again--this will
never do; we must cough him down!"
And Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was accordingly coughed down.
Our hero was now seven or eight and twenty, handsomer than ever, and the
adoration of the young ladies at Almack's.
"We have nothing to leave you," said the parents, who had long spent
their fortune, and now lived on the credit of having once enjoyed
it.--"You are the handsomest man in London; you must marry an heiress."
"I will," said Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy.
Miss Helen Convolvulus was a charming young lady, with a hare-lip and
six thousand a-year. To Miss Helen Convolvulus then our hero paid his
addresses.
Heavens! what an uproar her relations made about the matter. "Easy to
see his intentions," said one: "a handsome fortune-hunter, who wants to
make the best of his person!"--"handsome is that handsome does," says
another; "he was turned out of the army, and murdered his
colonel;"--"never marry a beauty," said a third;--"he can admire none
but himself;"--"will have so many mistresses," said a fourth;--"make you
perpetually jealous," said a fifth;--"spend your fortune," said a
sixth;--"and break your heart," said a seventh.
Miss Helen Convolvulus was prudent and wary. She saw a great deal of
justice in what was said; and was sufficiently contented with liberty
and six thousand a-year, not to be highly impatient for a husband; but
our heroine had no aversion to a lover; especially to so handsome a
lover as Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy. Accordingly she neither accepted nor
discarded him; but kept him on hope, and suffered him to get into debt
with his tailor, and his coach-maker. On the strength of becoming Mr.
Fitzroy Convolvulus. Time went on, and excuses and delays were easily
found; however, our hero was sanguine, and so were his parents. A
breakfast at Chiswick, and a putrid fever carried off the latter, within
one week of each other; but not till they had blessed Mr. Ferdinand
Fitzroy, and rejoiced that they had left him so well provided for.
Now, then, our hero depended solely upon the crabbed old uncle and Miss
Helen Convolvulus; the former, though a baronet and a satirist was a
banker and a man of business:--he looked very distastefully at the
Hyperian curls and white teeth of Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy.
"If I make you my heir," said he--"I expect you will continue the bank."
"Certainly, sir!" said the nephew.
"Humph!" grunted the uncle, "a pretty fellow for a banker!"
Debtors grew pressing to Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy, and Mr. Ferdinand
Fitzroy grew pressing to Miss Helen Convolvulus. "It is a dangerous
thing," said she, timidly, "to marry a man so admired,--will you always
be faithful?"
"By heaven!" cried the lover.
"Heigho!" sighed Miss Helen Convolvulus, and Lord Rufus Pumilion
entering, the conversation was changed.
But the day of the marriage was fixed; and Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy bought
a new curricle. By Apollo, how handsome he looked in it! A month before
the wedding day the uncle died. Miss Helen Convolvulus was quite tender
in her condolences--"Cheer up, my Ferdinand," said she, "for your sake,
I have discarded Lord Rufus Pumilion!" "Adorable condescension!" cried
our hero;--"but Lord Rufus Pumilion is only four feet two, and has hair
like a peony."
"All men are not so handsome as Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy!" was the reply.
Away goes our hero, to be present at the opening of his uncle's will.
"I leave," said the testator (who I have before said was a bit of a
satirist,) "my share of the bank, and the whole or my fortune, legacies
excepted, to"--(here Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy wiped his beautiful eyes with
a cambric handkerchief, exquisitely _brode_) "my natural son, John
Spriggs, an industrious, pains-taking youth, who will do credit to the
bank. I did once intend to have made my nephew Ferdinand my heir; but so
curling a head can have no talent for accounts. I want my successor to
be a man of business, not beauty; and Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy is a great
deal too handsome for a banker; his good looks will, no doubt, win him
any heiress in town. Meanwhile, I leave him, to buy a dressing-case, a
thousand pounds."
"A thousand devils!" said Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy, banging out of the
room. He flew to his mistress. She was not at home. "Lies," says the
Italian proverb, "have short legs;" but truths, if they are unpleasant,
have terrible long ones! The next day Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy received a
most obliging note of dismissal.
"I wish you every happiness," said Miss Helen Convolvulus, in
conclusion--"but my friends are right; you are much too handsome for a
husband!"
And the week after, Miss Helen Convolvulus became Lady Rufus Pumilion.
"Alas! sir," said the bailiff, as a day or two after the dissolution of
parliament, he was jogging along with Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy, in a
hackney coach bound to the King's Bench,--"Alas! sir, what a pity it is
to take so handsome a gentleman to prison!"
The MS. found in a Madhouse, by the same author, is perhaps too horrific
for this terror-loving age; but it is by no means less clever on that
account; _toute en huile_ would not do. Among the other tales are the
Rock of the Candle, Irish, by the author of Holland-Tide,--nearly forty
pages; and the Queen of May and Bridget Plantagenet,--of the olden
time--which would be spoiled by abridgment for our present purpose. The
same reason prevents our giving more than our commendation of Miss
Mitford's General and his Lady, who, we think are new company for our
fair authoress.
In the Vision of Purgatory, by Dr. Maginn, (Irish, of course,) the
serious and ludicrous are mixed up with an abundance of skill and
humour; this piece should be read after the Madhouse sketch.
The Souvenir is opportunely dedicated to Mr. Peel; and whether as a work
of art, or elegant literature, it is decidedly worthy of such
distinguished notice. If the argument of the fine arts contributing to
virtue hold good, then the patronage of a minister will be patriotically
bestowed on such works as the Literary Souvenir.
* * * * *
The Amulet.
_Edited by S. C. Hall, Esq._
It would be difficult and somewhat egotistical for us to describe the
pleasure we felt on our receiving this interesting volume for notice in
our pages. The amiable spirit which breathes throughout its pages, and
the good taste which uniformly dictates its editorship have secured the
_Amulet_ an extensive, and we are disposed to think, a more permanent,
popularity than is attached to other works of similar form.[1]
[Footnote 1] In a few words, the _Amulet_ reached us in an early stage of
convalescence, when we began to feel that "no medicine is better for the
weakness of the body than that which soothes and tranquillizes the
soul." We are not suiting the action to the word; on the contrary, we
would desire to wear such truths as the _Amulet_ enjoins--in our "heart
of hearts," as well in returning health and vigour as in the above
moments.
The present volume contains Fourteen Plates, among which are _Murillo's
Spanish Flower Girl; Etty's Guardian Angels_, by Finden; a copy of Sir
Thomas Lawrence's portrait of _Lady Georgiana Fane_, from Colnaghi's
print; Eastlake's _Italian Mother;_ one of Collins's last pictures, _The
Fisherman Leaving Home; The Temple of Victory_, from Gandy,--all which
are first-rate works of art.
There are eighty contributions, as the bookmakers say, "in prose and
verse," with a predominance of the former. The first of the _prose_ is a
Strange Story of every day, by William Kennedy--well told, but too long
for extract. The Mountain Daisy, a village sketch, by the Editor's lady,
is gracefully written; and with the Fisherman, by the Editor, is a fair
characteristic of the amiable spirit to which we have already alluded;
and in the same tone of good feeling is the Rose of Fennock Dale, a true
story by the fair authoress of the Mountain Daisy; and the Wandering
Minstrels, by the Rev. F.A. Cox, L.L.D. Miss Mitford has contributed one
of her inimitable sketches, Little Moses; but the most staple articles
in the volume are The Battle of Bunaania, one of the Georgian Islands,
by Mr. Ellis, the missionary; Notices of the Canadian Indians, by Dr.
Walsh; a Journey over the Brocken, by Mr. Coleridge; and a Fragment, by
Miss Jane Porter. Our prose selection is from the last of these
articles; but we intend transferring a portion of Dr. Walsh's "Notices"
to our next "Manners and Customs."
* * * * *