[We quoted _Contarini Fleming_ in our last volume, but were silent on its
character. It is purely metaphysical, and metaphysics, at this season, may
be "like pork in the dog-days;" but there are certain portions which
strike out ideas so forcibly, and illustrate the _communia_ of life with
such vigour, as to tempt any lounging reader. Contarini is stated to be Mr.
D'Israeli, the younger--Vivian Grey and the Young Duke,--with much more of
the crust and wing of age and experience than was found in either of the
fashionable novels. The real charm of Contarini is in its abstractedness,
and consists in being pleased and puzzled at the same moment. The
embellishment which the playful genius of the writer has gracefully, not
tawdrily, thrown over his pages will attract, but the main purpose and
merit of the work lies in its undercurrents, or, rather it would consist
in this feature if the judgment of the writer were still more matured.
Perhaps Mr. D'Israeli, who began the world of letters as a writer of
fashionable novels, may leave us a work on metaphysics.
In the opening chapter of Contarini Fleming, Mr. D'Israeli explains his
object as follows:--]
I am desirous of writing a book which shall be all truth, a work of which
the passion, the thought, the action, and even the style, should spring
from my own experience of feeling, from the meditations of my own
intellect, from my own observation of incident, from my own study of the
genius of expression.
[We can only admit a passage which appears to us to contain much
world-knowledge and wholesome experience--what half the coroneted heads in
Europe lack most lamentably. It is the advice tendered to Contarini by his
father, previous to the youth of promise repairing to the University:]
I wish you to mix as much as is convenient with society. I apprehend that
you have, perhaps, hitherto indulged a little too much in lonely habits.
Young men are apt to get a little abstracted, and occasionally to think
that there is something singular in their nature, when the fact is, if
they were better acquainted with their fellow creatures, they would find
they were mistaken. This is a common error, indeed the commonest. I am not
at all surprised that you have fallen into it. All have. The most
practical business-like men that exist have many of them, when children,
conceived themselves totally disqualified to struggle in the world. You
may rest assured of this. I could mention many remarkable instances. All
persons, when young, are fond of solitude, and, when they are beginning to
think, are sometimes surprised at their own thoughts. There is nothing to
be deplored, scarcely to be feared, in this. It almost always wears off;
but sometimes it happens, that they have not judicious friends by them to
explain, that the habits which they think peculiar are universal, and, if
unreasonably indulged, can ultimately only turn them into indolent,
insignificant members of society, and occasion them lasting unhappiness.
But to enter society with pleasure, you must be qualified for it. I think
it quite time for you to make yourself master of some accomplishments.
Decidedly you should make yourself a good dancer. Without dancing, you can
never attain a perfectly graceful carriage, which is of the highest
importance in life, and should be every man's ambition. You are yet too
young fully to comprehend, how much in life depends upon manner. Whenever
you see a man, who is successful in society, try to discover what makes
him pleasing, and, if possible, adopt his system. You should learn to
fence. For languages, at present, French will be sufficient. You speak it
fairly: try to speak it elegantly. Read French authors. Read
Rouchefoucault. The French writers are the finest in the world, for they
clear our heads of ridiculous ideas. Study precision.
Do not talk too much at present, do not _try_ to talk. But whenever you
speak, speak with self-possession. Speak in a subdued tone, and always
look at the person whom you are addressing. Before one can engage in
general conversation with any effect, there is a certain acquaintance with
trifling, but amusing subjects, which must be first attained. You will
soon pick up sufficient by listening and observing. Never argue. In
society, nothing must be discussed: give only results. If any person
differ with you--bow and turn the conversation. In society, never
think--always be on the watch, or you will miss many opportunities, and
say many disagreeable things.
Talk to women, talk to women as much as you can. This is the best school.
This is the way to gain fluency--because you need not care what you say,
and had better not be sensible. They too will rally you on many points,
and, as they are women, you will not be offended. Nothing is of so much
importance, and of so much use, to a young man entering life, as to be
well criticised by women. It is impossible to get rid of those thousand
bad habits, which we pick up in boyhood, without this supervision.
Unfortunately, you have no sisters. But never be offended if a woman rally
you. Encourage her. Otherwise, you will never be free from your
awkwardness, or any little oddities, and certainly never learn to dress.
You ride pretty well, but you had better go through the manège. Every
gentleman should be a perfect cavalier.
As you are to be at home for so short a time, and for other reasons, I
think it better that you should not have a tutor in the house. Parcel out
your morning, then, for your separate masters. Rise early and regularly,
and read for three hours. Read the Memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz--the
Life of Richelieu--everything about Napoleon,--read works of that kind.
Read no history: nothing but biography, for that is life without theory.
Then fence. Talk an hour with your French master, but do not throw the
burden of the conversation upon him. Give him an account of something.
Describe to him the events of yesterday, or give him a detailed account of
the constitution. You will have then sufficiently rested yourself for your
dancing. And after that ride and amuse yourself as much as you can.
Amusement to an observing mind is study.
I pursued the system which my father had pointed out, with exactness, and
soon with pleasure. I sacredly observed my hours of reading, and devoted
myself to the study of the lives of what my father considered really great
men--that is to say, men of great energies, and violent volition, who look
upon their fellow creatures as mere tools, with which they can build up a
pedestal for their solitary statue, and who sacrifice every feeling which
should sway humanity, and every high work which genius should really
achieve, to the short-sighted gratification of an irrational and
outrageous selfism. As for my manners, I flattered myself that they
advanced in measure with my mind, although I already emulated Napoleon. I
soon overcame the fear which attended my first experiments in society, and
by scrupulously observing the paternal maxims, I soon became very
self-satisfied. I listened to men with a delightful mixture of defference
and self-confidence: were they old, and did I differ with them, I
contented myself by positively stating my opinion in a most subdued voice,
and then either turning the subject, or turning upon my heel. But as for
women, it is astonishing how well I got on. The nervous rapidity of my
first rattle soon subsided into a continuous flow of easy nonsense.
Impertinent and flippant, I was universally hailed an original and a wit.
But the most remarkable incident was, that the baroness and myself became
the greatest friends. I was her constant attendant, and rehearsed to her
flattered ear all my evening performance. She was the person with whom I
practised, and as she had a taste in dress, I encouraged her opinions.
Unconscious that she was at once my lay figure and my mirror, she loaded
me with presents, and announced to all her coterie, that I was the most
delightful young man of her acquaintance.
From all this it may easily be suspected, that at the age of fifteen I had
unexpectedly become one of the most affected, conceited, and intolerable
atoms that ever peopled the sunbeam of society.
* * * * *
[This gem is from a volume of Songs and other small Poems, by Barry
Cornwall. It is one of the prettiest poetical _bijoux_ of the season, and
shall receive more attention in our next.]