It must be owned that five years form an awful lapse in human life:--a
lapse whose hours and minutes leave no where a trace more sharp and
injurious than on the minds and countenances of individuals involved
in the buzzing, stinging gnatswarms of fashionable life. Elsewhere,
existence marches with a more dignified step, and the scenes pictured
among the records of our memory assume a grander aspect; they lie in
masses,--their shadows are broader,--their lights more brilliantly
thrown out. But reminiscences of a life of ton are as vexatious as
they are frivolous. The season of 1829 differs from that of 1830,
only inasmuch as its quadrilles are varied with galoppes as well
as waltzes, and danced at Lady A.'s and Lady B.'s,--instead of the
Duchess of D.'s, and Countess E.'s. The Duchess is dead,--the Countess
ruined;--but no matter!--there are still plenty of balls to be had.
"Another and another still succeeds!" Since young ladies _will_ grow
up to be presented, lady-mothers and aunts _must_ continue to project
breakfasts, water parties, and galas, whereby to throw them in the way
of flirtation, courtship, and marriage. Mischief, in her most smiling
mask, sits like the beautiful witch in Thalaba at an everlasting
spinning-wheel, weaving a mingled yarn of sin and sorrow for the
daughters of Fashion. Although the cauldron of Hecate and her
priestesses has vanished from the heath at Forres, it bubbles in
nightly incantations among the elm-trees of Grosvenor Square; and
Hopper and Hellway, Puckle and Straddling, now croak forth their
chorus of rejoicing where golden lamps swing blazing over the écarté
tables, and the soft strains of the Mazurka enervate the atmosphere of
the gorgeous temples of May Fair. Never yet was there a woman _really_
improved in attraction by mingling with the motley throng of the _beau
monde_. She may learn to dress better, to step more gracefully; her
head may assume a more elegant turn, her conversation become more
polished, her air more distinguished;--but in point of _attraction_
she acquires nothing. Her simplicity of mind departs;--her generous,
confiding impulses of character are lost;--she is no longer inclined
to interpret favourably of men and things,--she listens without
believing,--sees without admiring; has suffered persecution without
learning mercy;--and been taught to mistrust the candour of others
by the forfeiture of her own. The freshness of her disposition
has vanished with the freshness of her complexion; hard lines are
perceptible in her very soul, and crowsfeet contract her very fancy.
No longer pure and fair as the statue of alabaster, her beauty, like
that of some painted waxen effigy, is tawdry and meretricious. It is
not alone the rouge upon the cheek and the false tresses adorning
the forehead, which repel the ardour of admiration; it is the
artificiality of mind with which such efforts are connected that
breaks the spell of beauty.
_From the Fair of May Fair._
* * * * *