Ballantyne Press
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
ESSAYS
BY
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
COLLECTED AND ARRANGED BY
SIR GEORGE YOUNG, BART., Μ.A.
_WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HENRY MORLEY_
LL.D., PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE AT
UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
GLASGOW AND NEW YORK
1887
MORLEY’S UNIVERSAL LIBRARY.
1. _Sheridan’s Plays._
2. _Plays from Molière._ By English Dramatists.
3. _Marlow’s Faustus_ and _Goethe’s Faust_.
4. _Chronicle of the Cid._
5. _Rabelais’ Gargantua_ and the _Heroic Deeds of Pantagruel_.
6. _Machiavelli’s Prince._
7. _Bacon’s Essays._
8. _Defoe’s Journal of the Plague Year._
9. _Locke on Civil Government_ and _Filmer’s “Patriarcha.”_
10. _Butler’s Analogy of Religion._
11. _Dryden’s Virgil._
12. _Scott’s Demonology and Witchcraft._
13. _Herrick’s Hesperides._
14. _Coleridge’s Table-Talk._
15. _Boccaccio’s Decameron._
16. _Sterne’s Tristram Shandy._
17. _Chapman’s Homer’s Iliad._
18. _Mediæval Tales._
19. _Voltaire’s Candide_, and _Johnson’s Rasselas_.
20. _Jonson’s Plays and Poems._
21. _Hobbes’s Leviathan._
22. _Samuel Butler’s Hudibras._
23. _Ideal Commonwealths._
24. _Cavendish’s Life of Wolsey._
25 & 26. _Don Quixote._
27. _Burlesque Plays and Poems._
28. _Dante’s Divine Comedy._ LONGFELLOW’S Translation.
29. _Goldsmith’s Vicar of Wakefield, Plays, and Poems._
30. _Fables and Proverbs from the Sanskrit._ (_Hitopadesa._)
31. _Lamb’s Essays of Elia._
32. _The History of Thomas Εllwood._
33. _Emerson’s Essays, &c._
34. _Southey’s Life of Nelson._
35. _De Quincey’s Confessions of an Opium Eater, &c._
36. _Stories of Ireland._ By Miss EDGEWORTH.
37. _Frere’s Aristophanes: Acharnians, Knights, Birds._
38. _Burke’s Speeches and Letters._
39. _Thomas à Kempis._
40. _Popular Songs of Ireland._
41. _Potter’s Æschylus._
42. _Goethe’s Faust: Part II._ ANSTER’S Translation.
43. _Famous Pamphlets._
44. _Francklin’s Sophocles._
45. _M. G. Lewis’s Tales of Terror and Wonder._
46. _Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation._
47. _Drayton’s Barons’ Wars, Nymphidia, &c._
48. _Cobbett’s Advice to Young Men._
49. _The Banquet of Dante._
50. _Walker’s Original._
51. _Schiller’s Poems and Ballads._
52. _Peele’s Plays and Poems._
53. _Harrington’s Oceana._
54. _Euripides: Alcestis and other Plays._
55. _Praed’s Essays._
“Marvels of clear type and general neatness.”--_Daily Telegraph._
INTRODUCTION.
The readers of our Library are greatly indebted to Sir George Young for
his kindness in presenting them with this first collected edition of the
prose writings of his uncle, Winthrop Mackworth Praed. He little knows
the charm of the bright regions of Literature who cannot yield himself
to full enjoyment of their infinite variety. As we pass from book to
book, it is a long leap from Euripides to the brilliant young Etonian
who brought all the grace of happy youth into such work as we have here.
Happy the old who can grow young again with this book in their hands. If
we all came into the world mature, and there were no childhood and youth
about us, what a dull world it would be! Any book is a prize that brings
the fresh and cheerful voice of youth into the region of true
Literature. Of Praed’s work in this way none can speak better than Sir
George Young in his Preface.
Of his life, these are a few dry facts. He was born in 1802, lost his
mother early, and went to Eton at the age of twelve. He was still at
Eton when, at the age of eighteen, in 1820, he and his friend Walter
Blount edited the _Etonian_, which began its course in October 1820 and
ended in July 1821. In the following October Praed went to Trinity
College, Cambridge, where he obtained a Fellowship. He obtained medals
for Greek odes and epigrams, a medal for English verse, and he was still
full of the old grace of playfulness. He was called to the Bar in 1829.
An elder sister died in 1830, and his love for her is shown in tender
touches of his later verse. The _vers de société_ which he wrote, and
which no man wrote better than Praed, retain their charm because their
playfulness is on the surface of a manly earnest nature, from the depth
of which a tone now and then rises that comes straight into our hearts.
Praed was in Parliament from November 1830 until after the passing of
the Reform Bill, and again in 1834, when he was Secretary to the Board
of Control under Sir Robert Peel. His father died in 1835; in the same
year Praed married; and in July 1839 he died, aged thirty-seven.
Η. Μ.
_October 1887._
PREFACE.
The prose pieces of Winthrop Mackworth Praed have never before been
presented in a collected form. They are worthy of preservation, in a
degree hardly less than his verse; though by the latter he has hitherto
been best known, and will probably be longest remembered. At the time
when the high quality of his literary work obtained for the _Etonian_
the honour, unprecedented in the case of a school magazine, of a
complimentary notice in the _Quarterly Review_, it was to the merit of
his prose, as much as to that of his poetry, that attention was called
by the reviewer. It is not, however, as the phenomenally precocious work
of a schoolboy that these papers have been thought worthy of
reproduction in the UNIVERSAL LIBRARY. The circumstance that they were,
most of them, written at Eton, is only to be accounted of as adding to
their interest, by giving the reader a point of view from which to
sympathize with the writer’s humour. It would, however, be a mistake to
consider the senior Etonian of 1820 as corresponding to any reasonable
description of what is generally denoted by the word “schoolboy.” At
the age of eighteen or nineteen, when his grandfathers had already taken
their first degrees, subjected to a discipline as light as that of a
modern University, more free to study in the way the spirit moved him,
or not to study at all, than the undergraduate of a “good” college now,
the pupil of Goodall, Keate, or Plumptre was of a maturer sort than is
now to be found among the denizens of Sixth Forms. He came between two
ages in the history of our Public Schools, in neither of which could
such literary work as here follows have been produced by a “schoolboy.”
There preceded him the age in which a youth went early to the
University, and early into life. There has followed the day in which
“boys” at school, when no longer boys, but men in years, are held fast
by discipline to boyish studies, or at any rate to boyish amusements.
The circumstance that a few individuals, of great and early matured
literary gifts, were assembled together under these conditions at a
single school, on two several occasions, in two successive generations,
at an interval of about thirty years, operated to enrich English
Literature with two graceful and unique volumes. Of the _Microcosm_, the
best pieces are due to Canning and Frere; in the _Etonian_, the share of
Praed surpasses and eclipses that of his contemporaries. From his
University friends, indeed, he derived powerful help; there are a few
lines of poetry, by William Sidney Walker, better than any of his own;
and there are a few pages of prose, by Henry Nelson Coleridge, which are
also better; but for sustained excellence, and for an energy and variety
in production, truly extraordinary under the circumstances, Praed, and
Praed only, is the hero of the _Etonian_; the over-praised and
ambitiously constructed efforts of his friend Moultrie not excepted.
After Praed left Eton, his bent led him to verse, rather than to prose,
as his appropriate vehicle of expression; and it was only occasionally
that he sent a prose contribution, either to _Knight’s Quarterly
Magazine_, or to the _London Magazine_, or to the ephemeral pages of the
_Brazen Head_. Two speeches of his in Parliament were “reprinted by
request;” but they seem to have owed this distinction rather to the
special interest, at the time, of their subject-matter, than to any
exceptional finish in their literary form. They were speeches in
Committee on the Reform Bills of 1831 and 1832, the one on moving as an
amendment what was afterwards known as the “three-cornered constituency”
arrangement; the other on moving, similarly, that freeholds within the
limits of boroughs should confer votes for the borough and not for the
county. His partly versified squib, “The Union Club,” in which he
parodied the style and matter of the principal speakers among Cambridge
undergraduates in 1822, has been included in this collection, for the
sake especially of the comical imitations of Lord Macaulay and Lord
Lytton. It was written, as Macaulay himself informed me, “for Cookesley
to recite at supper-parties.” The late Rev. William Gifford Cookesley,
long an assistant master at Eton, who acted as Lord Beaconsfield’s
cicerone when he came down to the spot to make studies for “Coningsby,”
is gratefully remembered by many of his scholars for his genuine, if
somewhat irregular, love of literature, and for his hearty sympathy with
boyish good-fellowship. He was a contemporary of Praed’s both at Eton
and Cambridge, and long preserved, in maturer years, his admirable
faculty of mimicry.
Among the characteristics of these pieces will be found an almost
unfailing good taste; a polished style, exhibiting a sparkle, as of
finely constructed verse; a strong love of sheer fun, not ungracefully
indulged; a dash of affectation, inoffensive, and such as is natural in
a new-comer, upon whom the eyes of his circle have, by no fault of his,
been drawn; a healthy, breezy spirit, redolent of the playing-fields;
and a hearty appreciation of the pleasures arising from a first fresh
plunge into the waters of literature. Powers of observation are shown of
no mean order, and powers, also, of putting in a strong light, whether
attractive or ridiculous, the more obvious features of everyday
characters. These powers afterwards ripened into a truly admirable skill
of political and social verse-writing; and they showed signs of
deepening into a more forcible satiric power, tempered with humour, as
his too short career drew towards its end.
Praed is moreover especially to be commended in that he is never dull.
Although free from “sensationalism,” he is not forgetful that the first
business of a writer is--to be read. There are gentle lessons of good
manners, of unselfishness, and of chivalry, to be read in his pages;
they are not loudly trumpeted, but there they are; there is also a
sincere respect for great minds and for good work in literature,
enlivened, not neutralized, by unfailing high spirits. One could
dispense, certainly, with some of his antithesis; perhaps with all his
punning; but life is not so short, or so lively in itself, as to leave
us no time to be amused, and no ground for gratitude to the writers who
amuse us.
The only omissions from this collection are, besides the speeches above
mentioned, the prefaces contributed, in the taste of the day, to the
several numbers of the _Etonian_, under the title “The King of Clubs,”
and to _Knight’s Quarterly Magazine_, under the title “Castle Vernon.”
These are lively in their way, but unequal, and full of allusions which
would require notes to make them intelligible. Occasionally, too, they
are padded out with contributory matter by other hands. One rather
ambitious failure, to be found in the _Etonian_, “On Silent Sorrow,” has
also been omitted, and will not be missed.
It should be added, that the leading articles of the _Morning Post_
newspaper, from August 1832 to some time in the autumn of 1834, were for
the most part of Praed’s writing. Many of them are exceedingly well
written; but their contents are, of necessity, too ephemeral for
reproduction in these pages.
GEORGE YOUNG.
_October 1887._
PRAED’S ESSAYS.
RHYME AND REASON.
“Non eadem est ætas, non mens.”--HORACE.
He whose life has not been one continued monotony; he who has been
susceptible of different passions, opposite in their origins and
effects, needs not to be told that the same objects, the same scenes,
the same incidents, strike us in a variety of lights, according to the
temper and inclination with which we survey them. To borrow an
illustration from external scenes,--if we are situated in the centre of
a shady valley, our view is confined and our prospect bounded; but if we
ascend the topmost heights of the mountain by which that valley is
overshadowed, the eye wanders luxuriantly over a perpetual succession of
beautiful objects, until the mental faculties appear to catch new
freedom from the extension of the sight; we breathe a purer air, and are
inspired with purer emotions.
Thus it is with men who differ from each other in their tastes, their
studies, or their professions. They look on the same external objects
with a different internal perception, and the view which they take of
surrounding scenes is beautified or distorted, according to their
predominant pursuit or their prevailing inclination.
We were led into this train of ideas by a visit which we lately paid to
an old friend, who, from a strong taste for agricultural pursuits, has
abandoned the splendour and absurdity of a town life, and devoted to the
cultivation of a large farming establishment, in a picturesque part of
England, all the advantages of a strong judgment and a good education.
His brother, on the contrary, who was a resident at the farm during our
visit, has less of sound understanding than of ardent genius, and is
more remarkable for the warmth of his heart than the soundness of his
head. In short, to describe them in a word, Jonathan sees with the eye
of a merchant, and Charles with that of an enthusiast; Jonathan is a man
of business, and Charles is a poet. The contrast between their tempers
is frequently the theme of conversation at the social meetings of the
neighbourhood; and it is always found that the old and the grave shake
their heads at the almost boyish enthusiasm of Charles, while the young
and the imprudent indulge in severe sarcasms at the mercenary and
uninspired moderation of his brother. All parties, however, concur in
admiring the uninterrupted cordiality which subsists between them, and
in laughing good-humouredly at the various whims and foibles of these
opposite characters, who are known throughout the country by the titles
of Rhyme and Reason.
We arrived at the farm as Jonathan was sitting down to his substantial
breakfast. We were delighted to see our old friend, now in the decline
of life, answering so exactly the description of Cowper--
An honest man close-buttoned to the chin,
Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within.
We felt an inward satisfaction in contemplating his frieze coat, whose
_début_ we remember to have witnessed five years ago, and in speculating
upon the snows which five additional winters had left upon his head
since our last interview. It was some time before we recovered
sufficiently from our reverie to inquire after the well-being of our
younger companion, who had not yet made his appearance at the board.
“Oh!” said Jonathan, “Charles is in his heyday years; we must indulge
him for the present; we can’t expect such regularity from
five-and-twenty as from six-and-fifty.” He had hardly done speaking when
a loud halloo sounded as an avant-courier of Charles’s approach, and in
less than a minute he presented himself before us. “Ten thousand
pardons!” he cried. “One’s enough,” said his brother. “I’ve seen the
finest sunrise,” said Charles. “You’re wet through,” said Jonathan. “I’m
all over rapture,” said Rhyme. “You’re all over dirt,” said Reason.
With some difficulty Charles was persuaded to retire for the
re-adjustment of his dress, while the old man continued his meal with a
composure which proved he was not unused to the morning excursions of
his volatile yoke-fellow. By the time he had got through his beefsteak,
and three columns of the _Courier_, Charles re-entered, and despatched
the business of eating with a rapidity in which many a modern
half-starved rhymer would be glad to emulate him. A walk was immediately
proposed; but the one had scarcely reached an umbrella, and the other
prepared his manuscript book, when a slight shower of rain prevented our
design. “Provoking,” said Rhyme. “Good for the crop,” said Reason.
The shower, however, soon ceased, and a fine clear sun encouraged us to
resume our intentions, without fear of a second disappointment. As we
walked over the estate, we were struck with the improvements made by our
friend, both as regarded the comfort and the value of the property;
while now and then we could not suppress a smile on observing the rustic
arbour which Charles had designed, or the verses which he had inscribed
on our favourite old oak.
It was determined that we should ascend a neighbouring hill, which was
dear to us from its having been the principal scene of our boyhood’s
amusements. “We must make haste,” said Charles, “or we shall miss the
view.” “We must make haste,” said Jonathan, “or we shall catch cold on
our return.” Their actions seemed always to amalgamate, though their
motives were always different. We observed a tenant of our friend
ploughing a small field, and stopped a short time to regard the
contented appearance of the man, and the cheerful whistle with which he
called to his cattle. “Beatus ille qui procul negotiis,” said the poet.
“A poor team, though,” said his brother.
Our attention was next excited by a level meadow, whose green hue, set
off by the mixture of the white fleeces of a beautiful flock of sheep,
was, to the observer of Nature, a more enviable sight than the most
studied landscape of Gainsborough’s pencil. “Lovely colours!” ejaculated
Charles. “Fine mutton,” observed Jonathan. “Delightful scene for a
rustic hop!” cried the enthusiast. “I am thinking of planting hops,”
said the farmer.
We reached the summit of the hill, and remained for some moments in
silent admiration of one of the most variegated prospects that ever the
country presented to the contemplation of its most ardent admirer. The
mellow verdure of the meadows, intermingled here and there with the
sombre appearance of ploughed land, the cattle reclining in the shade,
the cottage of the rustic peeping from behind the screen of a luxuriant
hedge, formed a _tout-ensemble_ which every eye must admire, but which
few pens can describe. “A delightful landscape!” said Charles. “A rich
soil,” said Jonathan. “What scope for description!” cried the first.
“What scope for improvement!” returned the second.
As we returned we passed the cottage of the peasant whom we had seen at
his plough in the morning. The family were busily engaged in their
several domestic occupations. One little chubby-faced rogue was
conducting Dobbin to his stable, another was helping his sister to coop
up the poultry, and a third was incarcerating the swine, who made a
vigorous resistance against their youthful antagonist. “Tender!” cried
Rhyme--he was listening to the nightingale. “Very tender!” replied
Reason--he was looking at the pigs.
As we drew near home, we met an old gentleman walking with his daughter,
between whom and Charles a reciprocal attachment was said to exist. The
lateness of the evening prevented much conversation, but the few words
which were spoken again brought into contrast the opposite tempers of my
friends. “A fine evening, Madam,” said the man of sense, and bowed. “I
shall see you to-morrow, Mary!” said the lover, and pressed her hand. We
looked back upon her as she left us. After a pause: “She is an angel!”
sighed Charles. “She is an heiress,” observed Jonathan. “She has ten
thousand perfections,” cried Rhyme. “She has ten thousand pounds,” said
Reason.
We left them the next morning, and spent some days in speculations on
the causes which enabled such union of affections to exist with such
diversities of taste. For ourselves, we must confess that, while Reason
has secured our esteem, Rhyme has run away with our hearts; we have
sometimes thought with Jonathan, but we have always felt with Charles.
ON THE PRACTICAL BATHOS.
“To sink the deeper--rose the higher.”--POPE.
Although many learned scholars have laboured with much diligence in the
illustration of the Bathos in poetry, we do not remember to have seen
any essay calculated to point out the beauties and advantages of this
figure when applied to actual life. Surely there is no one who will not
allow that the want of such an essay is a desideratum which ought, as
soon as possible, to be supplied. Conscious as we are that our feeble
powers are not properly qualified to fill up this vacuum in scholastic
literature; yet, since the learned commentators of the present day have
their hands full either of Greek or politics, we, an unlearned, but we
trust a harmless, body of quacks, will endeavour to supply the place of
those who kill by rule, and will accordingly offer, for the advantage of
our fellow-citizens, a few brief remarks on the Practical Bathos.
We will first lay it down as a principle that the ἀπροσδόκητον, as well
in life as in poetry, is a figure, the beauties of which are innumerable
and incontrovertible. For the benefit of my fair readers (for Phœbus and
Bentley forbid that an Etonian should here need a Lexicon) I will state
that the figure ἀπροσδόκητον is “that which produceth things
unexpected.” Take a few examples. In poetry there is a notable instance
of this figure in the “Œdipus Tyrannus” of Sophocles, where the
messenger who discloses to Œdipus his mistake in supposing Polybus to be
his father, believing that the intelligence he brings is of the most
agreeable nature, plants a dagger in the heart of his hearer by every
word he utters. But Sophocles, although he must be acknowledged a great
master of the dramatic art, is infinitely surpassed in the use of this
figure by our good friend Mr. Farley of Covent Garden. When we sit in
mute astonishment to survey the various pictures which he conjures up,
as it were by the wand of a sorcerer, in a moment--when columns and
coal-holes, palaces and pig-sties, summer and winter, succeed each other
with such perpetually diversified images; we are continually exclaiming,
“Mr. Farley, what next?” Every minute presents us with a new and more
perfect specimen of this figure. Far be it from us to speak
disrespectfully of Sophocles, for whom, as in duty bound, we entertain a
most sincere veneration; but he certainly must rank beneath Mr. Farley
as a manager of the ἀπροσδόκητον. One of the most striking examples in
the present day, which we can recommend to those who wish to apply this
figure to the purposes of actual life, is (may we say it without being
accused of a political allusion?) her Majesty Queen Caroline. That
illustrious personage in one beautiful passage (we mean her passage from
Calais to Dover) has certainly proved herself a perfect mistress of the
ἀπροσδόκητον.
Of this figure the Bathos must be considered a most elegant species.
Again, for the benefit of our fair readers, we will observe, that the
usual signification of the Bathos is--the Art of Sinking in Poetry; but
what we here propose to discuss is “the Art of Sinking in Life”--an art
of which it may be truly said that those who practise it skilfully only
stoop to conquer.
It must be evident to every person who is at all conversant with the
motives and origin of human opinions, that man is accustomed to regard
with a feeling of animosity those who are pre-eminent in any science or
virtue--
Urit enim fulgore suo qui prægravat artes
Infra se positas.
But this invidious and hostile feeling vanishes at once, when we behold
the object of it sinking suddenly from the dazzling sphere he originally
occupied, and reducing himself to a level with ordinary mortals. The
divine and incomparable Clarissa would never have been considered divine
and incomparable, had she never been betrayed into a _faux pas_; and I
question whether Bonaparte was ever looked upon with so favourable an
eye as when he afforded a specimen of the Bathos, in his descent from
“the Emperor of France” to “the Captive of St. Helena.”
But the strongest argument that can be used in recommendation of this
science is, that we are by Nature herself compelled to make use of it.
Whatever riches we may amass, whatever age we may attain, whatever
honours we may enjoy, we are continually looking forward to one certain
and universal Bathos, “Death.” From learning, from wealth, from power,
our descent is swift and inevitable. We look upon the graves of our
kindred, and say with Hamlet, “To this must we come at last.”
This doctrine is so beautifully illustrated by a passage in Holy Writ,
that we cannot refrain from laying it before our readers:--
“Alexander, son of Philip the Macedonian, made many wars, and won many
strongholds, and slew the kings of the earth. And he gathered a mighty
strong host, and ruled over countries and nations and kings, who became
tributaries to him. And after these things he fell sick, and perceived
that he should--_die_.”[1]
A more beautiful instance of this figure cannot be imagined. It needs no
comment. But we fear we are growing too serious, and shall therefore
pursue this branch of our dissertation no further.
We hope our readers are by this time thoroughly convinced of the beauty
and utility of this figure; we will proceed to exhort them most
earnestly to apply themselves immediately to the study of “the Art of
Sinking in Life.”
The art may be divided into a great number of species; but all, we
believe, may be comprehended under two heads--the _Bathos Gradual_ and
the _Bathos Precipitate_. We will offer a few concise remarks upon both,
without pretending to decide between the various merits of each.
Indeed, the opinion of the world appears pretty much divided between
them; as there are some bathers, who stand for a time shivering on the
brink, and at last totter into the stream with a tardy and reluctant
step, while there are others who boldly plunge into the tide with a
hasty and impetuous leap.
The Bathos Gradual is principally practised by poets and by coquettes.
Of its use by the former we have frequent examples in our own day. A
gentleman publishes a book: it is bought, read, and admired. He
publishes another, and his career of sinking immediately commences.
First he sinks into a book-maker; next he sinks into absurdity; next he
sinks into mediocrity; next he sinks into oblivion; and, as it is
impossible for him to sink much lower, he may then begin to think of
rising to a garret.
The life of Chloe affords an admirable instance of the effect with which
this species of the art may be exercised by coquettes. At twenty-four,
Chloe was a fashionable beauty; at twenty-six she began to paint; at
twenty-eight she was--not what she had been; and at thirty she was voted
a maiden lady! Or, to use the slang of the loungers of the day: at
twenty-four she was bang-up; at twenty-six she was a made-up thing; at
twenty-eight was done up; and at thirty it was--all up with her.
The Bathos Precipitate is adapted to the capacities of great generals,
substantial merchants, dashing bloods, and young ladies who are in haste
to be married.[2] For examples of it in the first we must refer you to
Juvenal’s Tenth Satire, as this part of our subject is hackneyed, and we
despair of saying anything new upon it.
For examples of the Bathos Precipitate in trade, you must make inquiries
among the Dulls and Bears on the Stock Exchange; they can instruct you
much better than ourselves by what method you may be a _good_ man at
twelve o’clock, and a bankrupt at one.
Upon referring to our memoranda, we find some inimitable examples of
this species of the Bathos among the two latter classes of its
practitioners. Some of these we will extract for the amusement of our
readers:--
Sir Edmund Gulley.--Became possessed of a handsome property by the
death of his uncle, February 7, 1818. Sat down 10 Rouge et Noir,
February 14, 1818, 12 o’clock P.Μ. Shot himself through the head,
February 15, 1818, 2 o’clock A.M.
Lord F. Maple.--Acquired great _éclat_ in an affair of honour,
March 2, 1818. Horsewhipped for a scoundrel at the Second Newmarket
Meeting, 1818.
Mr. G. Bungay.--September 1819--Four-in-hand, blood horses, shag
coat, pearl buttons. October 1819--Plain chaise and pair.
Miss Lydia Dormer.--May 1820--Great beauty, manifold
accomplishments, £4000 a-year. June 1820--_Chère amie_ of Sir J.
Falkland.
The Hon. Miss Amelia Tempest.--(From a daily paper of July
1820.)--“Marriage in High Life.--The beautiful Miss Amelia Tempest
will shortly be led to the hymeneal altar by the Marquis of
Looney.”
(From the same paper of August 1820.)--“Elopement in High
Life.--Last week the Hon. Miss Am-l-a T-mp-st eloped with her
father’s footman.”
Reader,--When we inform you that we ourselves had long entertained a
sneaking kindness for the amiable Amelia, you will image to yourself the
emotion with which we read the above paragraph. We jumped from the table
in a paroxysm of indignation, and committed to the flames the obnoxious
chronicler of our disappointment; but the next moment composed our
feelings with a truly stoic firmness, and, with a steady hand, we wrote
down the name of the Hon. Miss Amelia Tempest as an admirable proficient
in the Bathos Precipitate.
NICKNAMES.
“Lusco qui possit dicere ‘lusce.’”
The invention and appropriation of Nicknames are studies which, from
want of proper cultivation, have of late years very much decayed. Since
these arts contribute so much to the well-being and satisfaction of our
Etonian witlings--since the younger part of our community could hardly
exist if they were denied the pleasure of affixing a ludicrous addition
to the names of their seniors--we hope that the consideration of this
art in all its branches and bearings will be to many an amusing, and to
some an improving, disquisition.
The different species of nicknames may be divided and subdivided into an
endless variety. There is the nickname direct, the nickname oblique, the
nickname κατ’ ἐξόχὴν, the nickname κατ’ ἀντιφράσιν, and a multitude of
others, which it is unnecessary here to particularize. We shall attempt
a few remarks upon these four principal classes.
The nickname direct, as might be expected, is by far more ancient than
any other we have enumerated. Much has been argued upon the elegance or
inelegance of Homer’s perpetually repeated epithets; for our part we
imagine Homer thought very little upon the elegance or inelegance of the
expressions to which we allude, since we cannot but regard his Ξανθὸς
Μενέλαος--πόδας ὠκὺς Αχιλλεὺς--ἄναξ ανδρών Αγαμέμνων, and other passages
of the same kind, not even excepting the thundering cognomen which is
tacked on to his Jupiter, Ζεὺς ὑψιβρεμέτης, as so many ancient and
therefore inimitable specimens of the nickname direct. This class is
with propriety divided into two smaller descriptions; the nickname
personal and the nickname descriptive. The first of these is derived
from some bodily defect in its object; the latter from some excellence
or infirmity of the mind.
The nicknames which were applied to our early British kings generally
fell under one of these denominations. William Rufus and Edward
Longshanks are examples of the first, while Henry Beauclerc and Richard
Cœur de Lion afford us instances of the second. We cannot depart from
this part of our subject without adverting to the extreme liberty which
the French have been accustomed to take with the names of their kings.
With that volatile nation, “the Cruel,” “the Bald,” and “the Fat” seem
as constantly the insignia of royalty as the sceptre and the crown. We
must confess that, were it not for the venerable antiquity of the
species, we should be glad to see the nickname personal totally
discontinued, as in our opinion the most able proficient in this branch
of the science evinces a great portion of ill-nature, and very little
ingenuity.
The merit of the nickname oblique consists principally in its
incomprehensibility. It is frequently derived, like the former, from
some real or imaginary personal defect; but the illusion is generally so
twisted and distorted in its formation, that even the object to whom it
is applied is unable to trace its origin or to be offended by its use.
The discovery of the actual fountain from whence so many ingenious
windings and intricacies proceed is really a puzzling study for one who
wishes to make himself acquainted with the elementary principles of
things. In short, the nickname oblique resembles the great river, the
Nile: its meanders are equally extensive, its source is equally
concealed. We have a specimen of this species in the appellation of our
worthy secretary. Mr. Golightly made a pleasant, though a sufficiently
obvious hit, when he addressed Mr. Richard Hodgson by the familiar
abbreviation of Pam. We should recommend to the professors of
the nickname oblique, two material, though much neglected,
requisites--simplicity and perspicuity; for, in spite of the long and
attentive study which we have devoted to this branch of the art, we
ourselves have been frequently puzzled by unauthorized corruptions both
of sound and sense, and lost amidst the circuitous labyrinth of a
far-fetched prænomen. We were much embarrassed by hearing our good
friend, Mr. Peter Snaggs, addressed by the style of “Fried Soles,” until
we remembered that his grandfather had figured as a violent Methodist
declaimer in the metropolis: nor could we conceive by what means our
old associate, Mr. Matthew Dunstan, had obtained his classical title of
“Forceps,” until we recollected the miraculous attack made by the tongs
of his prototype upon the nasal orifices of his Satanic antagonist.
The third species is derived from an implied excellence in any one
specified study. It is known by the sign “The.” Thus, “_The_ Whistler,”
in “Tales of My Landlord,” is so called from his having excelled all
others in the polished and fashionable art of whistling. When we call
Mr. Ouzel “_the_ blockhead,” we are far from asserting that he is the
only blockhead among our well-beloved companions, but merely that he
holds that title from undisputed superlative merit; and, when we
distinguish Sampson Noll by the honourable designation of “_The_ Nose,”
we mean not to allege that Mr. Noll is the only person who challenges
admiration, from the extraordinary dimensions of that feature, but
simply, that Sampson’s nose exceeds, by several degrees of longitude,
the noses of his less distinguished competitors.
We know not, however, whether the species which we are discussing is not
rather to be considered a ramification of the first, than a separate
class in itself; for it unavoidably happens that the two kinds are
frequently confused, and that we know not under which head to arrange a
name which is of an ambiguous nature, and may be referred with equal
propriety to either definition.
The fourth and last kind is promiscuously derived from sources similar
to those of the three preceding; but in its formation it entirely
reverses their provisions. We all know that a grove was called by the
Latins “lucus;” _a non lucendo_, that the Præses of the Lower House of
Parliament is called by us, “Speaker,” because he is not allowed to
speak. Such is the system of the nickname which is at present under
consideration; it is applied to its object, not from the qualities which
he possesses, but from those which he does not; not from the actions
which he has performed, but from those which he has not: in short,
contrariety is its distinguishing character, and absurdity its principal
merit. Antiquity will supply us with several admirable specimens.
Ptolemy murdered his brother, and was called “Philadelphus.” The
Furies, to say the best of them, were spiteful old maids, and they were
nicknamed “The Benevolent.” In our times it is certainly in more general
use than any other class; nor is this to be wondered at, when we
consider the extraordinary neatness of irony which is with great
facility couched under it. It has been well observed by some French
author, whose name has escaped our memory, that if you call Vice by her
own name, she laughs at you; but if you address her by the name of
Virtue, she blushes. To give a plainer illustration: if you say to Ouzel
“Blockhead,” it is an unregarded truth; if you cry out to him, “Genius,”
it is a biting sarcasm. Nothing, indeed, can be imagined more
malignantly severe than this weapon of irony, exercised with skill, and
pointed with malevolence; no satire is more easy to the assailant, and
more painful to the assailed, than that which gives to deformity the
praise of beauty, and designates absurdity by the title of absolute
wisdom.
We lately had the honour of reckoning among our nearest and dearest
friends Dr. Simon Colley, a gentleman who was as estimable for the
excellent qualities of his mind as he was ridiculous from the whimsical
proportions of his body. Must we give a description of our much lamented
friend? If the reader will collect together the various personal defects
of all his acquaintance--if he will add the lameness of one to the
diminutive stature of another--if he will unite the cast of the eye
which designates a third to the departure from the rectilineal line
which beautifies the back of a fourth, he will then have some faint idea
of the bodily perfections of Dr. Simon Colley. The Doctor was perfectly
conscious of his peculiarities, and was frequently in the habit of
choosing his corporal appearance as the theme of a hearty laugh or the
subject of jocular lamentation; yet the sound sense and cultivated
philosophy of our respected friend was not proof against the unexpected
vociferation of a well-applied nickname; and, although his favourite
topic of conversation was the personal resemblance he bore to the
renowned Æsop, he flew into the most violent paroxysms of rage when he
was pointed at by some little impertinents as the Apollo Belvidere.
But this sort of nickname is not used merely as the instrument of wit or
the weapon of ill-nature: it assumes occasionally a more serious garb,
and becomes the language of flattery or the adulation of hypocrisy. In
this form it is of great service in dedicatory epistles and professions
of love. When Vapid entreats Lord---- to prefix his name to a list of
subscribers, he whines out the praises of his “Mæcenas” with all the
mournful earnestness with which a criminal exalts the clemency of his
judge; but the manner in which he chuckles at the munificence of his
patron over a beefsteak at the Crown and Cushion proves very evidently
that Vapid is a hypocrite, and that “Mæcenas” is a nickname. And when
Miss Pimpkinson, a maiden lady with £40,000, smiles upon the adoration
of Sir Horace Conway, a fashionable without a farthing, she little
dreams that “Venus,” which is her title in the boudoir, is only her
nickname at the club.
Having now presented our friends with a cursory sketch of these four
principal classes, we shall sum up the whole by offering to the reader a
specimen in which we lately heard the four kinds admirably blended
together. “Toup,” cried “All the Talents,” “tell ‘Swab’ that I have a
thrashing in store for ‘The Poet.’” “Toup” is the nickname oblique,
borne by its possessor in consequence of some supposed relation between
the longitude of his physiognomy and the Longinus of the erudite
Toupius; “Swab” is the nickname direct, applied to a rotund gentleman;
“_The_ Poet” is κατ’ ἐξοχὴν--“_the_ poet,” because he is super-eminently
poetical; and “All the Talents” is κατ’ ἀντιφράσιν--“All the Talents,”
because he is the veriest blockhead upon the face of our Etonian
hemisphere.
It will be needless to enumerate the many minor classes of this
important subject; it will be needless to dwell upon the nickname
classical, the nickname clerical, the nickname military, and the
nickname bargee; as we believe that no specimen of these is to be found
which may not be ranked under one of the preceding descriptions. There
is, however, one great and extensive species remaining, to which we
shall here give only a brief notice, as we may possibly, at some future
period, devote a leading article to its consideration--we mean the
nickname general. This last-mentioned class claims our attention, from
the comprehensive range of its operation. It is not applied to the
mental foibles or personal defects of a single object, it does not
attack the failings of a solitary individual, it wastes not the lash of
censure on an isolated instance of absurdity; but it inflicts a wound
upon thousands in a moment, and stamps the mark of ridicule upon
numberless victims. The Quizzes, the Prigs, the Marines, the Chaises
are, amongst our _alumni_, well-known examples of the nickname general.
But we have too long lost sight of the main object of our present
lucubration, which was the recommendation of this art to our
fellow-citizens, as a commendable, though much neglected, study. When we
say much neglected, we mean not that nicknames have ceased to be the
rage, and are falling into disuse (for certainly there never was an age
in which they spread more luxuriantly); but we allude to the lamentable
decay of imagination and ingenuity in their formation. If we look back
to ancient times, we shall find that, in those days, nicknames were
derived from the same sources as in the present age; they had their
origin from natural defects, from personal deformities; yet how
amazingly do the _cognomina_ of antiquity exceed in elegance and taste
the nicknames of more modern date. How wonderfully are the “Chicken,”
the “Shanks,” the “Nosey,” of Etonian celebrity surpassed by the
“Pullus,” the “Scaurus,” the “Cicero,” of Roman literature. It is a
disgrace upon the genius of our generation, that, at a time when other
arts have arrived at such a high perfection that our age may almost be
considered the Augustan age of the world, the art of nicknames should
have totally lost the classical polish for which it was in the olden
time so eminently remarkable, until it has sunk into the vehicle of
vulgar abuse, neither adorned by wit nor chastened by urbanity.
These considerations have induced us to give our most serious attention
to the advancement and improvement of the art. We are confident that our
researches in this line of literature have not been misapplied; and our
readers will surely agree with us, when they reflect on the manifold
utility of the study, when properly cultivated. There is so little
variety in English Christian names, that, where friends are in the habit
of using them, great mistakes must naturally take place. A surname, as
Charles Surface observes, “is too formal to be registered in Love’s
calendar.” A nickname avoids alike the ambiguity of one, and the
stiffness of the other; it unites all the familiarity of the first with
all the utility of the second. Besides this, the nickname is a brief
description of its object: it saves a million of questions, and an hour
of explanation: it is in itself a species of biography. Homer, when he
gives to his Juno the nickname of “Bull-eyed,” expresses in a word what
a modern rhymer would dilate into a canto.
For the rescuing of nicknames from the obloquy into which they have
fallen, we have collected a large assortment of them, which we are ready
to dispose of to applicants at a very low price. We have in our stock
appellations of every descriptions--the Classical, the Familiar, the
Theatrical, the Absurd, the Complimentary, the Abusive, and the
Composite. By an application at our publisher’s, new nicknames may be
had at a moment’s notice. The wit and the blockhead, the sap and the
idler, shall be fitted with denominations which shall be alike
appropriate and flattering, so that they shall neither outrage propriety
nor offend self-conceit. The dandy shall be suited with a name which
shall bear no allusion to stays, and the coquette with one which shall
in no way reflect upon rouge. In short, we have a collection of
novelties adapted to both sexes, and proper for all ages. In one thing
only is our stock deficient; and that, we are confident, will be
supplied previous to the appearance of our second number. We have no
doubt that some obligingly sarcastic associate will favour us with a new
and an ingenious nickname for the _Etonian_.
YES AND NO.
“We came into the world like brother and brother,
And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another.”
SHAKESPEARE.
MR. LOZELL’S TREATISE ON THE ART OF SAYING “YES.”
“He humbly answered ‘Yea! Bob.’”
ANON.
Our opinion is very much strengthened by the belief that many of our
friends will assent to it, when we assert that no art requires in a
greater degree the attention of a young man, on his entrance into life,
than that of saying “Yes.” A man who deigns not to use this little word
is a bulldog in society; he studies his own gratification rather than
that of his friends, and of course accomplishes neither: in short, he
deserves not to be called a civilized being, and is totally unworthy of
the place which he holds in the creation.
Is not it right to believe the possible fallacy of one’s own
opinion?--Yes. Is not it proper to have a due consideration for the
opinion of others?--Yes! Is not it truly praiseworthy to sacrifice our
conviction, our argument, our obstinacy upon the shrine of
politeness?--Again and again we answer--Yes! yes! yes!
* * * * *
Nothing indeed is to us more gratifying than to behold a man modestly
diffident of the powers which Nature has bestowed upon him, and
assenting, with a proper sense of his own fallibility, to the opinions
of those who kindly endeavour to remedy his faults or to supply his
deficiencies. Nothing is to us more gratifying than to hear from the
lips of such a man that true test of a complying disposition--that sure
prevention of all animosity--that immediate stop to all quarrels--that
sweet, civil, complacent, inoffensive monosyllable--Yes!
* * * * *
Yet, alas! how many do we find who, from an affectation of singularity,
or a foolish love of argument, do as it were expunge this admirable
expression from their vocabularies. How many do we see around us, who
are in the daily habit of losing the most advantageous offers, of
quarrelling with strangers, and of offending their best friends, solely
because they obstinately refuse to call to their assistance the
infallible remedy for all these evils, which is to be found in the three
letters upon which we are offering a brief comment.
We are sure we are only chiming in with the opinion of other people,
when we lament the manifold and appalling evils which are the sure
consequences of this disinclination to affirmatives. To us it is really
melancholy to look upon the disposition to contradiction by which some
of our friends are characterized, to observe the manifest pride of some,
the unreasonable pertinacity of others. Of a surety, if we are doomed at
any future season to put on the yoke of wedlock, Mrs. L. and all the
Masters and Misses L. shall be early instructed in the art of saying
“Yes.”