in support of our opinion. When the Greeks begged Achilles to pocket his
affronts and make an end of Hector, he refused. Very well, we have no
doubt he did all for the best; but we are morally sure that Patroclus
would not have been slain if Achilles had known how to say “Yes.” We
all know how he cried about it when it was too late. To draw another
illustration from the same epoch, how disastrous was the ignorance which
Priam displayed of this art when a treaty was on foot for the
restoration of Helen. Nothing was easier than to finish all disputes, to
step out of all difficulties, by one civil, obliging, gentlemanly “Yes.”
But he refused--and Troy was burned. What glorious results would a
contrary conduct have produced! It would have prevented a peck of
troubles both to the Greeks and the Etonians. It would have saved the
Ancients ten years, and the Moderns twelve books, of bloodshed. It is
almost unnecessary to allude to the imprudent, the luckless Hippolytus:
he never would have been murdered by a marine monster if he could but
have said “Yes;” but the word stuck in his throat, and he certainly paid
rather dear for his ignorance.
“Yes,” cries a critic, “I agree with all this, but it’s all so old.” We
assent to your opinion, my good friend, and will endeavour to benefit
by your suggestion. Come, then, we will look for illustrations among the
characters of our own age.
There’s Lord Duretête, the misanthrope. He has a tolerable fortune,
tolerable talents, and tolerable person. He plays a tolerable
accompaniment on the flute, and a tolerable hand at whist. Yet, with all
these tolerable qualifications, he is considered a most intolerable man.
What is the reason of this seemingly anomalous circumstance? The reason
is obvious--His Lordship can’t say “Yes.” This abominable ignorance of
our favourite art interferes in the most trivial incidents of life; it
renders him alike miserable and disagreable. “Will your Lordship allow
me to prefix your name to a dedication?” says Bill Attic, the satirist.
“I must go mad first,” says his Lordship. “Duretête! lend me a couple of
hundreds!” says Sir Harry. “Can’t, ’pon honour!” says his Lordship. “You
dear creature, you’ll open my ball this evening!” says Lady Germain.
“I’ll be d--d if I do!” says his Lordship. See the catastrophe. Bill
Attic lampoons him, Sir Harry spits in his face, and Lady Germain votes
him a bore. How unlucky that he cannot say “Yes!”
* * * * *
Look at young Eustace, the man of honour! He came up to town last year
with a good dress, a good address, and letters of introduction to half a
dozen great men. He made his bow to each of them, spent a week with each
of them, offended each of them, and is now starving in a garret upon
independence and cold mutton. What is the meaning of all this? Eustace
never learned how to say “Yes!” “_Virtus post nummos!_ Eh! young man?”
says old Discount, the usurer. “I can’t say I think so,” said Eustace.
“Here! Eustace, boy,” says Lord Fanny, “read over these scenes, and let
me have your opinion! Fit for the boards, I think! Eh?” “You’ll excuse
me if I don’t think they are,” says Eustace. “Well! my young friend,”
cries Mr. Pliant, “we must have you in Parliament I suppose; make an
orator of you! You’re on the right side, I hope?” “I should vote with my
conscience, Sir,” says Eustace. See the finale. Eustace is enlisted for
life in the Grub Street Corps, where he learns by sad experience how
dangerous it is to say “No” to the avarice of a usurer, the vanity of a
rhymer, or the party spirit of a politician. How unlucky that he cannot
say “Yes.”
Godfrey is a lover, and he has every qualification for the office except
one. He cannot say “Yes.” Nobody, without this talent, should presume to
be in love. “Mr. Godfrey,” says Chloe, “don’t you think this feather
pretty?” “Absurd!” says Godfrey. “Mr. Godfrey!” says the lady, “don’t
you think this necklace becoming?” “Never saw anything less so!” says
Godfrey. “Mr. Godfrey,” says the coquette, “don’t you think I’m divine
to-night?” “You never looked worse, by Jove!” says the gentleman.
Godfrey is a man of fashion, a man of fortune, and a man of talent, but
he will die a bachelor. What a pity! We can never look on such a man
without a smile for his caprice and a tear for its consequences. How
unlucky that he cannot say “Yes!”
In the position we are next going to advance we know everybody will
agree with us, and this consideration very much strengthens our
opinion. Nothing is so becoming to a female mouth as a civil and
flattering “Yes.” It is impossible, indeed, but that our fellow-citizens
should here agree with us, when they reflect that they never can be
husbands until their inamorata shall have learnt the art of saying
“Yes.” For the most part, indeed, civility and good-nature are the
characteristics of our British fair, and this natural inclination to the
affirmative renders it unnecessary for us to point out to our fair
countrywomen the beauties and advantages of a word which they love as
dearly as they do flattery. While we are on the subject of flattery, let
us _obiter_ advise all Etonians to say nothing but “Yes” to a lady. But
as a thoughtless coquette or a haughty prude does occasionally forget
the necessity and the beauty of the word we are discussing, we cannot
but recommend to our fair readers to consider attentively the evils
which this forgetfulness infallibly entails. Laurelia would never have
been cut by her twenty-first adorer; Charlotte, with £4000 a year at
fifteen, would never have been an old maid at fifty; Lucy, with a good
face and not a farthing, would never have refused a carriage, white
liveries, and a peerage, if these unfortunate victims had studied in
early youth the art of saying “Yes.”
* * * * *
Sweet--light--gay--quaint monosyllable! Tender, obliging, inoffensive,
affectionate “Yes!” How we delight in thy delicate sound! We love to
hear the enamoured swain petitioning for his mistress’s picture, till
the lady, or overcome by affection, or wearied by importunity, changes
the “No” of coy reluctance for the “Yes” of final approbation. We love
to hear the belle of Holborn Hill supplicating for Greenwich and the
one-horse shay, till her surly parent alters the shake of unconvinced
obduracy for the nod of unwilling consent. We love to see the hen-pecked
husband humbly kneeling for his Sunday coat and the “Star and Garter,”
till Madam, conscious that the Captain is secreted in the closet,
transmutes the “No” of authoritative detention into the “Yes” of
immediate dismission. We love--but it is time to bring our treatise to a
conclusion, and we will merely observe, that whenever we see Beauty
without a husband or Talent without a place; whenever we hear a lady
considered an old maid, or a gentleman voted a bore, we turn from the
sight in melancholy mood, and whisper to ourselves: “This comes of not
being able to say ‘Yes.’”
MR. OAKLEY’S TREATISE ON THE ART OF SAYING “NO.”
“My son--learn betimes to say No.”
MISS EDGEWORTH.
Our opinion is not a jot weakened by the probability that many of our
friends will dissent from 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 “No.” A man who is afraid to use this little word is
a spaniel in society; he studies to please others rather than to benefit
himself, and of course fails in both objects: in short, he deserves not
to be called a man, and is totally unworthy of the place which he holds
in the creation.
Is he a rational being who has not an opinion of his own?--No. Is he in
the possession of his five senses who sees with the eyes, who hears with
the ears, of other men?--No! Does he act upon principle who sacrifices
truth, honour, and independence, on the shrine of servility?--Again and
again we reply--No! no! no!
Nothing indeed is to us more gratifying than to behold a man relying
boldly on the powers which Nature has bestowed upon him, and spurning,
with a proper consciousness of independence, the suggestions of those
who would reduce him from the rank he holds as a reasonable creature to
the level of a courtier and a time-server. Nothing is to us more
gratifying than to hear from the lips of such a man that decided test of
a free spirit--that finisher to all dispute--that knock-down blow in all
arguments--that strong, forcible, expressive, incontrovertible
monosyllable--No!
Yet, alas! how many do we find who are either unable or unwilling to
pronounce this most useful, most necessary response! How many do we see
around us, who are in the daily habit of professing to know things of
which they are altogether ignorant, of making promises which it is
impossible for them to perform, of saying (to use for once α soft
expression) the thing which _is not_, solely because they will not call
to their assistance the infallible remedy for all these evils, which is
to be found in the two letters upon which we are offering a brief
comment.
It is dreadful to reflect upon the evils which this neglect must
infallibly produce. It is dreadful to look round upon the friends and
relatives whom we see suffering the most appalling calamities from no
other misconduct than a blind aversion to negatives. It is disgusting to
observe the flexible indecision of some, the cringing servility of
others. Forgive us, reader, but we cannot help soliloquizing: “God save
the King of Clubs, and may the Princes of the Blood Royal be early
instructed in the art of saying ‘No.’”
* * * * *
Look into the pages of history! You will find there innumerable examples
in support of our opinion. Pompey was importuned to give battle to
Cæsar: he complied. Poor devil! He would never have been licked at
Pharsalia if he had learned from us the art of saying “No.” Look at the
conduct of his rival and conqueror, Cæsar! You remember the words of
Casca, “I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown and he put it by once; but
for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it!” Now this
placid “putting by” was not the thing for the Romans: we are confident
Julius Cæsar would never have died by cold steel in the Senate if he had
given them a good decisive insuperable “No!” Whatever epoch we examine,
we find the same reluctance to say “No” to the allurements of pleasure
and the mandates of ambition, and alas! we find it productive of the
same consequences. Juvenal tells us of an unfortunate young man, one
Caius Silius, who was unlucky enough to be smiled upon by the Empress
Messalina. The poor boy knew the danger he ran--he saw the death which
awaited him; but an Empress sued, and he had not the heart to say “No!”
He lost his heart first, and his head shortly afterwards.
* * * * *
“Dam’me,” says a blood, “all that happened a hundred years ago.” An
Etonian has occasionally great difficulty in carrying his ideas a
hundred years back. Well, then, we will go example-hunting nearer home.
* * * * *
There’s Sir Philip Plausible, the Parliament man. He can make a speech
of nine hours and a calculation of nine pages; nobody is a better hand
at getting up a majority, or palavering a refractory Oppositionist; he
proffers an argument and a bribe with equal dexterity, and converts by
place and pension when he is unable to convince by alliteration and
antithesis. What a pity it is he can’t say “No!” “Sir Philip,” says an
envoy, “you’ll remember my little business at the Foreign Office!”
“Depend upon my friendship,” says the Minister. “Sir Philip!” says a fat
citizen, with two votes and two dozen children, “you will remember
Billy’s place in the Customs!” “Rely on my promise!” says the Minister.
“Sir Philip!” says a lady of rank, “Ensign Roebuck is an officer most
deserving promotion!” “He shall be a colonel! I swear by Venus!” says
the Minister. _Exitus ergo quis est?_ He has outraged his friendship, he
has forgotten his promise, he has falsified his oath. Had he ever an
idea of performing what he spoke? Quite the reverse! How unlucky that he
cannot say “No!”
Look at Bob Lily! There lives no finer poet! Epic, elegiac, satiric,
Pindaric--it is all one to him! He is patronized by all the first people
in town. Everybody compliments him, everybody asks him to dinner. Nay!
there are a few who read him. He excels alike in tragedy and farce, and
is without a rival in amphibious dramas, which may be called either the
one or the other; but he is a sad bungler in negatives. “Mr. Lily,” says
the Duchess, his patroness, “you will be sure to bring that dear
epithalamium to my conversazione this evening!” “There is no denying
your Grace,” says the poet. “I say, Lily,” says the Duke, his patron,
“you will dine with us at seven?” “Your Grace does me honour,” says the
poet. “Bob,” says the young Marquis, “you are for Brookes’s to-night?”
“Dam’me! to be sure,” says the poet. Mark the result. He is gone to eat
tripe with his tyrannical bookseller; he has disappointed his patroness,
he has offended his patron, he has cut the Club! How unlucky that he
cannot say “No.”
* * * * *
Jack Shuttle was a dashing young fellow, who, to use his own expression,
was “above denying a thing;” in plainer terms, he could not say “No.”
“Sir!” says an enraged Tory, “you are the author of this pamphlet!” Jack
never saw the work, but he was “above denying a thing,” and was
horsewhipped for a libeller. “Sir!” says an unfortunate pigeon, “you hid
the king in your sleeve last night!” Jack never saw the pigeon before,
but he was “above denying a thing,” and was cut for a blackleg. “Sir!”
says a hot Hibernian, “you insulted my sister in the Park!” Jack never
saw the lady or her champion before, but he was “above denying a thing,”
and was shot through the head the next morning. Poor fellow! How unlucky
that he could not say “No!”
In the position we are next going to advance we know everybody will
differ from us; but this only strengthens our opinion. Nothing is so
becoming to a female mouth as the power--ay, and the inclination--to say
“No.” So firmly, indeed, are we attached to this doctrine, that we never
will marry a woman who cannot say “No.” For the most part, indeed, the
sex are pretty tolerably actuated by what the world calls a spirit of
contradiction, but what we should rather designate as a spirit of
independence. This natural inclination to negatives renders it
unnecessary for us to point out to our fair countrywomen the beauties
and advantages of a word which they use as constantly as their
looking-glass. Nevertheless, they do occasionally forget the love of
opposition, which is the distinguishing ornament of their sex; and alas!
they too frequently render themselves miserable by neglecting our
conclusive monosyllable. We most earnestly entreat those belles who
honour with their notice the humble efforts of the _Etonian_, to derive
a timely warning from the examples of those ladies who have lived to
regret a hasty and unthinking assent. Anna would never have been the
mistress of a colonel; Martha would never have been the wife of a
cornet; Lydia would never have been tied to age, ugliness, and gout, if
these unfortunate victims had studied in early youth the art of saying
“No.”
Short--strong--sharp--quaint monosyllable! Forcible, convincing,
argumentative, indisputable “No!” How we delight in thy expressive
sound! We love to hear the Miss of fifteen plaguing her uncle for her
Christmas ball, till Squaretoes, finding vain the excuses of affection,
finishes the negotiation with the “No” of authority. We love to hear the
enamoured swain pouring forth his raptures at the feet of an inexorable
mistress, till the lady changes her key from the quiet hint of
indifference to the decided “No” of aversion. We love to hear the
schoolboy supplicating a remission of his sentence, until his sable
judge alters the “I can’t” of sorrowful necessity, to the “No” of
inflexible indignation. We love--but it is time for us to bring our
treatise to a conclusion, and we will merely observe, that whenever we
see a man engaged in a duel against his will or in a debauch against his
conscience; whenever we see a patriot accepting of a place, or a beauty
united to a blockhead, we turn from the sight in disgust, and mutter to
ourselves: “This comes of not being able to say ‘No.’”
THOUGHTS ON THE WORDS “TURN OUT.”
“We all, in our turns, turn out.”--SONG.
Turn Out! There are in the English language no two words which act so
forcibly in exciting sympathy and compassion. There is in them a
melancholy cadence, beautifully corresponding with the sadness of the
idea which they express: they awaken in a moment the tenderest
recollections and the most anxious forebodings: there is in them a
talismanic charm which influences alike all ages and all dispositions;
the Church, the Bar, and the Senate are all comprised in the range of
its operation: indeed, we believe that in no profession, in no rank of
life, we shall find the man who can meditate, without an inward feeling
of mental depression, on the simple, the unstudied, the unaffected
pathos of the words “Turn out.”
Is it not extraordinary, that when the idea is in itself so tragic, and
gives birth to such sombre sensations, Melpomene should have altogether
neglected the illustration of it? Is it not still more extraordinary
that her sportive sister Thalia should have dared indecorously to jest
with a subject so entirely unsuited to her pen? To take our meaning
from its veil of metaphor, is it not extraordinary that Mr. Kenney
should have written a farce on the words “Turn Out?” We regard Mr.
Kenney’s farce as a sacrilege, a profanation, a burlesque of the best
feelings of our nature; and in spite of the ingenuity of the writer, and
the talents of the performers, humanity and its attendant prejudices
revolt in disgust from the scene which endeavours to raise a laugh by a
parody of so melancholy a topic.
It is not difficult to account for the pensive feelings which are
excited by these words: they recall forcibly to our mind the uncertainty
of all human concerns; they bid us think on the sad truth, that from
power, from affluence, from happiness, we may be “turned out” at a
minute’s warning; they whisper to us that the lease of life is held on a
precarious tenure, subject to the will of a Providence which we can
neither control nor foresee; they oblige us to look forward to that
undiscovered country, from whose dark limits we would fain avert our
eyes; they convince us of the truth of the desponding expression of the
Psalmist, “Man is but a thing of nought, his time passeth away like a
shadow.”
Are not these the reflections of every thinking mind? If they are not,
we must entreat the indulgence of our readers for the melancholy
pleasure we take in the discussion of the subject. The words may indeed
be more than ordinarily affecting to us, inasmuch as they remind us of a
friend who in his life was “turned out” from every thing that life can
bestow, but who in his death shall never be “turned out” from that
consolatory tribute to his Manes--the recollection of a sincere friend.
Poor Gilbert! The occurrences of his eventful existence would indeed
furnish materials for the poet or the moralist, for a tragedy of five
acts, or a homily of fifty heads. His father always prophesied he would
turn out a great man; and yet the poor fellow did nothing but turn out,
and never became a great man. At fourteen he turned out with a bargeman,
and lost an eye; at seventeen he was turned out from Eton, and lost
King’s; at three-and-twenty he was turned out of his father’s will, and
lost a thousand a-year; at four-and-twenty he was turned out of a
tandem, and lost the long odds; at five-and-twenty he was turned out of
a place, and lost all patience; at six-and-twenty he was turned out of
the affections of his mistress, and lost his last hope; at
seven-and-twenty he was turned out of a gaming-house, where he lost his
last farthing. Gilbert died about a year ago, after existing for some
time in a miserable state of dependence upon a rich uncle. To the last
he was fond of narrating to his friends the vicissitudes of his life,
which he constantly concluded in the following manner:--“So, gentlemen,
I have been turning out during my whole life; you now see me on the
brink of the grave, and I don’t care how soon I turn in.”
We had not heard from him for a considerable space of time, and were
beginning to wonder at his protracted silence, when a friend who was
studying the _Morning Post_ apprised us of his decease by the following
exclamation:--“My God! Old Gilbert’s dead! Here’s a quaint turn out!”
Alas! how often does it happen that we are not aware of the value of the
blessings we enjoy until chance or destiny has taken them from us. This
has been the case in our acquaintance with our lamented companion. How
bitterly do we now regret that we did not, while his life was spared,
make use of his inestimable experience to collect some instructions on
the art of turning out, both in the active and the neuter signification
of the words. For surely no two things are more difficult than the
giving or receiving of a dismissal. To go through the one with civility,
and the other with firmness, is indeed a rare talent, which every man of
the world should study to attain.
When we consider the various chances and vicissitudes which await the
citizens of our little commonwealth in their progress through life; when
we recollect that some of them will enter into political life, in order
to be turned out of their places; others will enjoy the titular
distinction of M.P., that they may be turned out of their seats the next
election; while others again, by an attachment to Chancery expedition,
will endeavour to get turned out of their estates;--it is surely worth
while to bestow a little attention upon the most proper mode of behaving
under these unfortunate circumstances.
Mr. Monxton receives a turn out better than any political man of our
acquaintance. It was of him that Sir Andrew Freeman, a Hertfordshire
Independent, who, to do him justice, would be witty if he could,
broached the celebrated remark--“He has turned out so often, that I
should think he’s turned wrong side out by this time.” Mr. Monxton is
indeed a phenomenon in his way. The smile he wears on coming into office
differs in no respect from that which he assumes on resigning all his
employments. He departs from the enjoyment of place and power, not with
the gravity of a disappointed Minister, but with the self-satisfied air
of a successful courtier. The tact with which he conceals the inward
vexation of spirit beneath an outward serenity of countenance is to us a
matter of astonishment. When we have heard him discussing his
resignation with a simper on his face, and a jest on his lip, we have
often fancied that Mr. Kemble would appear to us in the same light were
he to deliver Wolsey’s soliloquy with the attitudes and the gestures of
a harlequin in a pantomime. Juvenile politicians cannot propose to
themselves, in this line of their profession, a better model than Mr.
Monxton.
Nor is this art less worthy the attention of the fair sex. There are
very few ladies who have the talent of dismissing a lover in proper
style. There are many who reject with so authoritative a demeanour, that
they lose him, as an acquaintance, whom they only wish to cast off as a
dangler; there are many again who study civility to such an extent that
we know not whether they reject or receive, and have no small difficulty
in distinguishing their smile from their frown. The deep and sincere
interest which we feel in all matters relating to the advantage or
improvement of the fair sex induces us to suggest that an academy, or a
seminary, or an establishment should be forthwith instituted for the
instruction of young ladies not exceeding thirty years of age, in the
most approved method of saying “Turn Out.” So far indeed has our zeal in
this laudable undertaking carried us, that we have actually communicated
our ideas upon the subject to a lady, who, to quote from her own
advertisement, “enjoys the advantages of an excellent education, an
unblemished character, and an amiable disposition.” We are happy to
inform our friends and the public in general that Mrs. Simkins has
promised to devote her attention to this branch of female education. By
the end of next month she hopes to be quite competent to the instruction
of pupils in every mode of expressing “Turn Out”--the Distant Hint, the
Silent Bow, the Positive Cut, the Courteous Repulse, and the Absolute
Rejection. We trust that due encouragement will be given to a scheme of
such general utility.
In the meantime, until such academy, or seminary, or establishment shall
be opened, we invite our fair readers to the study of an excellent model
in the person of Caroline Mowbray. Caroline has now seven-and-twenty
lovers, all of whom have successively been in favour, and have been
successively turned out. Yet so skilfully has she modified her severity,
that in most cases she has destroyed hope without extinguishing love:
the victims of her caprice continue her slaves, and are proud of her
hand in the dance, although they despair of obtaining it at the altar.
The twenty-seventh name was added to the list of her admirers last week,
and was (with the most heartfelt regret we state it) no less a personage
than the Hon. Gerard Montgomery. Alas! unfortunate Gerard!
Quantâ laboras in Charybdi,
Digne puer meliore flammâ.