which he was honoured by this miracle of obduracy, and at last, by dint
of long and earnest entreaty, prevailed upon us to be ourselves witness
to the power he had obtained over her affections. We set out therefore,
not without a considerable suspicion of the manner in which our
expedition would terminate, and inwardly anticipated the jests which
“The King of Clubs” would infallibly broach upon the subject of Gerard’s
“Turn Out.”
Nothing occurred of any importance during our ride. Gerard talked much
of Cupids, and Hymen; but, inasmuch as we were not partakers of his
passion, we could not reasonably be expected to partake of his
inspiration.
Upon our arrival at Mowbray Lodge we were shown into a room so crowded
with company that we almost fancied we had been ushered into the Earl’s
levee instead of his daughter’s drawing-room. The eye of a lover,
however, was more keen. Gerard soon perceived the Goddess of the Shrine
receiving the incense of adulation from a crowd of votaries. Amongst
these he immediately enrolled himself, while we, apprehensive that our
company might be troublesome to him, hung back, and became imperceptibly
engaged in conversation with some gentlemen of our acquaintance. To
speak the truth, on our way to the Lodge these “Thoughts on Turn Out”
had been the subject of our reveries, and whatever expressions or
opinions we heard around us appeared to coincide with the cogitations
with which we were occupied. We first became much interested in the
laments of an old gentleman who was bewailing the “Turn Out” of a friend
at the last election for the county of----. Next we listened to an
episode from a dandy, who was discussing the extraordinary coat “turned
out” by Mr. Michael Oakley at the last county ball. Finally, we were
engaged in a desperate argument with a Wykehamist, upon the comparative
degree of talent “turned out” from each of the public schools during the
last ten years. Of course we proceeded to advocate the cause of our
foster-mother against the pretensions of our numerous and illustrious
rivals. Alas! we felt our unworthiness to stand forward as Etona’s
panegyrist, but we made up in enthusiasm what we wanted in ability. We
ran over with volubility the names of those thrice-honoured models,
whose deserved success is constantly the theme of applause and the
life-spring of emulation among their successors. We had just brought our
catalogue down to the names of our more immediate forerunners, and were
dwelling with much complacency on the abilities which have during the
last few years so nobly supported the fair fame of Eton at the
Universities, when our eye was caught by the countenance of our hon.
friend, which at this moment wore an appearance of such unusual
despondence, that we hastened immediately to investigate the cause. Upon
inquiry, we learned that Montgomery was most romantically displeased,
because Caroline had refused to sing an air of which he was passionately
fond. We found we had just arrived in time for the finale of the
dispute. “And so you can’t sing this to oblige me?” said Gerard.
Caroline looked refusal. “I shall know better than to expect such a
condescension again,” said Gerard, with a low sigh. “Tant mieux!” said
Caroline, with a low curtsey. The audience were unanimous in an
unfeeling laugh, in the midst of which Gerard made a precipitate
retreat, or, as O’Connor expresses it, “ran away like mad,” and we
followed him as well as we could, though certainly not _passibus æquis_.
As we moved to the door we could hear sundry criticisms on the scene.
“Articles of ejectment!” said a limb of the law. “The favourite
distanced!” cried a Newmarket squire. “I did not think the breach
practicable!” observed a gentleman in regimentals. We overtook the
unfortunate object of all these comments about a hundred yards from the
house. His wobegone countenance might well have stopped our malicious
disposition to jocularity; nevertheless we could not refrain from
whispering in his ear, “Gerard! a decided _turn out_!” “I beg your
pardon,” said the poor fellow, mingling a smile’ for his pun with a tear
for his disappointment, “I beg your pardon; I consider it a decided
_take in_.”
SOLITUDE IN A CROWD.
“This is to be alone; this, this is solitude.”--BYRON.
Reader! Were you ever alone in a crowd? If not, thank your stars, and
bestow a grain of pity upon those who must return a different response
to the question. A crowded solitude, if we may use such a strange
expression, is, in sober sadness, as melancholy a sensation as human
nature is capable of enduring.
A crowded solitude! If you are young, thoughtless, and talkative, you
will be astonished at the idea; and there will be nothing extraordinary
in your surprise. The ancient poets--poor ignorant souls!--have given us
a very different description of being alone. They have defined various
kinds of solitude, suited to various descriptions of men; but all of
them are alike founded on mistaken notions and groundless prejudice.
Were we to follow their opinions, we should place the solitude of the
lover in whispering groves, purling rills, and moonlight; that of the
sage in a library or an observatory; that of the poet in a dish of
vegetables and a Sabine farm; and _à fortiori_, that of the Etonian in
an uncarpeted domicile, with a fractured window on the one side and a
smoking fire on the other. Is this solitude? Far from it! We must most
strenuously contend that true solitude is to be found in a multitude.
We are aware that the solitude we are now discussing is not that which
is generally understood by the term. Many persons have probably never
heard of any but a corporeal solitude; that which we are describing is
mental. The one is to be found in caves and Caucasus; the other in
theatres and Almack’s. The former delights in moonshine--the latter in
candelabras; the first sets a great value upon the silence and pure air
of the country--the second gives the preference to the noise and squeeze
of the fashionable world; and which of these is real solitude--the
corporeal, which is removed from the sight and hearing of all objects;
or the mental, which both hears and sees a variety of things, and is
utterly unconscious that it does either?
We are distrustful of our powers of description, and will therefore
endeavour to illustrate our meaning by examples. We are provided with
plenty, for we have still in our recollection Lady Mordaunt’s last “At
Home.” All the world was there. Whist, music, dancing, and last, not
least, eating, were all going on in the usual style at the same time;
the squeeze in the rooms was beyond parallel in the annals of _ton_; and
of course we found more solitude in that evening than we had done
throughout the whole season. We made our _entrée_ when her ladyship was
in her highest glory: she was bowing to one, smiling to another, and
curtseying to a third, and straining every nerve and feature to _do the
proper_ to all her guests: this, however, was as impossible as the
number of her satellites was innumerable; the tumult was tremendous; and
there was so much bowing, and begging pardon, and getting out of the
way, that it was quite impracticable to advance or recede a step. Good
breeding and bare elbows were thrust in our faces alternately; we with
difficulty preserved our toes from the frequent attacks made on them by
kid slippers, and with still greater difficulty preserved our hearts
from the sweet smiles that said “I beg ten thousand pardons.” It was a
vortex of delight, and we were hurried so rapidly in its eddies, that
much time elapsed ere we were able to collect our editorial serenity, in
order to make a few observations on the scene before us.
The multitude at length began very slowly to diminish; and, having
lodged ourselves in an unperceived corner of the music-room, we
proceeded, according to our ancient custom, to speculate upon character.
Our attention was first attracted by a tall gentleman of a very noble
appearance, who was leaning against a pillar, in an attitude of profound
meditation. His dress was after the English fashion, but the cast of his
features, and his short curling hair, sufficiently denoted him to be a
foreigner. His eyes were fixed directly upon us, but we satisfied our
curiosity by an attentive survey, without fear of detection, as his mind
was evidently some furlongs distant. Upon inquiry we heard that he was
an Indian chieftain, by name Teioninhokarawn (we have doubts as to the
correctness of our orthography). He had done considerable services to
the British arms in the American war, and had now been invited by her
ladyship as the lion of the evening. He had been surrounded without
intermission by a tribe of quizzers, loungers, and laughers, but one
glance was sufficient to convince us that Teioninhokarawn was--alone.
We observed Lady Georgiana Wilmot standing at the other side of the
room, the very picture of fatigue. She had been singing much, and was
evidently quite exhausted. Λ young star of fashion was moving towards
her with a languishing step; and, as we had a strong curiosity to hear
his address, we changed our station for that purpose. “‘Pon my soul,”
the gentleman began with a bow, “you are divine to-night.” “Am I?” said
the lady, with a vacant gaze. “Never heard you in better voice,”
returned her assailant. Her ladyship knew it was the tone of flattery,
so she smiled, but she had neither spirits nor sense sufficient to
attempt an answer. We immediately decided that Lady Georgiana
was--alone.
We next proceeded to the card-room. At first the din, and the disputing,
and the quarrelling was so loud, that we doubted whether we should find
any solitude there; but another look convinced us of our mistake. Lord
Mowbray was evidently--alone. He was walking up and down, deliberating
whether he should sacrifice his conscience or his place at to-morrow’s
division. Not less apparent was the solitude of the Duchess of Codille;
although her Grace was busily engaged at cassino with a select party of
right honourables. She had been for a long time alone in the
contemplation of her new brocade, and was recalled into company by the
vociferation of her partner, “Rat me if I ever saw your Grace play so
ill!”
We were about to retire to the ball-room, when we remarked our noble
hostess reclining on an ottoman, seemingly quite exhausted with
fashionable fatigue. She was still, however, exerting herself to do the
_agréable_, and was talking with appalling rapidity to every one who
approached her, although utterly unconscious of what she heard or said.
We advanced to pay our respects, and were saluted with “Ah, my lord!
what has kept you away so long? And there’s Ellen, poor thing, dying to
see you! Ellen, love!” With some difficulty we explained to her ladyship
that she was mistaken as to our rank. “Eh! Mon Dieu! Sir Charles,” she
exclaimed. “Pardonnez--but I’m really dead with ennui.” We allowed
ourselves to be knighted without further explanation, and made a
precipitate retreat, for we perceived that her ladyship, after the
labour of the evening, would be very glad to be--alone.
The first survey we took of the ball-room presented us with nothing but
cheerful faces and laughing eyes; at the second, we discovered even here
much and melancholy loneliness. There were moralists without sense, and
country squires without acquaintance; beaux without a thought, and
belles without a partner. We hastened to make a closer study of the
various characters which presented themselves.
We first addressed ourselves to Mr. Morris, a respectable Member of
Parliament, with whom we had become acquainted the year before in
Norfolk. “What! you’re not a dancer, Mr. Morris?” we began. “By the
Lord, sir,” he returned, “if this Bill passes----” We passed on, much
vexed that we had intruded on our worthy friend’s solitude.
We were hastening to accost Maria Kelly, a very interesting girl, whose
lover had lately left this country for Minorca, when we were attracted
by a conversation between an exquisite and our old acquaintance, General
Brose. “Ah! General,” said the dandy, “how long have you ceased to foot
it?” “Foot!” interrupted the General, “by Jupiter! their cavalry was ten
thousand strong.” The old man was decidedly--alone.
Before we could reach the recess in which Maria was sitting, she had
been assailed by an impertinent. “May I have the honour and
felicity----” he began. The poor girl started from her reverie with a
sort of vacant gaze, and replied, “He sailed last Tuesday, sir!” “Sola
in siccâ,” said the impertinent, and lounged on. We had not the
barbarity to speak to her.
Old Tom Morley, the misanthrope, had been admiring a wax taper in an
unthinking sort of way ever since we entered the room. We went up,
prepared to be witty upon him; but we had hardly opened our mouth when
he cut us short with “For God’s sake leave me alone!” and we left
him--alone. We were proceeding in our observations, when we saw Ellen
Mordaunt, the beautiful daughter of our hostess, surrounded by a set of
dashing young officers, at the other end of the room. We had just began
to examine the features of one of them, who was somewhat smitten, and
appeared prodigiously alone, when the idol herself turned upon us that
bright and fascinating eye,
Which but to see is to admire,
And--oh! forgive the word--to love!
We had originally inserted here a rhapsody on Ellen’s glance, which
would have occupied, as our printer assures us, three pages and a half;
but, in mercy to our friends, we have erased this, and shall content
ourselves with stating that we were alone for at least ten minutes,
before we recollected that it was five o’clock, and that we ought to
think of retiring from the solitude of Lady Mordaunt’s “At Home.”
POLITENESS AND POLITESSE.
“I cannot bear a French metropolis.”--JOHNSON.
We have headed our article with two words which are very often, and
certainly very improperly, confounded together. Nobody needs to be told
that the one is from the English, the other from the French vocabulary;
but there may perhaps be some who will be surprised to hear that the one
expresses an English, the other a French quality.
Frown if you will, Monsieur Duclos, we must maintain that the English
are the only people who have a true idea of politeness. If we are wrong,
our error may be excused for the feeling which prompts it; but we
believe we are right, and we will try to make our readers believe so.
The English are kind in their politeness--the French are officious in
their _politesse_; the politeness of the English is shown in
actions--the _politesse_ of the French evaporates in sound; English
politeness is always disinterested--French _politesse_ is too often
prompted by selfishness.
When we consider the various forms of these qualities, we appear to be
discriminating between the rival merits of two contending beauties, who
reign with equal dominion, and divide the admiration of an adoring
world. There are many who prefer the ingenious delicacy of politeness,
and we congratulate them on their truly English feeling; there are
perhaps more who are attracted by the coquettish vivacity of
_politesse_, and we do not envy them their French taste.
A variety of instances of both these traits must have occurred to
everybody, but as everybody does not behold the shades of character
through the exact medium of an editorial microscope, we will endeavour
to bring out more distinctly those examples which seem to us to bear
immediately on the subject.
When you dine with old Tom Hardy, he gives you little more than a joint
of meat, a bottle of excellent port, and a hearty welcome; when Lord
Urban “requests the honour” of your company, you are greeted with every
delicacy the season can afford; you are pampered with every wine, “from
humble port to imperial tokay,” and you are put to the blush by every
form of adulation that a wish to be civil can devise. Yet we had rather
dine once with Tom Hardy than a hundred times with Lord Urban; for the
mutton of the one is cooked by politeness, and the turtle of the other
is dressed by _politesse_.
About a month ago, as we were shooting in the north of England with the
son of a celebrated Tory baronet, we were encountered by Mr. Ayscott, a
landed proprietor notorious for his Whig principles. We were somewhat
surprised to see the latter divest himself of all prejudices in a
moment; he came up to our companion with the greatest appearance of
cordiality, shook him by the hand, reminded him that politics ought not
to interfere among friends, knew he was fond of dancing, and hoped to
see him frequently at Ayscott. Now this really looked like politeness;
for politeness is that feeling which prompts us to make others happy and
pleased with themselves, and which for this purpose puts off all
dislike, all party spirit, all affectation of superiority. But when we
were informed the next day that Mr. Ayscott had seven marriageable
daughters, we decided that his behaviour was not politeness, but
_politesse_.
We remember, shortly after Mrs. C. Nugent eloped with an officer in the
dragoons, we were riding in Hyde Park with poor Charles, who endeavoured
to bear his loss unconcernedly, and betrayed not, except to a close
observer, the canker that preyed upon his heart. We were met in the Park
by Sir Harry Soulis, an intimate acquaintance of our friend. He was
riding at a brisk pace, but the moment he observed us he pulled up, and
his flexible features immediately assumed the appearance of unfeigned
sympathy. He came up to us, and began, “Ah Charles! How are you? How is
this unfortunate business to end? I feel for you, Charles! Upon my soul,
I feel for you! You know you may command me in anything”--and he rode on
with the same air of nonchalance that he had first worn. Immediately
afterwards we met Colonel Stanhope, who also halted, and entered into
conversation. He inquired after our friend’s health, addressed a few
indifferent remarks to us on the weather, bowed, and passed on. We are
sure Nugent felt, as we should have felt under such circumstances:
Soulis had wounded his feelings--Stanhope had spared them. The
officiousness of the former was _politesse_--the silence of the latter
was politeness.
But their distinct shades were never so fully impressed upon our minds
as upon a visit which we lately paid to two gentlemen, during a short
tour. The first specimen of their dissimilarity is to be found in the
letters by which we were invited to partake of their hospitality. They
were as follows:--
“As Mr. P. Courtenay will in the course of his tour be within a few
miles of Melville Lodge, Mr. Melville hopes that he will not turn
southward without allowing him, for one day at least, the
gratification of his company.
“Melville Lodge, August 1820.”
“DEAR PEREGRINE,--You’ll pass within eyeshot of my windows on your
way to Eastbourne. I am sure you’ll stop a moment to ask your old
friend how he does, and we will try to detain you for the night.
“Yours, as sincerely as ever,
“MARMADUKE WARREN.
“P.S. The girls would send love if I’d let ’em.
“Hastings, August 1820.”
Our first visit was paid at Melville Lodge. We have known Mr. Melville
long, and we know him to be one who is generally actuated by good
motives; and when he is swayed by interested ones is himself unconscious
of the fact. On the whole, his character is such that when he is absent
we feel the strongest inclination to like him, and when we are in his
company we feel an equally strong inclination to say, “Mr. Melville, you
are a fool.” We arrived at the Lodge in good time to prepare for dinner,
with its usual accompaniments of bows from our host, compliments from
our hostess, and smiles from their daughters. A small party was invited
to meet us, which somewhat diminished the frequency of the compliments
we were doomed to undergo, while it rendered those which were actually
forced upon us infinitely more distressing. We pass over the civilities
we received at dinner, the care taken to force upon us the choicest
morsels of fish, flesh, and fowl; the attention with which Mr. Melville
assured us that we were drinking his very best champagne. We hasten to
take notice of the far more perplexing instances of _politesse_ which
rendered miserable the evening. When tea and coffee had been disposed
of, the Misses Melville sat down to the piano; and, as we are
passionately fond of music, and the ladies excel in it, we should have
been perfectly happy if we had been allowed to enjoy that happiness
unmolested. _Diis aliter visum est._ Our sisters were known to be
tolerable singers; _à fortiori_, we must be downright nightingales
ourselves. Upon the word of an editor, we never committed any further
outrage upon harmony than what takes place when we join in the chorus of
our witty associate Mr. Golightly or our well-meaning friend Mr.
O’Connor, and we were now required to assist the Misses Melville in “La
mia Dorabella.” Horrible idea! Peregrine Courtenay warbling Italian! His
Majesty of Clubs sinking into an opera-singer! _Politesse_ was sure he
could sing--_politesse_ knew he had a sweet voice--_politesse_ knew we
only refused from modesty. _Politesse_ was disappointed, however, for we
were immovably determined not to be made a fool. Nevertheless we felt
somewhat uncomfortable at being the subject of general observation, and
this feeling was not diminished by what followed. _Politesse_, in the
shape of Mrs. Melville, whispered it about that the fat silent young
gentleman in the black coat was a great writer, who had published an
extraordinary quantity of learning, and was likely to publish an
extraordinary quantity more. This was all intended to flatter our
vanity, and the consequence was that we were bored throughout the
remainder of the evening by hearing whispers around us, “Is that the
gentleman Mrs. Melville was speaking of?” “I guessed who he was by the
family likeness!” “I knew he was an author directly!” “How odd that he
should be so reserved!” At the suggestion of _politesse_ Mrs. Melville
next discovered that we were precisely a year older than Kitty, and Mr.
Melville hinted in a loud whisper that the girl would have ten thousand
pounds. Finally, _politesse_ prepared for us the great state bedroom;
and, when we retired, insisted upon it that we had spent a most
miserable evening. Alas! Politeness had hardly the grace to contradict
_politesse_ upon this point.