old friend Mr. Warren rose from his armchair as we entered, with a look
that set formality at defiance; Mrs. Warren put by her work to observe
how much we were grown; and their two daughters greeted with a smile,
beautiful because it was unaffected, the scarce-remembered playmate of
their childhood. The flowers which Elizabeth was painting, the landscape
which Susan was designing, were not hastily concealed at the approach of
their guest; nor was our old acquaintance Shock, who was our favourite
puppy ten years ago, driven in his old age from the parlour rug at the
appearance of an idler dog than himself. The few friends who met us at
dinner were not prepared to annoy us by accounts of our abilities and
attainments. The conversation was general and entertaining; and on
reconsideration we perceived that Mr. Warren took pains to draw out what
talent we possessed, although we could not at the same time perceive
that such was the object of his attention. In the evening Elizabeth
entertained us with Handel and Mozart, and Susan sang us some simple
airs, in a voice perhaps the more engaging because it was uncultivated.
We were allowed to enjoy the “melody of sweet sounds” unmolested and
unobserved. The quadrille which followed was not danced with the less
spirit because the Brussels carpet supplied the place of a chalked
floor, and a single pianoforte was substituted for the formality of a
band. We were happy--because we were permitted to enjoy our happiness in
our own way; we were amused--because we did not perceive the efforts
which were made for our amusement. “This,” we exclaimed, as we buttoned
our coat, and proceeded on our journey the next morning--“this is real
politeness.”
In spite of the endeavours of those who would dress our native manners
in a Parisian costume, _politesse_ will never be the motive by which
England as a nation will be characterized. As long as France shall be
the mother of light heads, and Britain of warm hearts, the Frenchman
will show his _politesse_ by the profundity of his bow, and the
Englishman will prove his politeness by the cordiality of his welcome.
Who is not content that it should be so?
A WINDSOR BALL.
We have often thought that the endeavours of a dancing master go but a
very little way to prepare a lady for a ball. Were it possible to
procure such an acquisition, we should recommend to our sisters not only
a _maître à danser_, but a _maître à parler_, inasmuch as it is usually
much easier to dance than to talk. One does not immediately see why it
should be so; dancing and talking are in a ball-room equally mechanical
qualifications; they differ indeed in this, that the former requires a
“light fantastic toe,” and the other a light fantastic tongue. But for
mind--seriously speaking, there is no more mind developed in small-talk
than there is in _chassez à droit_.
We do not admire the taste of Etonians who dislike dancing; we are not
of the number of those who go to a ball for the purpose of eating ice.
On the contrary, we adore waltzing, and feel our English aversion for
the French much diminished when we recollect that we derive from them
Vestris and quadrilles. Nevertheless, if anything could diminish the
attachment we feel for this our favourite amusement, it would be that we
must occasionally submit to dangle at the heels of an icy partner, as
beautiful, and, alas! as cold as the Venus de’ Medicis; whose look is
torpor, whose speech is monosyllables; who repulses all efforts at
conversation, until the austerity, or the backwardness of her demeanour,
awes her would-be adorer into a silence as deep as her own. Now all this
gravity of demeanour, in the opinion of some people, is a proof of
wisdom: we know not how this may be, but for our own part we think with
the old song, “’Tis good to be merry and wise,” and if we cannot have
both--why, then the merry without the wise.
These are the ideas which occur to us upon looking back to the last time
that we heard “_Voulez vous danser?_” played at the Town Hall. Start
not, fair reader! do not throw us into the fire; we will not be very
libellous; and if you shall erroneously suppose that your own defects
have afforded matter for our malicious pen, we are sure your indignation
will forthwith subside when you recollect that you may possibly have
listened to the colloquial raptures of Gerard Montgomery, or been
honoured with an editorial _tête-à-tête_ by the condescension of
Peregrine Courtenay. Think over your favourite partners. Did any one ask
your opinion of the Bill of Pains and Penalties? It could be no one but
Sir Francis Wentworth. Did any one hold forth upon the beauties of a
Scotch reel? Of a surety it was Mr. Alexander M‘Farlane. Did any one
observe to you that a quadrille was a “strange cross-road, and very
hilly?” Doubt not but it was the all-accomplished Robert Musgrave. Did
any one remark upon the immorality of waltzing? Thrice-honoured fair
one! You have danced with Martin Sterling.
Alas! we intended, as Mr. Musgrave would say, to drive straight to the
Town Hall, and we have got out of our road a full page. It is indeed a
cruel delay in us, for we know, reader, say what you will, you have been
all the time turning over the leaf to meet with a spice of scandal.
Well, then, suppose all preliminaries adjusted; suppose us fairly lodged
in the ball-room, with no other damage than a ruined Cavendish and a
dirtied pump; and suppose us immediately struck dumb by the intelligence
that the beautiful, the fascinating Louisa had left the room the moment
before we entered it. It was easy to perceive that something of the kind
had occurred, for the ladies were all looking happy. We bore our
disappointment as well as we could, and were introduced to Theodosia----
No! we will refrain from surnames---- Theodosia is a woman of sense (we
are told so, and we are willing to believe it), but she is very
unwilling that any one should find it out. As in duty bound, we
commenced, or endeavoured to commerce, a conversation by general
observations upon the room and the music. By-the-by, we strongly
recommend these generalities to our friends in all conversations with
strangers; they are quite safe, and can give no offence. In our case,
however, they were unavailing--no reply was elicited. A long pause. We
inquired whether the lady was fond of “The Lancers?” To our utter
astonishment we were answered with a blush and a frown which would have
put to silence a much more pertinacious querist than the Etonian--we
ventured not another word. Upon after-consideration, we are sure that
the lady was thinking of a set of dashing young officers instead of a
set of quadrilles.
We were next honoured by the hand of Emily. When we have said that she
is backward, beautiful, and seventeen, we have said all we know of the
enchanting Emily. Far be it from us to attack with unwarrantable
severity the unfortunate victim of _mauvaise honte_; we merely wish to
suggest to one for whose welfare we have a real regard, that modesty
does not necessarily imply taciturnity, and that the actual
inconvenience of a silent tongue is not altogether compensated by the
poetical loquacity of a speaking eye.
Being again left to ourselves, we sunk by degrees into a profound fit of
authorship, and were in imminent danger of becoming misanthropic, when
we were roused from our reverie by a tap on the shoulder from George
Hardy, and an inquiry, “what were our dreams?” We explained to him our
calamities, and assured him that, had it not been for his timely
intervention, we should certainly have died of silence. “Died of
silence!” reiterated our friend; “God forbid! when Corinna is in the
room!” And so saying, he half-led, half-dragged us to the other end of
the room, and compelled us to make our bow to a girl of lively manners,
whom he described to us in a whisper as “a perfect antidote for the
sullens.” Our first impression was, “she is a fool;” our second, “she is
a wit;” our third, “she is something between both!” Oh! that it were
possible for us to commit to paper one-half of what was uttered by
Corinna! Our recollection of our _tête-à-tête_ is like the recollection
of a dream. In dreams we remember that we were at one moment in a
mud-built cottage, and were the next transported to a Gothic chapel, but
by what means the transmutation of place was effected our waking
thoughts are unable to conceive. Thus it was when we listened to
Corinna. We were hurried from one topic to another with an unaccountable
velocity, but by what chain one idea was connected with its predecessor
we cannot imagine. The conversation (if conversation it may be called,
where the duty of talking devolves upon one person) set out with some
mention of fresco; from hence it turned off to Herculaneum, and then
passed with inconceivable rapidity through the following
stages:--Rome--the Parthenon--National Monument at Edinburgh--_Edinburgh
Review_--_Blackwood_--Ebony bracelets--Fashion of short sleeves--Fashion
in general dress in Queen Elizabeth’s time--“The Abbot”--Walter
Scott--Highland scenery. In the Highlands we lost our route for some
minutes, and soon afterwards found ourselves (we know not how) at
Joannina, in company with Ali Pasha. By this time we were thoroughly
wearied, and were unable to keep up regularly with our unfeeling
conductress, so that we have but a very faint idea of the places we
visited. We remember being dragged to the Giant at the Windsor Fair,
from whence we paid a flying visit to the Colossus of Rhodes; we
attended Cato, the lady’s favourite pug, during a severe illness, and
were shortly after present at the Cato Street conspiracy. We have some
idea that after making the tour of the Lakes, we set out to discover the
source of the Nile. In our way thither we took a brief survey of the
Lake of Como, and were finally for some time immersed in the Red Sea.
This put the finishing stroke to our already fatigued senses. We
resigned ourselves, without another struggle, to the will and disposal
of our sovereign mistress, and for the next half-hour knew not to what
quarter of the globe we were conveyed. At the close of that period we
awoke from our trance, and found that Corinna had brought us into the
Club-room, and was discussing the characters of the members with a most
unwarrantable freedom of speech. Before we had time to remonstrate
against this manifest breach of privilege, we found ourselves in the
gallery of the House of Lords, and began to think we never should make
our escape from this amusing torture. Fortunately, at this moment a
freeholder of---- entered the room. One of the candidates was a friend
of Corinna’s, and she hurried from us, after a thousand apologies, to
learn the state of the poll.
Sic nos servavit Apollo.[3]
Our next companion was Sappho the Blue-stocking. We enjoyed a literary
confabulation for some time, for which we beg our readers to understand
we are in every way qualified. The deep stores of our reading, enlivened
by the pungent readiness of our wit, are _bonâ fide_ the admiration of
London as well as of Windsor belles; we beg our friends to have this in
mind whenever they sit down to peruse us. But to proceed. We very
shortly perceived that Sappho was enchanted with our erudition, and the
manner in which we displayed it. She was particularly pleased with our
critiques on “Zimmerman upon Solitude,” and was delighted by the praise
we bestowed (for the first time in our life) on Southey’s “Thalaba.” We
had evidently made considerable progress in her affections, when we
ruined ourselves by a piece of imprudence which we have since deeply
regretted. We were satirical--this satire is the devil!--we were
satirical upon German literature. The lady turned up her nose, turned
down her eyes, bit her lip, and looked--we cannot explain how she
looked, but it was very terrific. We have since heard she is engaged in
translating Klopstock’s “Messiah” into the Sanskrit.
We were next introduced to one of those ladies who are celebrated for
the extraordinary tact which they display in the discovery of the faults
of their sex. Catherine is indeed one of the leaders of the tribe. She
has the extraordinary talent which conveys the most sarcastic remarks in
a tone of the greatest kindness. In her the language of hatred assumes
the garb of affection, and the observation which is prompted by envy
appears to be dictated by compassion. If in her presence you bestow
commendation upon a rival, she assents most warmly to your opinion, and
immediately destroys its effect by a seemingly extorted “but.” We were
admiring Sophia’s beautiful hair. “Very beautiful!” said Catherine, “but
she dresses it so ill!” We made some allusion to Georgiana’s charming
spirits. “She has everlasting vivacity,” said Catherine, “but it’s a
pity she is so indiscreet.” Then followed something in a whisper which
we do not feel ourselves at liberty to repeat. We next were unguarded
enough to find something very fascinating in Amelia’s eyes. “Yes,”
replied Catherine, “but then she has such an unfortunate nose between
them.” Finally, in a moment of imprudent enthusiasm, we declared that we
thought Maria the most interesting girl in the room. We shall never
(although we live, like our predecessors, Griffin and Grildrig, to the
good old age of forty numbers), we shall never, we repeat, forget the
“Some people think so!” with which our amiable auditress replied to our
exclamation. We saw we were disgraced, and, to say the truth, were not a
little pleased that we were no longer of Catherine’s Privy Council.
Now all these ladies are foolish in their way. Theodosia is a silent
fool, Emily is a timid fool, Corinna is a talkative fool, Sappho is a
learned fool, and Catherine is a malicious fool. With their comparative
degrees of moral merit we have nothing to do; but in point of the
agreeable, we hesitate not to affirm that the silent fool is to us the
more insupportable creature of the five.
We lately were present at a large party, where an Etonian, for whom we
have a great esteem, was terribly abused by a witty Marchioness for his
inflexible taciturnity. Without entering upon the merits of this
particular case, let us be allowed to plead in behalf of our sex, that a
gentleman may be silent when a lady is silly, and that it is needless
for a beau to be entertaining where a belle is decidedly impracticable.
LOVERS’ VOWS.
“What grace hast thou, thus to reprove
These worms for loving?” SHAKESPEARE.
We were engaged the other day in making some purchases at Flint’s, when
Lady Honoria Saville entered, attended by the Hon. George Comyn. As the
lady is a professed coquette, and the gentleman a professed dangler, we
conceived it by no means improper to play the listener; for the
conversation of these characters is seldom such as to require much
secrecy. We therefore placed ourselves in a convenient situation for
hearing whatever was said by the beau, the belle, and the milliner,
which last I consider the most rational person of the three. The
questions which were put to her by her ladyship escaped us; they seemed
to be conveyed, not in the language of common mortals, but in signs
which were to us incomprehensible. Without exposing ourselves to the
notice of either party, we were beyond measure amused at the timely aid
which the milliner’s descriptions of her wares afforded to the lover’s
description of his passion; for whenever the latter was at a loss for
words, the former stepped in to finish his sentence, and occasionally
gave a point to it, in which lovers’ vows are generally deficient.
When they first made their appearance, the gentleman was deposing upon
oath to the truth of something of which his companion seemed to
entertain doubts. He had run through some of the usual forms of
adjuration, such as Sun, Moon, Stars, Venus, and Blue Eyes, when he was
stopped by “Lovers’ vows, Comyn! lovers’ vows! Where do they come from?”
“Where?” repeated the gentleman, in a theatrical attitude; “they come
from a sincere affection, from a passionate heart, from a devoted
adoration, from----” “From Paris, I assure you, madam,” said the
milliner, who was turning over some silks. “But I wonder, Comyn!”
resumed her ladyship, “I wonder you can continue to bore me with this
nonsense! Lovers’ vows have given me the vapours these last five years,
and, after all, what are they worth?” “Worth!” reiterated the fop; “they
are worth the mines of Peru, the diamonds of Golconda, the sands of
Pactolus!” “They are worth five shillings a pair, madam,” said the
milliner, “and it’s really throwing them away.” She was talking of some
kid gloves.
“You gentlemen,” said her ladyship, “must think us very weak creatures,
if you fancy that we are to be imposed upon by any folly you choose to
utter. Lovers’ vows have been proverbial since the days of Queen Bess,
and it would be strange if, in 1820, we should not have found out what
they are made of.” “In my case,” said the exquisite, “your ladyship is
cruel in supposing them to be made of anything but the purest
sincerity.” “They are made of the finest materials,” said the milliner,
“and your ladyship can see through them like glass.” She was holding up
to the window some stuff with a hard name, which we know nothing about.
“Say what you will, Comyn,” said her ladyship,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot on sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
“Lovers’ vows are never intended to last beyond a day!” “Your ladyship
is unjust!” replied the dandy; “they will last when all other ties shall
be broken; they will last when the bond of relationship shall be
cancelled, and the link of friendship riven; they will last----” “They
will last for ever, madam, and wash afterwards!” said the milliner. She
was speaking of some scarfs.
“Really, George,” observed her ladyship, “you would think me an
egregious fool if I were to believe one quarter of what you say to me.
Speak the truth, George, for once, if it is in your nature--should I not
be _folle--folle_ beyond measure?” “You love to trifle with my passion,”
sighed the Honourable; “but this is what we must all expect! Fascinating
as you are, you feel not for the woes of your victims; you are more
insensible than flints--nothing is dear to you.” “Flint’s will make
nothing dear to your ladyship,” said the milliner, wrapping up the
parcel.
“In this age of invention,” said Lady Honoria, “it is surprising to me
that no one has invented a thermometer to try the temperature of lovers’
vows. What a price would a boarding-school miss give for such an
invention! I certainly will make the suggestion to young Montgomery,
that writes the sonnets!” “Good God!” cried the worshipper, “where shall
I send for such a test of sincerity? I would send to the suns of India,
to the snows of Tobolsk; I would send to the little-toed ladies of
China, and the great-hatted chieftains of Loo-Choo; I would send----”
“Shall I send it to your ladyship’s house?” said the milliner, holding
up the parcel.
“Well,” said her ladyship, rising to leave the shop, “I shall contend no
more with so subtle a disputant; my opinion of lovers’ vows remains
unchanged, and I desire you won’t pester me with them at the Opera this
evening, or I shall positively die of ennui.” We saw that this was meant
as an assignation, and the Honourable George Comyn saw things in the
same light. “How,” he cried, “how shall I thank your ladyship for this
condescension? How shall I express the feelings of the heart you have
rescued from despair? Language is too poor, utterance is too weak, for
the emotion which I feel; what can I say?” “Much obliged to your
ladyship,” said the milliner.
ON THE PRACTICAL ASYNDETON.
“Nil fuit unquam
Tam dispar sibi.” HOR.
The treatise on the Practical Bathos which appeared in our first number,
and which we have the vanity to hope is not entirely blotted out from
the recollection of our readers, was intended as the first of a series
of dissertations, in which we design to apply the beauties of the
figures of the grammarians to the purposes of real life. We are very
strongly tempted to pursue this design, when we reflect upon the
advantages which have already been the result of the above-mentioned
treatise. We are assured, from the most indisputable authority, that the
number of the specimens of that most admirable figure exhibited by our
schoolfellows in the exercises of the ensuing week was without precedent
in the annals of Etonian literature. We have no doubt but those apt
scholars who have so readily profited by our recommendation of the
Bathos, as far as regards _com_position, will, at no very distant
period, make the same use of this inestimable figure in the regulation
of their _dis_position. But it is time to quit this topic, and to enter
upon the second of our proposed series: “A Treatise on the Practical
Asyndeton.”
First, then, as in duty and in gallantry bound, we must construe this
hard word. The figure Asyndeton, in grammar, is that by which
conjunctions are omitted, and an unconnected appearance given to the
sentence, which is frequently inexpressibly beautiful. Who is there of
our rising orators who has not glowed with all the inspiration of a
Roman, when fancy echoes in his ears the brief, the unconnected, and
energetic thunders of the Consul, “Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit?”
What reader of tragedy does not sympathize with the Orosmane of
Voltaire, when, upon the receipt of the billet from Zayre, his anxiety
bursts out in those beautifully unconnected expressions--
Donne!--qui la porte?--donne!
The use of connecting particles in either of these cases would have
ruined everything. They would have destroyed the majesty of Cicero, and
reduced to the level of an every-day novelist the simple tenderness of
Orosmane.
The use of this figure, however, is not confined to particular sentences
or expressions. It sometimes pervades the five acts of what is miscalled
a regular drama, or spreads an uncertain transparent gleam over the
otherwise insupportable sameness of some inexplicable epic. Numberless
are the writers who have been indebted to its assistance; but our own,
our immortal countryman, Shakespeare, preserves an undisputed station
at the head of the list. Fettered by no imitation, but the imitation of
Nature; bound down to no rules but the vivid conceptions of an
untutored, self-working genius, he hurries us from place to place with
the velocity of a torrent; we appear to be carried on by a rushing
stream, which conveys our boat so rapidly in its eddies, that we pass
through a thousand scenes, and are unable to observe for a moment the
abruptness with which the changes are effected.
Our modern farce-writers have, with laudable emulation, followed the
example of this great master of the stage; but as in their use of this
figure they possess the audacity without the genius of the bard they
imitate, they cannot prevent us from perceiving the frequent Asyndeton
in place, in plot, or in character. The beauty of the countries to which
they introduce us is not such as to withdraw us from the contemplation
of the outrageously miraculous manner in which we were transported to
them.
We have delayed the reader quite long enough with this preliminary
discussion, and will now enter at once upon our main subject: the
Asyndeton in life.
We should imagine that few of our readers are ignorant of the charms of
novelty; few have lived through their boyhood and their youth without
experiencing the disgust which a too frequent repetition of the same
pleasure infallibly produces. There is in novelty a charm, the want of
which no other qualification can in any degree compensate. The most
studied viands for the gratification of the appetite please us when
first we enjoy them, but the enjoyment becomes tasteless by repetition,
and the _crambe repetita_ of satiety provokes nausea instead of exciting
desire. Thus it is in other and weightier matters. The pleasures which
we first devoured with avidity lose much of their relish when they recur
a second time, and are mere gall and wormwood to us when their sweets
have become familiar to our taste. A common every-day character,
although its possessor may enjoy abundance of worth and good sense,
makes no impression on our minds; but the novelty of capricious beauty
or uncultivated genius finds a sure road to our hearts.
This is something too long for a digression; but novelty is a very
pretty theme, and must be our excuse. We will return forthwith to our
subject.
Since novelty then has so much weight in influencing the judgment, or at
least the prejudices of mankind, it is right that this most desirable
qualification should not be neglected by young persons on their _début_
upon the stage of life; we must be masters of this excellence before we
can expect to shine in any other; we must be new before we can hope to
be amusing.
Now the figure which we have been discussing, or rather the figure which
we ought to have been discussing, is the very essence and quintessence
of novelty. It is perpetually bringing before our eyes old scenes in a
new form, old friends in a new dress, old recollections in a new
imagery: it is the cayenne of life; and from it the dishes, which would
without it cloy and disgust, derive a perpetual variety of taste and
pungency. It takes from the scenes we so often witness their unpleasing
uniformity, and gives to our mortal career an air of romance which is
inexpressibly amusing. All ranks of persons may alike derive benefit
from it. By its use the charms of the beauty become more irresistible,
the exploits of the general more astonishing, the character of the rake
more excusable. It gives in an equal degree pleasure to those who
behold, and advantage to those who practise it.