well know how to account for--viz., that their use appears to be almost
entirely confined to the fair sex. They are but seldom applied to a
gentleman. We have certainly been ear-witnesses to some exceptions upon
this rule: for instance, we heard old Cleaver the butcher, who has lived
nearly seventy years, and amassed nearly seventy thousand pounds,
advised by his friend Gibbie, the tobacconist, to leave off business, as
he was now of a “certain age.” And in like manner did we hear Mrs.
Solander, when inclined for a solitary walk, admonish her husband, the
alderman, not to take up his crutch to accompany her, for he was now “of
a certain age.” But with these, and a few other exceptions, we have
heard this significant expression applied solely to ladies.
As to the meaning of the words, we confess that we are so completely at
fault that we do not thoroughly understand whether they imply censure or
commendation. The air of sarcasm and contempt with which they are
commonly delivered leave us to conclude that the former is intended to
be conveyed; yet we cannot but think that the words themselves signify
the latter, if they have any signification at all. For, conscious as we
are of the uncertainty of female fancies, the doubts they entertain on
the most minute point, the hesitation which they display alike, in the
refusal of an equipage or a thimble, an earring or a husband, we
certainly consider it no small praise in a woman if she is found to be
“certain” in anything. Nevertheless, so attached are we all to our folly
and our self-conceit, that we are unwilling even to be commended for the
exercise of those good qualities which we call mean and contemptible.
Hence it is that our fair friends, who cruelly exult in the ambiguity of
uncertain wills, uncertain wishes, and uncertain smiles, reject with
disdain the honour (which we must allow would be inconsistent) of
possessing--“a certain age.”
The discovery of the time at which this epoch is fixed baffles our
utmost diligence. We are rather disposed to place it at no particular
number of years in the life of man, but to allow it to vary its period
according to the disposition and manner of life of each individual. We
would make it a sort of interregnum between manhood and age, between
decline and imbecility. According to our idea, the certain age of the
officer would last from the first to the final breaking up of his
constitution; the certain age of the drunkard would extend from the
first fit of the gout to the last shake of the head of his physician;
the judge would find himself in a certain age, from the time when he
quits the bench to the time when he is unable to quit the sofa; and the
coquette must submit to the provoking definition of a certain age, from
the day on which rouge and enamel first become necessary, to the silent
melancholy day on which rouge and enamel will be unavailing.
According to this arrangement, a certain age would be that restless
uneasy space which elapses between our first warning to prepare for
another world and our final summons to enter it. That period is to some
of long, to others of shorter duration; but we believe there are few to
whom this brief, this insufficient space for preparation is not
conceded; there are few who are not warned by some previous sign or
visitation that their sand is almost run out, that a new state of
existence awaits them, that their days upon this earth are numbered. The
phrase which we hear so frequently, and disregard, seen in this light
will indeed inspire sombre and salutary ideas; for ourselves, we look
upon a certain age as if it were the last veil which conceals from us
the visions we dread to see; the last barrier which shuts us from that
unexplored country on which we fear to tread; the last pause between
experience and doubt,--the last dark silent curtain which separates Time
from Eternity.
NOT AT HOME.
“An Englishman’s house is his castle.”
“Not at home,” said her ladyship’s footman, with the usual air of
nonchalance, which says, “You know I am lying, but--_n’importe_!”
“Not at home,” I repeated to myself, as I sauntered from the door in a
careless fit of abstractedness. “Not at Home!”--how universally
practised is this falsehood! Of what various, and what powerful import?
Is there any one who has not been preserved from annoyance by its
adoption? Is there any one who has not rejoiced, or grieved, or smiled,
or sighed at the sound of “Not at Home?” No! everybody (that is
everybody who has any pretensions to the title of somebody) acknowledges
the utility and advantages of these three little words. To them the lady
of _ton_ is indebted for the undisturbed enjoyment of her vapours, the
philosopher for the preservation of solitude and study, the spendthrift
for the repulse of the importunate dun.
It is true that the constant use of this sentence savours somewhat of a
false French taste, which I hope never to see engrafted upon our true
English feeling. But in this particular who will not excuse this
imitation of our refined neighbours? Who will so far give up the
enviable privilege of making his house his castle, as to throw open the
gates upon the first summons of inquisitive impertinence or fashionable
intrusion? The “morning calls” of the dun and the dandy, the belle and
the bailiff, the poet and the petitioner, appear to us a species of open
hostility carried on against our comfort and tranquillity; and, as all
stratagems are fair in war, we find no fault with the ingenious device
which fortifies us against these insidious attacks.
While I was engaged in this mental soliloquy, a carriage drove up to
Lady Mortimer’s door, and a footman in a most appallingly splendid
livery roused me from a reverie by a thundering knock. “Not at Home!”
was the result of the application. Half a dozen cards were thrust from
the window; and, after due inquiries after her ladyship’s cold, and her
ladyship’s husband’s cold, and her ladyship’s lap-dog’s cold, the
carriage resumed its course, and so did my cogitations. “What,” said I
to myself, “would have been the visitor’s perplexity, if this brief
formula were not in use?” She must have got out of her carriage; an
exertion which would ill accord with the _vis inertiæ_[4] (excuse Latin
in a schoolboy) of a lady, or she must have given up her intention of
leaving her card at a dozen houses to which she is now hastening, or she
must have gone to dinner even later than fashionable punctuality
requires! Equally annoying would the visit have proved to the lady of
the house. She might have been obliged to throw “The Abbot” into the
drawer, or to call the children from the nursery. Is she taciturn? She
might have been compelled to converse. Is she talkative? She might have
been compelled to hold her tongue: or, in all probability, she sees her
friends to-night, and it would be hard indeed if she were not allowed to
be “Not at Home” till ten at night, when from that time she must be “At
Home” till three in the morning.
A knock again recalled me from my abstraction. Upon looking up, I
perceived an interesting youth listening with evident mortification to
the “Not at Home” of the porter. “Not at Home!” he muttered to himself,
as he retired. “What am I to think? She has denied herself these three
days!” and, with a most loverlike sigh, he passed on his way. Here again
what an invaluable talisman was found in “Not at Home!” The idol of his
affections was perhaps at that moment receiving the incense of adoration
from another, possibly a more favoured votary: perhaps she was
balancing, in the solitude of her boudoir, between the Vicar’s band and
the Captain’s epaulettes; or weighing the merits of Gout with a plum, on
the one side, against those of Love with a shilling, on the other. Or,
possibly, she was sitting unprepared for conquest, unadorned by cosmetic
aid, rapt up in dreams of to-night’s assembly, where her face will owe
the evening’s unexpected triumph to the assistance of the morning’s “Not
at Home.”
Another knock! Another “Not at Home!” A fat tradesman, with all the
terrors of authorized impertinence written legibly on his forehead, was
combating with pertinacious resolution the denial of a valet. “The
Captain’s not at home,” said the servant. “I saw him at the window,”
cried the other. “I can’t help that,” resumed the laced Cerberus, “he’s
not at home.”
The foe was not easily repulsed, and seemed disposed to storm. I was in
no little fear for the security of “the castle,” but the siege was
finally raised. The enemy retreated, sending forth from his half-closed
teeth many threats, intermingled with frequent mention of a powerful
ally in the person of Lawyer Shark. “Here,” said I, resuming my
meditations, “here is another instance of the utility of my theme.
Without it, the noble spirit of this disciple of Mars would have been
torn away from reflections on twenty-pounders by a demand for twenty
pounds; from his pride in the King’s Commission, by his dread of the
King’s Bench. Perhaps he is at this moment entranced in dreams of
charges of horse and foot! He might have been roused by a charge for
boots and shoes. In fancy he is at the head of serried columns of
warriors! His eyes might have been opened upon columns of shillings and
pence. In fancy he is disposing of crowns! Horrible thought! he might
have been awakened to the recollection that he has not half-a crown in
the world!”
I had now reached the door of a friend, whom, to say the truth, I
designed to dun for an article. Coming in the capacity of a dun, I ought
not to have been surprised that I experienced a dun’s reception.
Nevertheless, I was a little nettled at the “Not at Home” of my old
friend. “What,” said I, recurring to my former ideas, “what can be
Harry’s occupation that he is thus inaccessible? Is he making love, or
making verses? Studying Euclid or the _Sporting Magazine_? Meditating on
the trial of the Queen last October, or the trial for King’s next July?”
For surely no light cause should induce one Etonian to be “Not at Home”
to another.
As is usual with persons in my situation, who are accustomed to
speculate upon trifles, from which no fixed principle can be deduced, I
negatived the theory of one moment by the practice of the next. For,
having returned from my perambulations, I seated myself in my study,
with pen, ink, and a sheet of foolscap before me; and, finding myself
once more “at Home,” enjoined the servant to remember that I was “Not at
Home” for the rest of the day.
MUSÆ O’CONNORIANÆ.
LETTER FROM PATRICK O’CONNOR, ESQ.
_Enclosing Metrical Versions in the Greek and Latin Tongues._
DEAR MR. COURTENAY,--It is both a shame and a sin that no attempt is
made to perpetuate the memory of those excellent ballads with which the
languages of Ireland, England, and Scotland abound. For whereas the said
languages are allowed by all men of real taste to be Gothic and
semi-barbarous, it is incumbent upon us to endeavour to preserve
whatever good they do contain by putting it into another dress. You know
Mr. O’Doherty has preceded me in this praiseworthy attempt by his
admirable version of Chevy Chace, “Persæus ex Northumbriâ,” &c., which I
have compared with the English ballad so often that I can hardly tell
which is the original. When about to exercise my talents in this line, I
held much question with myself whether I should assimilate my metre to
that of my original, as is the case in the above-mentioned admirable
work, or embody the ideas of my author in the rhythm of the ancient
Greeks. For of the former design I do not consider myself altogether
incapable; in proof of which I enclose a brief specimen of my abilities
in this line--viz., a song from a MS. collection of poems in the
possession of John Jackson, Esq., rendered by Patrick O’Connor, with all
the original rhymes miraculously preserved.
I weep, girl, before ye, Premore dolore,
I kneel to adore ye, Uror amore,
My bosom is torn asunder, Anima fit furibunda;
Maiden divine, O, Madeo vino,
In generous wine, O, Et tibi propino
I pledge thee, Rosamunda! Salutem, Rosamunda.
To a pipe of tobacco, Victa tabaco,
And plenty of sack, O, Victaque Baccho,
Passions and flames knock under; Flamma mi fit moribunda;
I’m hasty and heady Ebrius dedi
With lots of the deady; Venerem et te Diabolo,
Hang thyself, Rosamunda! Rosamunda.
I trust this sample will be sufficient to convince you that when I turn
my talents to the monkish style which the author above alluded to has
chosen I shall come very little behind my prototype. For the present,
however, I have judged that the metres of antiquity are more classical,
and consequently more worthy of a place in the _Etonian_.
With regard to the poem itself, it is not, I believe, generally
understood that Looney, the hero of it, is the descendant of the
celebrated Phelim MacTwolter, who, in the year 1750 A.D., fought that
celebrated pugilistic encounter with Patrick MacNevis, which is the
subject of admiration and encomium in the sporting circles of
Carrickfergus. It is gratifying to me to be able to notice this genuine
son of Hibernia, because the Boxiana of modern criticism, dwelling with
delight upon the minor glories of a Corcoran, a Randall, or a Donnelly,
have by some strange neglect omitted all mention of the surpassing
brilliancy of the merits of Phelim MacTwolter. This is the more
remarkable as the above-mentioned fight was made the subject of a
stanzaic heroic poem, remarkable for the animation and geniality which
is preserved throughout. MacNevis, who it seems was little better than a
braggadocio, gave the challenge. This is described with great force and
simplicity. The landlord’s daughter of the Shamrock public-house, who is
said to have had a penchant for little Phelim, had been boasting of her
lover’s pugilistic fame.
MacNevis leaped up from his seat, Surgebat MacNevisius,
And made his bow and told her, Et mox jactabat ultro,
“Kathleen, I’ll fight for your dear sake “Pugnabo tui gratiâ
Along with fierce MacTwolter.” Cum fero MacTuoltro.”
Does not this remind us strongly of Homer’s Paris?
Ἀυτὰρ ἔμ’ ἐν μέσσῳ καὶ άρηίφιλον Μενέλαον
Συμβάλετ’, ἀμφ’ Ἑλένῃ καὶ κτήμασι πᾶσι μάχεσθαι.
The address of MacNevis to his antagonist upon meeting him in the ring
is conceived in the same style of ferocious grandeur. He sees him
applying himself to the bottle, and exclaims--
While you can see blue ruin, joy! Frater, dum tibi manet lux,
Pull deeper yet and deeper; Bibe ruinæ poculum:
By George! you shall return from hence, Redibis hinc, per Georgium!
Without an open peeper. Utrumque cassus oculum.
Observe that the expression “blue ruin” is very poetical, but my version
of it is also prophetical--a charm unknown to the original. Phelim’s
reply is beautiful--
Don’t tip me now, my lad of wax, Ne sis, Ο cerâ mollior,
Your blarney and locution, Grandiloquus et vanus;
Och! sure you ar’n’t a giant yet, Heus bone! non es gigas tu,
Nor I a Lilliputian. Et non sum ego nanus.
Here again the author, of course, had Homer in his eye--
Μήτι μευ, ἠύτε παιδὸς ἀφαυροῦ, πειρήτιζε.
And again--
Πηλείδη, μὴ δή μ’ ἐπέεσσί γε, νηπύτιον ὥς,
Ἐλπεο δειδίξεσθαι.
The contest, which, it is possible, I may by-and-by transmit to you at
length, is described with a minuteness which far exceeds Virgil’s Dares
and Entellus, or even the pugilism of the _Sporting Magazine_. The
modest MacTwolter is, as he deserves to be, the victor. The poem
concludes in a high strain of triumph--
So Victory to Phelim gave Victoria dedit Phelimo
A wife of fair renown; Uxorem valde bonam;
And with that wife she gave besides Et dedit cum uxore hâc
To him a silver crown. Argenteam coronam.
I must now cease to comment upon this fascinating character, and
proceed, without further delay, to the celebration of the amour of his
descendant. Looney MacTwolter is well known to you, as you have
frequently heard the identical ballad from the lips of Frederick
Golightly. I shall therefore give you my promised translation of it,
without note or preface. Give it a classical name--“an Eclogue,” or “an
Idyll,” or “an Elegy,” or what you will.
Ι.
Oh, whack! Cupid’s a mannikin,
Smack on my heart he hit me a polter;
Good lack, Judy O’Flannikin!
Dearly she loves nate Looney MacTwolter.
Judy’s my darling, my kisses she suffers;
She’s an heiress, that’s clear,
For her father sells beer;
He keeps the sign of the Cow and the Snuffers;
She’s so smart,
From my heart
I cannot bolt her.
Oh, whack, Judy O’Flannikin!
She is the girl for Looney MacTwolter.
II.
Oh, hone! good news I need a bit!
We’d correspond, but larning would choke her.
Mavrone!--I cannot read a bit;
Judy can’t tell a pen from a poker.
Judy’s so constant, I’ll never forsake her;
She’s true as the moon--
Only one afternoon
I caught her asleep with a humpbacked shoemaker.
She’s so smart, &c.
ά.
Ἀλαλη· τι μικρον ἐστι
βρεφος οὐλιον Κυθηρης,
ἐμε δ’ ἐγκρατει βελεμνῳ
προς καρδιαν ένυξεν.
ἀλαλη· τι φημ’; Ιουδιθ
ἀπο Φλαννικιν φιλεῖ με,
τον Λουνιαν φιλεῖ με,
τοκον εὐπρεπη Τυολτρου.
μελι και το νεκταρ ἀμον
ἀπαλη πεφυκ’ Ιουδιθ·
το δ’ ἐμον, χαριεσσα θυμῳ,
γλυκερον φιλημα πασχει.
ἐφανη δ’ ἀρ’, oὐκ ἀδηλως,
μεγαλου λαχουσα κληρου.
ὀ πατηρ γαρ, εὐ τοδ’ οιδα,
πομα κριθινον πιπρασκει.
ὑπο σημα δ’ ἡ καθηται
βοος ἡδε και πυραγρας.
Χαριεσσα δ’ ἡ πεφηνε·
τοσον, ὡς νιν οὑ δύναιμην
ἀπο καρδιας ἀπωσαι·
ἀλαλη· μαλιστ’ Ιουδιθ
ἀπο Φλαννικιν με τερπει,
τον Λουνιαν με τερπει,
τοκὸν εὺπρεπη Τυολτρου.
β’.
‘Οτοτοι· τι γραμμ’ ἀπ’ αὐτης
καλος ἀγγελος γενοιτ’ ἀν·
ἀποροισι δ’ ἀν πλοκαισιν
σοφια νιν ἀγχονωη.
‘Οτοτοι· τα γραμματ’ οὐδεις
ἐδιδαξε μ’, ἡ δ’ Ιουδιθ
γραφιδ’ οὐτι και σιδηρον
πυροσειστικον διεγνω·
μελι και το νεκταρ ἀμον
ἀπαλη πεφυκ’ Ιουδιθ·
οὐδ’ εὐφρονως ἐγωγε
καταλειψομαι ποτ’ αὐτην·
ἐφανη γαρ, άς σεληνη,
παναληθινη νεανις·
ἀλλ’, ἑσπερας πεσουσης,
ἐληψαμην ποτ’ αὐτης
ὐποδεμνιας ξυνευνου
σκολιῳ γε βυρσοδεψῃ·
χαριεσσα δ’ ἠ πεφηνε, κ. τ. λ.
PATRICK O’CONNOR.
HANG
Port St. Dermid, near Ballinocrasy,
December 28, 1820.
[NOTE.--The Greek Version, to which this paper was written as a
preface, was the composition of the late John Louis Petit,
subsequently Vicar of Uplands, Shifnal, Salop.]
THE KNIGHT AND THE KNAVE.
AΝ OLD ENGLISH TALE.
“Reginald!” said the old Baron. It is striking, and fashionable, and
classical, to hurry my reader thus _in medias res_; else it had been my
duty to have informed him that the _dramatis personæ_ whom he finds upon
the scene are the son and grandson of the redoubted Hugh d’Arennes, who
did good service by the Conqueror’s side at the field of Hastings. In
common with the distinguished chiefs of William’s army, he had received
large grants of land, which his enterprising spirit, and his interest
with the monarch and his successor, had tended to augment. His heir,
however, the present head of the illustrious family, had rather studied
the security than the aggrandizement of his possessions, and had grown
to a green old age in retirement and seclusion, as far as was compatible
with his high rank and exalted situation. The younger speaker of the
colloquy was of a character, the description of which may be dismissed
as easily. Not having been obliged, like the other young men of his
time, to take an active part in the divisions which agitated the period
of the reign of the second Henry, Reginald had not acquired the firm and
energetic tone of mind by which the sons of the nobility were
distinguished. He had been accustomed to shape his conduct, in the most
trifling concerns, according to the advice and judgment of his father;
and consequently, when deprived for a short period of his monitor,
seemed utterly incapable of thinking seriously, or rather seemed to have
made a religious vow against thinking at all. This hopeful descendant of
the noble Sir Hugh had arrived at the age of twenty, was possessed of a
listless, yet handsome, set of features; a careless, yet commanding
figure; a true English head at the cup, and a true English hand at the
quarrel. And now, having gone through the interruption, which ought to
have been the introduction, let us proceed.
“Reginald!” said the old Baron, with a slight inclination of the head,
which he was in the habit of using when he wished to throw dignity into
his admonitions.
“Ears hear thee,” said the son, without stirring from the huge oaken
table upon which, after the fatigues of the chase, he was reclining.
“I have ordered that we should be alone, my son,” said the old man,
“because I have to discourse to thee a matter which deeply and nearly
concerns thy welfare. Pour for thy father, Reginald.”
Reginald obeyed; and, after performing for himself the same office,
resumed his attitude, with an aspect which was ludicrously divided
between the resolution to attend and the propensity to inattention.
“Twenty years have gone by, Reginald, since thou didst become the hope
of the house of which thou wilt shortly be the head. Ere thou hast other
twenty years to look back upon, thou wilt have lost the guidance of thy
father, and I shall sleep by the side of mine.”
“Sir Hugh sleeps in the abbey,” said Reginald.
“He doth,” resumed his adviser. “He was a knight of name and fame, and
wielded a good sword at Hastings.”
“As touching the sword,” said Reginald, totally unconscious of any
metaphorical meaning implied in his father’s words, “it hangs above him
in the abbey. Marry, it is somewhat rusty, but nevertheless a good
sword.”
“But, Reginald, to come to the point----”
“Thou dost remind me how that it was broken against the fifth rib of
Egwulph, surnamed the Impetuous, a good knight and a true--although a
Saxon.”
The look of the young man had in it something of animation as he
expressed his hereditary contempt of the Saxon race. To his father,
however, this demonstration of feeling did not seem altogether so
welcome as it might have been upon another occasion. He contracted his
huge shaggy eyebrows, turned his eyes from his son to the wine-cup, and
from the wine-cup to his son, stroked his chin, folded his arms, and, in
short, assumed an attitude of thought, which was little less ridiculous
than the thoughtlessness of his companion. After a pause of some
minutes, he began to speak, sending out his words with all the caution
and circumspection of a Fabius.
“Of a truth, Reginald, the Saxon thanes are in breeding and courtesy
rough, and in no way able to compete with the bearing of our Norman
knights; but they are not, as thy speech would signify, altogether to be
contemned. There is among them much might of arm, and courage of heart;
and Sir Hugh was wont to say there were few cravens at Hastings.”
Reginald made no reply: he was deep in mental researches after the
probable cause of the Baron’s unaccustomed eulogium upon a race so
universally vilified. Finding himself unable to solve the mystery, he
waited in silence for some further clue. The old man looked as if to see
whether his words had made any impression upon the prejudices of his
hearer; and, not being able to ascertain the fact, proceeded: “There is
Leofwyn of Kennet Hold,” said he, “his better never drew bow: his
grandfather stood before Harold when De Rocroi had him down. He hath
riches and retainers, such as never had King of England. Ill befall the
man that thinks scorn of Leofwyn of Kennet Hold.”
“He is our near neighbour,” said Reginald. “I have heard that he hath a
braver horse than is my black steed Launcelot, and hounds whose equals
the world cannot show. He hath a daughter, too, if fame speak rightly, a
lady of a most noble presence; and he hath a falcon----” Here he was
interrupted by the old Baron, who, as if weary of the circumlocution by
which he had been endeavouring to bring about his object, observed
dryly: “It is to that lady, Reginald, I would see thee wedded.”
Reginald fixed himself upright upon the table on which he had been
extended, and, opening wide his large languid eyes, gazed upon his
father with a mute expression of astonishment. The latter, though a
little daunted by the silence with which his proposition had been
received, proceeded to explain the causes and consequences of his
design. It is needless to accompany him through his detail, which, to
say truth, was somewhat prolix. It is sufficient to state that the lands
of the Saxon looked tempting in the eyes of the Norman lord; and that,
in times of such danger and difficulty, it seemed prudent to conciliate
the friendship of those who were powerful in their immediate vicinity,
and especially those who were attached to the Saxon succession.