CONTAINING SUNDRY MATTERS APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY.
If, generous reader, you had lived in Charleston, we would take it for
granted that you need no further enlightening on any of our very select
societies, especially the St. Cecilia; but you may not have enjoyed a
residence so distinguished, rendering unnecessary a few explanatory
remarks. You must know that we not only esteem ourselves the
quintessence of refinement, as we have an undisputed right to do, but
regard the world outside as exceedingly stupid in not knowing as much
of us as we profess to know of ourselves. Abroad, we wonder we are not
at once recognized as Carolinians; at home, we let the vulgar world
know who we are. Indeed, we regard the outside world—of these States we
mean—very much in that light which the Greeks of old were wont to view
the Romans in. Did we but stop here, the weakness might be pardonable.
But we lay claim to Grecian refinement of manners, while pluming all
our mob-politicians Roman orators. There is a profanity about this we
confess not to like; not that danger can befall it, but because it hath
about it that which reminds us of the oyster found in the shell of
gold. Condescending, then, to believe there exists outside of our State
a few persons silly enough to read books, we will take it for granted,
reader, that you are one of them, straightway proceeding with you to
the St. Cecilia.
You have been a fashionable traveller in Europe? You say—yes! rummaged
all the feudal castles of England, sought out the resting places of her
kings, heard some one say “that is poet’s corner,” as we passed into
Westminster Abbey, thought they couldn’t be much to have such a
corner,—“went to look” where Byron was buried, moistened the marble
with a tear ere we were conscious of it, and saw open to us the gulf of
death as we contemplated how greedy graveyard worms were banqueting on
his greatness. A world of strange fancies came over us as we mused on
England’s poets. And we dined with several Dukes and a great many more
Earls, declining no end of invitations of commoners. Very well! we
reply, adding a sigh. And on your return to your home, that you may not
be behind the fashion, you compare disparagingly everything that meets
your eye. Nothing comes up to what you saw in Europe. A servant doesn’t
know how to be a servant here; and were we to see the opera at Covent
Garden, we would be sure to stare our eyes out. It is become habitual
to introduce your conversation with, “when I was in Europe.” And you
know you never write a letter that you don’t in some way bring in the
distinguished persons you met abroad. There is something (no matter
what it is) that forcibly reminds you of what occurred at the table of
my Lady Clarendon, with whom you twice had the pleasure and rare honor
of dining. And by implication, you always give us a sort of
lavender-water description of the very excellent persons you met there,
and what they were kind enough to say of America, and how they
complimented you, and made you the centre and all-absorbing object of
attraction—in a word, a truly wonderful person. And you will not fail,
now that it is become fashionable, to extol with fulsome breath the
greatness of every European despot it hath been your good fortune to
get a bow from. And you are just vain enough to forever keep this
before your up-country cousins. You say, too, that you have looked in
at Almacks. Almacks! alas! departed greatness. With the rise of the
Casino hath it lain its aristocratic head in the dust.
Well!—the St. Cecilia you must know (its counterparts are to be found
in all our great cities) is a miniature Almacks—a sort of leach-cloth,
through which certain very respectable individuals must pass ere they
can become the elite of our fashionable world. To become a member of
the St. Cecilia—to enjoy its recherché assemblies—to luxuriate in the
delicate perfumes of its votaries, is the besetting sin of a great many
otherwise very sensible people. And to avenge their disappointment at
not being admitted to its precious precincts, they are sure to be found
in the front rank of scandal-mongers when anything in their line is up
with a member. And it is seldom something is not up, for the society
would seem to live and get lusty in an atmosphere of perpetual scandal.
Any amount of duels have come of it; it hath made rich no end of
milliners; it hath made bankrupt husbands by the dozen; it hath been
the theatre of several distinguished romances; it hath witnessed the
first throbbings of sundry hearts, since made happy in wedlock; it hath
been the _shibolath_ of sins that shall be nameless here. The reigning
belles are all members (provided they belong to our first families) of
the St. Cecilia, as is also the prettiest and most popular unmarried
parson. And the parson being excellent material for scandal, Mother
Rumor is sure to have a dash at him. Nor does this very busy old lady
seem over-delicate about which of the belles she associates with the
parson, so long as the scandal be fashionable enough to afford her a
good traffic.
There is continually coming along some unknown but very distinguished
foreigner, whom the society adopts as its own, flutters over, and
smothers with attentions, and drops only when it is discovered he is an
escaped convict. This, in deference to the reputation of the St.
Cecilia, we acknowledge has only happened twice. It has been said with
much truth that the St. Cecilia’s worst sin, like the sins of its
sister societies of New York, is a passion for smothering with the
satin and Honiton of its assemblies a certain supercilious species of
snobby Englishmen, who come over here, as they have it (gun and
fishing-rod in hand), merely to get right into the woods where they can
have plenty of bear-hunting, confidently believing New York a forest
inhabited by such animals. As for our squaws, as Mr. Tom Toddleworth
would say, (we shall speak more at length of Tom!) why! they have no
very bad opinion of them, seeing that they belong to a race of
semi-barbarians, whose sayings they delight to note down. Having no
society at home, this species of gentry the more readily find
themselves in high favor with ours. They are always Oxonians, as the
sons of green grocers and fishmongers are sure to be when they come
over here (so Mr. Toddleworth has it, and he is good authority), and we
being an exceedingly impressible people, they kindly condescend to
instruct us in all the high arts, now and then correcting our very bad
English. They are clever fellows generally, being sure to get on the
kind side of credulous mothers with very impressible-headed daughters.
There was, however, always a distinguished member of the St. Cecilia
society who let out all that took place at its assemblies. The vulgar
always knew what General danced with the lovely Miss A., and how they
looked, and what they said to each other; how many jewels Miss A. wore,
and the material her dress was made of; they knew who polked with the
accomplished Miss B., and how like a duchess she bore herself; they had
the exact name of the colonel who dashed along so like a knight with
the graceful and much-admired Mrs. D., whose husband was abroad serving
his country; what gallant captain of dragoons (captains of infantry
were looked upon as not what they might be) promenaded so imperiously
with the vivacious Miss E.; and what distinguished foreigner sat all
night in the corner holding a suspicious and very improper conversation
with Miss F., whose skirts never were free of scandal, and who had
twice got the pretty parson into difficulty with his church. Hence
there was a perpetual outgoing of scandal on the one side, and pelting
of dirt on the other.
When Mr. Soloman sought the presence of Mrs. Swiggs and told her it was
all up with the St. Cecilia, and when that august member of the society
was so happily disappointed by his concluding with leaving it an
undamaged reputation, the whole story was not let out. In truth the
society was at that moment in a state of indignation, and its
reputation as well-nigh the last stage of disgrace as it were possible
to bring it without being entirely absorbed. The Baronet, who enjoyed a
good joke, and was not over-scrupulous in measuring the latitude of our
credulity, had, it seems, in addition to the little affair with Mrs.
Constance, been imprudent enough to introduce at one of the assemblies
of the St. Cecilia, a lady of exceedingly fair but frail import: this
loveliest of creatures—this angel of fallen fame—this jewel, so much
sought after in her own casket—this child of gentleness and beauty,
before whom a dozen gallant knights were paying homage, and claiming
her hand for the next waltz, turned out to be none other than the Anna
Bonard we have described at the house of Madame Flamingo. The discovery
sent the whole assembly into a fainting fit, and caused such a
fluttering in the camp of fashion. Reader! you may rest assured
back-doors and smelling-bottles were in great demand.
The Baronet had introduced her as his cousin; just arrived, he said, in
the care of her father—the cousin whose beauty he had so often referred
to. So complete was her toilet and disguise, that none but the most
intimate associate could have detected the fraud. Do you ask us who was
the betrayer, reader? We answer,—
One whose highest ambition did seem that of getting her from her
paramour, George Mullholland. It was Judge Sleepyhorn. Reader! you will
remember him—the venerable, snowy-haired man, sitting on the lounge at
the house of Madame Flamingo, and on whom George Mullholland swore to
have revenge. The judge of a criminal court, the admonisher of the
erring, the sentencer of felons, the _habitue_ of the house of Madame
Flamingo—no libertine in disguise could be more scrupulous of his
standing in society, or so sensitive of the opinion held of him by the
virtuous fair, than was this daylight guardian of public morals.
The Baronet got himself nicely out of the affair, and Mr. Soloman
Snivel, commonly called Mr. Soloman, the accommodation man, is at the
house of Madame Flamingo, endeavoring to effect a reconciliation
between the Judge and George Mullholland.