the room door after the lady had retired, ‘you have very great reason
to be fond of your wife. Sweet woman, Mrs. Capper, sir!’ ‘Nay, Mincin—I
beg,’ interposed the host, as we were about to reply that Mrs. Capper
unquestionably was particularly sweet. ‘Pray, Mincin, don’t.’ ‘Why
not?’ exclaimed Mr. Mincin, ‘why not? Why should you feel any delicacy
before your old friend—_our_ old friend, if I may be allowed to call
you so, sir; why should you, I ask?’ We of course wished to know why he
should also, upon which our friend admitted that Mrs. Capper _was_ a
very sweet woman, at which admission Mr. Mincin cried ‘Bravo!’ and
begged to propose Mrs. Capper with heartfelt enthusiasm, whereupon our
host said, ‘Thank you, Mincin,’ with deep feeling; and gave us, in a
low voice, to understand, that Mincin had saved Mrs. Capper’s cousin’s
life no less than fourteen times in a year and a half, which he
considered no common circumstance—an opinion to which we most cordially
subscribed.
Now that we three were left to entertain ourselves with conversation,
Mr. Mincin’s extreme friendliness became every moment more apparent; he
was so amazingly friendly, indeed, that it was impossible to talk about
anything in which he had not the chief concern. We happened to allude
to some affairs in which our friend and we had been mutually engaged
nearly fourteen years before, when Mr. Mincin was all at once reminded
of a joke which our friend had made on that day four years, which he
positively must insist upon telling—and which he did tell accordingly,
with many pleasant recollections of what he said, and what Mrs. Capper
said, and how he well remembered that they had been to the play with
orders on the very night previous, and had seen Romeo and Juliet, and
the pantomime, and how Mrs. Capper being faint had been led into the
lobby, where she smiled, said it was nothing after all, and went back
again, with many other interesting and absorbing particulars: after
which the friendly young gentleman went on to assure us, that our
friend had experienced a marvellously prophetic opinion of that same
pantomime, which was of such an admirable kind, that two morning papers
took the same view next day: to this our friend replied, with a little
triumph, that in that instance he had some reason to think he had been
correct, which gave the friendly young gentleman occasion to believe
that our friend was always correct; and so we went on, until our
friend, filling a bumper, said he must drink one glass to his dear
friend Mincin, than whom he would say no man saved the lives of his
acquaintances more, or had a more friendly heart. Finally, our friend
having emptied his glass, said, ‘God bless you, Mincin,’—and Mr. Mincin
and he shook hands across the table with much affection and
earnestness.
But great as the friendly young gentleman is, in a limited scene like
this, he plays the same part on a larger scale with increased _éclat_.
Mr. Mincin is invited to an evening party with his dear friends the
Martins, where he meets his dear friends the Cappers, and his dear
friends the Watsons, and a hundred other dear friends too numerous to
mention. He is as much at home with the Martins as with the Cappers;
but how exquisitely he balances his attentions, and divides them among
his dear friends! If he flirts with one of the Miss Watsons, he has one
little Martin on the sofa pulling his hair, and the other little Martin
on the carpet riding on his foot. He carries Mrs. Watson down to supper
on one arm, and Miss Martin on the other, and takes wine so
judiciously, and in such exact order, that it is impossible for the
most punctilious old lady to consider herself neglected. If any young
lady, being prevailed upon to sing, become nervous afterwards, Mr.
Mincin leads her tenderly into the next room, and restores her with
port wine, which she must take medicinally. If any gentleman be
standing by the piano during the progress of the ballad, Mr. Mincin
seizes him by the arm at one point of the melody, and softly beating
time the while with his head, expresses in dumb show his intense
perception of the delicacy of the passage. If anybody’s self-love is to
be flattered, Mr. Mincin is at hand. If anybody’s overweening vanity is
to be pampered, Mr. Mincin will surfeit it. What wonder that people of
all stations and ages recognise Mr. Mincin’s friendliness; that he is
universally allowed to be handsome as amiable; that mothers think him
an oracle, daughters a dear, brothers a beau, and fathers a wonder! And
who would not have the reputation of the very friendly young gentleman?
THE MILITARY YOUNG GENTLEMAN
We are rather at a loss to imagine how it has come to pass that
military young gentlemen have obtained so much favour in the eyes of
the young ladies of this kingdom. We cannot think so lightly of them as
to suppose that the mere circumstance of a man’s wearing a red coat
ensures him a ready passport to their regard; and even if this were the
case, it would be no satisfactory explanation of the circumstance,
because, although the analogy may in some degree hold good in the case
of mail coachmen and guards, still general postmen wear red coats, and
_they_ are not to our knowledge better received than other men; nor are
firemen either, who wear (or used to wear) not only red coats, but very
resplendent and massive badges besides—much larger than epaulettes.
Neither do the twopenny post-office boys, if the result of our
inquiries be correct, find any peculiar favour in woman’s eyes,
although they wear very bright red jackets, and have the additional
advantage of constantly appearing in public on horseback, which last
circumstance may be naturally supposed to be greatly in their favour.
We have sometimes thought that this phenomenon may take its rise in the
conventional behaviour of captains and colonels and other gentlemen in
red coats on the stage, where they are invariably represented as fine
swaggering fellows, talking of nothing but charming girls, their king
and country, their honour, and their debts, and crowing over the
inferior classes of the community, whom they occasionally treat with a
little gentlemanly swindling, no less to the improvement and pleasure
of the audience, than to the satisfaction and approval of the choice
spirits who consort with them. But we will not devote these pages to
our speculations upon the subject, inasmuch as our business at the
present moment is not so much with the young ladies who are bewitched
by her Majesty’s livery as with the young gentlemen whose heads are
turned by it. For ‘heads’ we had written ‘brains;’ but upon
consideration, we think the former the more appropriate word of the
two.
These young gentlemen may be divided into two classes—young gentlemen
who are actually in the army, and young gentlemen who, having an
intense and enthusiastic admiration for all things appertaining to a
military life, are compelled by adverse fortune or adverse relations to
wear out their existence in some ignoble counting-house. We will take
this latter description of military young gentlemen first.
The whole heart and soul of the military young gentleman are
concentrated in his favourite topic. There is nothing that he is so
learned upon as uniforms; he will tell you, without faltering for an
instant, what the habiliments of any one regiment are turned up with,
what regiment wear stripes down the outside and inside of the leg, and
how many buttons the Tenth had on their coats; he knows to a fraction
how many yards and odd inches of gold lace it takes to make an ensign
in the Guards; is deeply read in the comparative merits of different
bands, and the apparelling of trumpeters; and is very luminous indeed
in descanting upon ‘crack regiments,’ and the ‘crack’ gentlemen who
compose them, of whose mightiness and grandeur he is never tired of
telling.
We were suggesting to a military young gentleman only the other day,
after he had related to us several dazzling instances of the profusion
of half-a-dozen honourable ensign somebodies or nobodies in the
articles of kid gloves and polished boots, that possibly ‘cracked’
regiments would be an improvement upon ‘crack,’ as being a more
expressive and appropriate designation, when he suddenly interrupted us
by pulling out his watch, and observing that he must hurry off to the
Park in a cab, or he would be too late to hear the band play. Not
wishing to interfere with so important an engagement, and being in fact
already slightly overwhelmed by the anecdotes of the honourable ensigns
afore-mentioned, we made no attempt to detain the military young
gentleman, but parted company with ready good-will.
Some three or four hours afterwards, we chanced to be walking down
Whitehall, on the Admiralty side of the way, when, as we drew near to
one of the little stone places in which a couple of horse soldiers
mount guard in the daytime, we were attracted by the motionless
appearance and eager gaze of a young gentleman, who was devouring both
man and horse with his eyes, so eagerly, that he seemed deaf and blind
to all that was passing around him. We were not much surprised at the
discovery that it was our friend, the military young gentleman, but we
_were_ a little astonished when we returned from a walk to South
Lambeth to find him still there, looking on with the same intensity as
before. As it was a very windy day, we felt bound to awaken the young
gentleman from his reverie, when he inquired of us with great
enthusiasm, whether ‘that was not a glorious spectacle,’ and proceeded
to give us a detailed account of the weight of every article of the
spectacle’s trappings, from the man’s gloves to the horse’s shoes.
We have made it a practice since, to take the Horse Guards in our daily
walk, and we find it is the custom of military young gentlemen to plant
themselves opposite the sentries, and contemplate them at leisure, in
periods varying from fifteen minutes to fifty, and averaging
twenty-five. We were much struck a day or two since, by the behaviour
of a very promising young butcher who (evincing an interest in the
service, which cannot be too strongly commanded or encouraged), after a
prolonged inspection of the sentry, proceeded to handle his boots with
great curiosity, and as much composure and indifference as if the man
were wax-work.
But the really military young gentleman is waiting all this time, and
at the very moment that an apology rises to our lips, he emerges from
the barrack gate (he is quartered in a garrison town), and takes the
way towards the high street. He wears his undress uniform, which
somewhat mars the glory of his outward man; but still how great, how
grand, he is! What a happy mixture of ease and ferocity in his gait and
carriage, and how lightly he carries that dreadful sword under his arm,
making no more ado about it than if it were a silk umbrella! The lion
is sleeping: only think if an enemy were in sight, how soon he’d whip
it out of the scabbard, and what a terrible fellow he would be!
But he walks on, thinking of nothing less than blood and slaughter; and
now he comes in sight of three other military young gentlemen,
arm-in-arm, who are bearing down towards him, clanking their iron heels
on the pavement, and clashing their swords with a noise, which should
cause all peaceful men to quail at heart. They stop to talk. See how
the flaxen-haired young gentleman with the weak legs—he who has his
pocket-handkerchief thrust into the breast of his coat-glares upon the
fainthearted civilians who linger to look upon his glory; how the next
young gentleman elevates his head in the air, and majestically places
his arms a-kimbo, while the third stands with his legs very wide apart,
and clasps his hands behind him. Well may we inquire—not in familiar
jest, but in respectful earnest—if you call that nothing. Oh! if some
encroaching foreign power—the Emperor of Russia, for instance, or any
of those deep fellows, could only see those military young gentlemen as
they move on together towards the billiard-room over the way, wouldn’t
he tremble a little!
And then, at the Theatre at night, when the performances are by command
of Colonel Fitz-Sordust and the officers of the garrison—what a
splendid sight it is! How sternly the defenders of their country look
round the house as if in mute assurance to the audience, that they may
make themselves comfortable regarding any foreign invasion, for they
(the military young gentlemen) are keeping a sharp look-out, and are
ready for anything. And what a contrast between them, and that
stage-box full of grey-headed officers with tokens of many battles
about them, who have nothing at all in common with the military young
gentlemen, and who—but for an old-fashioned kind of manly dignity in
their looks and bearing—might be common hard-working soldiers for
anything they take the pains to announce to the contrary!
Ah! here is a family just come in who recognise the flaxen-headed young
gentleman; and the flaxen-headed young gentleman recognises them too,
only he doesn’t care to show it just now. Very well done indeed! He
talks louder to the little group of military young gentlemen who are
standing by him, and coughs to induce some ladies in the next box but
one to look round, in order that their faces may undergo the same
ordeal of criticism to which they have subjected, in not a wholly
inaudible tone, the majority of the female portion of the audience. Oh!
a gentleman in the same box looks round as if he were disposed to
resent this as an impertinence; and the flaxen-headed young gentleman
sees his friends at once, and hurries away to them with the most
charming cordiality.
Three young ladies, one young man, and the mamma of the party, receive
the military young gentleman with great warmth and politeness, and in
five minutes afterwards the military young gentleman, stimulated by the
mamma, introduces the two other military young gentlemen with whom he
was walking in the morning, who take their seats behind the young
ladies and commence conversation; whereat the mamma bestows a
triumphant bow upon a rival mamma, who has not succeeded in decoying
any military young gentlemen, and prepares to consider her visitors
from that moment three of the most elegant and superior young gentlemen
in the whole world.
THE POLITICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN
Once upon a time—_not_ in the days when pigs drank wine, but in a more
recent period of our history—it was customary to banish politics when
ladies were present. If this usage still prevailed, we should have had
no chapter for political young gentlemen, for ladies would have neither
known nor cared what kind of monster a political young gentleman was.
But as this good custom in common with many others has ‘gone out,’ and
left no word when it is likely to be home again; as political young
ladies are by no means rare, and political young gentlemen the very
reverse of scarce, we are bound in the strict discharge of our most
responsible duty not to neglect this natural division of our subject.
If the political young gentleman be resident in a country town (and
there _are_ political young gentlemen in country towns sometimes), he
is wholly absorbed in his politics; as a pair of purple spectacles
communicate the same uniform tint to all objects near and remote, so
the political glasses, with which the young gentleman assists his
mental vision, give to everything the hue and tinge of party feeling.
The political young gentleman would as soon think of being struck with
the beauty of a young lady in the opposite interest, as he would dream
of marrying his sister to the opposite member.
If the political young gentleman be a Conservative, he has usually some
vague ideas about Ireland and the Pope which he cannot very clearly
explain, but which he knows are the right sort of thing, and not to be
very easily got over by the other side. He has also some choice
sentences regarding church and state, culled from the banners in use at
the last election, with which he intersperses his conversation at
intervals with surprising effect. But his great topic is the
constitution, upon which he will declaim, by the hour together, with
much heat and fury; not that he has any particular information on the
subject, but because he knows that the constitution is somehow church
and state, and church and state somehow the constitution, and that the
fellows on the other side say it isn’t, which is quite a sufficient
reason for him to say it is, and to stick to it.
Perhaps his greatest topic of all, though, is the people. If a fight
takes place in a populous town, in which many noses are broken, and a
few windows, the young gentleman throws down the newspaper with a
triumphant air, and exclaims, ‘Here’s your precious people!’ If
half-a-dozen boys run across the course at race time, when it ought to
be kept clear, the young gentleman looks indignantly round, and begs
you to observe the conduct of the people; if the gallery demand a
hornpipe between the play and the afterpiece, the same young gentleman
cries ‘No’ and ‘Shame’ till he is hoarse, and then inquires with a
sneer what you think of popular moderation _now_; in short, the people
form a never-failing theme for him; and when the attorney, on the side
of his candidate, dwells upon it with great power of eloquence at
election time, as he never fails to do, the young gentleman and his
friends, and the body they head, cheer with great violence against _the
other people_, with whom, of course, they have no possible connexion.
In much the same manner the audience at a theatre never fail to be
highly amused with any jokes at the expense of the public—always
laughing heartily at some other public, and never at themselves.
If the political young gentleman be a Radical, he is usually a very
profound person indeed, having great store of theoretical questions to
put to you, with an infinite variety of possible cases and logical
deductions therefrom. If he be of the utilitarian school, too, which is
more than probable, he is particularly pleasant company, having many
ingenious remarks to offer upon the voluntary principle and various
cheerful disquisitions connected with the population of the country,
the position of Great Britain in the scale of nations, and the balance
of power. Then he is exceedingly well versed in all doctrines of
political economy as laid down in the newspapers, and knows a great
many parliamentary speeches by heart; nay, he has a small stock of
aphorisms, none of them exceeding a couple of lines in length, which
will settle the toughest question and leave you nothing to say. He
gives all the young ladies to understand, that Miss Martineau is the
greatest woman that ever lived; and when they praise the good looks of
Mr. Hawkins the new member, says he’s very well for a representative,
all things considered, but he wants a little calling to account, and he
is more than half afraid it will be necessary to bring him down on his
knees for that vote on the miscellaneous estimates. At this, the young
ladies express much wonderment, and say surely a Member of Parliament
is not to be brought upon his knees so easily; in reply to which the
political young gentleman smiles sternly, and throws out dark hints
regarding the speedy arrival of that day, when Members of Parliament
will be paid salaries, and required to render weekly accounts of their
proceedings, at which the young ladies utter many expressions of
astonishment and incredulity, while their lady-mothers regard the
prophecy as little else than blasphemous.
It is extremely improving and interesting to hear two political young
gentlemen, of diverse opinions, discuss some great question across a
dinner-table; such as, whether, if the public were admitted to
Westminster Abbey for nothing, they would or would not convey small
chisels and hammers in their pockets, and immediately set about
chipping all the noses off the statues; or whether, if they once got
into the Tower for a shilling, they would not insist upon trying the
crown on their own heads, and loading and firing off all the small arms
in the armoury, to the great discomposure of Whitechapel and the
Minories. Upon these, and many other momentous questions which agitate
the public mind in these desperate days, they will discourse with great
vehemence and irritation for a considerable time together, both leaving
off precisely where they began, and each thoroughly persuaded that he
has got the better of the other.
In society, at assemblies, balls, and playhouses, these political young
gentlemen are perpetually on the watch for a political allusion, or
anything which can be tortured or construed into being one; when,
thrusting themselves into the very smallest openings for their
favourite discourse, they fall upon the unhappy company tooth and nail.
They have recently had many favourable opportunities of opening in
churches, but as there the clergyman has it all his own way, and must
not be contradicted, whatever politics he preaches, they are fain to
hold their tongues until they reach the outer door, though at the
imminent risk of bursting in the effort.
As such discussions can please nobody but the talkative parties
concerned, we hope they will henceforth take the hint and discontinue
them, otherwise we now give them warning, that the ladies have our
advice to discountenance such talkers altogether.
THE DOMESTIC YOUNG GENTLEMAN
Let us make a slight sketch of our amiable friend, Mr. Felix Nixon. We
are strongly disposed to think, that if we put him in this place, he
will answer our purpose without another word of comment.
Felix, then, is a young gentleman who lives at home with his mother,
just within the twopenny-post office circle of three miles from St.
Martin-le-Grand. He wears Indiarubber goloshes when the weather is at
all damp, and always has a silk handkerchief neatly folded up in the
right-hand pocket of his great-coat, to tie over his mouth when he goes
home at night; moreover, being rather near-sighted, he carries
spectacles for particular occasions, and has a weakish tremulous voice,
of which he makes great use, for he talks as much as any old lady
breathing.
The two chief subjects of Felix’s discourse, are himself and his
mother, both of whom would appear to be very wonderful and interesting
persons. As Felix and his mother are seldom apart in body, so Felix and
his mother are scarcely ever separate in spirit. If you ask Felix how
he finds himself to-day, he prefaces his reply with a long and minute
bulletin of his mother’s state of health; and the good lady in her
turn, edifies her acquaintance with a circumstantial and alarming
account, how he sneezed four times and coughed once after being out in
the rain the other night, but having his feet promptly put into hot
water, and his head into a flannel-something, which we will not
describe more particularly than by this delicate allusion, was happily
brought round by the next morning, and enabled to go to business as
usual.
Our friend is not a very adventurous or hot-headed person, but he has
passed through many dangers, as his mother can testify: there is one
great story in particular, concerning a hackney coachman who wanted to
overcharge him one night for bringing them home from the play, upon
which Felix gave the aforesaid coachman a look which his mother thought
would have crushed him to the earth, but which did not crush him quite,
for he continued to demand another sixpence, notwithstanding that Felix
took out his pocket-book, and, with the aid of a flat candle, pointed
out the fare in print, which the coachman obstinately disregarding, he
shut the street-door with a slam which his mother shudders to think of;
and then, roused to the most appalling pitch of passion by the coachman
knocking a double knock to show that he was by no means convinced, he
broke with uncontrollable force from his parent and the servant girl,
and running into the street without his hat, actually shook his fist at
the coachman, and came back again with a face as white, Mrs. Nixon
says, looking about her for a simile, as white as that ceiling. She
never will forget his fury that night, Never!
To this account Felix listens with a solemn face, occasionally looking
at you to see how it affects you, and when his mother has made an end
of it, adds that he looked at every coachman he met for three weeks
afterwards, in hopes that he might see the scoundrel; whereupon Mrs.
Nixon, with an exclamation of terror, requests to know what he would
have done to him if he _had_ seen him, at which Felix smiling darkly
and clenching his right fist, she exclaims, ‘Goodness gracious!’ with a
distracted air, and insists upon extorting a promise that he never will
on any account do anything so rash, which her dutiful son—it being
something more than three years since the offence was
committed—reluctantly concedes, and his mother, shaking her head
prophetically, fears with a sigh that his spirit will lead him into
something violent yet. The discourse then, by an easy transition, turns
upon the spirit which glows within the bosom of Felix, upon which point
Felix himself becomes eloquent, and relates a thrilling anecdote of the
time when he used to sit up till two o’clock in the morning reading
French, and how his mother used to say, ‘Felix, you will make yourself
ill, I know you will;’ and how _he_ used to say, ‘Mother, I don’t
care—I will do it;’ and how at last his mother privately procured a
doctor to come and see him, who declared, the moment he felt his pulse,
that if he had gone on reading one night more—only one night more—he
must have put a blister on each temple, and another between his
shoulders; and who, as it was, sat down upon the instant, and writing a
prescription for a blue pill, said it must be taken immediately, or he
wouldn’t answer for the consequences. The recital of these and many
other moving perils of the like nature, constantly harrows up the
feelings of Mr. Nixon’s friends.
Mrs. Nixon has a tolerably extensive circle of female acquaintance,
being a good-humoured, talkative, bustling little body, and to the
unmarried girls among them she is constantly vaunting the virtues of
her son, hinting that she will be a very happy person who wins him, but
that they must mind their P’s and Q’s, for he is very particular, and
terribly severe upon young ladies. At this last caution the young
ladies resident in the same row, who happen to be spending the evening
there, put their pocket-handkerchiefs before their mouths, and are
troubled with a short cough; just then Felix knocks at the door, and
his mother drawing the tea-table nearer the fire, calls out to him as
he takes off his boots in the back parlour that he needn’t mind coming
in in his slippers, for there are only the two Miss Greys and Miss
Thompson, and she is quite sure they will excuse _him_, and nodding to
the two Miss Greys, she adds, in a whisper, that Julia Thompson is a
great favourite with Felix, at which intelligence the short cough comes
again, and Miss Thompson in particular is greatly troubled with it,
till Felix coming in, very faint for want of his tea, changes the
subject of discourse, and enables her to laugh out boldly and tell
Amelia Grey not to be so foolish. Here they all three laugh, and Mrs.
Nixon says they are giddy girls; in which stage of the proceedings,
Felix, who has by this time refreshened himself with the grateful herb
that ‘cheers but not inebriates,’ removes his cup from his countenance
and says with a knowing smile, that all girls are; whereat his admiring
mamma pats him on the back and tells him not to be sly, which calls
forth a general laugh from the young ladies, and another smile from
Felix, who, thinking he looks very sly indeed, is perfectly satisfied.
Tea being over, the young ladies resume their work, and Felix insists
upon holding a skein of silk while Miss Thompson winds it on a card.
This process having been performed to the satisfaction of all parties,
he brings down his flute in compliance with a request from the youngest
Miss Grey, and plays divers tunes out of a very small music-book till
supper-time, when he is very facetious and talkative indeed. Finally,
after half a tumblerful of warm sherry and water, he gallantly puts on
his goloshes over his slippers, and telling Miss Thompson’s servant to
run on first and get the door open, escorts that young lady to her
house, five doors off: the Miss Greys who live in the next house but
one stopping to peep with merry faces from their own door till he comes
back again, when they call out ‘Very well, Mr. Felix,’ and trip into
the passage with a laugh more musical than any flute that was ever
played.
Felix is rather prim in his appearance, and perhaps a little priggish
about his books and flute, and so forth, which have all their peculiar
corners of peculiar shelves in his bedroom; indeed all his female
acquaintance (and they are good judges) have long ago set him down as a
thorough old bachelor. He is a favourite with them however, in a
certain way, as an honest, inoffensive, kind-hearted creature; and as
his peculiarities harm nobody, not even himself, we are induced to hope
that many who are not personally acquainted with him will take our good
word in his behalf, and be content to leave him to a long continuance
of his harmless existence.
THE CENSORIOUS YOUNG GENTLEMAN
There is an amiable kind of young gentleman going about in society,
upon whom, after much experience of him, and considerable turning over
of the subject in our mind, we feel it our duty to affix the above
appellation. Young ladies mildly call him a ‘sarcastic’ young
gentleman, or a ‘severe’ young gentleman. We, who know better, beg to
acquaint them with the fact, that he is merely a censorious young
gentleman, and nothing else.
The censorious young gentleman has the reputation among his familiars
of a remarkably clever person, which he maintains by receiving all
intelligence and expressing all opinions with a dubious sneer,
accompanied with a half smile, expressive of anything you please but
good-humour. This sets people about thinking what on earth the
censorious young gentleman means, and they speedily arrive at the
conclusion that he means something very deep indeed; for they reason in
this way—‘This young gentleman looks so very knowing that he must mean
something, and as I am by no means a dull individual, what a very deep
meaning he must have if I can’t find it out!’ It is extraordinary how
soon a censorious young gentleman may make a reputation in his own
small circle if he bear this in his mind, and regulate his proceedings
accordingly.
As young ladies are generally—not curious, but laudably desirous to
acquire information, the censorious young gentleman is much talked
about among them, and many surmises are hazarded regarding him. ‘I
wonder,’ exclaims the eldest Miss Greenwood, laying down her work to
turn up the lamp, ‘I wonder whether Mr. Fairfax will ever be married.’
‘Bless me, dear,’ cries Miss Marshall, ‘what ever made you think of
him?’ ‘Really I hardly know,’ replies Miss Greenwood; ‘he is such a
very mysterious person, that I often wonder about him.’ ‘Well, to tell
you the truth,’ replies Miss Marshall, ‘and so do I.’ Here two other
young ladies profess that they are constantly doing the like, and all
present appear in the same condition except one young lady, who, not
scrupling to state that she considers Mr. Fairfax ‘a horror,’ draws
down all the opposition of the others, which having been expressed in a
great many ejaculatory passages, such as ‘Well, did I ever!’—and ‘Lor,
Emily, dear!’ ma takes up the subject, and gravely states, that she
must say she does not think Mr. Fairfax by any means a horror, but
rather takes him to be a young man of very great ability; ‘and I am
quite sure,’ adds the worthy lady, ‘he always means a great deal more
than he says.’
The door opens at this point of the disclosure, and who of all people
alive walks into the room, but the very Mr. Fairfax, who has been the
subject of conversation! ‘Well, it really is curious,’ cries ma, ‘we
were at that very moment talking about you.’ ‘You did me great honour,’
replies Mr. Fairfax; ‘may I venture to ask what you were saying?’ ‘Why,
if you must know,’ returns the eldest girl, ‘we were remarking what a
very mysterious man you are.’ ‘Ay, ay!’ observes Mr. Fairfax, ‘Indeed!’
Now Mr. Fairfax says this ay, ay, and indeed, which are slight words
enough in themselves, with so very unfathomable an air, and accompanies
them with such a very equivocal smile, that ma and the young ladies are
more than ever convinced that he means an immensity, and so tell him he
is a very dangerous man, and seems to be always thinking ill of
somebody, which is precisely the sort of character the censorious young
gentleman is most desirous to establish; wherefore he says, ‘Oh, dear,
no,’ in a tone, obviously intended to mean, ‘You have me there,’ and
which gives them to understand that they have hit the right nail on the
very centre of its head.
When the conversation ranges from the mystery overhanging the
censorious young gentleman’s behaviour, to the general topics of the
day, he sustains his character to admiration. He considers the new
tragedy well enough for a new tragedy, but Lord bless us—well, no
matter; he could say a great deal on that point, but he would rather
not, lest he should be thought ill-natured, as he knows he would be.
‘But is not Mr. So-and-so’s performance truly charming?’ inquires a
young lady. ‘Charming!’ replies the censorious young gentleman. ‘Oh,
dear, yes, certainly; very charming—oh, very charming indeed.’ After
this, he stirs the fire, smiling contemptuously all the while: and a
modest young gentleman, who has been a silent listener, thinks what a
great thing it must be, to have such a critical judgment. Of music,
pictures, books, and poetry, the censorious young gentleman has an
equally fine conception. As to men and women, he can tell all about
them at a glance. ‘Now let us hear your opinion of young Mrs. Barker,’
says some great believer in the powers of Mr. Fairfax, ‘but don’t be
too severe.’ ‘I never am severe,’ replies the censorious young
gentleman. ‘Well, never mind that now. She is very lady-like, is she
not?’ ‘Lady-like!’ repeats the censorious young gentleman (for he
always repeats when he is at a loss for anything to say). ‘Did you
observe her manner? Bless my heart and soul, Mrs. Thompson, did you
observe her manner?—that’s all I ask.’ ‘I thought I had done so,’
rejoins the poor lady, much perplexed; ‘I did not observe it very
closely perhaps.’ ‘Oh, not very closely,’ rejoins the censorious young
gentleman, triumphantly. ‘Very good; then _I_ did. Let us talk no more
about her.’ The censorious young gentleman purses up his lips, and nods
his head sagely, as he says this; and it is forthwith whispered about,
that Mr. Fairfax (who, though he is a little prejudiced, must be
admitted to be a very excellent judge) has observed something
exceedingly odd in Mrs. Barker’s manner.
THE FUNNY YOUNG GENTLEMAN
As one funny young gentleman will serve as a sample of all funny young
Gentlemen we purpose merely to note down the conduct and behaviour of
an individual specimen of this class, whom we happened to meet at an
annual family Christmas party in the course of this very last Christmas
that ever came.
We were all seated round a blazing fire which crackled pleasantly as
the guests talked merrily and the urn steamed cheerily—for, being an
old-fashioned party, there _was_ an urn, and a teapot besides—when
there came a postman’s knock at the door, so violent and sudden, that
it startled the whole circle, and actually caused two or three very
interesting and most unaffected young ladies to scream aloud and to
exhibit many afflicting symptoms of terror and distress, until they had
been several times assured by their respective adorers, that they were
in no danger. We were about to remark that it was surely beyond
post-time, and must have been a runaway knock, when our host, who had
hitherto been paralysed with wonder, sank into a chair in a perfect
ecstasy of laughter, and offered to lay twenty pounds that it was that
droll dog Griggins. He had no sooner said this, than the majority of
the company and all the children of the house burst into a roar of
laughter too, as if some inimitable joke flashed upon them
simultaneously, and gave vent to various exclamations of—To be sure it
must be Griggins, and How like him that was, and What spirits he was
always in! with many other commendatory remarks of the like nature.
Not having the happiness to know Griggins, we became extremely desirous
to see so pleasant a fellow, the more especially as a stout gentleman
with a powdered head, who was sitting with his breeches buckles almost
touching the hob, whispered us he was a wit of the first water, when
the door opened, and Mr. Griggins being announced, presented himself,
amidst another shout of laughter and a loud clapping of hands from the
younger branches. This welcome he acknowledged by sundry contortions of
countenance, imitative of the clown in one of the new pantomimes, which
were so extremely successful, that one stout gentleman rolled upon an
ottoman in a paroxysm of delight, protesting, with many gasps, that if
somebody didn’t make that fellow Griggins leave off, he would be the
death of him, he knew. At this the company only laughed more
boisterously than before, and as we always like to accommodate our tone
and spirit if possible to the humour of any society in which we find
ourself, we laughed with the rest, and exclaimed, ‘Oh! capital,
capital!’ as loud as any of them.
When he had quite exhausted all beholders, Mr. Griggins received the
welcomes and congratulations of the circle, and went through the
needful introductions with much ease and many puns. This ceremony over,
he avowed his intention of sitting in somebody’s lap unless the young
ladies made room for him on the sofa, which being done, after a great
deal of tittering and pleasantry, he squeezed himself among them, and
likened his condition to that of love among the roses. At this novel
jest we all roared once more. ‘You should consider yourself highly
honoured, sir,’ said we. ‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Griggins, ‘you do me
proud.’ Here everybody laughed again; and the stout gentleman by the
fire whispered in our ear that Griggins was making a dead set at us.
The tea-things having been removed, we all sat down to a round game,
and here Mr. Griggins shone forth with peculiar brilliancy, abstracting
other people’s fish, and looking over their hands in the most comical
manner. He made one most excellent joke in snuffing a candle, which was
neither more nor less than setting fire to the hair of a pale young
gentleman who sat next him, and afterwards begging his pardon with
considerable humour. As the young gentleman could not see the joke
however, possibly in consequence of its being on the top of his own
head, it did not go off quite as well as it might have done; indeed,
the young gentleman was heard to murmur some general references to
‘impertinence,’ and a ‘rascal,’ and to state the number of his lodgings
in an angry tone—a turn of the conversation which might have been
productive of slaughterous consequences, if a young lady, betrothed to
the young gentleman, had not used her immediate influence to bring
about a reconciliation: emphatically declaring in an agitated whisper,
intended for his peculiar edification but audible to the whole table,
that if he went on in that way, she never would think of him otherwise
than as a friend, though as that she must always regard him. At this
terrible threat the young gentleman became calm, and the young lady,
overcome by the revulsion of feeling, instantaneously fainted.
Mr. Griggins’s spirits were slightly depressed for a short period by
this unlooked-for result of such a harmless pleasantry, but being
promptly elevated by the attentions of the host and several glasses of
wine, he soon recovered, and became even more vivacious than before,
insomuch that the stout gentleman previously referred to, assured us
that although he had known him since he was _that_ high (something
smaller than a nutmeg-grater), he had never beheld him in such
excellent cue.
When the round game and several games at blind man’s buff which
followed it were all over, and we were going down to supper, the
inexhaustible Mr. Griggins produced a small sprig of mistletoe from his
waistcoat pocket, and commenced a general kissing of the assembled
females, which occasioned great commotion and much excitement. We
observed that several young gentlemen—including the young gentleman
with the pale countenance—were greatly scandalised at this indecorous
proceeding, and talked very big among themselves in corners; and we
observed too, that several young ladies when remonstrated with by the
aforesaid young gentlemen, called each other to witness how they had
struggled, and protested vehemently that it was very rude, and that
they were surprised at Mrs. Brown’s allowing it, and that they couldn’t
bear it, and had no patience with such impertinence. But such is the
gentle and forgiving nature of woman, that although we looked very
narrowly for it, we could not detect the slightest harshness in the
subsequent treatment of Mr. Griggins. Indeed, upon the whole, it struck
us that among the ladies he seemed rather more popular than before!
To recount all the drollery of Mr. Griggins at supper, would fill such
a tiny volume as this, [429] to the very bottom of the outside cover.
How he drank out of other people’s glasses, and ate of other people’s
bread, how he frightened into screaming convulsions a little boy who
was sitting up to supper in a high chair, by sinking below the table
and suddenly reappearing with a mask on; how the hostess was really
surprised that anybody could find a pleasure in tormenting children,
and how the host frowned at the hostess, and felt convinced that Mr.
Griggins had done it with the very best intentions; how Mr. Griggins
explained, and how everybody’s good-humour was restored but the
child’s;—to tell these and a hundred other things ever so briefly,
would occupy more of our room and our readers’ patience, than either
they or we can conveniently spare. Therefore we change the subject,
merely observing that we have offered no description of the funny young
gentleman’s personal appearance, believing that almost every society
has a Griggins of its own, and leaving all readers to supply the
deficiency, according to the particular circumstances of their
particular case.
THE THEATRICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN
All gentlemen who love the drama—and there are few gentlemen who are
not attached to the most intellectual and rational of all our
amusements—do not come within this definition. As we have no mean
relish for theatrical entertainments ourself, we are disinterestedly
anxious that this should be perfectly understood.
The theatrical young gentleman has early and important information on
all theatrical topics. ‘Well,’ says he, abruptly, when you meet him in
the street, ‘here’s a pretty to-do. Flimkins has thrown up his part in
the melodrama at the Surrey.’—‘And what’s to be done?’ you inquire with
as much gravity as you can counterfeit. ‘Ah, that’s the point,’ replies
the theatrical young gentleman, looking very serious; ‘Boozle declines
it; positively declines it. From all I am told, I should say it was
decidedly in Boozle’s line, and that he would be very likely to make a
great hit in it; but he objects on the ground of Flimkins having been
put up in the part first, and says no earthly power shall induce him to
take the character. It’s a fine part, too—excellent business, I’m told.
He has to kill six people in the course of the piece, and to fight over
a bridge in red fire, which is as safe a card, you know, as can be.
Don’t mention it; but I hear that the last scene, when he is first
poisoned, and then stabbed, by Mrs. Flimkins as Vengedora, will be the
greatest thing that has been done these many years.’ With this piece of
news, and laying his finger on his lips as a caution for you not to
excite the town with it, the theatrical young gentleman hurries away.
The theatrical young gentleman, from often frequenting the different
theatrical establishments, has pet and familiar names for them all.
Thus Covent-Garden is the garden, Drury-Lane the lane, the Victoria the
vic, and the Olympic the pic. Actresses, too, are always designated by
their surnames only, as Taylor, Nisbett, Faucit, Honey; that talented
and lady-like girl Sheriff, that clever little creature Horton, and so
on. In the same manner he prefixes Christian names when he mentions
actors, as Charley Young, Jemmy Buckstone, Fred. Yates, Paul Bedford.
When he is at a loss for a Christian name, the word ‘old’ applied
indiscriminately answers quite as well: as old Charley Matthews at
Vestris’s, old Harley, and old Braham. He has a great knowledge of the
private proceedings of actresses, especially of their getting married,
and can tell you in a breath half-a-dozen who have changed their names
without avowing it. Whenever an alteration of this kind is made in the
playbills, he will remind you that he let you into the secret six
months ago.
The theatrical young gentleman has a great reverence for all that is
connected with the stage department of the different theatres. He
would, at any time, prefer going a street or two out of his way, to
omitting to pass a stage-entrance, into which he always looks with a
curious and searching eye. If he can only identify a popular actor in
the street, he is in a perfect transport of delight; and no sooner
meets him, than he hurries back, and walks a few paces in front of him,
so that he can turn round from time to time, and have a good stare at
his features. He looks upon a theatrical-fund dinner as one of the most
enchanting festivities ever known; and thinks that to be a member of
the Garrick Club, and see so many actors in their plain clothes, must
be one of the highest gratifications the world can bestow.
The theatrical young gentleman is a constant half-price visitor at one
or other of the theatres, and has an infinite relish for all pieces
which display the fullest resources of the establishment. He likes to
place implicit reliance upon the play-bills when he goes to see a
show-piece, and works himself up to such a pitch of enthusiasm, as not
only to believe (if the bills say so) that there are three hundred and
seventy-five people on the stage at one time in the last scene, but is
highly indignant with you, unless you believe it also. He considers
that if the stage be opened from the foot-lights to the back wall, in
any new play, the piece is a triumph of dramatic writing, and applauds
accordingly. He has a great notion of trap-doors too; and thinks any
character going down or coming up a trap (no matter whether he be an
angel or a demon—they both do it occasionally) one of the most
interesting feats in the whole range of scenic illusion.
Besides these acquirements, he has several veracious accounts to
communicate of the private manners and customs of different actors,
which, during the pauses of a quadrille, he usually communicates to his
partner, or imparts to his neighbour at a supper table. Thus he is
advised, that Mr. Liston always had a footman in gorgeous livery
waiting at the side-scene with a brandy bottle and tumbler, to
administer half a pint or so of spirit to him every time he came off,
without which assistance he must infallibly have fainted. He knows for
a fact, that, after an arduous part, Mr. George Bennett is put between
two feather beds, to absorb the perspiration; and is credibly informed,
that Mr. Baker has, for many years, submitted to a course of lukewarm
toast-and-water, to qualify him to sustain his favourite characters. He
looks upon Mr. Fitz Ball as the principal dramatic genius and poet of
the day; but holds that there are great writers extant besides him,—in
proof whereof he refers you to various dramas and melodramas recently
produced, of which he takes in all the sixpenny and three-penny
editions as fast as they appear.
The theatrical young gentleman is a great advocate for violence of
emotion and redundancy of action. If a father has to curse a child upon
the stage, he likes to see it done in the thorough-going style, with no
mistake about it: to which end it is essential that the child should
follow the father on her knees, and be knocked violently over on her
face by the old gentleman as he goes into a small cottage, and shuts
the door behind him. He likes to see a blessing invoked upon the young
lady, when the old gentleman repents, with equal earnestness, and
accompanied by the usual conventional forms, which consist of the old
gentleman looking anxiously up into the clouds, as if to see whether it
rains, and then spreading an imaginary tablecloth in the air over the
young lady’s head—soft music playing all the while. Upon these, and
other points of a similar kind, the theatrical young gentleman is a
great critic indeed. He is likewise very acute in judging of natural
expressions of the passions, and knows precisely the frown, wink, nod,
or leer, which stands for any one of them, or the means by which it may
be converted into any other: as jealousy, with a good stamp of the
right foot, becomes anger; or wildness, with the hands clasped before
the throat, instead of tearing the wig, is passionate love. If you
venture to express a doubt of the accuracy of any of these
portraitures, the theatrical young gentleman assures you, with a
haughty smile, that it always has been done in that way, and he
supposes they are not going to change it at this time of day to please
you; to which, of course, you meekly reply that you suppose not.
There are innumerable disquisitions of this nature, in which the
theatrical young gentleman is very profound, especially to ladies whom
he is most in the habit of entertaining with them; but as we have no
space to recapitulate them at greater length, we must rest content with
calling the attention of the young ladies in general to the theatrical
young gentlemen of their own acquaintance.
THE POETICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN
Time was, and not very long ago either, when a singular epidemic raged
among the young gentlemen, vast numbers of whom, under the influence of
the malady, tore off their neckerchiefs, turned down their shirt
collars, and exhibited themselves in the open streets with bare throats
and dejected countenances, before the eyes of an astonished public.
These were poetical young gentlemen. The custom was gradually found to
be inconvenient, as involving the necessity of too much clean linen and
too large washing bills, and these outward symptoms have consequently
passed away; but we are disposed to think, notwithstanding, that the
number of poetical young gentlemen is considerably on the increase.
We know a poetical young gentleman—a very poetical young gentleman. We
do not mean to say that he is troubled with the gift of poesy in any
remarkable degree, but his countenance is of a plaintive and melancholy
cast, his manner is abstracted and bespeaks affliction of soul: he
seldom has his hair cut, and often talks about being an outcast and
wanting a kindred spirit; from which, as well as from many general
observations in which he is wont to indulge, concerning mysterious
impulses, and yearnings of the heart, and the supremacy of intellect
gilding all earthly things with the glowing magic of immortal verse, it
is clear to all his friends that he has been stricken poetical.
The favourite attitude of the poetical young gentleman is lounging on a
sofa with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, or sitting bolt upright in a
high-backed chair, staring with very round eyes at the opposite wall.
When he is in one of these positions, his mother, who is a worthy,
affectionate old soul, will give you a nudge to bespeak your attention
without disturbing the abstracted one, and whisper with a shake of the
head, that John’s imagination is at some extraordinary work or other,
you may take her word for it. Hereupon John looks more fiercely intent
upon vacancy than before, and suddenly snatching a pencil from his
pocket, puts down three words, and a cross on the back of a card, sighs
deeply, paces once or twice across the room, inflicts a most unmerciful
slap upon his head, and walks moodily up to his dormitory.
The poetical young gentleman is apt to acquire peculiar notions of
things too, which plain ordinary people, unblessed with a poetical
obliquity of vision, would suppose to be rather distorted. For
instance, when the sickening murder and mangling of a wretched woman
was affording delicious food wherewithal to gorge the insatiable
curiosity of the public, our friend the poetical young gentleman was in
ecstasies—not of disgust, but admiration. ‘Heavens!’ cried the poetical
young gentleman, ‘how grand; how great!’ We ventured deferentially to
inquire upon whom these epithets were bestowed: our humble thoughts
oscillating between the police officer who found the criminal, and the
lock-keeper who found the head. ‘Upon whom!’ exclaimed the poetical
young gentleman in a frenzy of poetry, ‘Upon whom should they be
bestowed but upon the murderer!’—and thereupon it came out, in a fine
torrent of eloquence, that the murderer was a great spirit, a bold
creature full of daring and nerve, a man of dauntless heart and
determined courage, and withal a great casuist and able reasoner, as
was fully demonstrated in his philosophical colloquies with the great
and noble of the land. We held our peace, and meekly signified our
indisposition to controvert these opinions—firstly, because we were no
match at quotation for the poetical young gentleman; and secondly,
because we felt it would be of little use our entering into any
disputation, if we were: being perfectly convinced that the respectable
and immoral hero in question is not the first and will not be the last
hanged gentleman upon whom false sympathy or diseased curiosity will be
plentifully expended.
This was a stern mystic flight of the poetical young gentleman. In his
milder and softer moments he occasionally lays down his neckcloth, and
pens stanzas, which sometimes find their way into a Lady’s Magazine, or
the ‘Poets’ Corner’ of some country newspaper; or which, in default of
either vent for his genius, adorn the rainbow leaves of a lady’s album.
These are generally written upon some such occasions as contemplating
the Bank of England by midnight, or beholding Saint Paul’s in a
snow-storm; and when these gloomy objects fail to afford him
inspiration, he pours forth his soul in a touching address to a violet,
or a plaintive lament that he is no longer a child, but has gradually
grown up.
The poetical young gentleman is fond of quoting passages from his
favourite authors, who are all of the gloomy and desponding school. He
has a great deal to say too about the world, and is much given to
opining, especially if he has taken anything strong to drink, that
there is nothing in it worth living for. He gives you to understand,
however, that for the sake of society, he means to bear his part in the
tiresome play, manfully resisting the gratification of his own strong
desire to make a premature exit; and consoles himself with the
reflection, that immortality has some chosen nook for himself and the
other great spirits whom earth has chafed and wearied.
When the poetical young gentleman makes use of adjectives, they are all
superlatives. Everything is of the grandest, greatest, noblest,
mightiest, loftiest; or the lowest, meanest, obscurest, vilest, and
most pitiful. He knows no medium: for enthusiasm is the soul of poetry;
and who so enthusiastic as a poetical young gentleman? ‘Mr. Milkwash,’
says a young lady as she unlocks her album to receive the young
gentleman’s original impromptu contribution, ‘how very silent you are!
I think you must be in love.’ ‘Love!’ cries the poetical young
gentleman, starting from his seat by the fire and terrifying the cat
who scampers off at full speed, ‘Love! that burning, consuming passion;
that ardour of the soul, that fierce glowing of the heart. Love! The
withering, blighting influence of hope misplaced and affection
slighted. Love did you say! Ha! ha! ha!’
With this, the poetical young gentleman laughs a laugh belonging only
to poets and Mr. O. Smith of the Adelphi Theatre, and sits down, pen in
hand, to throw off a page or two of verse in the biting,
semi-atheistical demoniac style, which, like the poetical young
gentleman himself, is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
THE ‘THROWING-OFF’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN
There is a certain kind of impostor—a bragging, vaunting, puffing young
gentleman—against whom we are desirous to warn that fairer part of the
creation, to whom we more peculiarly devote these our labours. And we
are particularly induced to lay especial stress upon this division of
our subject, by a little dialogue we held some short time ago, with an
esteemed young lady of our acquaintance, touching a most gross specimen
of this class of men. We had been urging all the absurdities of his
conduct and conversation, and dwelling upon the impossibilities he
constantly recounted—to which indeed we had not scrupled to prefix a
certain hard little word of one syllable and three letters—when our
fair friend, unable to maintain the contest any longer, reluctantly
cried, ‘Well; he certainly has a habit of throwing-off, but then—’ What
then? Throw him off yourself, said we. And so she did, but not at our
instance, for other reasons appeared, and it might have been better if
she had done so at first.
The throwing-off young gentleman has so often a father possessed of
vast property in some remote district of Ireland, that we look with
some suspicion upon all young gentlemen who volunteer this description
of themselves. The deceased grandfather of the throwing-off young
gentleman was a man of immense possessions, and untold wealth; the
throwing-off young gentleman remembers, as well as if it were only
yesterday, the deceased baronet’s library, with its long rows of scarce
and valuable books in superbly embossed bindings, arranged in cases,
reaching from the lofty ceiling to the oaken floor; and the fine
antique chairs and tables, and the noble old castle of
Ballykillbabaloo, with its splendid prospect of hill and dale, and
wood, and rich wild scenery, and the fine hunting stables and the
spacious court-yards, ‘and—and—everything upon the same magnificent
scale,’ says the throwing-off young gentleman, ‘princely; quite
princely. Ah!’ And he sighs as if mourning over the fallen fortunes of
his noble house.
The throwing-off young gentleman is a universal genius; at walking,
running, rowing, swimming, and skating, he is unrivalled; at all games
of chance or skill, at hunting, shooting, fishing, riding, driving, or
amateur theatricals, no one can touch him—that is _could_ not, because
he gives you carefully to understand, lest there should be any
opportunity of testing his skill, that he is quite out of practice just
now, and has been for some years. If you mention any beautiful girl of
your common acquaintance in his hearing, the throwing-off young
gentleman starts, smiles, and begs you not to mind him, for it was
quite involuntary: people do say indeed that they were once engaged,
but no—although she is a very fine girl, he was so situated at that
time that he couldn’t possibly encourage the—‘but it’s of no use
talking about it!’ he adds, interrupting himself. ‘She has got over it
now, and I firmly hope and trust is happy.’ With this benevolent
aspiration he nods his head in a mysterious manner, and whistling the
first part of some popular air, thinks perhaps it will be better to
change the subject.
There is another great characteristic of the throwing-off young
gentleman, which is, that he ‘happens to be acquainted’ with a most
extraordinary variety of people in all parts of the world. Thus in all
disputed questions, when the throwing-off young gentleman has no
argument to bring forward, he invariably happens to be acquainted with
some distant person, intimately connected with the subject, whose
testimony decides the point against you, to the great—may we say it—to
the great admiration of three young ladies out of every four, who
consider the throwing-off young gentleman a very highly-connected young
man, and a most charming person.
Sometimes the throwing-off young gentleman happens to look in upon a
little family circle of young ladies who are quietly spending the
evening together, and then indeed is he at the very height and summit
of his glory; for it is to be observed that he by no means shines to
equal advantage in the presence of men as in the society of
over-credulous young ladies, which is his proper element. It is
delightful to hear the number of pretty things the throwing-off young
gentleman gives utterance to, during tea, and still more so to observe
the ease with which, from long practice and study, he delicately blends
one compliment to a lady with two for himself. ‘Did you ever see a more
lovely blue than this flower, Mr. Caveton?’ asks a young lady who,
truth to tell, is rather smitten with the throwing-off young gentleman.
‘Never,’ he replies, bending over the object of admiration, ‘never but
in your eyes.’ ‘Oh, Mr. Caveton,’ cries the young lady, blushing of
course. ‘Indeed I speak the truth,’ replies the throwing-off young
gentleman, ‘I never saw any approach to them. I used to think my
cousin’s blue eyes lovely, but they grow dim and colourless beside
yours.’ ‘Oh! a beautiful cousin, Mr. Caveton!’ replies the young lady,
with that perfect artlessness which is the distinguishing
characteristic of all young ladies; ‘an affair, of course.’ ‘No;
indeed, indeed you wrong me,’ rejoins the throwing-off young gentleman
with great energy. ‘I fervently hope that her attachment towards me may
be nothing but the natural result of our close intimacy in childhood,
and that in change of scene and among new faces she may soon overcome
it. _I_ love her! Think not so meanly of me, Miss Lowfield, I beseech,
as to suppose that title, lands, riches, and beauty, can influence _my_
choice. The heart, the heart, Miss Lowfield.’ Here the throwing-off
young gentleman sinks his voice to a still lower whisper; and the young
lady duly proclaims to all the other young ladies when they go
up-stairs, to put their bonnets on, that Mr. Caveton’s relations are
all immensely rich, and that he is hopelessly beloved by title, lands,
riches, and beauty.
We have seen a throwing-off young gentleman who, to our certain
knowledge, was innocent of a note of music, and scarcely able to
recognise a tune by ear, volunteer a Spanish air upon the guitar when
he had previously satisfied himself that there was not such an
instrument within a mile of the house.
We have heard another throwing-off young gentleman, after striking a
note or two upon the piano, and accompanying it correctly (by dint of
laborious practice) with his voice, assure a circle of wondering
listeners that so acute was his ear that he was wholly unable to sing
out of tune, let him try as he would. We have lived to witness the
unmasking of another throwing-off young gentleman, who went out a
visiting in a military cap with a gold band and tassel, and who, after
passing successfully for a captain and being lauded to the skies for
his red whiskers, his bravery, his soldierly bearing and his pride,
turned out to be the dishonest son of an honest linen-draper in a small
country town, and whom, if it were not for this fortunate exposure, we
should not yet despair of encountering as the fortunate husband of some
rich heiress. Ladies, ladies, the throwing-off young gentlemen are
often swindlers, and always fools. So pray you avoid them.
THE YOUNG LADIES’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN
This young gentleman has several titles. Some young ladies consider him
‘a nice young man,’ others ‘a fine young man,’ others ‘quite a lady’s
man,’ others ‘a handsome man,’ others ‘a remarkably good-looking young
man.’ With some young ladies he is ‘a perfect angel,’ and with others
‘quite a love.’ He is likewise a charming creature, a duck, and a dear.
The young ladies’ young gentleman has usually a fresh colour and very
white teeth, which latter articles, of course, he displays on every
possible opportunity. He has brown or black hair, and whiskers of the
same, if possible; but a slight tinge of red, or the hue which is
vulgarly known as _sandy_, is not considered an objection. If his head
and face be large, his nose prominent, and his figure square, he is an
uncommonly fine young man, and worshipped accordingly. Should his
whiskers meet beneath his chin, so much the better, though this is not
absolutely insisted on; but he must wear an under-waistcoat, and smile
constantly.
There was a great party got up by some party-loving friends of ours
last summer, to go and dine in Epping Forest. As we hold that such wild
expeditions should never be indulged in, save by people of the smallest
means, who have no dinner at home, we should indubitably have excused
ourself from attending, if we had not recollected that the projectors
of the excursion were always accompanied on such occasions by a choice
sample of the young ladies’ young gentleman, whom we were very anxious
to have an opportunity of meeting. This determined us, and we went.
We were to make for Chigwell in four glass coaches, each with a
trifling company of six or eight inside, and a little boy belonging to
the projectors on the box—and to start from the residence of the
projectors, Woburn-place, Russell-square, at half-past ten precisely.
We arrived at the place of rendezvous at the appointed time, and found
the glass coaches and the little boys quite ready, and divers young
ladies and young gentlemen looking anxiously over the breakfast-parlour
blinds, who appeared by no means so much gratified by our approach as
we might have expected, but evidently wished we had been somebody else.
Observing that our arrival in lieu of the unknown occasioned some
disappointment, we ventured to inquire who was yet to come, when we
found from the hasty reply of a dozen voices, that it was no other than
the young ladies’ young gentleman.
‘I cannot imagine,’ said the mamma, ‘what has become of Mr.
Balim—always so punctual, always so pleasant and agreeable. I am sure I
can-_not_ think.’ As these last words were uttered in that measured,
emphatic manner which painfully announces that the speaker has not
quite made up his or her mind what to say, but is determined to talk on
nevertheless, the eldest daughter took up the subject, and hoped no
accident had happened to Mr. Balim, upon which there was a general
chorus of ‘Dear Mr. Balim!’ and one young lady, more adventurous than
the rest, proposed that an express should be straightway sent to dear
Mr. Balim’s lodgings. This, however, the papa resolutely opposed,
observing, in what a short young lady behind us termed ‘quite a bearish
way,’ that if Mr. Balim didn’t choose to come, he might stop at home.
At this all the daughters raised a murmur of ‘Oh pa!’ except one
sprightly little girl of eight or ten years old, who, taking advantage
of a pause in the discourse, remarked, that perhaps Mr. Balim might
have been married that morning—for which impertinent suggestion she was
summarily ejected from the room by her eldest sister.
We were all in a state of great mortification and uneasiness, when one
of the little boys, running into the room as airily as little boys
usually run who have an unlimited allowance of animal food in the
holidays, and keep their hands constantly forced down to the bottoms of
very deep trouser-pockets when they take exercise, joyfully announced
that Mr. Balim was at that moment coming up the street in a
hackney-cab; and the intelligence was confirmed beyond all doubt a
minute afterwards by the entry of Mr. Balim himself, who was received
with repeated cries of ‘Where have you been, you naughty creature?’
whereunto the naughty creature replied, that he had been in bed, in
consequence of a late party the night before, and had only just risen.
The acknowledgment awakened a variety of agonizing fears that he had
taken no breakfast; which appearing after a slight cross-examination to
be the real state of the case, breakfast for one was immediately
ordered, notwithstanding Mr. Balim’s repeated protestations that he
couldn’t think of it. He did think of it though, and thought better of
it too, for he made a remarkably good meal when it came, and was
assiduously served by a select knot of young ladies. It was quite
delightful to see how he ate and drank, while one pair of fair hands
poured out his coffee, and another put in the sugar, and another the
milk; the rest of the company ever and anon casting angry glances at
their watches, and the glass coaches,—and the little boys looking on in
an agony of apprehension lest it should begin to rain before we set
out; it might have rained all day, after we were once too far to turn
back again, and welcome, for aught they cared.
However, the cavalcade moved at length, every coachman being
accommodated with a hamper between his legs something larger than a
wheelbarrow; and the company being packed as closely as they possibly
could in the carriages, ‘according,’ as one married lady observed, ‘to
the immemorial custom, which was half the diversion of gipsy parties.’
Thinking it very likely it might be (we have never been able to
discover the other half), we submitted to be stowed away with a
cheerful aspect, and were fortunate enough to occupy one corner of a
coach in which were one old lady, four young ladies, and the renowned
Mr. Balim the young ladies’ young gentleman.
We were no sooner fairly off, than the young ladies’ young gentleman
hummed a fragment of an air, which induced a young lady to inquire
whether he had danced to that the night before. ‘By Heaven, then, I
did,’ replied the young gentleman, ‘and with a lovely heiress; a superb
creature, with twenty thousand pounds.’ ‘You seem rather struck,’
observed another young lady. ‘’Gad she was a sweet creature,’ returned
the young gentleman, arranging his hair. ‘Of course _she_ was struck
too?’ inquired the first young lady. ‘How can you ask, love?’
interposed the second; ‘could she fail to be?’ ‘Well, honestly I think
she was,’ observed the young gentleman. At this point of the dialogue,
the young lady who had spoken first, and who sat on the young
gentleman’s right, struck him a severe blow on the arm with a rosebud,
and said he was a vain man—whereupon the young gentleman insisted on
having the rosebud, and the young lady appealing for help to the other
young ladies, a charming struggle ensued, terminating in the victory of
the young gentleman, and the capture of the rosebud. This little
skirmish over, the married lady, who was the mother of the rosebud,
smiled sweetly upon the young gentleman, and accused him of being a
flirt; the young gentleman pleading not guilty, a most interesting
discussion took place upon the important point whether the young
gentleman was a flirt or not, which being an agreeable conversation of
a light kind, lasted a considerable time. At length, a short silence
occurring, the young ladies on either side of the young gentleman fell
suddenly fast asleep; and the young gentleman, winking upon us to
preserve silence, won a pair of gloves from each, thereby causing them
to wake with equal suddenness and to scream very loud. The lively
conversation to which this pleasantry gave rise, lasted for the
remainder of the ride, and would have eked out a much longer one.
We dined rather more comfortably than people usually do under such
circumstances, nothing having been left behind but the cork-screw and
the bread. The married gentlemen were unusually thirsty, which they
attributed to the heat of the weather; the little boys ate to
inconvenience; mammas were very jovial, and their daughters very
fascinating; and the attendants being well-behaved men, got exceedingly
drunk at a respectful distance.
We had our eye on Mr. Balim at dinner-time, and perceived that he
flourished wonderfully, being still surrounded by a little group of
young ladies, who listened to him as an oracle, while he ate from their
plates and drank from their glasses in a manner truly captivating from
its excessive playfulness. His conversation, too, was exceedingly
brilliant. In fact, one elderly lady assured us, that in the course of
a little lively _badinage_ on the subject of ladies’ dresses, he had
evinced as much knowledge as if he had been born and bred a milliner.
As such of the fat people who did not happen to fall asleep after
dinner entered upon a most vigorous game at ball, we slipped away alone
into a thicker part of the wood, hoping to fall in with Mr. Balim, the
greater part of the young people having dropped off in twos and threes
and the young ladies’ young gentleman among them. Nor were we
disappointed, for we had not walked far, when, peeping through the
trees, we discovered him before us, and truly it was a pleasant thing
to contemplate his greatness.
The young ladies’ young gentleman was seated upon the ground, at the
feet of a few young ladies who were reclining on a bank; he was so
profusely decked with scarfs, ribands, flowers, and other pretty
spoils, that he looked like a lamb—or perhaps a calf would be a better
simile—adorned for the sacrifice. One young lady supported a parasol
over his interesting head, another held his hat, and a third his
neck-cloth, which in romantic fashion he had thrown off; the young
gentleman himself, with his hand upon his breast, and his face moulded
into an expression of the most honeyed sweetness, was warbling forth
some choice specimens of vocal music in praise of female loveliness, in
a style so exquisitely perfect, that we burst into an involuntary shout
of laughter, and made a hasty retreat.
What charming fellows these young ladies’ young gentlemen are! Ducks,
dears, loves, angels, are all terms inadequate to express their merit.
They are such amazingly, uncommonly, wonderfully, nice men.
CONCLUSION
As we have placed before the young ladies so many specimens of young
gentlemen, and have also in the dedication of this volume given them to
understand how much we reverence and admire their numerous virtues and
perfections; as we have given them such strong reasons to treat us with
confidence, and to banish, in our case, all that reserve and distrust
of the male sex which, as a point of general behaviour, they cannot do
better than preserve and maintain—we say, as we have done all this, we
feel that now, when we have arrived at the close of our task, they may
naturally press upon us the inquiry, what particular description of
young gentlemen we can conscientiously recommend.
Here we are at a loss. We look over our list, and can neither recommend
the bashful young gentleman, nor the out-and-out young gentleman, nor
the very friendly young gentleman, nor the military young gentleman,
nor the political young gentleman, nor the domestic young gentleman,
nor the censorious young gentleman, nor the funny young gentleman, nor
the theatrical young gentleman, nor the poetical young gentleman, nor
the throwing-off young gentleman, nor the young ladies’ young
gentleman.
As there are some good points about many of them, which still are not
sufficiently numerous to render any one among them eligible, as a
whole, our respectful advice to the young ladies is, to seek for a
young gentleman who unites in himself the best qualities of all, and
the worst weaknesses of none, and to lead him forthwith to the hymeneal
altar, whether he will or no. And to the young lady who secures him, we
beg to tender one short fragment of matrimonial advice, selected from
many sound passages of a similar tendency, to be found in a letter
written by Dean Swift to a young lady on her marriage.
‘The grand affair of your life will be, to gain and preserve the esteem
of your husband. Neither good-nature nor virtue will suffer him to
_esteem_ you against his judgment; and although he is not capable of
using you ill, yet you will in time grow a thing indifferent and
perhaps contemptible; unless you can supply the loss of youth and
beauty with more durable qualities. You have but a very few years to be
young and handsome in the eyes of the world; and as few months to be so
in the eyes of a husband who is not a fool; for I hope you do not still
dream of charms and raptures, which marriage ever did, and ever will,
put a sudden end to.’
From the anxiety we express for the proper behaviour of the fortunate
lady after marriage, it may possibly be inferred that the young
gentleman to whom we have so delicately alluded, is no other than
ourself. Without in any way committing ourself upon this point, we have
merely to observe, that we are ready to receive sealed offers
containing a full specification of age, temper, appearance, and
condition; but we beg it to be distinctly understood that we do not
pledge ourself to accept the highest bidder.
These offers may be forwarded to the Publishers, Messrs. Chapman and
Hall, London; to whom all pieces of plate and other testimonials of
approbation from the young ladies generally, are respectfully requested
to be addressed.
SKETCHES OF YOUNG COUPLES
AN URGENT REMONSTRANCE, &c.
TO THE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND,
(being bachelors or widowers,)
THE REMONSTRANCE OF THEIR FAITHFUL FELLOW-SUBJECT,
Sheweth,—
That Her Most Gracious Majesty, Victoria, by the Grace of God of the
United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the
Faith, did, on the 23rd day of November last past, declare and
pronounce to Her Most Honourable Privy Council, Her Majesty’s Most
Gracious intention of entering into the bonds of wedlock.
That Her Most Gracious Majesty, in so making known Her Most Gracious
intention to Her Most Honourable Privy Council as aforesaid, did use
and employ the words—‘It is my intention to ally myself in marriage
with Prince Albert of Saxe Coburg and Gotha.’
That the present is Bissextile, or Leap Year, in which it is held and
considered lawful for any lady to offer and submit proposals of
marriage to any gentleman, and to enforce and insist upon acceptance of
the same, under pain of a certain fine or penalty; to wit, one silk or
satin dress of the first quality, to be chosen by the lady and paid (or
owed) for, by the gentleman.
That these and other the horrors and dangers with which the said
Bissextile, or Leap Year, threatens the gentlemen of England on every
occasion of its periodical return, have been greatly aggravated and
augmented by the terms of Her Majesty’s said Most Gracious
communication, which have filled the heads of divers young ladies in
this Realm with certain new ideas destructive to the peace of mankind,
that never entered their imagination before.
That a case has occurred in Camberwell, in which a young lady informed
her Papa that ‘she intended to ally herself in marriage’ with Mr. Smith
of Stepney; and that another, and a very distressing case, has occurred
at Tottenham, in which a young lady not only stated her intention of
allying herself in marriage with her cousin John, but, taking violent
possession of her said cousin, actually married him.
That similar outrages are of constant occurrence, not only in the
capital and its neighbourhood, but throughout the kingdom, and that
unless the excited female populace be speedily checked and restrained
in their lawless proceedings, most deplorable results must ensue
therefrom; among which may be anticipated a most alarming increase in
the population of the country, with which no efforts of the
agricultural or manufacturing interest can possibly keep pace.
That there is strong reason to suspect the existence of a most
extensive plot, conspiracy, or design, secretly contrived by vast
numbers of single ladies in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and
Ireland, and now extending its ramifications in every quarter of the
land; the object and intent of which plainly appears to be the holding
and solemnising of an enormous and unprecedented number of marriages,
on the day on which the nuptials of Her said Most Gracious Majesty are
performed.
That such plot, conspiracy, or design, strongly savours of Popery, as
tending to the discomfiture of the Clergy of the Established Church, by
entailing upon them great mental and physical exhaustion; and that such
Popish plots are fomented and encouraged by Her Majesty’s Ministers,
which clearly appears—not only from Her Majesty’s principal Secretary
of State for Foreign Affairs traitorously getting married while holding
office under the Crown; but from Mr. O’Connell having been heard to
declare and avow that, if he had a daughter to marry, she should be
married on the same day as Her said Most Gracious Majesty.
That such arch plots, conspiracies, and designs, besides being fraught
with danger to the Established Church, and (consequently) to the State,
cannot fail to bring ruin and bankruptcy upon a large class of Her
Majesty’s subjects; as a great and sudden increase in the number of
married men occasioning the comparative desertion (for a time) of
Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and Gaming-Houses, will deprive the
Proprietors of their accustomed profits and returns. And in further
proof of the depth and baseness of such designs, it may be here
observed, that all proprietors of Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and
Gaming-Houses, are (especially the last) solemnly devoted to the
Protestant religion.
For all these reasons, and many others of no less gravity and import,
an urgent appeal is made to the gentlemen of England (being bachelors
or widowers) to take immediate steps for convening a Public meeting; To
consider of the best and surest means of averting the dangers with
which they are threatened by the recurrence of Bissextile, or Leap
Year, and the additional sensation created among single ladies by the
terms of Her Majesty’s Most Gracious Declaration; To take measures,
without delay, for resisting the said single Ladies, and counteracting
their evil designs; And to pray Her Majesty to dismiss her present
Ministers, and to summon to her Councils those distinguished Gentlemen
in various Honourable Professions who, by insulting on all occasions
the only Lady in England who can be insulted with safety, have given a
sufficient guarantee to Her Majesty’s Loving Subjects that they, at
least, are qualified to make war with women, and are already expert in
the use of those weapons which are common to the lowest and most
abandoned of the sex.
THE YOUNG COUPLE
There is to be a wedding this morning at the corner house in the
terrace. The pastry-cook’s people have been there half-a-dozen times
already; all day yesterday there was a great stir and bustle, and they
were up this morning as soon as it was light. Miss Emma Fielding is
going to be married to young Mr. Harvey.
Heaven alone can tell in what bright colours this marriage is painted
upon the mind of the little housemaid at number six, who has hardly
slept a wink all night with thinking of it, and now stands on the
unswept door-steps leaning upon her broom, and looking wistfully
towards the enchanted house. Nothing short of omniscience can divine
what visions of the baker, or the green-grocer, or the smart and most
insinuating butterman, are flitting across her mind—what thoughts of
how she would dress on such an occasion, if she were a lady—of how she
would dress, if she were only a bride—of how cook would dress, being
bridesmaid, conjointly with her sister ‘in place’ at Fulham, and how
the clergyman, deeming them so many ladies, would be quite humbled and
respectful. What day-dreams of hope and happiness—of life being one
perpetual holiday, with no master and no mistress to grant or withhold
it—of every Sunday being a Sunday out—of pure freedom as to curls and
ringlets, and no obligation to hide fine heads of hair in caps—what
pictures of happiness, vast and immense to her, but utterly ridiculous
to us, bewilder the brain of the little housemaid at number six, all
called into existence by the wedding at the corner!
We smile at such things, and so we should, though perhaps for a better
reason than commonly presents itself. It should be pleasant to us to
know that there are notions of happiness so moderate and limited, since
upon those who entertain them, happiness and lightness of heart are
very easily bestowed.
But the little housemaid is awakened from her reverie, for forth from
the door of the magical corner house there runs towards her, all
fluttering in smart new dress and streaming ribands, her friend Jane
Adams, who comes all out of breath to redeem a solemn promise of taking
her in, under cover of the confusion, to see the breakfast table spread
forth in state, and—sight of sights!—her young mistress ready dressed
for church.
And there, in good truth, when they have stolen up-stairs on tip-toe
and edged themselves in at the chamber-door—there is Miss Emma ‘looking
like the sweetest picter,’ in a white chip bonnet and orange flowers,
and all other elegancies becoming a bride, (with the make, shape, and
quality of every article of which the girl is perfectly familiar in one
moment, and never forgets to her dying day)—and there is Miss Emma’s
mamma in tears, and Miss Emma’s papa comforting her, and saying how
that of course she has been long looking forward to this, and how happy
she ought to be—and there too is Miss Emma’s sister with her arms round
her neck, and the other bridesmaid all smiles and tears, quieting the
children, who would cry more but that they are so finely dressed, and
yet sob for fear sister Emma should be taken away—and it is all so
affecting, that the two servant-girls cry more than anybody; and Jane
Adams, sitting down upon the stairs, when they have crept away,
declares that her legs tremble so that she don’t know what to do, and
that she will say for Miss Emma, that she never had a hasty word from
her, and that she does hope and pray she may be happy.
But Jane soon comes round again, and then surely there never was
anything like the breakfast table, glittering with plate and china, and
set out with flowers and sweets, and long-necked bottles, in the most
sumptuous and dazzling manner. In the centre, too, is the mighty charm,
the cake, glistening with frosted sugar, and garnished beautifully.
They agree that there ought to be a little Cupid under one of the
barley-sugar temples, or at least two hearts and an arrow; but, with
this exception, there is nothing to wish for, and a table could not be
handsomer. As they arrive at this conclusion, who should come in but
Mr. John! to whom Jane says that its only Anne from number six; and
John says _he_ knows, for he’s often winked his eye down the area,
which causes Anne to blush and look confused. She is going away,
indeed; when Mr. John will have it that she must drink a glass of wine,
and he says never mind it’s being early in the morning, it won’t hurt
her: so they shut the door and pour out the wine; and Anne drinking
lane’s health, and adding, ‘and here’s wishing you yours, Mr. John,’
drinks it in a great many sips,—Mr. John all the time making jokes
appropriate to the occasion. At last Mr. John, who has waxed bolder by
degrees, pleads the usage at weddings, and claims the privilege of a
kiss, which he obtains after a great scuffle; and footsteps being now
heard on the stairs, they disperse suddenly.
By this time a carriage has driven up to convey the bride to church,
and Anne of number six prolonging the process of ‘cleaning her door,’
has the satisfaction of beholding the bride and bridesmaids, and the
papa and mamma, hurry into the same and drive rapidly off. Nor is this
all, for soon other carriages begin to arrive with a posse of company
all beautifully dressed, at whom she could stand and gaze for ever; but
having something else to do, is compelled to take one last long look
and shut the street-door.
And now the company have gone down to breakfast, and tears have given
place to smiles, for all the corks are out of the long-necked bottles,
and their contents are disappearing rapidly. Miss Emma’s papa is at the
top of the table; Miss Emma’s mamma at the bottom; and beside the
latter are Miss Emma herself and her husband,—admitted on all hands to
be the handsomest and most interesting young couple ever known. All
down both sides of the table, too, are various young ladies, beautiful
to see, and various young gentlemen who seem to think so; and there, in
a post of honour, is an unmarried aunt of Miss Emma’s, reported to
possess unheard-of riches, and to have expressed vast testamentary
intentions respecting her favourite niece and new nephew. This lady has
been very liberal and generous already, as the jewels worn by the bride
abundantly testify, but that is nothing to what she means to do, or
even to what she has done, for she put herself in close communication
with the dressmaker three months ago, and prepared a wardrobe (with
some articles worked by her own hands) fit for a Princess. People may
call her an old maid, and so she may be, but she is neither cross nor
ugly for all that; on the contrary, she is very cheerful and
pleasant-looking, and very kind and tender-hearted: which is no matter
of surprise except to those who yield to popular prejudices without
thinking why, and will never grow wiser and never know better.
Of all the company though, none are more pleasant to behold or better
pleased with themselves than two young children, who, in honour of the
day, have seats among the guests. Of these, one is a little fellow of
six or eight years old, brother to the bride,—and the other a girl of
the same age, or something younger, whom he calls ‘his wife.’ The real
bride and bridegroom are not more devoted than they: he all love and
attention, and she all blushes and fondness, toying with a little
bouquet which he gave her this morning, and placing the scattered
rose-leaves in her bosom with nature’s own coquettishness. They have
dreamt of each other in their quiet dreams, these children, and their
little hearts have been nearly broken when the absent one has been
dispraised in jest. When will there come in after-life a passion so
earnest, generous, and true as theirs; what, even in its gentlest
realities, can have the grace and charm that hover round such fairy
lovers!
By this time the merriment and happiness of the feast have gained their
height; certain ominous looks begin to be exchanged between the
bridesmaids, and somehow it gets whispered about that the carriage
which is to take the young couple into the country has arrived. Such
members of the party as are most disposed to prolong its enjoyments,
affect to consider this a false alarm, but it turns out too true, being
speedily confirmed, first by the retirement of the bride and a select
file of intimates who are to prepare her for the journey, and secondly
by the withdrawal of the ladies generally. To this there ensues a
particularly awkward pause, in which everybody essays to be facetious,
and nobody succeeds; at length the bridegroom makes a mysterious
disappearance in obedience to some equally mysterious signal; and the
table is deserted.
Now, for at least six weeks last past it has been solemnly devised and
settled that the young couple should go away in secret; but they no
sooner appear without the door than the drawing-room windows are
blocked up with ladies waving their handkerchiefs and kissing their
hands, and the dining-room panes with gentlemen’s faces beaming
farewell in every queer variety of its expression. The hall and steps
are crowded with servants in white favours, mixed up with particular
friends and relations who have darted out to say good-bye; and foremost
in the group are the tiny lovers arm in arm, thinking, with fluttering
hearts, what happiness it would be to dash away together in that
gallant coach, and never part again.
The bride has barely time for one hurried glance at her old home, when
the steps rattle, the door slams, the horses clatter on the pavement,
and they have left it far away.
A knot of women servants still remain clustered in the hall, whispering
among themselves, and there of course is Anne from number six, who has
made another escape on some plea or other, and been an admiring witness
of the departure. There are two points on which Anne expatiates over
and over again, without the smallest appearance of fatigue or intending
to leave off; one is, that she ‘never see in all her life such a—oh
such a angel of a gentleman as Mr. Harvey’—and the other, that she
‘can’t tell how it is, but it don’t seem a bit like a work-a-day, or a
Sunday neither—it’s all so unsettled and unregular.’
THE FORMAL COUPLE
The formal couple are the most prim, cold, immovable, and
unsatisfactory people on the face of the earth. Their faces, voices,
dress, house, furniture, walk, and manner, are all the essence of
formality, unrelieved by one redeeming touch of frankness, heartiness,
or nature.
Everything with the formal couple resolves itself into a matter of
form. They don’t call upon you on your account, but their own; not to
see how you are, but to show how they are: it is not a ceremony to do
honour to you, but to themselves,—not due to your position, but to
theirs. If one of a friend’s children die, the formal couple are as
sure and punctual in sending to the house as the undertaker; if a
friend’s family be increased, the monthly nurse is not more attentive
than they. The formal couple, in fact, joyfully seize all occasions of
testifying their good-breeding and precise observance of the little
usages of society; and for you, who are the means to this end, they
care as much as a man does for the tailor who has enabled him to cut a
figure, or a woman for the milliner who has assisted her to a conquest.
Having an extensive connexion among that kind of people who make
acquaintances and eschew friends, the formal gentleman attends from
time to time a great many funerals, to which he is formally invited,
and to which he formally goes, as returning a call for the last time.
Here his deportment is of the most faultless description; he knows the
exact pitch of voice it is proper to assume, the sombre look he ought
to wear, the melancholy tread which should be his gait for the day. He
is perfectly acquainted with all the dreary courtesies to be observed
in a mourning-coach; knows when to sigh, and when to hide his nose in
the white handkerchief; and looks into the grave and shakes his head
when the ceremony is concluded, with the sad formality of a mute.
‘What kind of funeral was it?’ says the formal lady, when he returns
home. ‘Oh!’ replies the formal gentleman, ‘there never was such a gross
and disgusting impropriety; there were no feathers.’ ‘No feathers!’
cries the lady, as if on wings of black feathers dead people fly to
Heaven, and, lacking them, they must of necessity go elsewhere. Her
husband shakes his head; and further adds, that they had seed-cake
instead of plum-cake, and that it was all white wine. ‘All white wine!’
exclaims his wife. ‘Nothing but sherry and madeira,’ says the husband.
‘What! no port?’ ‘Not a drop.’ No port, no plums, and no feathers! ‘You
will recollect, my dear,’ says the formal lady, in a voice of stately
reproof, ‘that when we first met this poor man who is now dead and
gone, and he took that very strange course of addressing me at dinner
without being previously introduced, I ventured to express my opinion
that the family were quite ignorant of etiquette, and very imperfectly
acquainted with the decencies of life. You have now had a good
opportunity of judging for yourself, and all I have to say is, that I
trust you will never go to a funeral _there_ again.’ ‘My dear,’ replies
the formal gentleman, ‘I never will.’ So the informal deceased is cut
in his grave; and the formal couple, when they tell the story of the
funeral, shake their heads, and wonder what some people’s feelings
_are_ made of, and what their notions of propriety _can_ be!
If the formal couple have a family (which they sometimes have), they
are not children, but little, pale, sour, sharp-nosed men and women;
and so exquisitely brought up, that they might be very old dwarfs for
anything that appeareth to the contrary. Indeed, they are so acquainted
with forms and conventionalities, and conduct themselves with such
strict decorum, that to see the little girl break a looking-glass in
some wild outbreak, or the little boy kick his parents, would be to any
visitor an unspeakable relief and consolation.
The formal couple are always sticklers for what is rigidly proper, and
have a great readiness in detecting hidden impropriety of speech or
thought, which by less scrupulous people would be wholly unsuspected.
Thus, if they pay a visit to the theatre, they sit all night in a
perfect agony lest anything improper or immoral should proceed from the
stage; and if anything should happen to be said which admits of a
double construction, they never fail to take it up directly, and to
express by their looks the great outrage which their feelings have
sustained. Perhaps this is their chief reason for absenting themselves
almost entirely from places of public amusement. They go sometimes to
the Exhibition of the Royal Academy;—but that is often more shocking
than the stage itself, and the formal lady thinks that it really is
high time Mr. Etty was prosecuted and made a public example of.
We made one at a christening party not long since, where there were
amongst the guests a formal couple, who suffered the acutest torture
from certain jokes, incidental to such an occasion, cut—and very likely
dried also—by one of the godfathers; a red-faced elderly gentleman,
who, being highly popular with the rest of the company, had it all his
own way, and was in great spirits. It was at supper-time that this
gentleman came out in full force. We—being of a grave and quiet
demeanour—had been chosen to escort the formal lady down-stairs, and,
sitting beside her, had a favourable opportunity of observing her
emotions.
We have a shrewd suspicion that, in the very beginning, and in the
first blush—literally the first blush—of the matter, the formal lady
had not felt quite certain whether the being present at such a
ceremony, and encouraging, as it were, the public exhibition of a baby,
was not an act involving some degree of indelicacy and impropriety; but
certain we are that when that baby’s health was drunk, and allusions
were made, by a grey-headed gentleman proposing it, to the time when he
had dandled in his arms the young Christian’s mother,—certain we are
that then the formal lady took the alarm, and recoiled from the old
gentleman as from a hoary profligate. Still she bore it; she fanned
herself with an indignant air, but still she bore it. A comic song was
sung, involving a confession from some imaginary gentleman that he had
kissed a female, and yet the formal lady bore it. But when at last, the
health of the godfather before-mentioned being drunk, the godfather
rose to return thanks, and in the course of his observations darkly
hinted at babies yet unborn, and even contemplated the possibility of
the subject of that festival having brothers and sisters, the formal
lady could endure no more, but, bowing slightly round, and sweeping
haughtily past the offender, left the room in tears, under the
protection of the formal gentleman.
THE LOVING COUPLE
There cannot be a better practical illustration of the wise saw and
ancient instance, that there may be too much of a good thing, than is
presented by a loving couple. Undoubtedly it is meet and proper that
two persons joined together in holy matrimony should be loving, and
unquestionably it is pleasant to know and see that they are so; but
there is a time for all things, and the couple who happen to be always
in a loving state before company, are well-nigh intolerable.
And in taking up this position we would have it distinctly understood
that we do not seek alone the sympathy of bachelors, in whose objection
to loving couples we recognise interested motives and personal
considerations. We grant that to that unfortunate class of society
there may be something very irritating, tantalising, and provoking, in
being compelled to witness those gentle endearments and chaste
interchanges which to loving couples are quite the ordinary business of
life. But while we recognise the natural character of the prejudice to
which these unhappy men are subject, we can neither receive their
biassed evidence, nor address ourself to their inflamed and angered
minds. Dispassionate experience is our only guide; and in these moral
essays we seek no less to reform hymeneal offenders than to hold out a
timely warning to all rising couples, and even to those who have not
yet set forth upon their pilgrimage towards the matrimonial market.
Let all couples, present or to come, therefore profit by the example of
Mr. and Mrs. Leaver, themselves a loving couple in the first degree.
Mr. and Mrs. Leaver are pronounced by Mrs. Starling, a widow lady who
lost her husband when she was young, and lost herself about the
same-time—for by her own count she has never since grown five years
older—to be a perfect model of wedded felicity. ‘You would suppose,’
says the romantic lady, ‘that they were lovers only just now engaged.
Never was such happiness! They are so tender, so affectionate, so
attached to each other, so enamoured, that positively nothing can be
more charming!’
‘Augusta, my soul,’ says Mr. Leaver. ‘Augustus, my life,’ replies Mrs.
Leaver. ‘Sing some little ballad, darling,’ quoth Mr. Leaver. ‘I
couldn’t, indeed, dearest,’ returns Mrs. Leaver. ‘Do, my dove,’ says
Mr. Leaver. ‘I couldn’t possibly, my love,’ replies Mrs. Leaver; ‘and
it’s very naughty of you to ask me.’ ‘Naughty, darling!’ cries Mr.
Leaver. ‘Yes, very naughty, and very cruel,’ returns Mrs. Leaver, ‘for
you know I have a sore throat, and that to sing would give me great
pain. You’re a monster, and I hate you. Go away!’ Mrs. Leaver has said
‘go away,’ because Mr. Leaver has tapped her under the chin: Mr. Leaver
not doing as he is bid, but on the contrary, sitting down beside her,
Mrs. Leaver slaps Mr. Leaver; and Mr. Leaver in return slaps Mrs.
Leaver, and it being now time for all persons present to look the other
way, they look the other way, and hear a still small sound as of
kissing, at which Mrs. Starling is thoroughly enraptured, and whispers
her neighbour that if all married couples were like that, what a heaven
this earth would be!
The loving couple are at home when this occurs, and maybe only three or
four friends are present, but, unaccustomed to reserve upon this
interesting point, they are pretty much the same abroad. Indeed upon
some occasions, such as a pic-nic or a water-party, their lovingness is
even more developed, as we had an opportunity last summer of observing
in person.
There was a great water-party made up to go to Twickenham and dine, and
afterwards dance in an empty villa by the river-side, hired expressly
for the purpose. Mr. and Mrs. Leaver were of the company; and it was
our fortune to have a seat in the same boat, which was an eight-oared
galley, manned by amateurs, with a blue striped awning of the same
pattern as their Guernsey shirts, and a dingy red flag of the same
shade as the whiskers of the stroke oar. A coxswain being appointed,
and all other matters adjusted, the eight gentlemen threw themselves
into strong paroxysms, and pulled up with the tide, stimulated by the
compassionate remarks of the ladies, who one and all exclaimed, that it
seemed an immense exertion—as indeed it did. At first we raced the
other boat, which came alongside in gallant style; but this being found
an unpleasant amusement, as giving rise to a great quantity of
splashing, and rendering the cold pies and other viands very moist, it
was unanimously voted down, and we were suffered to shoot a-head, while
the second boat followed ingloriously in our wake.
It was at this time that we first recognised Mr. Leaver. There were two
firemen-watermen in the boat, lying by until somebody was exhausted;
and one of them, who had taken upon himself the direction of affairs,
was heard to cry in a gruff voice, ‘Pull away, number two—give it her,
number two—take a longer reach, number two—now, number two, sir, think
you’re winning a boat.’ The greater part of the company had no doubt
begun to wonder which of the striped Guernseys it might be that stood
in need of such encouragement, when a stifled shriek from Mrs. Leaver
confirmed the doubtful and informed the ignorant; and Mr. Leaver, still
further disguised in a straw hat and no neckcloth, was observed to be
in a fearful perspiration, and failing visibly. Nor was the general
consternation diminished at this instant by the same gentleman (in the
performance of an accidental aquatic feat, termed ‘catching a crab’)
plunging suddenly backward, and displaying nothing of himself to the
company, but two violently struggling legs. Mrs. Leaver shrieked again
several times, and cried piteously—‘Is he dead? Tell me the worst. Is
he dead?’
Now, a moment’s reflection might have convinced the loving wife, that
unless her husband were endowed with some most surprising powers of
muscular action, he never could be dead while he kicked so hard; but
still Mrs. Leaver cried, ‘Is he dead? is he dead?’ and still everybody
else cried—‘No, no, no,’ until such time as Mr. Leaver was replaced in
a sitting posture, and his oar (which had been going through all kinds
of wrong-headed performances on its own account) was once more put in
his hand, by the exertions of the two firemen-watermen. Mr. Leaver then
exclaimed, ‘Augustus, my child, come to me;’ and Mr. Leaver said,
‘Augusta, my love, compose yourself, I am not injured.’ But Mrs. Leaver
cried again more piteously than before, ‘Augustus, my child, come to
me;’ and now the company generally, who seemed to be apprehensive that
if Mr. Leaver remained where he was, he might contribute more than his
proper share towards the drowning of the party, disinterestedly took
part with Mrs. Leaver, and said he really ought to go, and that he was
not strong enough for such violent exercise, and ought never to have
undertaken it. Reluctantly, Mr. Leaver went, and laid himself down at
Mrs. Leaver’s feet, and Mrs. Leaver stooping over him, said, ‘Oh
Augustus, how could you terrify me so?’ and Mr. Leaver said, ‘Augusta,
my sweet, I never meant to terrify you;’ and Mrs. Leaver said, ‘You are
faint, my dear;’ and Mr. Leaver said, ‘I am rather so, my love;’ and
they were very loving indeed under Mrs. Leaver’s veil, until at length
Mr. Leaver came forth again, and pleasantly asked if he had not heard
something said about bottled stout and sandwiches.
Mrs. Starling, who was one of the party, was perfectly delighted with
this scene, and frequently murmured half-aside, ‘What a loving couple
you are!’ or ‘How delightful it is to see man and wife so happy
together!’ To us she was quite poetical, (for we are a kind of
cousins,) observing that hearts beating in unison like that made life a
paradise of sweets; and that when kindred creatures were drawn together
by sympathies so fine and delicate, what more than mortal happiness did
not our souls partake! To all this we answered ‘Certainly,’ or ‘Very
true,’ or merely sighed, as the case might be. At every new act of the
loving couple, the widow’s admiration broke out afresh; and when Mrs.
Leaver would not permit Mr. Leaver to keep his hat off, lest the sun
should strike to his head, and give him a brain fever, Mrs. Starling
actually shed tears, and said it reminded her of Adam and Eve.
The loving couple were thus loving all the way to Twickenham, but when
we arrived there (by which time the amateur crew looked very thirsty
and vicious) they were more playful than ever, for Mrs. Leaver threw
stones at Mr. Leaver, and Mr. Leaver ran after Mrs. Leaver on the
grass, in a most innocent and enchanting manner. At dinner, too, Mr.
Leaver _would_ steal Mrs. Leaver’s tongue, and Mrs. Leaver _would_
retaliate upon Mr. Leaver’s fowl; and when Mrs. Leaver was going to
take some lobster salad, Mr. Leaver wouldn’t let her have any, saying
that it made her ill, and she was always sorry for it afterwards, which
afforded Mrs. Leaver an opportunity of pretending to be cross, and
showing many other prettinesses. But this was merely the smiling
surface of their loves, not the mighty depths of the stream, down to
which the company, to say the truth, dived rather unexpectedly, from
the following accident. It chanced that Mr. Leaver took upon himself to
propose the bachelors who had first originated the notion of that
entertainment, in doing which, he affected to regret that he was no
longer of their body himself, and pretended grievously to lament his
fallen state. This Mrs. Leaver’s feelings could not brook, even in
jest, and consequently, exclaiming aloud, ‘He loves me not, he loves me
not!’ she fell in a very pitiable state into the arms of Mrs. Starling,
and, directly becoming insensible, was conveyed by that lady and her
husband into another room. Presently Mr. Leaver came running back to
know if there was a medical gentleman in company, and as there was, (in
what company is there not?) both Mr. Leaver and the medical gentleman
hurried away together.
The medical gentleman was the first who returned, and among his
intimate friends he was observed to laugh and wink, and look as
unmedical as might be; but when Mr. Leaver came back he was very
solemn, and in answer to all inquiries, shook his head, and remarked
that Augusta was far too sensitive to be trifled with—an opinion which
the widow subsequently confirmed. Finding that she was in no imminent
peril, however, the rest of the party betook themselves to dancing on
the green, and very merry and happy they were, and a vast quantity of
flirtation there was; the last circumstance being no doubt
attributable, partly to the fineness of the weather, and partly to the
locality, which is well known to be favourable to all harmless
recreations.
In the bustle of the scene, Mr. and Mrs. Leaver stole down to the boat,
and disposed themselves under the awning, Mrs. Leaver reclining her
head upon Mr. Leaver’s shoulder, and Mr. Leaver grasping her hand with
great fervour, and looking in her face from time to time with a
melancholy and sympathetic aspect. The widow sat apart, feigning to be
occupied with a book, but stealthily observing them from behind her
fan; and the two firemen-watermen, smoking their pipes on the bank hard
by, nudged each other, and grinned in enjoyment of the joke. Very few
of the party missed the loving couple; and the few who did, heartily
congratulated each other on their disappearance.
THE CONTRADICTORY COUPLE
One would suppose that two people who are to pass their whole lives
together, and must necessarily be very often alone with each other,
could find little pleasure in mutual contradiction; and yet what is
more common than a contradictory couple?
The contradictory couple agree in nothing but contradiction. They
return home from Mrs. Bluebottle’s dinner-party, each in an opposite
corner of the coach, and do not exchange a syllable until they have
been seated for at least twenty minutes by the fireside at home, when
the gentleman, raising his eyes from the stove, all at once breaks
silence:
‘What a very extraordinary thing it is,’ says he, ‘that you _will_
contradict, Charlotte!’ ‘_I_ contradict!’ cries the lady, ‘but that’s
just like you.’ ‘What’s like me?’ says the gentleman sharply. ‘Saying
that I contradict you,’ replies the lady. ‘Do you mean to say that you
do _not_ contradict me?’ retorts the gentleman; ‘do you mean to say
that you have not been contradicting me the whole of this day?’ ‘Do you
mean to tell me now, that you have not? I mean to tell you nothing of
the kind,’ replies the lady quietly; ‘when you are wrong, of course I
shall contradict you.’
During this dialogue the gentleman has been taking his brandy-and-water
on one side of the fire, and the lady, with her dressing-case on the
table, has been curling her hair on the other. She now lets down her
back hair, and proceeds to brush it; preserving at the same time an air
of conscious rectitude and suffering virtue, which is intended to
exasperate the gentleman—and does so.
‘I do believe,’ he says, taking the spoon out of his glass, and tossing
it on the table, ‘that of all the obstinate, positive, wrong-headed
creatures that were ever born, you are the most so, Charlotte.’
‘Certainly, certainly, have it your own way, pray. You see how much _I_
contradict you,’ rejoins the lady. ‘Of course, you didn’t contradict me
at dinner-time—oh no, not you!’ says the gentleman. ‘Yes, I did,’ says
the lady. ‘Oh, you did,’ cries the gentleman ‘you admit that?’ ‘If you
call that contradiction, I do,’ the lady answers; ‘and I say again,
Edward, that when I know you are wrong, I will contradict you. I am not
your slave.’ ‘Not my slave!’ repeats the gentleman bitterly; ‘and you
still mean to say that in the Blackburns’ new house there are not more
than fourteen doors, including the door of the wine-cellar!’ ‘I mean to
say,’ retorts the lady, beating time with her hair-brush on the palm of
her hand, ‘that in that house there are fourteen doors and no more.’
‘Well then—’ cries the gentleman, rising in despair, and pacing the
room with rapid strides. ‘By G-, this is enough to destroy a man’s
intellect, and drive him mad!’
By and by the gentleman comes-to a little, and passing his hand
gloomily across his forehead, reseats himself in his former chair.
There is a long silence, and this time the lady begins. ‘I appealed to
Mr. Jenkins, who sat next to me on the sofa in the drawing-room during
tea—’ ‘Morgan, you mean,’ interrupts the gentleman. ‘I do not mean
anything of the kind,’ answers the lady. ‘Now, by all that is
aggravating and impossible to bear,’ cries the gentleman, clenching his
hands and looking upwards in agony, ‘she is going to insist upon it
that Morgan is Jenkins!’ ‘Do you take me for a perfect fool?’ exclaims
the lady; ‘do you suppose I don’t know the one from the other? Do you
suppose I don’t know that the man in the blue coat was Mr. Jenkins?’
‘Jenkins in a blue coat!’ cries the gentleman with a groan; ‘Jenkins in
a blue coat! a man who would suffer death rather than wear anything but
brown!’ ‘Do you dare to charge me with telling an untruth?’ demands the
lady, bursting into tears. ‘I charge you, ma’am,’ retorts the
gentleman, starting up, ‘with being a monster of contradiction, a
monster of aggravation, a—a—a—Jenkins in a blue coat!—what have I done
that I should be doomed to hear such statements!’
Expressing himself with great scorn and anguish, the gentleman takes up
his candle and stalks off to bed, where feigning to be fast asleep when
the lady comes up-stairs drowned in tears, murmuring lamentations over
her hard fate and indistinct intentions of consulting her brothers, he
undergoes the secret torture of hearing her exclaim between whiles, ‘I
know there are only fourteen doors in the house, I know it was Mr.
Jenkins, I know he had a blue coat on, and I would say it as positively
as I do now, if they were the last words I had to speak!’
If the contradictory couple are blessed with children, they are not the
less contradictory on that account. Master James and Miss Charlotte
present themselves after dinner, and being in perfect good humour, and
finding their parents in the same amiable state, augur from these
appearances half a glass of wine a-piece and other extraordinary
indulgences. But unfortunately Master James, growing talkative upon
such prospects, asks his mamma how tall Mrs. Parsons is, and whether
she is not six feet high; to which his mamma replies, ‘Yes, she should
think she was, for Mrs. Parsons is a very tall lady indeed; quite a
giantess.’ ‘For Heaven’s sake, Charlotte,’ cries her husband, ‘do not
tell the child such preposterous nonsense. Six feet high!’ ‘Well,’
replies the lady, ‘surely I may be permitted to have an opinion; my
opinion is, that she is six feet high—at least six feet.’ ‘Now you
know, Charlotte,’ retorts the gentleman sternly, ‘that that is _not_
your opinion—that you have no such idea—and that you only say this for
the sake of contradiction.’ ‘You are exceedingly polite,’ his wife
replies; ‘to be wrong about such a paltry question as anybody’s height,
would be no great crime; but I say again, that I believe Mrs. Parsons
to be six feet—more than six feet; nay, I believe you know her to be
full six feet, and only say she is not, because I say she is.’ This
taunt disposes the gentleman to become violent, but he cheeks himself,
and is content to mutter, in a haughty tone, ‘Six feet—ha! ha! Mrs.
Parsons six feet!’ and the lady answers, ‘Yes, six feet. I am sure I am
glad you are amused, and I’ll say it again—six feet.’ Thus the subject
gradually drops off, and the contradiction begins to be forgotten, when
Master James, with some undefined notion of making himself agreeable,
and putting things to rights again, unfortunately asks his mamma what
the moon’s made of; which gives her occasion to say that he had better
not ask her, for she is always wrong and never can be right; that he
only exposes her to contradiction by asking any question of her; and
that he had better ask his papa, who is infallible, and never can be
wrong. Papa, smarting under this attack, gives a terrible pull at the
bell, and says, that if the conversation is to proceed in this way, the
children had better be removed. Removed they are, after a few tears and
many struggles; and Pa having looked at Ma sideways for a minute or
two, with a baleful eye, draws his pocket-handkerchief over his face,
and composes himself for his after-dinner nap.
The friends of the contradictory couple often deplore their frequent
disputes, though they rather make light of them at the same time:
observing, that there is no doubt they are very much attached to each
other, and that they never quarrel except about trifles. But neither
the friends of the contradictory couple, nor the contradictory couple
themselves, reflect, that as the most stupendous objects in nature are
but vast collections of minute particles, so the slightest and least
considered trifles make up the sum of human happiness or misery.
THE COUPLE WHO DOTE UPON THEIR CHILDREN
The couple who dote upon their children have usually a great many of
them: six or eight at least. The children are either the healthiest in
all the world, or the most unfortunate in existence. In either case,
they are equally the theme of their doting parents, and equally a
source of mental anguish and irritation to their doting parents’
friends.
The couple who dote upon their children recognise no dates but those
connected with their births, accidents, illnesses, or remarkable deeds.
They keep a mental almanack with a vast number of Innocents’-days, all
in red letters. They recollect the last coronation, because on that day
little Tom fell down the kitchen stairs; the anniversary of the
Gunpowder Plot, because it was on the fifth of November that Ned asked
whether wooden legs were made in heaven and cocked hats grew in
gardens. Mrs. Whiffler will never cease to recollect the last day of
the old year as long as she lives, for it was on that day that the baby
had the four red spots on its nose which they took for measles: nor
Christmas-day, for twenty-one days after Christmas-day the twins were
born; nor Good Friday, for it was on a Good Friday that she was
frightened by the donkey-cart when she was in the family way with
Georgiana. The movable feasts have no motion for Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler,
but remain pinned down tight and fast to the shoulders of some small
child, from whom they can never be separated any more. Time was made,
according to their creed, not for slaves but for girls and boys; the
restless sands in his glass are but little children at play.
As we have already intimated, the children of this couple can know no
medium. They are either prodigies of good health or prodigies of bad
health; whatever they are, they must be prodigies. Mr. Whiffler must
have to describe at his office such excruciating agonies constantly
undergone by his eldest boy, as nobody else’s eldest boy ever
underwent; or he must be able to declare that there never was a child
endowed with such amazing health, such an indomitable constitution, and
such a cast-iron frame, as his child. His children must be, in some
respect or other, above and beyond the children of all other people. To
such an extent is this feeling pushed, that we were once slightly
acquainted with a lady and gentleman who carried their heads so high
and became so proud after their youngest child fell out of a
two-pair-of-stairs window without hurting himself much, that the
greater part of their friends were obliged to forego their
acquaintance. But perhaps this may be an extreme case, and one not
justly entitled to be considered as a precedent of general application.
If a friend happen to dine in a friendly way with one of these couples
who dote upon their children, it is nearly impossible for him to divert
the conversation from their favourite topic. Everything reminds Mr.
Whiffler of Ned, or Mrs. Whiffler of Mary Anne, or of the time before
Ned was born, or the time before Mary Anne was thought of. The
slightest remark, however harmless in itself, will awaken slumbering
recollections of the twins. It is impossible to steer clear of them.
They will come uppermost, let the poor man do what he may. Ned has been
known to be lost sight of for half an hour, Dick has been forgotten,
the name of Mary Anne has not been mentioned, but the twins will out.
Nothing can keep down the twins.
‘It’s a very extraordinary thing, Saunders,’ says Mr. Whiffler to the
visitor, ‘but—you have seen our little babies, the—the—twins?’ The
friend’s heart sinks within him as he answers, ‘Oh, yes—often.’ ‘Your
talking of the Pyramids,’ says Mr. Whiffler, quite as a matter of
course, ‘reminds me of the twins. It’s a very extraordinary thing about
those babies—what colour should you say their eyes were?’ ‘Upon my
word,’ the friend stammers, ‘I hardly know how to answer’—the fact
being, that except as the friend does not remember to have heard of any
departure from the ordinary course of nature in the instance of these
twins, they might have no eyes at all for aught he has observed to the
contrary. ‘You wouldn’t say they were red, I suppose?’ says Mr.
Whiffler. The friend hesitates, and rather thinks they are; but
inferring from the expression of Mr. Whiffler’s face that red is not
the colour, smiles with some confidence, and says, ‘No, no! very
different from that.’ ‘What should you say to blue?’ says Mr. Whiffler.
The friend glances at him, and observing a different expression in his
face, ventures to say, ‘I should say they _were_ blue—a decided blue.’
‘To be sure!’ cries Mr. Whiffler, triumphantly, ‘I knew you would! But
what should you say if I was to tell you that the boy’s eyes are blue
and the girl’s hazel, eh?’ ‘Impossible!’ exclaims the friend, not at
all knowing why it should be impossible. ‘A fact, notwithstanding,’
cries Mr. Whiffler; ‘and let me tell you, Saunders, _that’s_ not a
common thing in twins, or a circumstance that’ll happen every day.’
In this dialogue Mrs. Whiffler, as being deeply responsible for the
twins, their charms and singularities, has taken no share; but she now
relates, in broken English, a witticism of little Dick’s bearing upon
the subject just discussed, which delights Mr. Whiffler beyond measure,
and causes him to declare that he would have sworn that was Dick’s if
he had heard it anywhere. Then he requests that Mrs. Whiffler will tell
Saunders what Tom said about mad bulls; and Mrs. Whiffler relating the
anecdote, a discussion ensues upon the different character of Tom’s wit
and Dick’s wit, from which it appears that Dick’s humour is of a lively
turn, while Tom’s style is the dry and caustic. This discussion being
enlivened by various illustrations, lasts a long time, and is only
stopped by Mrs. Whiffler instructing the footman to ring the nursery
bell, as the children were promised that they should come down and
taste the pudding.
The friend turns pale when this order is given, and paler still when it
is followed up by a great pattering on the staircase, (not unlike the
sound of rain upon a skylight,) a violent bursting open of the
dining-room door, and the tumultuous appearance of six small children,
closely succeeded by a strong nursery-maid with a twin in each arm. As
the whole eight are screaming, shouting, or kicking—some influenced by
a ravenous appetite, some by a horror of the stranger, and some by a
conflict of the two feelings—a pretty long space elapses before all
their heads can be ranged round the table and anything like order
restored; in bringing about which happy state of things both the nurse
and footman are severely scratched. At length Mrs. Whiffler is heard to
say, ‘Mr. Saunders, shall I give you some pudding?’ A breathless
silence ensues, and sixteen small eyes are fixed upon the guest in
expectation of his reply. A wild shout of joy proclaims that he has
said ‘No, thank you.’ Spoons are waved in the air, legs appear above
the table-cloth in uncontrollable ecstasy, and eighty short fingers
dabble in damson syrup.
While the pudding is being disposed of, Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler look on
with beaming countenances, and Mr. Whiffler nudging his friend
Saunders, begs him to take notice of Tom’s eyes, or Dick’s chin, or
Ned’s nose, or Mary Anne’s hair, or Emily’s figure, or little Bob’s
calves, or Fanny’s mouth, or Carry’s head, as the case may be. Whatever
the attention of Mr. Saunders is called to, Mr. Saunders admires of
course; though he is rather confused about the sex of the youngest
branches and looks at the wrong children, turning to a girl when Mr.
Whiffler directs his attention to a boy, and falling into raptures with
a boy when he ought to be enchanted with a girl. Then the dessert
comes, and there is a vast deal of scrambling after fruit, and sudden
spirting forth of juice out of tight oranges into infant eyes, and much
screeching and wailing in consequence. At length it becomes time for
Mrs. Whiffler to retire, and all the children are by force of arms
compelled to kiss and love Mr. Saunders before going up-stairs, except
Tom, who, lying on his back in the hall, proclaims that Mr. Saunders
‘is a naughty beast;’ and Dick, who having drunk his father’s wine when
he was looking another way, is found to be intoxicated and is carried
out, very limp and helpless.