roi des bagatelles_,” from his love of _bijouterie_; and Lord —— might
be called the emperor. His pipes and snuff-boxes alone might entitle him
to the imperial grade in the sovereignty of trifles: while Lady —— is
the very Catherine of Russia of trinkets, and autocrat of the toy-shop.
There is not a useless utility, a superfluous superfluity, that ingenuity
can devise for the amusement of idleness, which may not now be found on
the tables of the great, and the imitators of their present rage for
toys:—gold scissors that do not cut; silver needles that do not sew;
pearl pen-knives that mend no pens; and work-boxes that hold no work save
clock-work; _fagots_ that never burn; and _allumettes_ that are never to
be lighted: with a hundred devices in gems and jewels, which it must have
taken some poetical talent, and more poetical fancy than goes to half the
sonnets and “_lines_” that we read, or at least pay for, to invent.
All this seems very frivolous; but then these “trifles light as air” are
sometimes important enough in their results: for, if such fairy favours
are occasionally bestowed by tributary friends, they are sometimes
the insidious offerings of concealed admirers; who tell in toys, what
words dare not utter; and give the history of a passion in a series of
trinkets, which, if hearts of turquoise, and seals of emeralds could
speak, would be found more than circumstantial evidences in Doctors’
Commons.
That _petites-maîtres_, and _petites-maîtresses_ should thus “trifle life
away,” and occupy their time and money like children, may not appear so
very extraordinary; but that literary women—intellectual women—women who
affect to think, and presume to write—and publish too, and make head
against such organs of opinion as Quarterly Reviews, and the like—that
_they_ should give themselves the airs of fashionable frivolity, and
endeavour to reconcile “_les goûts d’un grand seigneur, et les revenus
d’un poëte_,” is really “too bad.” It is, however, a fair example of
the incongruities of character, and the influence of vogue. What would
the Scuderies, and the Daciers, and the Carters, and the Montagus say
to the toy-shop house of a certain forty-volume-power female writer of
the present day, who, if she has not written as well, has written as
much, as those three voluminous ladies combined? What a disappointment
to blue-stocking visitors, who expect to find her in the midst of that
charming literary litter, intellectual disorder, and elegant neglect of
all the elegancies of ordinary life, which marked the _ménages_ of the
_femmes-savantes_ of the late and preceding centuries!—the broken tea-cup
(substituted for a wine-glass) of Mary Wolstonecraft! or the Scotch mull
and brown pocket-handkerchief of Catherine Macauley!! What a shock to
hear this quarto authoress talk of _esprit de rose_ instead of _l’esprit
des lois_; to find the atmosphere of her drawing-room perfumed by a
_jardin_ of fresh flowers, whose odour, she pretends, has the same effect
on her brain as sherries had upon Falstaff’s, “driving thence all the
dull and crudy vapours, which environ it!”
How their literary Fustinesses of former times would turn up their
intellectual noses at the frivolous tastes of this new-light _Armande_,
could they see her, as I see her at this moment, writing at a rose-wood
_secrétaire_, accommodating and pliant as any _secrétaire_ on the list
of diplomacy, and “seizing,” literally, not figuratively, (like Anna
Matilda) her “golden quill.” There she sits, surrounded by the inspiring
semblances of deathless wits and immortal beauties, shining from enamels
durable as their fame—by bookcases, that glitter in gilt vellum and
rosy russian—with Dante illustrated on Sevre vases, and the loves of
Petrarch and Laura told on tea-cups. Which of the coronetted muses of the
present _saturnalia_ of Parnassus, where cooks and countesses jostle for
precedency, does this sketch pourtray? Which of the Lady Charlottes and
the Honourable Annas, who affect new patents of distinction, and think
more of the honour bestowed by their publisher, than their pedigree, does
this cap fit? Not one; for this literary _petite-maîtresse_—this amateur
of frivolities, and inditer of philosophy—this collector of French toys,
and collator of Irish chronicles—this trifler by taste, and author by
necessity,
“Cet homme-là, Sire—c’est moi!”[53]
I don’t defend this passion for trifles—I only expose it, as an
illustrative item in the history of female authorship, which is so often
reproached with a slovenly neglect of all that is feminine and frivolous.
When somebody presented the celebrated Mademoiselle Scuderie with a bunch
of pretty seals, she refused them, deeming them derogatory to the dignity
of a “_Fille Savante_,” as she is called by Menage—so she sent them back
with a couplet, observing,
“Car enfin des jolis cachets
Demandent des jolis secrets,
Ou du moins des jolis billets.”
It is odd enough that I should be thus blamed for my love of trifles
and of truth—and for pursuing both, in my public and private life, with
an earnestness, which at least attests my sincerity, if it does not
prove my judgment. “_On ne saurait avoir trop de fantaisies, musquées
ou non musquées_,” says Madame de Sévigné. This is also my creed: for
I hold, that whatever cheers us on in the arduous path of life, and
flings a flower over its dreariness—whatever innocently employs and
safely recreates—whatever gives an object, or an amusement, “soberly,”
(as Lady Grace has it,) is worth cultivating, even although it be but
a taste for toys. When, therefore, one cannot command a box at the
opera, it is well to be able to command a box from Bautte![54] When one
cannot enjoy Rossini in full orchestra, it is a privilege to hear his
best symphonies played on one’s writing-desk or work-table—and when
denied the enchantments of Pasta and Pisaroni, it is pleasant still to
hang upon tones, which, like theirs, seem to proceed from no “_mortal
mixture of earth’s mould_”—fairy strains, played, as it were, by fairy
fingers, on fairy instruments, made and moulded “_par quelque araignée du
voisinage_.” Sensible women, I know, laugh at all this. Still, a woman
should be “_femme avant tout_;” and she who is not so, more or less, is
not a fair and perfect specimen of her sex.
The great always love toys. Even heroes are not above them. That gallant
Centaur, Prince Potemkin, had the finest collection of _joujoux_ of any
grown gentleman on record; and Catherine the Great was wont to reward his
devotion and his services, alternately, by trinkets and principalities,
or to appease his jealousy by a government or a toy—
“Pleurez, pleurez, petit enfant—
Vous aurez votre moulin-à-vent.”
The Russian “_petit enfant_” was often found seated before a mountain of
baby-things, in his military pavilion, by the Prince de Ligne, who has
left such a pleasant description of the scene, and so wittily recorded
the fact.
By far the prettiest toy I ever read or heard of, and the most
appropriate for the baby-house of a literary lady, was one invented by
Madame de Théanges, the sister of Madame de Montespan; and presented
by that beautiful and _mondaine_ Abbess, to the Duc de Maine, as an
_étrenne_, in 1675.
This exquisite toy represented one of the royal apartments of Versailles,
richly gilt and decorated—a state-bed occupied an alcove, and was
surrounded by a gilt balustrade. In a _grand fauteuil_, within the
precincts, sat the young prince, shewing a copy of adulatory verses to
the Duc de la Rochefoucauld, who stood beside him; while behind his chair
was placed the celebrated Bossuet, and the Prince de Marsiliac. Two
ladies, who had also the privilege of the _ruelle_, sat reading within
the alcove. These were the charming Madame de la Fayette, and Madame de
Théanges, whose beauty was set off by her religious habit, as Abbess
de Fontrevault. Immediately without the balustrade stood Racine and
Boileau—the former beckoning in the modest La Fontaine, who stood timidly
at the door—the latter, with a pitch-fork, humorously affecting to keep
off a crowd of bad poets, who were forcing their way to the presence and
patronage of the young prince.
The merit and the value of this superb toy was, that all these figures
were accurate portraits, exquisitely done in wax, and presented by the
illustrious originals themselves to Madame de Théanges, for her classical
and ingenious _étrenne_.
FAUTEUIL—BERGÈRE—ARM-CHAIR—EPISCOPAL SEAT.
“Inutile a chi non reposa.”
_Book of Emblems—Device, a Chair._
Last night we were playing a _charade en action_. As Madame Catalani, and
her clever son, with some other foreigners, were of the party, we played
it in French. I personated an antiquated ultra _baronne_, restored to her
_donjon_ in Normandy, and receiving a visit from an old _châtelain_ of
the neighbourhood, who came to congratulate her on the restoration of
all old things. The scene we made of giving _les honneurs du fauteuil_
to my neighbour, my horror at the indignity of offering a _chaise de
paille_ to an _ancien noble_ of seven quarters; and the overthrow of the
whole party, chairs and all, in the struggle of ceremony, occasioned a
good deal of laughing. I borrowed the trait from a scene I had witnessed
in the Faubourg, on my first arrival in Paris, when a great effort was
making to restore the _fauteuil_ to its ancient honours.
The history of arm-chairs would make an amusing volume, if given from
antique times to the present, from the _fauteuil_ of the middle ages,
when it had reached its highest political importance, down to the modern
_dormeuse_, in which, at this moment, I am scribbling, _ex cathedra_!
What a specimen of the progress of society it would embrace—what state
secrets it would reveal—what sanguinary wars—what treaties of peace, what
family ties dissolved—what courses of true love turned aside—all owing to
the important _fauteuil_!
“Armed-chairs—chairs with a back—the stool of honour—the right hand
and the left,” says Voltaire, “have, for many ages, been the important
objects of diplomacy, and the subjects of illustrious quarrels.”
Buonaparte, whose weakness it was to adopt the worn-out _étiquettes_
of an order of things directly opposed to his own existence, raised
the _fauteuil_ along with the altar and the throne; and it is said,
that, when Madame Letitia Buonaparte made her visit of ceremony, on
the _accouchement_ of her imperial daughter-in-law, the arm-chair was
removed from the room, lest she (being, as she was, _roturière_, though
the mother of an emperor, four kings, and two or three princesses) might
presume to usurp its honours in the presence of the daughter of the
Cæsars, the descendant of the Hapsbourgs!
Alas, for the vicissitudes of human grandeur! There are those living,
more _roturière_ than the excellent Madame Buonaparte, who have since
seated themselves on whatever chair they pleased, in the presence of
the ex-Empress of France, the now obscure Duchess of Parma; who herself
sat, confounded with other ladies, in the _salon_ of an English peeress,
obtaining no distinction, save what was conferred by the attention and
courtesy of an English ambassadress. Oh! if the great would, or could,
but feel how little they owe of the world’s homage to themselves, and
how much to their position,—before some dreadful reverses teach them
the sad truth, that they are but the signs of that power, which lies in
principles, and not in persons.
The curule chair of the Romans had a certain respect attached to it,
as being the seat of magistracy—very different, however, from the awe
which is inspired by the sight of a throne in the hearts of the loyal
idolaters of modern absolutism. The luxurious Romans, who, when not in
activity, lay extended, even at their meals, on couches, seem not to have
considered a mere seat in connexion with rank and power. The Fabiuses and
Catos borrowed no distinction from the privilege of sitting in an arm
chair. The form of the curule chair is preserved in the sculptured marble
of some of the noble statues of antiquity, which are designed in the
seated attitude. The ease of their position seems rather to result from
the grace of the individuals represented, than from the commodity of the
chair, which is low-backed and simple in form. Its substance, however,
was ivory, richly carved—a curious fact in the history of the arts.
It was with the barbarous lower ages that the arm-chair first acquired
its modern consequence, and it continued to increase in political
importance down to the French revolution. The code of etiquettes
concerning the _fauteuil_ in old France, was a consecrated volume. To
claim _les honneurs du fauteuil_, or to give them, determined the most
knotty points of precedence which agitated dynasties, and disturbed the
peace of kingdoms. The origin of this distinction lay very probably
in the rarity of the object—in the rude unaccommodated and dreary
stone towers, in which the ancestors of families of many quarters then
sheltered their heads. The easy chair was reserved for the elder or
chief of the family, who, in those patriarchal times, ruled with an iron
despotism over his timid, but often unnatural offspring; for the son,
who was not permitted to sit in the presence of his father, frequently
usurped his dominions, and hurried him from his _fauteuil_ to his grave.
The filial history of the respectful and royal sons of Spain and Russia,
is the epitome of the story of those times, when the _fauteuil_ was the
domestic throne of every tyrant _châtelain_, and the exclusive privilege
of the great.
To know the full consequence attached to sitting in an arm-chair, the
French memoirs must be deeply studied; particularly those, written in the
simplicity of their hearts, by Dangeau and Mademoiselle Montpensier. The
life of the “_grande Mademoiselle_” was one continued agony of quarrels
on the subject of the _fauteuil_ and the _chaise à dos_; and half the
diplomacy of Europe in her time was occupied with discussions on similar
subjects. Cardinal Richelieu, having refused to walk three steps beyond
the door of his apartment—(he was willing to walk two)—to meet the
English ambassador, who came to treat of the marriage of Charles the
First with Henrietta of France, that marriage, of such importance to both
crowns, was nearly broken off. The cardinal, however, affected sickness,
and receiving the English duke in a _chaise longue_, thus avoided the odd
step, without breaking off the alliance.
Louis the Thirteenth, desiring to hold a private council with his
minister and master, Richelieu, was obliged to visit him in his bed-room,
where he lay dangerously ill. But as a subject, though dying, could not
be permitted to receive the king in bed, except the king was lying in
bed also, Louis was wheeled in, on a _chaise longue_, and they both thus
lay in state to discuss the affairs of the nation. Louis the Fourteenth
observed the same form, when he went to visit the wounded hero Turenne.
In the olden times the easy chair, or _chaise de doléance_, was reserved
for invalids, in the houses of the middle ranks of England and Germany;
but the chair of “_le roi Dagobert_”[55] if in existence, would have a
chance of being discarded, even by the most zealous _voltigeur_, in
favour of a modern _dormeuse_, with its easy fall, cushioned back, and
pillows of iron, softer than down,—now at the disposition of every member
of the family. In all that respects the comforts and commodity of life,
the wisdom of our ancestors was confessedly at fault.
The two most interesting arm-chairs in existence, are the Shakspeare
chair, late in the possession of Mrs. Garrick, and Voltaire’s chair,
which stood beside the fire-place in the Hôtel de Vilette, Rue Vaugirard,
when I last saw it, in 1820. The inauguration chairs of the O’Neals, the
O’Donnels, and the O’Briens would form long items of antiquarian research
in the chapter of arm-chairs, too long probably for the patience of the
general reader.
So much for the social arm-chair,—the _chaise à dos_, and _fauteuil_
of the court—the _bergère_ and _chaise à bras_ of the château. But the
history of the chair of the church—the episcopal chair—with all its
sedentary rites, connected with the divine offices and high privileges
of its incumbent, is of far more importance. The _where_, and the _how_,
the princes of the church should sit enthroned above their prostrate
flock, became an object of ecclesiastical attention in the early ages of
christianity; and scarcely had the primitive christians issued from the
caves and obscure places whence so many divine things were given out,
than councils were held, and canons established the sites, and positions,
and materials of the easy seats of the bishops and clergy. Then came the
_absis_, and the _faldistorium_, or chair of state, used for pontifical
duties; and then the episcopal thrones and patriarchal and papal chairs
of Rome, all symbols of worldly power and spiritual pride, alike the
objects of ambition and contest, and claimed, and struggled, and fought
for, like the poor mondaine _fauteuil_, by prince bishops, who, in the
early ages, were proud of a _wooden seat_, but who in process of time
occupied chairs elevated and gorgeous as regal thrones.
The ruins of the old episcopal throne in the famous cathedral of Rouen,
which has flourished from the fourth century, are now forsaken for a
magnificent and luxurious chair, or _faldistorium_. The history of the
origin and progress of the bishop’s seat, as fixed in his church or
cathedral, from the first Bishop of Canterbury, who humbly took his
_sedes lignea_, to the last whom divine grace has called to fill its
sumptuous throne,[56] would in itself throw a strong light upon the
history of the church of England. “_Que de choses dans un menuet!_”
exclaimed a French dancing-master in an ecstacy at the mysteries he was
teaching a royal pupil. _Que de choses dans un fauteuil!_ One may write
upon a fiddle-stick, doggedly, if not learnedly. One of the best things
Swift ever did write, was on a broom-stick.
THE SPIRIT OF THE AGE.
The tendency in human affairs to proceed by impulses, is a curious
fact in the history of the species. At certain indefinite epochs,
and often without any very manifest cause, mankind are seized with
some sudden passion, and are hurried with an almost universal fervor
towards some particular object, which takes possession of the general
imagination. The enthusiasm thus kindled, pervades all ranks, and
masters all dispositions, giving a common tone and character to whole
generations—until, exhausted by its own efforts, it gradually subsides,
and gives place to other and newer caprices. This it is which constitutes
the spirit of the age—an important matter of consideration for the
young adventurer, at his outset in life. The passion for monkery, for
crusading, for reformation in religion, for philosophy, for political
economy, &c. &c., are cases in point, sufficiently notorious; not to
dwell upon the many minor movements of nations—such as the South Sea
bubble, the tulip mania, mesmerism, craniology, &c., each of which, in
its day, has turned the heads of the community, and formed, as it were,
an episode in the history of man.
Notwithstanding some occasional absurdities into which this sympathetic
susceptibility of our nature may have hurried particular societies, it is
the great mainspring of improvement—the countervailing power to authority
and precedent. Without such sudden _engouemens_, the world would not be
driven from the beaten track; and the public intellect would lapse for
ever into a state of stagnation, like that which has reigned among the
Turks since the subsidence of their military and religious enthusiasm.
As the impulse of a ship gives its power to the rudder, so the spirit of
the age gives efficacy to genius. Scarcely an individual can be quoted
as eminent, who did not flourish in an age of considerable excitement;
for when the great mass of mankind are at rest, talent, clogged by the
general sluggishness, in vain exerts it powers. Its excessive activity
is _à charge_—its labours are not understood; and if not persecuted,
are received with a chilling and paralyzing indifference. Between the
accession of the House of Hanover and the American war, there was a
manifest stagnation of the public mind in England; and the minor stars
of Dodsley’s galaxy shone forth, uneclipsed by the splendour of any
first-rate luminary. During the struggles of the French revolution, on
the contrary, a succession of geniuses of the highest order, in every
department of literature, science, the arts, military and political
affairs, &c. &c., added new honours to the British name, and hurried
forward civilization with astonishing rapidity.
Those who have had the misfortune to be tied down to the uncongenial
society of a _coterie_, to whose feelings and interests they were
strangers, may have some notion of what it is to run counter to the
spirit of the age, and to set up one’s own systems against the mania
of the public. Much as a man may be convinced of the truth of his
own opinions, and satisfied as he may be of the error of the world’s
opposition, still it were well to be convinced of his own self-denial
and forbearance, before he embarks in an open warfare with received
notions. To act with sufficient ability to attract notice, is to become
at once the marked victim of antiquated error and interested prejudice;
and to maintain such a position requires irreproachable character, and
a firmness that is not to be shaken by disappointment, nor turned aside
by sarcasm or reproach. They, on the contrary, who have the good luck to
stumble on a coincidence of feeling and opinion with the society in which
they are merged, will find that the cards play themselves; and, without
any extraordinary exertion of industry, talent, or virtue, they will
easily win the whole game.
It is not very long since the class of reformers embraced but a few
individuals; and many must recollect the unmeasured obloquy incurred
by certain individuals for the promulgation of truths, which were so
unpalatable when first broached, but which soon became familiar, and then
ceased to bestow notoriety, or to draw down persecution. Even in these
times of free discussion, it is both easier and pleasanter to promote the
cause of liberality under the shelter of whiggism, than to make an open
avowal of the whole extent of the principle of reform, at which so many
still start in apprehension of danger to their own personal interests.
The opinions of the world are usually a mixture of small portions of
truth, with an overwhelming mass of error. From amongst an infinite
variety of shades, is formed a sort of average doctrine, which
constitutes the opinion of the greatest number. Around this centre are
accumulated the various extremes which represent the prejudices and
interests of the smaller corps and categories in society. To belong to
any of these corps ensures toleration, in proportion to their numbers
and respectability; and the same truth may be advanced, with different
success, accordingly as it is promulgated under the sanction of a
powerful, or an inefficient name. The Unitarians are permitted openly
to impugn the divinity of our Saviour; and the Quakers are allowed to
reject all interference of priests; while those, who are vulgarly and
quaintly called Free-thinkers, are punished for an idle jest against the
established church. The former, existing in considerable bodies, are
enabled to master opinion; while the latter, having few to sympathise
with them, are opposed by all the prejudices and all the passions of
society.
It is seldom that opinions are received purely and absolutely by the
public; but most frequently they are modified by local and accidental
coincidents. There is more toleration, for example, among Englishmen for
Mahometanism in India, than for simple dissent at home. So, likewise, the
party which would roast a papist alive in Ireland, looks with complacency
on the re-establishment of the Pope on the throne of Italy. Whence is it
that the same man should be contented that his co-religionist should be
reviled and persecuted by our “ancient ally” at Constantinople, while he
resents the slightest deviation from the established creed in England?
Merely because one of these facts stands co-ordinated with his habits and
his interests, and the other exists in violation of them.