Chapter IV: Preface (2)

Look into the pages of history! You will find there innumerable examples in support of our opinion. Pompey was importuned to give battle to Cæsar: he complied. Poor devil! He would never have been licked at Pharsalia if he had learned from us the art of saying “No.” Look at the conduct of his rival and conqueror, Cæsar! You remember the words of Casca, “I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown and he put it by once; but for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it!” Now this placid “putting by” was not the thing for the Romans: we are confident Julius Cæsar would never have died by cold steel in the Senate if he had given them a good decisive insuperable “No!” Whatever epoch we examine, we find the same reluctance to say “No” to the allurements of pleasure and the mandates of ambition, and alas! we find it productive of the same consequences. Juvenal tells us of an unfortunate young man, one Caius Silius, who was unlucky enough to be smiled upon by the Empress Messalina. The poor boy knew the danger he ran--he saw the death which awaited him; but an Empress sued, and he had not the heart to say “No!” He lost his heart first, and his head shortly afterwards.

* * * * *

“Dam’me,” says a blood, “all that happened a hundred years ago.” An Etonian has occasionally great difficulty in carrying his ideas a hundred years back. Well, then, we will go example-hunting nearer home.

* * * * *

There’s Sir Philip Plausible, the Parliament man. He can make a speech of nine hours and a calculation of nine pages; nobody is a better hand at getting up a majority, or palavering a refractory Oppositionist; he proffers an argument and a bribe with equal dexterity, and converts by place and pension when he is unable to convince by alliteration and antithesis. What a pity it is he can’t say “No!” “Sir Philip,” says an envoy, “you’ll remember my little business at the Foreign Office!” “Depend upon my friendship,” says the Minister. “Sir Philip!” says a fat citizen, with two votes and two dozen children, “you will remember Billy’s place in the Customs!” “Rely on my promise!” says the Minister. “Sir Philip!” says a lady of rank, “Ensign Roebuck is an officer most deserving promotion!” “He shall be a colonel! I swear by Venus!” says the Minister. _Exitus ergo quis est?_ He has outraged his friendship, he has forgotten his promise, he has falsified his oath. Had he ever an idea of performing what he spoke? Quite the reverse! How unlucky that he cannot say “No!”

Look at Bob Lily! There lives no finer poet! Epic, elegiac, satiric, Pindaric--it is all one to him! He is patronized by all the first people in town. Everybody compliments him, everybody asks him to dinner. Nay! there are a few who read him. He excels alike in tragedy and farce, and is without a rival in amphibious dramas, which may be called either the one or the other; but he is a sad bungler in negatives. “Mr. Lily,” says the Duchess, his patroness, “you will be sure to bring that dear epithalamium to my conversazione this evening!” “There is no denying your Grace,” says the poet. “I say, Lily,” says the Duke, his patron, “you will dine with us at seven?” “Your Grace does me honour,” says the poet. “Bob,” says the young Marquis, “you are for Brookes’s to-night?” “Dam’me! to be sure,” says the poet. Mark the result. He is gone to eat tripe with his tyrannical bookseller; he has disappointed his patroness, he has offended his patron, he has cut the Club! How unlucky that he cannot say “No.”

* * * * *

Jack Shuttle was a dashing young fellow, who, to use his own expression, was “above denying a thing;” in plainer terms, he could not say “No.” “Sir!” says an enraged Tory, “you are the author of this pamphlet!” Jack never saw the work, but he was “above denying a thing,” and was horsewhipped for a libeller. “Sir!” says an unfortunate pigeon, “you hid the king in your sleeve last night!” Jack never saw the pigeon before, but he was “above denying a thing,” and was cut for a blackleg. “Sir!” says a hot Hibernian, “you insulted my sister in the Park!” Jack never saw the lady or her champion before, but he was “above denying a thing,” and was shot through the head the next morning. Poor fellow! How unlucky that he could not say “No!”

In the position we are next going to advance we know everybody will differ from us; but this only strengthens our opinion. Nothing is so becoming to a female mouth as the power--ay, and the inclination--to say “No.” So firmly, indeed, are we attached to this doctrine, that we never will marry a woman who cannot say “No.” For the most part, indeed, the sex are pretty tolerably actuated by what the world calls a spirit of contradiction, but what we should rather designate as a spirit of independence. This natural inclination to negatives renders it unnecessary for us to point out to our fair countrywomen the beauties and advantages of a word which they use as constantly as their looking-glass. Nevertheless, they do occasionally forget the love of opposition, which is the distinguishing ornament of their sex; and alas! they too frequently render themselves miserable by neglecting our conclusive monosyllable. We most earnestly entreat those belles who honour with their notice the humble efforts of the _Etonian_, to derive a timely warning from the examples of those ladies who have lived to regret a hasty and unthinking assent. Anna would never have been the mistress of a colonel; Martha would never have been the wife of a cornet; Lydia would never have been tied to age, ugliness, and gout, if these unfortunate victims had studied in early youth the art of saying “No.”

Short--strong--sharp--quaint monosyllable! Forcible, convincing, argumentative, indisputable “No!” How we delight in thy expressive sound! We love to hear the Miss of fifteen plaguing her uncle for her Christmas ball, till Squaretoes, finding vain the excuses of affection, finishes the negotiation with the “No” of authority. We love to hear the enamoured swain pouring forth his raptures at the feet of an inexorable mistress, till the lady changes her key from the quiet hint of indifference to the decided “No” of aversion. We love to hear the schoolboy supplicating a remission of his sentence, until his sable judge alters the “I can’t” of sorrowful necessity, to the “No” of inflexible indignation. We love--but it is time for us to bring our treatise to a conclusion, and we will merely observe, that whenever we see a man engaged in a duel against his will or in a debauch against his conscience; whenever we see a patriot accepting of a place, or a beauty united to a blockhead, we turn from the sight in disgust, and mutter to ourselves: “This comes of not being able to say ‘No.’”

THOUGHTS ON THE WORDS “TURN OUT.”

“We all, in our turns, turn out.”--SONG.

Turn Out! There are in the English language no two words which act so forcibly in exciting sympathy and compassion. There is in them a melancholy cadence, beautifully corresponding with the sadness of the idea which they express: they awaken in a moment the tenderest recollections and the most anxious forebodings: there is in them a talismanic charm which influences alike all ages and all dispositions; the Church, the Bar, and the Senate are all comprised in the range of its operation: indeed, we believe that in no profession, in no rank of life, we shall find the man who can meditate, without an inward feeling of mental depression, on the simple, the unstudied, the unaffected pathos of the words “Turn out.”

Is it not extraordinary, that when the idea is in itself so tragic, and gives birth to such sombre sensations, Melpomene should have altogether neglected the illustration of it? Is it not still more extraordinary that her sportive sister Thalia should have dared indecorously to jest with a subject so entirely unsuited to her pen? To take our meaning from its veil of metaphor, is it not extraordinary that Mr. Kenney should have written a farce on the words “Turn Out?” We regard Mr. Kenney’s farce as a sacrilege, a profanation, a burlesque of the best feelings of our nature; and in spite of the ingenuity of the writer, and the talents of the performers, humanity and its attendant prejudices revolt in disgust from the scene which endeavours to raise a laugh by a parody of so melancholy a topic.

It is not difficult to account for the pensive feelings which are excited by these words: they recall forcibly to our mind the uncertainty of all human concerns; they bid us think on the sad truth, that from power, from affluence, from happiness, we may be “turned out” at a minute’s warning; they whisper to us that the lease of life is held on a precarious tenure, subject to the will of a Providence which we can neither control nor foresee; they oblige us to look forward to that undiscovered country, from whose dark limits we would fain avert our eyes; they convince us of the truth of the desponding expression of the Psalmist, “Man is but a thing of nought, his time passeth away like a shadow.”

Are not these the reflections of every thinking mind? If they are not, we must entreat the indulgence of our readers for the melancholy pleasure we take in the discussion of the subject. The words may indeed be more than ordinarily affecting to us, inasmuch as they remind us of a friend who in his life was “turned out” from every thing that life can bestow, but who in his death shall never be “turned out” from that consolatory tribute to his Manes--the recollection of a sincere friend. Poor Gilbert! The occurrences of his eventful existence would indeed furnish materials for the poet or the moralist, for a tragedy of five acts, or a homily of fifty heads. His father always prophesied he would turn out a great man; and yet the poor fellow did nothing but turn out, and never became a great man. At fourteen he turned out with a bargeman, and lost an eye; at seventeen he was turned out from Eton, and lost King’s; at three-and-twenty he was turned out of his father’s will, and lost a thousand a-year; at four-and-twenty he was turned out of a tandem, and lost the long odds; at five-and-twenty he was turned out of a place, and lost all patience; at six-and-twenty he was turned out of the affections of his mistress, and lost his last hope; at seven-and-twenty he was turned out of a gaming-house, where he lost his last farthing. Gilbert died about a year ago, after existing for some time in a miserable state of dependence upon a rich uncle. To the last he was fond of narrating to his friends the vicissitudes of his life, which he constantly concluded in the following manner:--“So, gentlemen, I have been turning out during my whole life; you now see me on the brink of the grave, and I don’t care how soon I turn in.”

We had not heard from him for a considerable space of time, and were beginning to wonder at his protracted silence, when a friend who was studying the _Morning Post_ apprised us of his decease by the following exclamation:--“My God! Old Gilbert’s dead! Here’s a quaint turn out!”

Alas! how often does it happen that we are not aware of the value of the blessings we enjoy until chance or destiny has taken them from us. This has been the case in our acquaintance with our lamented companion. How bitterly do we now regret that we did not, while his life was spared, make use of his inestimable experience to collect some instructions on the art of turning out, both in the active and the neuter signification of the words. For surely no two things are more difficult than the giving or receiving of a dismissal. To go through the one with civility, and the other with firmness, is indeed a rare talent, which every man of the world should study to attain.

When we consider the various chances and vicissitudes which await the citizens of our little commonwealth in their progress through life; when we recollect that some of them will enter into political life, in order to be turned out of their places; others will enjoy the titular distinction of M.P., that they may be turned out of their seats the next election; while others again, by an attachment to Chancery expedition, will endeavour to get turned out of their estates;--it is surely worth while to bestow a little attention upon the most proper mode of behaving under these unfortunate circumstances.

Mr. Monxton receives a turn out better than any political man of our acquaintance. It was of him that Sir Andrew Freeman, a Hertfordshire Independent, who, to do him justice, would be witty if he could, broached the celebrated remark--“He has turned out so often, that I should think he’s turned wrong side out by this time.” Mr. Monxton is indeed a phenomenon in his way. The smile he wears on coming into office differs in no respect from that which he assumes on resigning all his employments. He departs from the enjoyment of place and power, not with the gravity of a disappointed Minister, but with the self-satisfied air of a successful courtier. The tact with which he conceals the inward vexation of spirit beneath an outward serenity of countenance is to us a matter of astonishment. When we have heard him discussing his resignation with a simper on his face, and a jest on his lip, we have often fancied that Mr. Kemble would appear to us in the same light were he to deliver Wolsey’s soliloquy with the attitudes and the gestures of a harlequin in a pantomime. Juvenile politicians cannot propose to themselves, in this line of their profession, a better model than Mr. Monxton.

Nor is this art less worthy the attention of the fair sex. There are very few ladies who have the talent of dismissing a lover in proper style. There are many who reject with so authoritative a demeanour, that they lose him, as an acquaintance, whom they only wish to cast off as a dangler; there are many again who study civility to such an extent that we know not whether they reject or receive, and have no small difficulty in distinguishing their smile from their frown. The deep and sincere interest which we feel in all matters relating to the advantage or improvement of the fair sex induces us to suggest that an academy, or a seminary, or an establishment should be forthwith instituted for the instruction of young ladies not exceeding thirty years of age, in the most approved method of saying “Turn Out.” So far indeed has our zeal in this laudable undertaking carried us, that we have actually communicated our ideas upon the subject to a lady, who, to quote from her own advertisement, “enjoys the advantages of an excellent education, an unblemished character, and an amiable disposition.” We are happy to inform our friends and the public in general that Mrs. Simkins has promised to devote her attention to this branch of female education. By the end of next month she hopes to be quite competent to the instruction of pupils in every mode of expressing “Turn Out”--the Distant Hint, the Silent Bow, the Positive Cut, the Courteous Repulse, and the Absolute Rejection. We trust that due encouragement will be given to a scheme of such general utility.

In the meantime, until such academy, or seminary, or establishment shall be opened, we invite our fair readers to the study of an excellent model in the person of Caroline Mowbray. Caroline has now seven-and-twenty lovers, all of whom have successively been in favour, and have been successively turned out. Yet so skilfully has she modified her severity, that in most cases she has destroyed hope without extinguishing love: the victims of her caprice continue her slaves, and are proud of her hand in the dance, although they despair of obtaining it at the altar. The twenty-seventh name was added to the list of her admirers last week, and was (with the most heartfelt regret we state it) no less a personage than the Hon. Gerard Montgomery. Alas! unfortunate Gerard!

Quantâ laboras in Charybdi,
Digne puer meliore flammâ.

He had entertained us for some time with accounts of the preference with which he was honoured by this miracle of obduracy, and at last, by dint of long and earnest entreaty, prevailed upon us to be ourselves witness to the power he had obtained over her affections. We set out therefore, not without a considerable suspicion of the manner in which our expedition would terminate, and inwardly anticipated the jests which “The King of Clubs” would infallibly broach upon the subject of Gerard’s “Turn Out.”

Nothing occurred of any importance during our ride. Gerard talked much of Cupids, and Hymen; but, inasmuch as we were not partakers of his passion, we could not reasonably be expected to partake of his inspiration.

Upon our arrival at Mowbray Lodge we were shown into a room so crowded with company that we almost fancied we had been ushered into the Earl’s levee instead of his daughter’s drawing-room. The eye of a lover, however, was more keen. Gerard soon perceived the Goddess of the Shrine receiving the incense of adulation from a crowd of votaries. Amongst these he immediately enrolled himself, while we, apprehensive that our company might be troublesome to him, hung back, and became imperceptibly engaged in conversation with some gentlemen of our acquaintance. To speak the truth, on our way to the Lodge these “Thoughts on Turn Out” had been the subject of our reveries, and whatever expressions or opinions we heard around us appeared to coincide with the cogitations with which we were occupied. We first became much interested in the laments of an old gentleman who was bewailing the “Turn Out” of a friend at the last election for the county of----. Next we listened to an episode from a dandy, who was discussing the extraordinary coat “turned out” by Mr. Michael Oakley at the last county ball. Finally, we were engaged in a desperate argument with a Wykehamist, upon the comparative degree of talent “turned out” from each of the public schools during the last ten years. Of course we proceeded to advocate the cause of our foster-mother against the pretensions of our numerous and illustrious rivals. Alas! we felt our unworthiness to stand forward as Etona’s panegyrist, but we made up in enthusiasm what we wanted in ability. We ran over with volubility the names of those thrice-honoured models, whose deserved success is constantly the theme of applause and the life-spring of emulation among their successors. We had just brought our catalogue down to the names of our more immediate forerunners, and were dwelling with much complacency on the abilities which have during the last few years so nobly supported the fair fame of Eton at the Universities, when our eye was caught by the countenance of our hon. friend, which at this moment wore an appearance of such unusual despondence, that we hastened immediately to investigate the cause. Upon inquiry, we learned that Montgomery was most romantically displeased, because Caroline had refused to sing an air of which he was passionately fond. We found we had just arrived in time for the finale of the dispute. “And so you can’t sing this to oblige me?” said Gerard. Caroline looked refusal. “I shall know better than to expect such a condescension again,” said Gerard, with a low sigh. “Tant mieux!” said Caroline, with a low curtsey. The audience were unanimous in an unfeeling laugh, in the midst of which Gerard made a precipitate retreat, or, as O’Connor expresses it, “ran away like mad,” and we followed him as well as we could, though certainly not _passibus æquis_. As we moved to the door we could hear sundry criticisms on the scene. “Articles of ejectment!” said a limb of the law. “The favourite distanced!” cried a Newmarket squire. “I did not think the breach practicable!” observed a gentleman in regimentals. We overtook the unfortunate object of all these comments about a hundred yards from the house. His wobegone countenance might well have stopped our malicious disposition to jocularity; nevertheless we could not refrain from whispering in his ear, “Gerard! a decided _turn out_!” “I beg your pardon,” said the poor fellow, mingling a smile’ for his pun with a tear for his disappointment, “I beg your pardon; I consider it a decided _take in_.”

SOLITUDE IN A CROWD.

“This is to be alone; this, this is solitude.”--BYRON.

Reader! Were you ever alone in a crowd? If not, thank your stars, and bestow a grain of pity upon those who must return a different response to the question. A crowded solitude, if we may use such a strange expression, is, in sober sadness, as melancholy a sensation as human nature is capable of enduring.

A crowded solitude! If you are young, thoughtless, and talkative, you will be astonished at the idea; and there will be nothing extraordinary in your surprise. The ancient poets--poor ignorant souls!--have given us a very different description of being alone. They have defined various kinds of solitude, suited to various descriptions of men; but all of them are alike founded on mistaken notions and groundless prejudice. Were we to follow their opinions, we should place the solitude of the lover in whispering groves, purling rills, and moonlight; that of the sage in a library or an observatory; that of the poet in a dish of vegetables and a Sabine farm; and _à fortiori_, that of the Etonian in an uncarpeted domicile, with a fractured window on the one side and a smoking fire on the other. Is this solitude? Far from it! We must most strenuously contend that true solitude is to be found in a multitude.

We are aware that the solitude we are now discussing is not that which is generally understood by the term. Many persons have probably never heard of any but a corporeal solitude; that which we are describing is mental. The one is to be found in caves and Caucasus; the other in theatres and Almack’s. The former delights in moonshine--the latter in candelabras; the first sets a great value upon the silence and pure air of the country--the second gives the preference to the noise and squeeze of the fashionable world; and which of these is real solitude--the corporeal, which is removed from the sight and hearing of all objects; or the mental, which both hears and sees a variety of things, and is utterly unconscious that it does either?

We are distrustful of our powers of description, and will therefore endeavour to illustrate our meaning by examples. We are provided with plenty, for we have still in our recollection Lady Mordaunt’s last “At Home.” All the world was there. Whist, music, dancing, and last, not least, eating, were all going on in the usual style at the same time; the squeeze in the rooms was beyond parallel in the annals of _ton_; and of course we found more solitude in that evening than we had done throughout the whole season. We made our _entrée_ when her ladyship was in her highest glory: she was bowing to one, smiling to another, and curtseying to a third, and straining every nerve and feature to _do the proper_ to all her guests: this, however, was as impossible as the number of her satellites was innumerable; the tumult was tremendous; and there was so much bowing, and begging pardon, and getting out of the way, that it was quite impracticable to advance or recede a step. Good breeding and bare elbows were thrust in our faces alternately; we with difficulty preserved our toes from the frequent attacks made on them by kid slippers, and with still greater difficulty preserved our hearts from the sweet smiles that said “I beg ten thousand pardons.” It was a vortex of delight, and we were hurried so rapidly in its eddies, that much time elapsed ere we were able to collect our editorial serenity, in order to make a few observations on the scene before us.

The multitude at length began very slowly to diminish; and, having lodged ourselves in an unperceived corner of the music-room, we proceeded, according to our ancient custom, to speculate upon character. Our attention was first attracted by a tall gentleman of a very noble appearance, who was leaning against a pillar, in an attitude of profound meditation. His dress was after the English fashion, but the cast of his features, and his short curling hair, sufficiently denoted him to be a foreigner. His eyes were fixed directly upon us, but we satisfied our curiosity by an attentive survey, without fear of detection, as his mind was evidently some furlongs distant. Upon inquiry we heard that he was an Indian chieftain, by name Teioninhokarawn (we have doubts as to the correctness of our orthography). He had done considerable services to the British arms in the American war, and had now been invited by her ladyship as the lion of the evening. He had been surrounded without intermission by a tribe of quizzers, loungers, and laughers, but one glance was sufficient to convince us that Teioninhokarawn was--alone.

We observed Lady Georgiana Wilmot standing at the other side of the room, the very picture of fatigue. She had been singing much, and was evidently quite exhausted. Λ young star of fashion was moving towards her with a languishing step; and, as we had a strong curiosity to hear his address, we changed our station for that purpose. “‘Pon my soul,” the gentleman began with a bow, “you are divine to-night.” “Am I?” said the lady, with a vacant gaze. “Never heard you in better voice,” returned her assailant. Her ladyship knew it was the tone of flattery, so she smiled, but she had neither spirits nor sense sufficient to attempt an answer. We immediately decided that Lady Georgiana was--alone.

We next proceeded to the card-room. At first the din, and the disputing, and the quarrelling was so loud, that we doubted whether we should find any solitude there; but another look convinced us of our mistake. Lord Mowbray was evidently--alone. He was walking up and down, deliberating whether he should sacrifice his conscience or his place at to-morrow’s division. Not less apparent was the solitude of the Duchess of Codille; although her Grace was busily engaged at cassino with a select party of right honourables. She had been for a long time alone in the contemplation of her new brocade, and was recalled into company by the vociferation of her partner, “Rat me if I ever saw your Grace play so ill!”

We were about to retire to the ball-room, when we remarked our noble hostess reclining on an ottoman, seemingly quite exhausted with fashionable fatigue. She was still, however, exerting herself to do the _agréable_, and was talking with appalling rapidity to every one who approached her, although utterly unconscious of what she heard or said. We advanced to pay our respects, and were saluted with “Ah, my lord! what has kept you away so long? And there’s Ellen, poor thing, dying to see you! Ellen, love!” With some difficulty we explained to her ladyship that she was mistaken as to our rank. “Eh! Mon Dieu! Sir Charles,” she exclaimed. “Pardonnez--but I’m really dead with ennui.” We allowed ourselves to be knighted without further explanation, and made a precipitate retreat, for we perceived that her ladyship, after the labour of the evening, would be very glad to be--alone.

The first survey we took of the ball-room presented us with nothing but cheerful faces and laughing eyes; at the second, we discovered even here much and melancholy loneliness. There were moralists without sense, and country squires without acquaintance; beaux without a thought, and belles without a partner. We hastened to make a closer study of the various characters which presented themselves.

We first addressed ourselves to Mr. Morris, a respectable Member of Parliament, with whom we had become acquainted the year before in Norfolk. “What! you’re not a dancer, Mr. Morris?” we began. “By the Lord, sir,” he returned, “if this Bill passes----” We passed on, much vexed that we had intruded on our worthy friend’s solitude.

We were hastening to accost Maria Kelly, a very interesting girl, whose lover had lately left this country for Minorca, when we were attracted by a conversation between an exquisite and our old acquaintance, General Brose. “Ah! General,” said the dandy, “how long have you ceased to foot it?” “Foot!” interrupted the General, “by Jupiter! their cavalry was ten thousand strong.” The old man was decidedly--alone.

Before we could reach the recess in which Maria was sitting, she had been assailed by an impertinent. “May I have the honour and felicity----” he began. The poor girl started from her reverie with a sort of vacant gaze, and replied, “He sailed last Tuesday, sir!” “Sola in siccâ,” said the impertinent, and lounged on. We had not the barbarity to speak to her.

Old Tom Morley, the misanthrope, had been admiring a wax taper in an unthinking sort of way ever since we entered the room. We went up, prepared to be witty upon him; but we had hardly opened our mouth when he cut us short with “For God’s sake leave me alone!” and we left him--alone. We were proceeding in our observations, when we saw Ellen Mordaunt, the beautiful daughter of our hostess, surrounded by a set of dashing young officers, at the other end of the room. We had just began to examine the features of one of them, who was somewhat smitten, and appeared prodigiously alone, when the idol herself turned upon us that bright and fascinating eye,

Which but to see is to admire,
And--oh! forgive the word--to love!

We had originally inserted here a rhapsody on Ellen’s glance, which would have occupied, as our printer assures us, three pages and a half; but, in mercy to our friends, we have erased this, and shall content ourselves with stating that we were alone for at least ten minutes, before we recollected that it was five o’clock, and that we ought to think of retiring from the solitude of Lady Mordaunt’s “At Home.”

POLITENESS AND POLITESSE.

“I cannot bear a French metropolis.”--JOHNSON.

We have headed our article with two words which are very often, and certainly very improperly, confounded together. Nobody needs to be told that the one is from the English, the other from the French vocabulary; but there may perhaps be some who will be surprised to hear that the one expresses an English, the other a French quality.

Frown if you will, Monsieur Duclos, we must maintain that the English are the only people who have a true idea of politeness. If we are wrong, our error may be excused for the feeling which prompts it; but we believe we are right, and we will try to make our readers believe so.

The English are kind in their politeness--the French are officious in their _politesse_; the politeness of the English is shown in actions--the _politesse_ of the French evaporates in sound; English politeness is always disinterested--French _politesse_ is too often prompted by selfishness.

When we consider the various forms of these qualities, we appear to be discriminating between the rival merits of two contending beauties, who reign with equal dominion, and divide the admiration of an adoring world. There are many who prefer the ingenious delicacy of politeness, and we congratulate them on their truly English feeling; there are perhaps more who are attracted by the coquettish vivacity of _politesse_, and we do not envy them their French taste.

A variety of instances of both these traits must have occurred to everybody, but as everybody does not behold the shades of character through the exact medium of an editorial microscope, we will endeavour to bring out more distinctly those examples which seem to us to bear immediately on the subject.

When you dine with old Tom Hardy, he gives you little more than a joint of meat, a bottle of excellent port, and a hearty welcome; when Lord Urban “requests the honour” of your company, you are greeted with every delicacy the season can afford; you are pampered with every wine, “from humble port to imperial tokay,” and you are put to the blush by every form of adulation that a wish to be civil can devise. Yet we had rather dine once with Tom Hardy than a hundred times with Lord Urban; for the mutton of the one is cooked by politeness, and the turtle of the other is dressed by _politesse_.

About a month ago, as we were shooting in the north of England with the son of a celebrated Tory baronet, we were encountered by Mr. Ayscott, a landed proprietor notorious for his Whig principles. We were somewhat surprised to see the latter divest himself of all prejudices in a moment; he came up to our companion with the greatest appearance of cordiality, shook him by the hand, reminded him that politics ought not to interfere among friends, knew he was fond of dancing, and hoped to see him frequently at Ayscott. Now this really looked like politeness; for politeness is that feeling which prompts us to make others happy and pleased with themselves, and which for this purpose puts off all dislike, all party spirit, all affectation of superiority. But when we were informed the next day that Mr. Ayscott had seven marriageable daughters, we decided that his behaviour was not politeness, but _politesse_.

We remember, shortly after Mrs. C. Nugent eloped with an officer in the dragoons, we were riding in Hyde Park with poor Charles, who endeavoured to bear his loss unconcernedly, and betrayed not, except to a close observer, the canker that preyed upon his heart. We were met in the Park by Sir Harry Soulis, an intimate acquaintance of our friend. He was riding at a brisk pace, but the moment he observed us he pulled up, and his flexible features immediately assumed the appearance of unfeigned sympathy. He came up to us, and began, “Ah Charles! How are you? How is this unfortunate business to end? I feel for you, Charles! Upon my soul, I feel for you! You know you may command me in anything”--and he rode on with the same air of nonchalance that he had first worn. Immediately afterwards we met Colonel Stanhope, who also halted, and entered into conversation. He inquired after our friend’s health, addressed a few indifferent remarks to us on the weather, bowed, and passed on. We are sure Nugent felt, as we should have felt under such circumstances: Soulis had wounded his feelings--Stanhope had spared them. The officiousness of the former was _politesse_--the silence of the latter was politeness.

But their distinct shades were never so fully impressed upon our minds as upon a visit which we lately paid to two gentlemen, during a short tour. The first specimen of their dissimilarity is to be found in the letters by which we were invited to partake of their hospitality. They were as follows:--

“As Mr. P. Courtenay will in the course of his tour be within a few
miles of Melville Lodge, Mr. Melville hopes that he will not turn
southward without allowing him, for one day at least, the
gratification of his company.

“Melville Lodge, August 1820.”

“DEAR PEREGRINE,--You’ll pass within eyeshot of my windows on your
way to Eastbourne. I am sure you’ll stop a moment to ask your old
friend how he does, and we will try to detain you for the night.

“Yours, as sincerely as ever,
“MARMADUKE WARREN.

“P.S. The girls would send love if I’d let ’em.

“Hastings, August 1820.”

Our first visit was paid at Melville Lodge. We have known Mr. Melville long, and we know him to be one who is generally actuated by good motives; and when he is swayed by interested ones is himself unconscious of the fact. On the whole, his character is such that when he is absent we feel the strongest inclination to like him, and when we are in his company we feel an equally strong inclination to say, “Mr. Melville, you are a fool.” We arrived at the Lodge in good time to prepare for dinner, with its usual accompaniments of bows from our host, compliments from our hostess, and smiles from their daughters. A small party was invited to meet us, which somewhat diminished the frequency of the compliments we were doomed to undergo, while it rendered those which were actually forced upon us infinitely more distressing. We pass over the civilities we received at dinner, the care taken to force upon us the choicest morsels of fish, flesh, and fowl; the attention with which Mr. Melville assured us that we were drinking his very best champagne. We hasten to take notice of the far more perplexing instances of _politesse_ which rendered miserable the evening. When tea and coffee had been disposed of, the Misses Melville sat down to the piano; and, as we are passionately fond of music, and the ladies excel in it, we should have been perfectly happy if we had been allowed to enjoy that happiness unmolested. _Diis aliter visum est._ Our sisters were known to be tolerable singers; _à fortiori_, we must be downright nightingales ourselves. Upon the word of an editor, we never committed any further outrage upon harmony than what takes place when we join in the chorus of our witty associate Mr. Golightly or our well-meaning friend Mr. O’Connor, and we were now required to assist the Misses Melville in “La mia Dorabella.” Horrible idea! Peregrine Courtenay warbling Italian! His Majesty of Clubs sinking into an opera-singer! _Politesse_ was sure he could sing--_politesse_ knew he had a sweet voice--_politesse_ knew we only refused from modesty. _Politesse_ was disappointed, however, for we were immovably determined not to be made a fool. Nevertheless we felt somewhat uncomfortable at being the subject of general observation, and this feeling was not diminished by what followed. _Politesse_, in the shape of Mrs. Melville, whispered it about that the fat silent young gentleman in the black coat was a great writer, who had published an extraordinary quantity of learning, and was likely to publish an extraordinary quantity more. This was all intended to flatter our vanity, and the consequence was that we were bored throughout the remainder of the evening by hearing whispers around us, “Is that the gentleman Mrs. Melville was speaking of?” “I guessed who he was by the family likeness!” “I knew he was an author directly!” “How odd that he should be so reserved!” At the suggestion of _politesse_ Mrs. Melville next discovered that we were precisely a year older than Kitty, and Mr. Melville hinted in a loud whisper that the girl would have ten thousand pounds. Finally, _politesse_ prepared for us the great state bedroom; and, when we retired, insisted upon it that we had spent a most miserable evening. Alas! Politeness had hardly the grace to contradict _politesse_ upon this point.

How different was the reception we received on the following day! Our old friend Mr. Warren rose from his armchair as we entered, with a look that set formality at defiance; Mrs. Warren put by her work to observe how much we were grown; and their two daughters greeted with a smile, beautiful because it was unaffected, the scarce-remembered playmate of their childhood. The flowers which Elizabeth was painting, the landscape which Susan was designing, were not hastily concealed at the approach of their guest; nor was our old acquaintance Shock, who was our favourite puppy ten years ago, driven in his old age from the parlour rug at the appearance of an idler dog than himself. The few friends who met us at dinner were not prepared to annoy us by accounts of our abilities and attainments. The conversation was general and entertaining; and on reconsideration we perceived that Mr. Warren took pains to draw out what talent we possessed, although we could not at the same time perceive that such was the object of his attention. In the evening Elizabeth entertained us with Handel and Mozart, and Susan sang us some simple airs, in a voice perhaps the more engaging because it was uncultivated. We were allowed to enjoy the “melody of sweet sounds” unmolested and unobserved. The quadrille which followed was not danced with the less spirit because the Brussels carpet supplied the place of a chalked floor, and a single pianoforte was substituted for the formality of a band. We were happy--because we were permitted to enjoy our happiness in our own way; we were amused--because we did not perceive the efforts which were made for our amusement. “This,” we exclaimed, as we buttoned our coat, and proceeded on our journey the next morning--“this is real politeness.”

In spite of the endeavours of those who would dress our native manners in a Parisian costume, _politesse_ will never be the motive by which England as a nation will be characterized. As long as France shall be the mother of light heads, and Britain of warm hearts, the Frenchman will show his _politesse_ by the profundity of his bow, and the Englishman will prove his politeness by the cordiality of his welcome. Who is not content that it should be so?

A WINDSOR BALL.

We have often thought that the endeavours of a dancing master go but a very little way to prepare a lady for a ball. Were it possible to procure such an acquisition, we should recommend to our sisters not only a _maître à danser_, but a _maître à parler_, inasmuch as it is usually much easier to dance than to talk. One does not immediately see why it should be so; dancing and talking are in a ball-room equally mechanical qualifications; they differ indeed in this, that the former requires a “light fantastic toe,” and the other a light fantastic tongue. But for mind--seriously speaking, there is no more mind developed in small-talk than there is in _chassez à droit_.

We do not admire the taste of Etonians who dislike dancing; we are not of the number of those who go to a ball for the purpose of eating ice. On the contrary, we adore waltzing, and feel our English aversion for the French much diminished when we recollect that we derive from them Vestris and quadrilles. Nevertheless, if anything could diminish the attachment we feel for this our favourite amusement, it would be that we must occasionally submit to dangle at the heels of an icy partner, as beautiful, and, alas! as cold as the Venus de’ Medicis; whose look is torpor, whose speech is monosyllables; who repulses all efforts at conversation, until the austerity, or the backwardness of her demeanour, awes her would-be adorer into a silence as deep as her own. Now all this gravity of demeanour, in the opinion of some people, is a proof of wisdom: we know not how this may be, but for our own part we think with the old song, “’Tis good to be merry and wise,” and if we cannot have both--why, then the merry without the wise.

These are the ideas which occur to us upon looking back to the last time that we heard “_Voulez vous danser?_” played at the Town Hall. Start not, fair reader! do not throw us into the fire; we will not be very libellous; and if you shall erroneously suppose that your own defects have afforded matter for our malicious pen, we are sure your indignation will forthwith subside when you recollect that you may possibly have listened to the colloquial raptures of Gerard Montgomery, or been honoured with an editorial _tête-à-tête_ by the condescension of Peregrine Courtenay. Think over your favourite partners. Did any one ask your opinion of the Bill of Pains and Penalties? It could be no one but Sir Francis Wentworth. Did any one hold forth upon the beauties of a Scotch reel? Of a surety it was Mr. Alexander M‘Farlane. Did any one observe to you that a quadrille was a “strange cross-road, and very hilly?” Doubt not but it was the all-accomplished Robert Musgrave. Did any one remark upon the immorality of waltzing? Thrice-honoured fair one! You have danced with Martin Sterling.

Alas! we intended, as Mr. Musgrave would say, to drive straight to the Town Hall, and we have got out of our road a full page. It is indeed a cruel delay in us, for we know, reader, say what you will, you have been all the time turning over the leaf to meet with a spice of scandal. Well, then, suppose all preliminaries adjusted; suppose us fairly lodged in the ball-room, with no other damage than a ruined Cavendish and a dirtied pump; and suppose us immediately struck dumb by the intelligence that the beautiful, the fascinating Louisa had left the room the moment before we entered it. It was easy to perceive that something of the kind had occurred, for the ladies were all looking happy. We bore our disappointment as well as we could, and were introduced to Theodosia---- No! we will refrain from surnames---- Theodosia is a woman of sense (we are told so, and we are willing to believe it), but she is very unwilling that any one should find it out. As in duty bound, we commenced, or endeavoured to commerce, a conversation by general observations upon the room and the music. By-the-by, we strongly recommend these generalities to our friends in all conversations with strangers; they are quite safe, and can give no offence. In our case, however, they were unavailing--no reply was elicited. A long pause. We inquired whether the lady was fond of “The Lancers?” To our utter astonishment we were answered with a blush and a frown which would have put to silence a much more pertinacious querist than the Etonian--we ventured not another word. Upon after-consideration, we are sure that the lady was thinking of a set of dashing young officers instead of a set of quadrilles.

We were next honoured by the hand of Emily. When we have said that she is backward, beautiful, and seventeen, we have said all we know of the enchanting Emily. Far be it from us to attack with unwarrantable severity the unfortunate victim of _mauvaise honte_; we merely wish to suggest to one for whose welfare we have a real regard, that modesty does not necessarily imply taciturnity, and that the actual inconvenience of a silent tongue is not altogether compensated by the poetical loquacity of a speaking eye.

Being again left to ourselves, we sunk by degrees into a profound fit of authorship, and were in imminent danger of becoming misanthropic, when we were roused from our reverie by a tap on the shoulder from George Hardy, and an inquiry, “what were our dreams?” We explained to him our calamities, and assured him that, had it not been for his timely intervention, we should certainly have died of silence. “Died of silence!” reiterated our friend; “God forbid! when Corinna is in the room!” And so saying, he half-led, half-dragged us to the other end of the room, and compelled us to make our bow to a girl of lively manners, whom he described to us in a whisper as “a perfect antidote for the sullens.” Our first impression was, “she is a fool;” our second, “she is a wit;” our third, “she is something between both!” Oh! that it were possible for us to commit to paper one-half of what was uttered by Corinna! Our recollection of our _tête-à-tête_ is like the recollection of a dream. In dreams we remember that we were at one moment in a mud-built cottage, and were the next transported to a Gothic chapel, but by what means the transmutation of place was effected our waking thoughts are unable to conceive. Thus it was when we listened to Corinna. We were hurried from one topic to another with an unaccountable velocity, but by what chain one idea was connected with its predecessor we cannot imagine. The conversation (if conversation it may be called, where the duty of talking devolves upon one person) set out with some mention of fresco; from hence it turned off to Herculaneum, and then passed with inconceivable rapidity through the following stages:--Rome--the Parthenon--National Monument at Edinburgh--_Edinburgh Review_--_Blackwood_--Ebony bracelets--Fashion of short sleeves--Fashion in general dress in Queen Elizabeth’s time--“The Abbot”--Walter Scott--Highland scenery. In the Highlands we lost our route for some minutes, and soon afterwards found ourselves (we know not how) at Joannina, in company with Ali Pasha. By this time we were thoroughly wearied, and were unable to keep up regularly with our unfeeling conductress, so that we have but a very faint idea of the places we visited. We remember being dragged to the Giant at the Windsor Fair, from whence we paid a flying visit to the Colossus of Rhodes; we attended Cato, the lady’s favourite pug, during a severe illness, and were shortly after present at the Cato Street conspiracy. We have some idea that after making the tour of the Lakes, we set out to discover the source of the Nile. In our way thither we took a brief survey of the Lake of Como, and were finally for some time immersed in the Red Sea. This put the finishing stroke to our already fatigued senses. We resigned ourselves, without another struggle, to the will and disposal of our sovereign mistress, and for the next half-hour knew not to what quarter of the globe we were conveyed. At the close of that period we awoke from our trance, and found that Corinna had brought us into the Club-room, and was discussing the characters of the members with a most unwarrantable freedom of speech. Before we had time to remonstrate against this manifest breach of privilege, we found ourselves in the gallery of the House of Lords, and began to think we never should make our escape from this amusing torture. Fortunately, at this moment a freeholder of---- entered the room. One of the candidates was a friend of Corinna’s, and she hurried from us, after a thousand apologies, to learn the state of the poll.

Sic nos servavit Apollo.[3]

Our next companion was Sappho the Blue-stocking. We enjoyed a literary confabulation for some time, for which we beg our readers to understand we are in every way qualified. The deep stores of our reading, enlivened by the pungent readiness of our wit, are _bonâ fide_ the admiration of London as well as of Windsor belles; we beg our friends to have this in mind whenever they sit down to peruse us. But to proceed. We very shortly perceived that Sappho was enchanted with our erudition, and the manner in which we displayed it. She was particularly pleased with our critiques on “Zimmerman upon Solitude,” and was delighted by the praise we bestowed (for the first time in our life) on Southey’s “Thalaba.” We had evidently made considerable progress in her affections, when we ruined ourselves by a piece of imprudence which we have since deeply regretted. We were satirical--this satire is the devil!--we were satirical upon German literature. The lady turned up her nose, turned down her eyes, bit her lip, and looked--we cannot explain how she looked, but it was very terrific. We have since heard she is engaged in translating Klopstock’s “Messiah” into the Sanskrit.

We were next introduced to one of those ladies who are celebrated for the extraordinary tact which they display in the discovery of the faults of their sex. Catherine is indeed one of the leaders of the tribe. She has the extraordinary talent which conveys the most sarcastic remarks in a tone of the greatest kindness. In her the language of hatred assumes the garb of affection, and the observation which is prompted by envy appears to be dictated by compassion. If in her presence you bestow commendation upon a rival, she assents most warmly to your opinion, and immediately destroys its effect by a seemingly extorted “but.” We were admiring Sophia’s beautiful hair. “Very beautiful!” said Catherine, “but she dresses it so ill!” We made some allusion to Georgiana’s charming spirits. “She has everlasting vivacity,” said Catherine, “but it’s a pity she is so indiscreet.” Then followed something in a whisper which we do not feel ourselves at liberty to repeat. We next were unguarded enough to find something very fascinating in Amelia’s eyes. “Yes,” replied Catherine, “but then she has such an unfortunate nose between them.” Finally, in a moment of imprudent enthusiasm, we declared that we thought Maria the most interesting girl in the room. We shall never (although we live, like our predecessors, Griffin and Grildrig, to the good old age of forty numbers), we shall never, we repeat, forget the “Some people think so!” with which our amiable auditress replied to our exclamation. We saw we were disgraced, and, to say the truth, were not a little pleased that we were no longer of Catherine’s Privy Council.