Ballantyne Press
                      BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
                         EDINBURGH AND LONDON

                                ESSAYS

                                  BY

                       WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED

                       COLLECTED AND ARRANGED BY
                     SIR GEORGE YOUNG, BART., Μ.A.

                _WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HENRY MORLEY_

               LL.D., PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE AT
                      UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON

                                LONDON
                       GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
                        BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
                         GLASGOW AND NEW YORK

                                 1887

                      MORLEY’S UNIVERSAL LIBRARY.

     1. _Sheridan’s Plays._

     2. _Plays from Molière._ By English Dramatists.

     3. _Marlow’s Faustus_ and _Goethe’s Faust_.

     4. _Chronicle of the Cid._

     5. _Rabelais’ Gargantua_ and the _Heroic Deeds of Pantagruel_.

     6. _Machiavelli’s Prince._

     7. _Bacon’s Essays._

     8. _Defoe’s Journal of the Plague Year._

     9. _Locke on Civil Government_ and _Filmer’s “Patriarcha.”_

     10. _Butler’s Analogy of Religion._

     11. _Dryden’s Virgil._

     12. _Scott’s Demonology and Witchcraft._

     13. _Herrick’s Hesperides._

     14. _Coleridge’s Table-Talk._

     15. _Boccaccio’s Decameron._

     16. _Sterne’s Tristram Shandy._

     17. _Chapman’s Homer’s Iliad._

     18. _Mediæval Tales._

     19. _Voltaire’s Candide_, and _Johnson’s Rasselas_.

     20. _Jonson’s Plays and Poems._

     21. _Hobbes’s Leviathan._

     22. _Samuel Butler’s Hudibras._

     23. _Ideal Commonwealths._

     24. _Cavendish’s Life of Wolsey._

     25 & 26. _Don Quixote._

     27. _Burlesque Plays and Poems._

     28. _Dante’s Divine Comedy._ LONGFELLOW’S Translation.

     29. _Goldsmith’s Vicar of Wakefield, Plays, and Poems._

     30. _Fables and Proverbs from the Sanskrit._ (_Hitopadesa._)

     31. _Lamb’s Essays of Elia._

     32. _The History of Thomas Εllwood._

     33. _Emerson’s Essays, &c._

     34. _Southey’s Life of Nelson._

     35. _De Quincey’s Confessions of an Opium Eater, &c._

     36. _Stories of Ireland._ By Miss EDGEWORTH.

     37. _Frere’s Aristophanes: Acharnians, Knights, Birds._

     38. _Burke’s Speeches and Letters._

     39. _Thomas à Kempis._

     40. _Popular Songs of Ireland._

     41. _Potter’s Æschylus._

     42. _Goethe’s Faust: Part II._ ANSTER’S Translation.

     43. _Famous Pamphlets._

     44. _Francklin’s Sophocles._

     45. _M. G. Lewis’s Tales of Terror and Wonder._

     46. _Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation._

     47. _Drayton’s Barons’ Wars, Nymphidia, &c._

     48. _Cobbett’s Advice to Young Men._

     49. _The Banquet of Dante._

     50. _Walker’s Original._

     51. _Schiller’s Poems and Ballads._

     52. _Peele’s Plays and Poems._

     53. _Harrington’s Oceana._

     54. _Euripides: Alcestis and other Plays._

     55. _Praed’s Essays._

“Marvels of clear type and general neatness.”--_Daily Telegraph._

INTRODUCTION.

The readers of our Library are greatly indebted to Sir George Young for
his kindness in presenting them with this first collected edition of the
prose writings of his uncle, Winthrop Mackworth Praed. He little knows
the charm of the bright regions of Literature who cannot yield himself
to full enjoyment of their infinite variety. As we pass from book to
book, it is a long leap from Euripides to the brilliant young Etonian
who brought all the grace of happy youth into such work as we have here.
Happy the old who can grow young again with this book in their hands. If
we all came into the world mature, and there were no childhood and youth
about us, what a dull world it would be! Any book is a prize that brings
the fresh and cheerful voice of youth into the region of true
Literature. Of Praed’s work in this way none can speak better than Sir
George Young in his Preface.

Of his life, these are a few dry facts. He was born in 1802, lost his
mother early, and went to Eton at the age of twelve. He was still at
Eton when, at the age of eighteen, in 1820, he and his friend Walter
Blount edited the _Etonian_, which began its course in October 1820 and
ended in July 1821. In the following October Praed went to Trinity
College, Cambridge, where he obtained a Fellowship. He obtained medals
for Greek odes and epigrams, a medal for English verse, and he was still
full of the old grace of playfulness. He was called to the Bar in 1829.
An elder sister died in 1830, and his love for her is shown in tender
touches of his later verse. The _vers de société_ which he wrote, and
which no man wrote better than Praed, retain their charm because their
playfulness is on the surface of a manly earnest nature, from the depth
of which a tone now and then rises that comes straight into our hearts.
Praed was in Parliament from November 1830 until after the passing of
the Reform Bill, and again in 1834, when he was Secretary to the Board
of Control under Sir Robert Peel. His father died in 1835; in the same
year Praed married; and in July 1839 he died, aged thirty-seven.

Η. Μ.

_October 1887._

PREFACE.

The prose pieces of Winthrop Mackworth Praed have never before been
presented in a collected form. They are worthy of preservation, in a
degree hardly less than his verse; though by the latter he has hitherto
been best known, and will probably be longest remembered. At the time
when the high quality of his literary work obtained for the _Etonian_
the honour, unprecedented in the case of a school magazine, of a
complimentary notice in the _Quarterly Review_, it was to the merit of
his prose, as much as to that of his poetry, that attention was called
by the reviewer. It is not, however, as the phenomenally precocious work
of a schoolboy that these papers have been thought worthy of
reproduction in the UNIVERSAL LIBRARY. The circumstance that they were,
most of them, written at Eton, is only to be accounted of as adding to
their interest, by giving the reader a point of view from which to
sympathize with the writer’s humour. It would, however, be a mistake to
consider the senior Etonian of 1820 as corresponding to any reasonable
description of what is generally denoted by the word “schoolboy.” At
the age of eighteen or nineteen, when his grandfathers had already taken
their first degrees, subjected to a discipline as light as that of a
modern University, more free to study in the way the spirit moved him,
or not to study at all, than the undergraduate of a “good” college now,
the pupil of Goodall, Keate, or Plumptre was of a maturer sort than is
now to be found among the denizens of Sixth Forms. He came between two
ages in the history of our Public Schools, in neither of which could
such literary work as here follows have been produced by a “schoolboy.”
There preceded him the age in which a youth went early to the
University, and early into life. There has followed the day in which
“boys” at school, when no longer boys, but men in years, are held fast
by discipline to boyish studies, or at any rate to boyish amusements.
The circumstance that a few individuals, of great and early matured
literary gifts, were assembled together under these conditions at a
single school, on two several occasions, in two successive generations,
at an interval of about thirty years, operated to enrich English
Literature with two graceful and unique volumes. Of the _Microcosm_, the
best pieces are due to Canning and Frere; in the _Etonian_, the share of
Praed surpasses and eclipses that of his contemporaries. From his
University friends, indeed, he derived powerful help; there are a few
lines of poetry, by William Sidney Walker, better than any of his own;
and there are a few pages of prose, by Henry Nelson Coleridge, which are
also better; but for sustained excellence, and for an energy and variety
in production, truly extraordinary under the circumstances, Praed, and
Praed only, is the hero of the _Etonian_; the over-praised and
ambitiously constructed efforts of his friend Moultrie not excepted.

After Praed left Eton, his bent led him to verse, rather than to prose,
as his appropriate vehicle of expression; and it was only occasionally
that he sent a prose contribution, either to _Knight’s Quarterly
Magazine_, or to the _London Magazine_, or to the ephemeral pages of the
_Brazen Head_. Two speeches of his in Parliament were “reprinted by
request;” but they seem to have owed this distinction rather to the
special interest, at the time, of their subject-matter, than to any
exceptional finish in their literary form. They were speeches in
Committee on the Reform Bills of 1831 and 1832, the one on moving as an
amendment what was afterwards known as the “three-cornered constituency”
arrangement; the other on moving, similarly, that freeholds within the
limits of boroughs should confer votes for the borough and not for the
county. His partly versified squib, “The Union Club,” in which he
parodied the style and matter of the principal speakers among Cambridge
undergraduates in 1822, has been included in this collection, for the
sake especially of the comical imitations of Lord Macaulay and Lord
Lytton. It was written, as Macaulay himself informed me, “for Cookesley
to recite at supper-parties.” The late Rev. William Gifford Cookesley,
long an assistant master at Eton, who acted as Lord Beaconsfield’s
cicerone when he came down to the spot to make studies for “Coningsby,”
is gratefully remembered by many of his scholars for his genuine, if
somewhat irregular, love of literature, and for his hearty sympathy with
boyish good-fellowship. He was a contemporary of Praed’s both at Eton
and Cambridge, and long preserved, in maturer years, his admirable
faculty of mimicry.

Among the characteristics of these pieces will be found an almost
unfailing good taste; a polished style, exhibiting a sparkle, as of
finely constructed verse; a strong love of sheer fun, not ungracefully
indulged; a dash of affectation, inoffensive, and such as is natural in
a new-comer, upon whom the eyes of his circle have, by no fault of his,
been drawn; a healthy, breezy spirit, redolent of the playing-fields;
and a hearty appreciation of the pleasures arising from a first fresh
plunge into the waters of literature. Powers of observation are shown of
no mean order, and powers, also, of putting in a strong light, whether
attractive or ridiculous, the more obvious features of everyday
characters. These powers afterwards ripened into a truly admirable skill
of political and social verse-writing; and they showed signs of
deepening into a more forcible satiric power, tempered with humour, as
his too short career drew towards its end.

Praed is moreover especially to be commended in that he is never dull.
Although free from “sensationalism,” he is not forgetful that the first
business of a writer is--to be read. There are gentle lessons of good
manners, of unselfishness, and of chivalry, to be read in his pages;
they are not loudly trumpeted, but there they are; there is also a
sincere respect for great minds and for good work in literature,
enlivened, not neutralized, by unfailing high spirits. One could
dispense, certainly, with some of his antithesis; perhaps with all his
punning; but life is not so short, or so lively in itself, as to leave
us no time to be amused, and no ground for gratitude to the writers who
amuse us.

The only omissions from this collection are, besides the speeches above
mentioned, the prefaces contributed, in the taste of the day, to the
several numbers of the _Etonian_, under the title “The King of Clubs,”
and to _Knight’s Quarterly Magazine_, under the title “Castle Vernon.”
These are lively in their way, but unequal, and full of allusions which
would require notes to make them intelligible. Occasionally, too, they
are padded out with contributory matter by other hands. One rather
ambitious failure, to be found in the _Etonian_, “On Silent Sorrow,” has
also been omitted, and will not be missed.

It should be added, that the leading articles of the _Morning Post_
newspaper, from August 1832 to some time in the autumn of 1834, were for
the most part of Praed’s writing. Many of them are exceedingly well
written; but their contents are, of necessity, too ephemeral for
reproduction in these pages.

                                                          GEORGE YOUNG.

_October 1887._

PRAED’S ESSAYS.

RHYME AND REASON.

    “Non eadem est ætas, non mens.”--HORACE.

He whose life has not been one continued monotony; he who has been
susceptible of different passions, opposite in their origins and
effects, needs not to be told that the same objects, the same scenes,
the same incidents, strike us in a variety of lights, according to the
temper and inclination with which we survey them. To borrow an
illustration from external scenes,--if we are situated in the centre of
a shady valley, our view is confined and our prospect bounded; but if we
ascend the topmost heights of the mountain by which that valley is
overshadowed, the eye wanders luxuriantly over a perpetual succession of
beautiful objects, until the mental faculties appear to catch new
freedom from the extension of the sight; we breathe a purer air, and are
inspired with purer emotions.

Thus it is with men who differ from each other in their tastes, their
studies, or their professions. They look on the same external objects
with a different internal perception, and the view which they take of
surrounding scenes is beautified or distorted, according to their
predominant pursuit or their prevailing inclination.

We were led into this train of ideas by a visit which we lately paid to
an old friend, who, from a strong taste for agricultural pursuits, has
abandoned the splendour and absurdity of a town life, and devoted to the
cultivation of a large farming establishment, in a picturesque part of
England, all the advantages of a strong judgment and a good education.
His brother, on the contrary, who was a resident at the farm during our
visit, has less of sound understanding than of ardent genius, and is
more remarkable for the warmth of his heart than the soundness of his
head. In short, to describe them in a word, Jonathan sees with the eye
of a merchant, and Charles with that of an enthusiast; Jonathan is a man
of business, and Charles is a poet. The contrast between their tempers
is frequently the theme of conversation at the social meetings of the
neighbourhood; and it is always found that the old and the grave shake
their heads at the almost boyish enthusiasm of Charles, while the young
and the imprudent indulge in severe sarcasms at the mercenary and
uninspired moderation of his brother. All parties, however, concur in
admiring the uninterrupted cordiality which subsists between them, and
in laughing good-humouredly at the various whims and foibles of these
opposite characters, who are known throughout the country by the titles
of Rhyme and Reason.

We arrived at the farm as Jonathan was sitting down to his substantial
breakfast. We were delighted to see our old friend, now in the decline
of life, answering so exactly the description of Cowper--

    An honest man close-buttoned to the chin,
    Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within.

We felt an inward satisfaction in contemplating his frieze coat, whose
_début_ we remember to have witnessed five years ago, and in speculating
upon the snows which five additional winters had left upon his head
since our last interview. It was some time before we recovered
sufficiently from our reverie to inquire after the well-being of our
younger companion, who had not yet made his appearance at the board.
“Oh!” said Jonathan, “Charles is in his heyday years; we must indulge
him for the present; we can’t expect such regularity from
five-and-twenty as from six-and-fifty.” He had hardly done speaking when
a loud halloo sounded as an avant-courier of Charles’s approach, and in
less than a minute he presented himself before us. “Ten thousand
pardons!” he cried. “One’s enough,” said his brother. “I’ve seen the
finest sunrise,” said Charles. “You’re wet through,” said Jonathan. “I’m
all over rapture,” said Rhyme. “You’re all over dirt,” said Reason.

With some difficulty Charles was persuaded to retire for the
re-adjustment of his dress, while the old man continued his meal with a
composure which proved he was not unused to the morning excursions of
his volatile yoke-fellow. By the time he had got through his beefsteak,
and three columns of the _Courier_, Charles re-entered, and despatched
the business of eating with a rapidity in which many a modern
half-starved rhymer would be glad to emulate him. A walk was immediately
proposed; but the one had scarcely reached an umbrella, and the other
prepared his manuscript book, when a slight shower of rain prevented our
design. “Provoking,” said Rhyme. “Good for the crop,” said Reason.

The shower, however, soon ceased, and a fine clear sun encouraged us to
resume our intentions, without fear of a second disappointment. As we
walked over the estate, we were struck with the improvements made by our
friend, both as regarded the comfort and the value of the property;
while now and then we could not suppress a smile on observing the rustic
arbour which Charles had designed, or the verses which he had inscribed
on our favourite old oak.

It was determined that we should ascend a neighbouring hill, which was
dear to us from its having been the principal scene of our boyhood’s
amusements. “We must make haste,” said Charles, “or we shall miss the
view.” “We must make haste,” said Jonathan, “or we shall catch cold on
our return.” Their actions seemed always to amalgamate, though their
motives were always different. We observed a tenant of our friend
ploughing a small field, and stopped a short time to regard the
contented appearance of the man, and the cheerful whistle with which he
called to his cattle. “Beatus ille qui procul negotiis,” said the poet.
“A poor team, though,” said his brother.

Our attention was next excited by a level meadow, whose green hue, set
off by the mixture of the white fleeces of a beautiful flock of sheep,
was, to the observer of Nature, a more enviable sight than the most
studied landscape of Gainsborough’s pencil. “Lovely colours!” ejaculated
Charles. “Fine mutton,” observed Jonathan. “Delightful scene for a
rustic hop!” cried the enthusiast. “I am thinking of planting hops,”
said the farmer.

We reached the summit of the hill, and remained for some moments in
silent admiration of one of the most variegated prospects that ever the
country presented to the contemplation of its most ardent admirer. The
mellow verdure of the meadows, intermingled here and there with the
sombre appearance of ploughed land, the cattle reclining in the shade,
the cottage of the rustic peeping from behind the screen of a luxuriant
hedge, formed a _tout-ensemble_ which every eye must admire, but which
few pens can describe. “A delightful landscape!” said Charles. “A rich
soil,” said Jonathan. “What scope for description!” cried the first.
“What scope for improvement!” returned the second.

As we returned we passed the cottage of the peasant whom we had seen at
his plough in the morning. The family were busily engaged in their
several domestic occupations. One little chubby-faced rogue was
conducting Dobbin to his stable, another was helping his sister to coop
up the poultry, and a third was incarcerating the swine, who made a
vigorous resistance against their youthful antagonist. “Tender!” cried
Rhyme--he was listening to the nightingale. “Very tender!” replied
Reason--he was looking at the pigs.

As we drew near home, we met an old gentleman walking with his daughter,
between whom and Charles a reciprocal attachment was said to exist. The
lateness of the evening prevented much conversation, but the few words
which were spoken again brought into contrast the opposite tempers of my
friends. “A fine evening, Madam,” said the man of sense, and bowed. “I
shall see you to-morrow, Mary!” said the lover, and pressed her hand. We
looked back upon her as she left us. After a pause: “She is an angel!”
sighed Charles. “She is an heiress,” observed Jonathan. “She has ten
thousand perfections,” cried Rhyme. “She has ten thousand pounds,” said
Reason.

We left them the next morning, and spent some days in speculations on
the causes which enabled such union of affections to exist with such
diversities of taste. For ourselves, we must confess that, while Reason
has secured our esteem, Rhyme has run away with our hearts; we have
sometimes thought with Jonathan, but we have always felt with Charles.

ON THE PRACTICAL BATHOS.

    “To sink the deeper--rose the higher.”--POPE.

Although many learned scholars have laboured with much diligence in the
illustration of the Bathos in poetry, we do not remember to have seen
any essay calculated to point out the beauties and advantages of this
figure when applied to actual life. Surely there is no one who will not
allow that the want of such an essay is a desideratum which ought, as
soon as possible, to be supplied. Conscious as we are that our feeble
powers are not properly qualified to fill up this vacuum in scholastic
literature; yet, since the learned commentators of the present day have
their hands full either of Greek or politics, we, an unlearned, but we
trust a harmless, body of quacks, will endeavour to supply the place of
those who kill by rule, and will accordingly offer, for the advantage of
our fellow-citizens, a few brief remarks on the Practical Bathos.

We will first lay it down as a principle that the ἀπροσδόκητον, as well
in life as in poetry, is a figure, the beauties of which are innumerable
and incontrovertible. For the benefit of my fair readers (for Phœbus and
Bentley forbid that an Etonian should here need a Lexicon) I will state
that the figure ἀπροσδόκητον is “that which produceth things
unexpected.” Take a few examples. In poetry there is a notable instance
of this figure in the “Œdipus Tyrannus” of Sophocles, where the
messenger who discloses to Œdipus his mistake in supposing Polybus to be
his father, believing that the intelligence he brings is of the most
agreeable nature, plants a dagger in the heart of his hearer by every
word he utters. But Sophocles, although he must be acknowledged a great
master of the dramatic art, is infinitely surpassed in the use of this
figure by our good friend Mr. Farley of Covent Garden. When we sit in
mute astonishment to survey the various pictures which he conjures up,
as it were by the wand of a sorcerer, in a moment--when columns and
coal-holes, palaces and pig-sties, summer and winter, succeed each other
with such perpetually diversified images; we are continually exclaiming,
“Mr. Farley, what next?” Every minute presents us with a new and more
perfect specimen of this figure. Far be it from us to speak
disrespectfully of Sophocles, for whom, as in duty bound, we entertain a
most sincere veneration; but he certainly must rank beneath Mr. Farley
as a manager of the ἀπροσδόκητον. One of the most striking examples in
the present day, which we can recommend to those who wish to apply this
figure to the purposes of actual life, is (may we say it without being
accused of a political allusion?) her Majesty Queen Caroline. That
illustrious personage in one beautiful passage (we mean her passage from
Calais to Dover) has certainly proved herself a perfect mistress of the
ἀπροσδόκητον.

Of this figure the Bathos must be considered a most elegant species.
Again, for the benefit of our fair readers, we will observe, that the
usual signification of the Bathos is--the Art of Sinking in Poetry; but
what we here propose to discuss is “the Art of Sinking in Life”--an art
of which it may be truly said that those who practise it skilfully only
stoop to conquer.

It must be evident to every person who is at all conversant with the
motives and origin of human opinions, that man is accustomed to regard
with a feeling of animosity those who are pre-eminent in any science or
virtue--

    Urit enim fulgore suo qui prægravat artes
    Infra se positas.

But this invidious and hostile feeling vanishes at once, when we behold
the object of it sinking suddenly from the dazzling sphere he originally
occupied, and reducing himself to a level with ordinary mortals. The
divine and incomparable Clarissa would never have been considered divine
and incomparable, had she never been betrayed into a _faux pas_; and I
question whether Bonaparte was ever looked upon with so favourable an
eye as when he afforded a specimen of the Bathos, in his descent from
“the Emperor of France” to “the Captive of St. Helena.”

But the strongest argument that can be used in recommendation of this
science is, that we are by Nature herself compelled to make use of it.
Whatever riches we may amass, whatever age we may attain, whatever
honours we may enjoy, we are continually looking forward to one certain
and universal Bathos, “Death.” From learning, from wealth, from power,
our descent is swift and inevitable. We look upon the graves of our
kindred, and say with Hamlet, “To this must we come at last.”

This doctrine is so beautifully illustrated by a passage in Holy Writ,
that we cannot refrain from laying it before our readers:--

“Alexander, son of Philip the Macedonian, made many wars, and won many
strongholds, and slew the kings of the earth. And he gathered a mighty
strong host, and ruled over countries and nations and kings, who became
tributaries to him. And after these things he fell sick, and perceived
that he should--_die_.”[1]

A more beautiful instance of this figure cannot be imagined. It needs no
comment. But we fear we are growing too serious, and shall therefore
pursue this branch of our dissertation no further.

We hope our readers are by this time thoroughly convinced of the beauty
and utility of this figure; we will proceed to exhort them most
earnestly to apply themselves immediately to the study of “the Art of
Sinking in Life.”

The art may be divided into a great number of species; but all, we
believe, may be comprehended under two heads--the _Bathos Gradual_ and
the _Bathos Precipitate_. We will offer a few concise remarks upon both,
without pretending to decide between the various merits of each.
Indeed, the opinion of the world appears pretty much divided between
them; as there are some bathers, who stand for a time shivering on the
brink, and at last totter into the stream with a tardy and reluctant
step, while there are others who boldly plunge into the tide with a
hasty and impetuous leap.

The Bathos Gradual is principally practised by poets and by coquettes.
Of its use by the former we have frequent examples in our own day. A
gentleman publishes a book: it is bought, read, and admired. He
publishes another, and his career of sinking immediately commences.
First he sinks into a book-maker; next he sinks into absurdity; next he
sinks into mediocrity; next he sinks into oblivion; and, as it is
impossible for him to sink much lower, he may then begin to think of
rising to a garret.

The life of Chloe affords an admirable instance of the effect with which
this species of the art may be exercised by coquettes. At twenty-four,
Chloe was a fashionable beauty; at twenty-six she began to paint; at
twenty-eight she was--not what she had been; and at thirty she was voted
a maiden lady! Or, to use the slang of the loungers of the day: at
twenty-four she was bang-up; at twenty-six she was a made-up thing; at
twenty-eight was done up; and at thirty it was--all up with her.

The Bathos Precipitate is adapted to the capacities of great generals,
substantial merchants, dashing bloods, and young ladies who are in haste
to be married.[2] For examples of it in the first we must refer you to
Juvenal’s Tenth Satire, as this part of our subject is hackneyed, and we
despair of saying anything new upon it.

For examples of the Bathos Precipitate in trade, you must make inquiries
among the Dulls and Bears on the Stock Exchange; they can instruct you
much better than ourselves by what method you may be a _good_ man at
twelve o’clock, and a bankrupt at one.

Upon referring to our memoranda, we find some inimitable examples of
this species of the Bathos among the two latter classes of its
practitioners. Some of these we will extract for the amusement of our
readers:--

     Sir Edmund Gulley.--Became possessed of a handsome property by the
     death of his uncle, February 7, 1818. Sat down 10 Rouge et Noir,
     February 14, 1818, 12 o’clock P.Μ. Shot himself through the head,
     February 15, 1818, 2 o’clock A.M.

     Lord F. Maple.--Acquired great _éclat_ in an affair of honour,
     March 2, 1818. Horsewhipped for a scoundrel at the Second Newmarket
     Meeting, 1818.

     Mr. G. Bungay.--September 1819--Four-in-hand, blood horses, shag
     coat, pearl buttons. October 1819--Plain chaise and pair.

     Miss Lydia Dormer.--May 1820--Great beauty, manifold
     accomplishments, £4000 a-year. June 1820--_Chère amie_ of Sir J.
     Falkland.

     The Hon. Miss Amelia Tempest.--(From a daily paper of July
     1820.)--“Marriage in High Life.--The beautiful Miss Amelia Tempest
     will shortly be led to the hymeneal altar by the Marquis of
     Looney.”

     (From the same paper of August 1820.)--“Elopement in High
     Life.--Last week the Hon. Miss Am-l-a T-mp-st eloped with her
     father’s footman.”

Reader,--When we inform you that we ourselves had long entertained a
sneaking kindness for the amiable Amelia, you will image to yourself the
emotion with which we read the above paragraph. We jumped from the table
in a paroxysm of indignation, and committed to the flames the obnoxious
chronicler of our disappointment; but the next moment composed our
feelings with a truly stoic firmness, and, with a steady hand, we wrote
down the name of the Hon. Miss Amelia Tempest as an admirable proficient
in the Bathos Precipitate.

NICKNAMES.

    “Lusco qui possit dicere ‘lusce.’”

The invention and appropriation of Nicknames are studies which, from
want of proper cultivation, have of late years very much decayed. Since
these arts contribute so much to the well-being and satisfaction of our
Etonian witlings--since the younger part of our community could hardly
exist if they were denied the pleasure of affixing a ludicrous addition
to the names of their seniors--we hope that the consideration of this
art in all its branches and bearings will be to many an amusing, and to
some an improving, disquisition.

The different species of nicknames may be divided and subdivided into an
endless variety. There is the nickname direct, the nickname oblique, the
nickname κατ’ ἐξόχὴν, the nickname κατ’ ἀντιφράσιν, and a multitude of
others, which it is unnecessary here to particularize. We shall attempt
a few remarks upon these four principal classes.

The nickname direct, as might be expected, is by far more ancient than
any other we have enumerated. Much has been argued upon the elegance or
inelegance of Homer’s perpetually repeated epithets; for our part we
imagine Homer thought very little upon the elegance or inelegance of the
expressions to which we allude, since we cannot but regard his Ξανθὸς
Μενέλαος--πόδας ὠκὺς Αχιλλεὺς--ἄναξ ανδρών Αγαμέμνων, and other passages
of the same kind, not even excepting the thundering cognomen which is
tacked on to his Jupiter, Ζεὺς ὑψιβρεμέτης, as so many ancient and
therefore inimitable specimens of the nickname direct. This class is
with propriety divided into two smaller descriptions; the nickname
personal and the nickname descriptive. The first of these is derived
from some bodily defect in its object; the latter from some excellence
or infirmity of the mind.

The nicknames which were applied to our early British kings generally
fell under one of these denominations. William Rufus and Edward
Longshanks are examples of the first, while Henry Beauclerc and Richard
Cœur de Lion afford us instances of the second. We cannot depart from
this part of our subject without adverting to the extreme liberty which
the French have been accustomed to take with the names of their kings.
With that volatile nation, “the Cruel,” “the Bald,” and “the Fat” seem
as constantly the insignia of royalty as the sceptre and the crown. We
must confess that, were it not for the venerable antiquity of the
species, we should be glad to see the nickname personal totally
discontinued, as in our opinion the most able proficient in this branch
of the science evinces a great portion of ill-nature, and very little
ingenuity.

The merit of the nickname oblique consists principally in its
incomprehensibility. It is frequently derived, like the former, from
some real or imaginary personal defect; but the illusion is generally so
twisted and distorted in its formation, that even the object to whom it
is applied is unable to trace its origin or to be offended by its use.
The discovery of the actual fountain from whence so many ingenious
windings and intricacies proceed is really a puzzling study for one who
wishes to make himself acquainted with the elementary principles of
things. In short, the nickname oblique resembles the great river, the
Nile: its meanders are equally extensive, its source is equally
concealed. We have a specimen of this species in the appellation of our
worthy secretary. Mr. Golightly made a pleasant, though a sufficiently
obvious hit, when he addressed Mr. Richard Hodgson by the familiar
abbreviation of Pam. We should recommend to the professors of
the nickname oblique, two material, though much neglected,
requisites--simplicity and perspicuity; for, in spite of the long and
attentive study which we have devoted to this branch of the art, we
ourselves have been frequently puzzled by unauthorized corruptions both
of sound and sense, and lost amidst the circuitous labyrinth of a
far-fetched prænomen. We were much embarrassed by hearing our good
friend, Mr. Peter Snaggs, addressed by the style of “Fried Soles,” until
we remembered that his grandfather had figured as a violent Methodist
declaimer in the metropolis: nor could we conceive by what means our
old associate, Mr. Matthew Dunstan, had obtained his classical title of
“Forceps,” until we recollected the miraculous attack made by the tongs
of his prototype upon the nasal orifices of his Satanic antagonist.

The third species is derived from an implied excellence in any one
specified study. It is known by the sign “The.” Thus, “_The_ Whistler,”
in “Tales of My Landlord,” is so called from his having excelled all
others in the polished and fashionable art of whistling. When we call
Mr. Ouzel “_the_ blockhead,” we are far from asserting that he is the
only blockhead among our well-beloved companions, but merely that he
holds that title from undisputed superlative merit; and, when we
distinguish Sampson Noll by the honourable designation of “_The_ Nose,”
we mean not to allege that Mr. Noll is the only person who challenges
admiration, from the extraordinary dimensions of that feature, but
simply, that Sampson’s nose exceeds, by several degrees of longitude,
the noses of his less distinguished competitors.

We know not, however, whether the species which we are discussing is not
rather to be considered a ramification of the first, than a separate
class in itself; for it unavoidably happens that the two kinds are
frequently confused, and that we know not under which head to arrange a
name which is of an ambiguous nature, and may be referred with equal
propriety to either definition.

The fourth and last kind is promiscuously derived from sources similar
to those of the three preceding; but in its formation it entirely
reverses their provisions. We all know that a grove was called by the
Latins “lucus;” _a non lucendo_, that the Præses of the Lower House of
Parliament is called by us, “Speaker,” because he is not allowed to
speak. Such is the system of the nickname which is at present under
consideration; it is applied to its object, not from the qualities which
he possesses, but from those which he does not; not from the actions
which he has performed, but from those which he has not: in short,
contrariety is its distinguishing character, and absurdity its principal
merit. Antiquity will supply us with several admirable specimens.
Ptolemy murdered his brother, and was called “Philadelphus.” The
Furies, to say the best of them, were spiteful old maids, and they were
nicknamed “The Benevolent.” In our times it is certainly in more general
use than any other class; nor is this to be wondered at, when we
consider the extraordinary neatness of irony which is with great
facility couched under it. It has been well observed by some French
author, whose name has escaped our memory, that if you call Vice by her
own name, she laughs at you; but if you address her by the name of
Virtue, she blushes. To give a plainer illustration: if you say to Ouzel
“Blockhead,” it is an unregarded truth; if you cry out to him, “Genius,”
it is a biting sarcasm. Nothing, indeed, can be imagined more
malignantly severe than this weapon of irony, exercised with skill, and
pointed with malevolence; no satire is more easy to the assailant, and
more painful to the assailed, than that which gives to deformity the
praise of beauty, and designates absurdity by the title of absolute
wisdom.

We lately had the honour of reckoning among our nearest and dearest
friends Dr. Simon Colley, a gentleman who was as estimable for the
excellent qualities of his mind as he was ridiculous from the whimsical
proportions of his body. Must we give a description of our much lamented
friend? If the reader will collect together the various personal defects
of all his acquaintance--if he will add the lameness of one to the
diminutive stature of another--if he will unite the cast of the eye
which designates a third to the departure from the rectilineal line
which beautifies the back of a fourth, he will then have some faint idea
of the bodily perfections of Dr. Simon Colley. The Doctor was perfectly
conscious of his peculiarities, and was frequently in the habit of
choosing his corporal appearance as the theme of a hearty laugh or the
subject of jocular lamentation; yet the sound sense and cultivated
philosophy of our respected friend was not proof against the unexpected
vociferation of a well-applied nickname; and, although his favourite
topic of conversation was the personal resemblance he bore to the
renowned Æsop, he flew into the most violent paroxysms of rage when he
was pointed at by some little impertinents as the Apollo Belvidere.

But this sort of nickname is not used merely as the instrument of wit or
the weapon of ill-nature: it assumes occasionally a more serious garb,
and becomes the language of flattery or the adulation of hypocrisy. In
this form it is of great service in dedicatory epistles and professions
of love. When Vapid entreats Lord---- to prefix his name to a list of
subscribers, he whines out the praises of his “Mæcenas” with all the
mournful earnestness with which a criminal exalts the clemency of his
judge; but the manner in which he chuckles at the munificence of his
patron over a beefsteak at the Crown and Cushion proves very evidently
that Vapid is a hypocrite, and that “Mæcenas” is a nickname. And when
Miss Pimpkinson, a maiden lady with £40,000, smiles upon the adoration
of Sir Horace Conway, a fashionable without a farthing, she little
dreams that “Venus,” which is her title in the boudoir, is only her
nickname at the club.

Having now presented our friends with a cursory sketch of these four
principal classes, we shall sum up the whole by offering to the reader a
specimen in which we lately heard the four kinds admirably blended
together. “Toup,” cried “All the Talents,” “tell ‘Swab’ that I have a
thrashing in store for ‘The Poet.’” “Toup” is the nickname oblique,
borne by its possessor in consequence of some supposed relation between
the longitude of his physiognomy and the Longinus of the erudite
Toupius; “Swab” is the nickname direct, applied to a rotund gentleman;
“_The_ Poet” is κατ’ ἐξοχὴν--“_the_ poet,” because he is super-eminently
poetical; and “All the Talents” is κατ’ ἀντιφράσιν--“All the Talents,”
because he is the veriest blockhead upon the face of our Etonian
hemisphere.

It will be needless to enumerate the many minor classes of this
important subject; it will be needless to dwell upon the nickname
classical, the nickname clerical, the nickname military, and the
nickname bargee; as we believe that no specimen of these is to be found
which may not be ranked under one of the preceding descriptions. There
is, however, one great and extensive species remaining, to which we
shall here give only a brief notice, as we may possibly, at some future
period, devote a leading article to its consideration--we mean the
nickname general. This last-mentioned class claims our attention, from
the comprehensive range of its operation. It is not applied to the
mental foibles or personal defects of a single object, it does not
attack the failings of a solitary individual, it wastes not the lash of
censure on an isolated instance of absurdity; but it inflicts a wound
upon thousands in a moment, and stamps the mark of ridicule upon
numberless victims. The Quizzes, the Prigs, the Marines, the Chaises
are, amongst our _alumni_, well-known examples of the nickname general.

But we have too long lost sight of the main object of our present
lucubration, which was the recommendation of this art to our
fellow-citizens, as a commendable, though much neglected, study. When we
say much neglected, we mean not that nicknames have ceased to be the
rage, and are falling into disuse (for certainly there never was an age
in which they spread more luxuriantly); but we allude to the lamentable
decay of imagination and ingenuity in their formation. If we look back
to ancient times, we shall find that, in those days, nicknames were
derived from the same sources as in the present age; they had their
origin from natural defects, from personal deformities; yet how
amazingly do the _cognomina_ of antiquity exceed in elegance and taste
the nicknames of more modern date. How wonderfully are the “Chicken,”
the “Shanks,” the “Nosey,” of Etonian celebrity surpassed by the
“Pullus,” the “Scaurus,” the “Cicero,” of Roman literature. It is a
disgrace upon the genius of our generation, that, at a time when other
arts have arrived at such a high perfection that our age may almost be
considered the Augustan age of the world, the art of nicknames should
have totally lost the classical polish for which it was in the olden
time so eminently remarkable, until it has sunk into the vehicle of
vulgar abuse, neither adorned by wit nor chastened by urbanity.

These considerations have induced us to give our most serious attention
to the advancement and improvement of the art. We are confident that our
researches in this line of literature have not been misapplied; and our
readers will surely agree with us, when they reflect on the manifold
utility of the study, when properly cultivated. There is so little
variety in English Christian names, that, where friends are in the habit
of using them, great mistakes must naturally take place. A surname, as
Charles Surface observes, “is too formal to be registered in Love’s
calendar.” A nickname avoids alike the ambiguity of one, and the
stiffness of the other; it unites all the familiarity of the first with
all the utility of the second. Besides this, the nickname is a brief
description of its object: it saves a million of questions, and an hour
of explanation: it is in itself a species of biography. Homer, when he
gives to his Juno the nickname of “Bull-eyed,” expresses in a word what
a modern rhymer would dilate into a canto.

For the rescuing of nicknames from the obloquy into which they have
fallen, we have collected a large assortment of them, which we are ready
to dispose of to applicants at a very low price. We have in our stock
appellations of every descriptions--the Classical, the Familiar, the
Theatrical, the Absurd, the Complimentary, the Abusive, and the
Composite. By an application at our publisher’s, new nicknames may be
had at a moment’s notice. The wit and the blockhead, the sap and the
idler, shall be fitted with denominations which shall be alike
appropriate and flattering, so that they shall neither outrage propriety
nor offend self-conceit. The dandy shall be suited with a name which
shall bear no allusion to stays, and the coquette with one which shall
in no way reflect upon rouge. In short, we have a collection of
novelties adapted to both sexes, and proper for all ages. In one thing
only is our stock deficient; and that, we are confident, will be
supplied previous to the appearance of our second number. We have no
doubt that some obligingly sarcastic associate will favour us with a new
and an ingenious nickname for the _Etonian_.

YES AND NO.

    “We came into the world like brother and brother,
    And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another.”

    SHAKESPEARE.

     MR. LOZELL’S TREATISE ON THE ART OF SAYING “YES.”

    “He humbly answered ‘Yea! Bob.’”

    ANON.

Our opinion is very much strengthened by the belief that many of our
friends will assent to it, when we assert that no art requires in a
greater degree the attention of a young man, on his entrance into life,
than that of saying “Yes.” A man who deigns not to use this little word
is a bulldog in society; he studies his own gratification rather than
that of his friends, and of course accomplishes neither: in short, he
deserves not to be called a civilized being, and is totally unworthy of
the place which he holds in the creation.

Is not it right to believe the possible fallacy of one’s own
opinion?--Yes. Is not it proper to have a due consideration for the
opinion of others?--Yes! Is not it truly praiseworthy to sacrifice our
conviction, our argument, our obstinacy upon the shrine of
politeness?--Again and again we answer--Yes! yes! yes!

Nothing indeed is to us more gratifying than to behold a man modestly
diffident of the powers which Nature has bestowed upon him, and
assenting, with a proper sense of his own fallibility, to the opinions
of those who kindly endeavour to remedy his faults or to supply his
deficiencies. Nothing is to us more gratifying than to hear from the
lips of such a man that true test of a complying disposition--that sure
prevention of all animosity--that immediate stop to all quarrels--that
sweet, civil, complacent, inoffensive monosyllable--Yes!

Yet, alas! how many do we find who, from an affectation of singularity,
or a foolish love of argument, do as it were expunge this admirable
expression from their vocabularies. How many do we see around us, who
are in the daily habit of losing the most advantageous offers, of
quarrelling with strangers, and of offending their best friends, solely
because they obstinately refuse to call to their assistance the
infallible remedy for all these evils, which is to be found in the three
letters upon which we are offering a brief comment.

We are sure we are only chiming in with the opinion of other people,
when we lament the manifold and appalling evils which are the sure
consequences of this disinclination to affirmatives. To us it is really
melancholy to look upon the disposition to contradiction by which some
of our friends are characterized, to observe the manifest pride of some,
the unreasonable pertinacity of others. Of a surety, if we are doomed at
any future season to put on the yoke of wedlock, Mrs. L. and all the
Masters and Misses L. shall be early instructed in the art of saying
“Yes.”

Look into the pages of history! You will find there innumerable examples
in support of our opinion. When the Greeks begged Achilles to pocket his
affronts and make an end of Hector, he refused. Very well, we have no
doubt he did all for the best; but we are morally sure that Patroclus
would not have been slain if Achilles had known how to say “Yes.” We
all know how he cried about it when it was too late. To draw another
illustration from the same epoch, how disastrous was the ignorance which
Priam displayed of this art when a treaty was on foot for the
restoration of Helen. Nothing was easier than to finish all disputes, to
step out of all difficulties, by one civil, obliging, gentlemanly “Yes.”
But he refused--and Troy was burned. What glorious results would a
contrary conduct have produced! It would have prevented a peck of
troubles both to the Greeks and the Etonians. It would have saved the
Ancients ten years, and the Moderns twelve books, of bloodshed. It is
almost unnecessary to allude to the imprudent, the luckless Hippolytus:
he never would have been murdered by a marine monster if he could but
have said “Yes;” but the word stuck in his throat, and he certainly paid
rather dear for his ignorance.

“Yes,” cries a critic, “I agree with all this, but it’s all so old.” We
assent to your opinion, my good friend, and will endeavour to benefit
by your suggestion. Come, then, we will look for illustrations among the
characters of our own age.

There’s Lord Duretête, the misanthrope. He has a tolerable fortune,
tolerable talents, and tolerable person. He plays a tolerable
accompaniment on the flute, and a tolerable hand at whist. Yet, with all
these tolerable qualifications, he is considered a most intolerable man.
What is the reason of this seemingly anomalous circumstance? The reason
is obvious--His Lordship can’t say “Yes.” This abominable ignorance of
our favourite art interferes in the most trivial incidents of life; it
renders him alike miserable and disagreable. “Will your Lordship allow
me to prefix your name to a dedication?” says Bill Attic, the satirist.
“I must go mad first,” says his Lordship. “Duretête! lend me a couple of
hundreds!” says Sir Harry. “Can’t, ’pon honour!” says his Lordship. “You
dear creature, you’ll open my ball this evening!” says Lady Germain.
“I’ll be d--d if I do!” says his Lordship. See the catastrophe. Bill
Attic lampoons him, Sir Harry spits in his face, and Lady Germain votes
him a bore. How unlucky that he cannot say “Yes!”

Look at young Eustace, the man of honour! He came up to town last year
with a good dress, a good address, and letters of introduction to half a
dozen great men. He made his bow to each of them, spent a week with each
of them, offended each of them, and is now starving in a garret upon
independence and cold mutton. What is the meaning of all this? Eustace
never learned how to say “Yes!” “_Virtus post nummos!_ Eh! young man?”
says old Discount, the usurer. “I can’t say I think so,” said Eustace.
“Here! Eustace, boy,” says Lord Fanny, “read over these scenes, and let
me have your opinion! Fit for the boards, I think! Eh?” “You’ll excuse
me if I don’t think they are,” says Eustace. “Well! my young friend,”
cries Mr. Pliant, “we must have you in Parliament I suppose; make an
orator of you! You’re on the right side, I hope?” “I should vote with my
conscience, Sir,” says Eustace. See the finale. Eustace is enlisted for
life in the Grub Street Corps, where he learns by sad experience how
dangerous it is to say “No” to the avarice of a usurer, the vanity of a
rhymer, or the party spirit of a politician. How unlucky that he cannot
say “Yes.”

Godfrey is a lover, and he has every qualification for the office except
one. He cannot say “Yes.” Nobody, without this talent, should presume to
be in love. “Mr. Godfrey,” says Chloe, “don’t you think this feather
pretty?” “Absurd!” says Godfrey. “Mr. Godfrey!” says the lady, “don’t
you think this necklace becoming?” “Never saw anything less so!” says
Godfrey. “Mr. Godfrey,” says the coquette, “don’t you think I’m divine
to-night?” “You never looked worse, by Jove!” says the gentleman.
Godfrey is a man of fashion, a man of fortune, and a man of talent, but
he will die a bachelor. What a pity! We can never look on such a man
without a smile for his caprice and a tear for its consequences. How
unlucky that he cannot say “Yes!”

In the position we are next going to advance we know everybody will
agree with us, and this consideration very much strengthens our
opinion. Nothing is so becoming to a female mouth as a civil and
flattering “Yes.” It is impossible, indeed, but that our fellow-citizens
should here agree with us, when they reflect that they never can be
husbands until their inamorata shall have learnt the art of saying
“Yes.” For the most part, indeed, civility and good-nature are the
characteristics of our British fair, and this natural inclination to the
affirmative renders it unnecessary for us to point out to our fair
countrywomen the beauties and advantages of a word which they love as
dearly as they do flattery. While we are on the subject of flattery, let
us _obiter_ advise all Etonians to say nothing but “Yes” to a lady. But
as a thoughtless coquette or a haughty prude does occasionally forget
the necessity and the beauty of the word we are discussing, we cannot
but recommend to our fair readers to consider attentively the evils
which this forgetfulness infallibly entails. Laurelia would never have
been cut by her twenty-first adorer; Charlotte, with £4000 a year at
fifteen, would never have been an old maid at fifty; Lucy, with a good
face and not a farthing, would never have refused a carriage, white
liveries, and a peerage, if these unfortunate victims had studied in
early youth the art of saying “Yes.”

Sweet--light--gay--quaint monosyllable! Tender, obliging, inoffensive,
affectionate “Yes!” How we delight in thy delicate sound! We love to
hear the enamoured swain petitioning for his mistress’s picture, till
the lady, or overcome by affection, or wearied by importunity, changes
the “No” of coy reluctance for the “Yes” of final approbation. We love
to hear the belle of Holborn Hill supplicating for Greenwich and the
one-horse shay, till her surly parent alters the shake of unconvinced
obduracy for the nod of unwilling consent. We love to see the hen-pecked
husband humbly kneeling for his Sunday coat and the “Star and Garter,”
till Madam, conscious that the Captain is secreted in the closet,
transmutes the “No” of authoritative detention into the “Yes” of
immediate dismission. We love--but it is time to bring our treatise to a
conclusion, and we will merely observe, that whenever we see Beauty
without a husband or Talent without a place; whenever we hear a lady
considered an old maid, or a gentleman voted a bore, we turn from the
sight in melancholy mood, and whisper to ourselves: “This comes of not
being able to say ‘Yes.’”

     MR. OAKLEY’S TREATISE ON THE ART OF SAYING “NO.”

    “My son--learn betimes to say No.”

    MISS EDGEWORTH.

Our opinion is not a jot weakened by the probability that many of our
friends will dissent from it, when we assert that no art requires in a
greater degree the attention of a young man, on his entrance into life,
than that of saying “No.” A man who is afraid to use this little word is
a spaniel in society; he studies to please others rather than to benefit
himself, and of course fails in both objects: in short, he deserves not
to be called a man, and is totally unworthy of the place which he holds
in the creation.

Is he a rational being who has not an opinion of his own?--No. Is he in
the possession of his five senses who sees with the eyes, who hears with
the ears, of other men?--No! Does he act upon principle who sacrifices
truth, honour, and independence, on the shrine of servility?--Again and
again we reply--No! no! no!

Nothing indeed is to us more gratifying than to behold a man relying
boldly on the powers which Nature has bestowed upon him, and spurning,
with a proper consciousness of independence, the suggestions of those
who would reduce him from the rank he holds as a reasonable creature to
the level of a courtier and a time-server. Nothing is to us more
gratifying than to hear from the lips of such a man that decided test of
a free spirit--that finisher to all dispute--that knock-down blow in all
arguments--that strong, forcible, expressive, incontrovertible
monosyllable--No!

Yet, alas! how many do we find who are either unable or unwilling to
pronounce this most useful, most necessary response! How many do we see
around us, who are in the daily habit of professing to know things of
which they are altogether ignorant, of making promises which it is
impossible for them to perform, of saying (to use for once α soft
expression) the thing which _is not_, solely because they will not call
to their assistance the infallible remedy for all these evils, which is
to be found in the two letters upon which we are offering a brief
comment.

It is dreadful to reflect upon the evils which this neglect must
infallibly produce. It is dreadful to look round upon the friends and
relatives whom we see suffering the most appalling calamities from no
other misconduct than a blind aversion to negatives. It is disgusting to
observe the flexible indecision of some, the cringing servility of
others. Forgive us, reader, but we cannot help soliloquizing: “God save
the King of Clubs, and may the Princes of the Blood Royal be early
instructed in the art of saying ‘No.’”

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.

Now all these ladies are foolish in their way. Theodosia is a silent
fool, Emily is a timid fool, Corinna is a talkative fool, Sappho is a
learned fool, and Catherine is a malicious fool. With their comparative
degrees of moral merit we have nothing to do; but in point of the
agreeable, we hesitate not to affirm that the silent fool is to us the
more insupportable creature of the five.

We lately were present at a large party, where an Etonian, for whom we
have a great esteem, was terribly abused by a witty Marchioness for his
inflexible taciturnity. Without entering upon the merits of this
particular case, let us be allowed to plead in behalf of our sex, that a
gentleman may be silent when a lady is silly, and that it is needless
for a beau to be entertaining where a belle is decidedly impracticable.

LOVERS’ VOWS.

        “What grace hast thou, thus to reprove
    These worms for loving?” SHAKESPEARE.

We were engaged the other day in making some purchases at Flint’s, when
Lady Honoria Saville entered, attended by the Hon. George Comyn. As the
lady is a professed coquette, and the gentleman a professed dangler, we
conceived it by no means improper to play the listener; for the
conversation of these characters is seldom such as to require much
secrecy. We therefore placed ourselves in a convenient situation for
hearing whatever was said by the beau, the belle, and the milliner,
which last I consider the most rational person of the three. The
questions which were put to her by her ladyship escaped us; they seemed
to be conveyed, not in the language of common mortals, but in signs
which were to us incomprehensible. Without exposing ourselves to the
notice of either party, we were beyond measure amused at the timely aid
which the milliner’s descriptions of her wares afforded to the lover’s
description of his passion; for whenever the latter was at a loss for
words, the former stepped in to finish his sentence, and occasionally
gave a point to it, in which lovers’ vows are generally deficient.

When they first made their appearance, the gentleman was deposing upon
oath to the truth of something of which his companion seemed to
entertain doubts. He had run through some of the usual forms of
adjuration, such as Sun, Moon, Stars, Venus, and Blue Eyes, when he was
stopped by “Lovers’ vows, Comyn! lovers’ vows! Where do they come from?”
“Where?” repeated the gentleman, in a theatrical attitude; “they come
from a sincere affection, from a passionate heart, from a devoted
adoration, from----” “From Paris, I assure you, madam,” said the
milliner, who was turning over some silks. “But I wonder, Comyn!”
resumed her ladyship, “I wonder you can continue to bore me with this
nonsense! Lovers’ vows have given me the vapours these last five years,
and, after all, what are they worth?” “Worth!” reiterated the fop; “they
are worth the mines of Peru, the diamonds of Golconda, the sands of
Pactolus!” “They are worth five shillings a pair, madam,” said the
milliner, “and it’s really throwing them away.” She was talking of some
kid gloves.

“You gentlemen,” said her ladyship, “must think us very weak creatures,
if you fancy that we are to be imposed upon by any folly you choose to
utter. Lovers’ vows have been proverbial since the days of Queen Bess,
and it would be strange if, in 1820, we should not have found out what
they are made of.” “In my case,” said the exquisite, “your ladyship is
cruel in supposing them to be made of anything but the purest
sincerity.” “They are made of the finest materials,” said the milliner,
“and your ladyship can see through them like glass.” She was holding up
to the window some stuff with a hard name, which we know nothing about.
“Say what you will, Comyn,” said her ladyship,

        Men were deceivers ever;
    One foot on sea, and one on shore,
        To one thing constant never.

“Lovers’ vows are never intended to last beyond a day!” “Your ladyship
is unjust!” replied the dandy; “they will last when all other ties shall
be broken; they will last when the bond of relationship shall be
cancelled, and the link of friendship riven; they will last----” “They
will last for ever, madam, and wash afterwards!” said the milliner. She
was speaking of some scarfs.

“Really, George,” observed her ladyship, “you would think me an
egregious fool if I were to believe one quarter of what you say to me.
Speak the truth, George, for once, if it is in your nature--should I not
be _folle--folle_ beyond measure?” “You love to trifle with my passion,”
sighed the Honourable; “but this is what we must all expect! Fascinating
as you are, you feel not for the woes of your victims; you are more
insensible than flints--nothing is dear to you.” “Flint’s will make
nothing dear to your ladyship,” said the milliner, wrapping up the
parcel.

“In this age of invention,” said Lady Honoria, “it is surprising to me
that no one has invented a thermometer to try the temperature of lovers’
vows. What a price would a boarding-school miss give for such an
invention! I certainly will make the suggestion to young Montgomery,
that writes the sonnets!” “Good God!” cried the worshipper, “where shall
I send for such a test of sincerity? I would send to the suns of India,
to the snows of Tobolsk; I would send to the little-toed ladies of
China, and the great-hatted chieftains of Loo-Choo; I would send----”
“Shall I send it to your ladyship’s house?” said the milliner, holding
up the parcel.

“Well,” said her ladyship, rising to leave the shop, “I shall contend no
more with so subtle a disputant; my opinion of lovers’ vows remains
unchanged, and I desire you won’t pester me with them at the Opera this
evening, or I shall positively die of ennui.” We saw that this was meant
as an assignation, and the Honourable George Comyn saw things in the
same light. “How,” he cried, “how shall I thank your ladyship for this
condescension? How shall I express the feelings of the heart you have
rescued from despair? Language is too poor, utterance is too weak, for
the emotion which I feel; what can I say?” “Much obliged to your
ladyship,” said the milliner.

ON THE PRACTICAL ASYNDETON.

              “Nil fuit unquam
    Tam dispar sibi.” HOR.

The treatise on the Practical Bathos which appeared in our first number,
and which we have the vanity to hope is not entirely blotted out from
the recollection of our readers, was intended as the first of a series
of dissertations, in which we design to apply the beauties of the
figures of the grammarians to the purposes of real life. We are very
strongly tempted to pursue this design, when we reflect upon the
advantages which have already been the result of the above-mentioned
treatise. We are assured, from the most indisputable authority, that the
number of the specimens of that most admirable figure exhibited by our
schoolfellows in the exercises of the ensuing week was without precedent
in the annals of Etonian literature. We have no doubt but those apt
scholars who have so readily profited by our recommendation of the
Bathos, as far as regards _com_position, will, at no very distant
period, make the same use of this inestimable figure in the regulation
of their _dis_position. But it is time to quit this topic, and to enter
upon the second of our proposed series: “A Treatise on the Practical
Asyndeton.”

First, then, as in duty and in gallantry bound, we must construe this
hard word. The figure Asyndeton, in grammar, is that by which
conjunctions are omitted, and an unconnected appearance given to the
sentence, which is frequently inexpressibly beautiful. Who is there of
our rising orators who has not glowed with all the inspiration of a
Roman, when fancy echoes in his ears the brief, the unconnected, and
energetic thunders of the Consul, “Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit?”
What reader of tragedy does not sympathize with the Orosmane of
Voltaire, when, upon the receipt of the billet from Zayre, his anxiety
bursts out in those beautifully unconnected expressions--

    Donne!--qui la porte?--donne!

The use of connecting particles in either of these cases would have
ruined everything. They would have destroyed the majesty of Cicero, and
reduced to the level of an every-day novelist the simple tenderness of
Orosmane.

The use of this figure, however, is not confined to particular sentences
or expressions. It sometimes pervades the five acts of what is miscalled
a regular drama, or spreads an uncertain transparent gleam over the
otherwise insupportable sameness of some inexplicable epic. Numberless
are the writers who have been indebted to its assistance; but our own,
our immortal countryman, Shakespeare, preserves an undisputed station
at the head of the list. Fettered by no imitation, but the imitation of
Nature; bound down to no rules but the vivid conceptions of an
untutored, self-working genius, he hurries us from place to place with
the velocity of a torrent; we appear to be carried on by a rushing
stream, which conveys our boat so rapidly in its eddies, that we pass
through a thousand scenes, and are unable to observe for a moment the
abruptness with which the changes are effected.

Our modern farce-writers have, with laudable emulation, followed the
example of this great master of the stage; but as in their use of this
figure they possess the audacity without the genius of the bard they
imitate, they cannot prevent us from perceiving the frequent Asyndeton
in place, in plot, or in character. The beauty of the countries to which
they introduce us is not such as to withdraw us from the contemplation
of the outrageously miraculous manner in which we were transported to
them.

We have delayed the reader quite long enough with this preliminary
discussion, and will now enter at once upon our main subject: the
Asyndeton in life.

We should imagine that few of our readers are ignorant of the charms of
novelty; few have lived through their boyhood and their youth without
experiencing the disgust which a too frequent repetition of the same
pleasure infallibly produces. There is in novelty a charm, the want of
which no other qualification can in any degree compensate. The most
studied viands for the gratification of the appetite please us when
first we enjoy them, but the enjoyment becomes tasteless by repetition,
and the _crambe repetita_ of satiety provokes nausea instead of exciting
desire. Thus it is in other and weightier matters. The pleasures which
we first devoured with avidity lose much of their relish when they recur
a second time, and are mere gall and wormwood to us when their sweets
have become familiar to our taste. A common every-day character,
although its possessor may enjoy abundance of worth and good sense,
makes no impression on our minds; but the novelty of capricious beauty
or uncultivated genius finds a sure road to our hearts.

This is something too long for a digression; but novelty is a very
pretty theme, and must be our excuse. We will return forthwith to our
subject.

Since novelty then has so much weight in influencing the judgment, or at
least the prejudices of mankind, it is right that this most desirable
qualification should not be neglected by young persons on their _début_
upon the stage of life; we must be masters of this excellence before we
can expect to shine in any other; we must be new before we can hope to
be amusing.

Now the figure which we have been discussing, or rather the figure which
we ought to have been discussing, is the very essence and quintessence
of novelty. It is perpetually bringing before our eyes old scenes in a
new form, old friends in a new dress, old recollections in a new
imagery: it is the cayenne of life; and from it the dishes, which would
without it cloy and disgust, derive a perpetual variety of taste and
pungency. It takes from the scenes we so often witness their unpleasing
uniformity, and gives to our mortal career an air of romance which is
inexpressibly amusing. All ranks of persons may alike derive benefit
from it. By its use the charms of the beauty become more irresistible,
the exploits of the general more astonishing, the character of the rake
more excusable. It gives in an equal degree pleasure to those who
behold, and advantage to those who practise it.

How then is it to be practised? The manner and the method are
sufficiently obvious. Never wear to-morrow the same character, or the
same dress, that you wore to-day. Be, if you can, _puncto mobilis horæ_.
Be red one hour, and pale the next; vary your temper, your appearance,
your language, your manners, unceasingly. Let not your studies or your
amusements continue the same for a week together. Skim over the surface
of everything, and be deep in nothing; you may think a little, read a
little, gamble a little: but you must not think deep, read deep, or play
deep. In short, be everything and nothing; the butterfly in life,
tasting every flower, and tasting only to leave it.

Do you think too much is required? Far from it. Antiquity has handed
down to us a character possessed, in a most transcendent degree, of all
the qualifications we have exacted. We always like to get an example or
two from antiquity, because it looks learned. Alcibiades then we can
safely propose as a model for all juvenile practitioners in the
Asyndeton. Was he grave one day? He laughed the next. Was he an orator
one day? He was a buffoon the next. Was he a Greek one day? He was a
Persian the next. To sum up his character: he was skilled in every
profession; an amateur in every fashion; adorned by every virtue; made
infamous by every vice. He moralized like a philosopher, jested like a
mountebank, fought like a hero, lied like a scoundrel, lived like a
knowing one, and died like a fool.

We assert, and we defy the soundest sophist in the world to contradict
us, that these mixed characters obtain and preserve a greater portion of
the admiration of the world, than more consistent and less interesting
personages. We wonder not at the uniformity of the fixed star, but our
imagination is actively employed upon the unusual appearance of the
comet. Thus the man of firm and unchangeable steadiness of principle
receives our esteem, and is forgotten; while the meteoric appearance of
inconsistent eccentricity takes instant hold of our admiration, and is
decorated with ten thousand indescribable attractions by the proper
exercise of the Asyndeton.

But why do we dilate so much upon the authority of Alcibiades? It has
been the almost invariable practice of all great men, in all ages, to
pay particular attention to the cultivation of this figure. What a
prodigy of the Asyndeton was Alexander! His father Philip may have had
more science, perhaps more bottom; but the eccentricities of Alexander,
the extraordinary rapidity with which he changed the ring for the
gin-shop, and laid down the thunder-bolt of Ammon to assume the
quart-pot of Hercules, have given, and will preserve to him, the first
leaf in the good books of the young and the hasty.

Are we not more delighted by the capricious mutability of Queen Bess
than by the moral uniformity of Queen Anne? Is it not a pleasing marvel,
and a marvellous pleasure, to look at the last days of Oliver Cromwell,
when the usurper, perpetually stretched upon the tenterhooks of
conscience, dared not travel the same road twice, nor sleep two nights
following in the same bed? Spirit of mutability, what pranks must thou
have played with the Protector!

Since these are the charms of the Asyndeton, it is not surprising that
the poets should have so frequently thrown a spice of it into the
characters of their heroes. Putting Fingal and Æneas out of the way, we
have no hero of any importance who can make pretensions to a consistency
in perfection; and even the latter of these trips occasionally into the
Asyndeton; especially when he puts off his usual denominations of _pius_
or _pater_, in order to be simply _Dux Trojanus_ at the court of Queen
Dido. As for Achilles, his whole life, _magno si quicquam credis
Homero_, is an Asyndeton. He is equally a warrior and a ballad-singer, a
prince and a cook. To-day he cuts up oxen, and to-morrow he cuts up
Trojans. In battle he is as stout a glutton as ever peeled at Moulsey
Hurst. At supper he is as hungry a glutton as ever sat down to a turtle.
Homer has been blamed for the faults of his hero. For our part we think,
with his defenders, that the character which aims with success at
perfection, aims in vain at interest; and the feats of Achilles appear
to us to derive much of their lustre from the Asyndeton which pervades
them. Aware of the charm which a character receives from the use of this
figure, modern writers have followed, in this point, the example of
their great forerunner, and have thrown into the characters of most of
their heroes a particle of this fascinating inconsistency. Hence we have
the soldier of Flodden Field, something between a freebooter and a
knight--

    Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,
    Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight.

Hence we trace the unconnected wanderings of a noble but ruined spirit
in Manfred; and hence we wonder at the mysterious union of virtue and
vice in the gloomy Corsair, who

        Leaves a name to other times,
    Linked with one virtue and a thousand crimes.

Now, for the instruction of our readers in this elegant, nay, necessary
accomplishment, we must begin by observing that the Asyndeton may be
practised in various manners and matters. There is the Asyndeton in
actions, the Asyndeton in dress, and the Asyndeton in conversation. The
first of these is adapted to the capacities of promising young men, who
have some talent, some wit, and just sufficient vanity to render both of
no service. The second is very proper to be used by the lady with little
beauty, who wishes to be _brillante_; and the third is equally suitable
to the lady with little wit, who wishes to be _piquante_. We have made
our treatise so prolix, and indulged in such frequent digressions, that
we fear our description will be considered a specimen of the figure we
are describing; we will therefore briefly conclude this, as we concluded