Part 2

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.”