Part 4

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.”