Part 5

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.