Part 7
“It is needless to multiply examples. You will see them at every glance which you throw around you. Aurelia shows her reigning passion for rule or misrule by the circlet of gold with which her head is encompassed; and her husband, by the lank and dejected condition of his scanty forelock, gives room for a conjecture that the principal feature of his character is submission. Old Golding, the usurer, shows his aversion for extravagance by the paucity of his visits to the barber; and his young bride, Chloe, takes care to evince a contrary taste by the diamonds which are so bountifully scattered amidst her profusion of dark ringlets. Anna, by the unvaried sameness of her head-dress, gives you a warning of the unvaried sameness of her disposition; and Matilda, by the diversity of modes which her forehead assumes, gives you to understand that her temper and character are diversified as often. It is not surprising that this should be the case. Look to the stage, from which, indeed, our attention has been too long withdrawn. Would you not smile if Juliet were to soliloquize in Mrs. Hardcastle’s _tête_, or the Royal Dane to moralize in the peruke of Sir Peter Teazle?”
Here the stranger paused, and we shortly became interested to such a degree in the sorrows of Belvidera, that we know not what further remarks he communicated, nor at what time he ceased to be our companion. As the curtain fell we looked round, and he was no longer by our side.
ON A CERTAIN AGE.
“Tempora certa.”--HOR.
We happened the other day to be present at a small party, where, being almost entire strangers ourselves, we had little to do but to listen to and reflect upon what was said by others. While we were engaged in this occupation, we heard one expression repeated several times, which made a strong impression upon us, and induced us to draw up the following treatise.
We first heard some gentlemen observing that it was quite proper for Mrs.---- to withdraw from the stage in time, for that she was now of a “certain age.” Immediately afterwards we heard it remarked by Mrs. Racket, that it was lucky for Maria the Nabob had proposed in time, for the lady must be of a “certain age.” Now, as the former of these objects had seen fifty winters, of which the latter fell short by at least twenty, it was natural for us to exert ourselves to discover what this “certain age” might be, the limits of which were so extensive. We accordingly commenced an investigation into the subject with great alacrity, and carried it on for some time with great perseverance. We regret to add that our success has not been proportionate to our exertions; and that, by the most indefatigable research, we can only ascertain that nothing in life is involved in such uncertainty as this “certain age.”
Our first hope was, that by inquiries from some lady of our acquaintance, who had the fortune or the misfortune to come under this definition, we might be able to ascertain the precise boundaries of the period. But here we met with a difficulty, as it were on the threshold of our project. Out of all the young beauties of whom we made inquiries; out of all the fashionable belles in high life, and the vulgar belles in low life, and the languishing belles who have no life at all, we could find no one to return a satisfactory answer to this mysterious, unanswerable, insupportable question, “Are you of a certain age?” One laughed naturally, and another laughed artificially; one looked amazed, and another looked chagrined; one “left it to us to decide,” another left the room; one professed utter ignorance, and another tapped us with her fan, and wondered how we could have the impertinence. But plain “Yes” or “No” was not forthcoming. The ladies had not studied our second number, or they would doubtless have learnt from Messrs. Lozell and Oakley the absolute necessity of these little monosyllables.
But to proceed. Finding this method ineffectual, we changed our battery, and carried on the siege in another quarter. We now applied to the same ladies for the names of such of their acquaintances as they considered were liable to this imputation (for a terrible imputation the witnesses appeared to consider it). Our difficulties were forthwith redoubled. We are not acquainted with a single girl with good eyes, good hair, good complexion, good fortune, or good character, whose name was not given to us as verging upon a “certain age.” And it seemed to us extraordinary that middle-aged fair ones, whose charms were manifestly in their autumn, were seldom honoured with this appellation; it appeared to be exclusively reserved for those who were young, beautiful, and new to a fashionable life. Far be it from us to insinuate that envy had any influence in making this appropriation.
Finding that the study which we had already bestowed upon this subject had tended rather to perplex than to elucidate the matter, we found it necessary to pursue the investigation a step farther. We now applied for information to the middle-aged matrons, the sober wives, the mothers of families. “Here,” said we to ourselves, “prejudice will have ceased to influence, vanity to mislead, envy to embitter; here we shall learn the real, the whole truth, from lips unsoured by petty peevishness or violent passion.” But the event disappointed our expectations: there appeared to be a strange disagreement upon this topic, for we found no two opinions to coincide. Mrs. Cranstoun, who has two daughters, and is in her twenty-ninth year, is of opinion that a “certain age” commences at thirty-four: but Mrs. Argent, who, according to our guess, is just entering her thirty-fourth year, is inclined to put off the dreaded period to forty. Lady Evergreen, again, who, to do her justice, paints as well at forty as she did at fourteen, disapproves of the impertinent notions of these “girls,” and thinks that ten more years are wanting to give any one a just and proper claim to this enviable distinction. Fifty is with Lady Evergreen the precise period, the golden number, the “certain age.” Still dissatisfied with the result of our examination, we betook ourselves as a last hope to the dowagers. “They,” we thought, “as they must have long passed the boundaries of this dreaded space, can have no object or interest in withholding from us the truth.” Alas! we were again lamentably deceived. Some of their ladyships had daughters whom they were anxious to preserve from this abominable imputation. Others had particular friends whom they were anxious to bring under it. Lady Megrim begged we would not interrupt her; she really never held good cards when any one looked over her hand; and Mrs. Volatile assured us that she had made it a rule never to think after she was married. She never would have married if she had thought before.
Finding ourselves quite at a loss to connect or reconcile with each other these several sentiments, we shall throw together a few observations which occur to us on the subject, and then leave it to wiser heads to determine the day, the hour, the minute, at which the unconscious fair one enters upon--“A certain age!”
And first, we must notice a peculiarity in the words which we do not well know how to account for--viz., that their use appears to be almost entirely confined to the fair sex. They are but seldom applied to a gentleman. We have certainly been ear-witnesses to some exceptions upon this rule: for instance, we heard old Cleaver the butcher, who has lived nearly seventy years, and amassed nearly seventy thousand pounds, advised by his friend Gibbie, the tobacconist, to leave off business, as he was now of a “certain age.” And in like manner did we hear Mrs. Solander, when inclined for a solitary walk, admonish her husband, the alderman, not to take up his crutch to accompany her, for he was now “of a certain age.” But with these, and a few other exceptions, we have heard this significant expression applied solely to ladies.
As to the meaning of the words, we confess that we are so completely at fault that we do not thoroughly understand whether they imply censure or commendation. The air of sarcasm and contempt with which they are commonly delivered leave us to conclude that the former is intended to be conveyed; yet we cannot but think that the words themselves signify the latter, if they have any signification at all. For, conscious as we are of the uncertainty of female fancies, the doubts they entertain on the most minute point, the hesitation which they display alike, in the refusal of an equipage or a thimble, an earring or a husband, we certainly consider it no small praise in a woman if she is found to be “certain” in anything. Nevertheless, so attached are we all to our folly and our self-conceit, that we are unwilling even to be commended for the exercise of those good qualities which we call mean and contemptible. Hence it is that our fair friends, who cruelly exult in the ambiguity of uncertain wills, uncertain wishes, and uncertain smiles, reject with disdain the honour (which we must allow would be inconsistent) of possessing--“a certain age.”
The discovery of the time at which this epoch is fixed baffles our utmost diligence. We are rather disposed to place it at no particular number of years in the life of man, but to allow it to vary its period according to the disposition and manner of life of each individual. We would make it a sort of interregnum between manhood and age, between decline and imbecility. According to our idea, the certain age of the officer would last from the first to the final breaking up of his constitution; the certain age of the drunkard would extend from the first fit of the gout to the last shake of the head of his physician; the judge would find himself in a certain age, from the time when he quits the bench to the time when he is unable to quit the sofa; and the coquette must submit to the provoking definition of a certain age, from the day on which rouge and enamel first become necessary, to the silent melancholy day on which rouge and enamel will be unavailing.
According to this arrangement, a certain age would be that restless uneasy space which elapses between our first warning to prepare for another world and our final summons to enter it. That period is to some of long, to others of shorter duration; but we believe there are few to whom this brief, this insufficient space for preparation is not conceded; there are few who are not warned by some previous sign or visitation that their sand is almost run out, that a new state of existence awaits them, that their days upon this earth are numbered. The phrase which we hear so frequently, and disregard, seen in this light will indeed inspire sombre and salutary ideas; for ourselves, we look upon a certain age as if it were the last veil which conceals from us the visions we dread to see; the last barrier which shuts us from that unexplored country on which we fear to tread; the last pause between experience and doubt,--the last dark silent curtain which separates Time from Eternity.
NOT AT HOME.
“An Englishman’s house is his castle.”
“Not at home,” said her ladyship’s footman, with the usual air of nonchalance, which says, “You know I am lying, but--_n’importe_!”
“Not at home,” I repeated to myself, as I sauntered from the door in a careless fit of abstractedness. “Not at Home!”--how universally practised is this falsehood! Of what various, and what powerful import? Is there any one who has not been preserved from annoyance by its adoption? Is there any one who has not rejoiced, or grieved, or smiled, or sighed at the sound of “Not at Home?” No! everybody (that is everybody who has any pretensions to the title of somebody) acknowledges the utility and advantages of these three little words. To them the lady of _ton_ is indebted for the undisturbed enjoyment of her vapours, the philosopher for the preservation of solitude and study, the spendthrift for the repulse of the importunate dun.
It is true that the constant use of this sentence savours somewhat of a false French taste, which I hope never to see engrafted upon our true English feeling. But in this particular who will not excuse this imitation of our refined neighbours? Who will so far give up the enviable privilege of making his house his castle, as to throw open the gates upon the first summons of inquisitive impertinence or fashionable intrusion? The “morning calls” of the dun and the dandy, the belle and the bailiff, the poet and the petitioner, appear to us a species of open hostility carried on against our comfort and tranquillity; and, as all stratagems are fair in war, we find no fault with the ingenious device which fortifies us against these insidious attacks.
While I was engaged in this mental soliloquy, a carriage drove up to Lady Mortimer’s door, and a footman in a most appallingly splendid livery roused me from a reverie by a thundering knock. “Not at Home!” was the result of the application. Half a dozen cards were thrust from the window; and, after due inquiries after her ladyship’s cold, and her ladyship’s husband’s cold, and her ladyship’s lap-dog’s cold, the carriage resumed its course, and so did my cogitations. “What,” said I to myself, “would have been the visitor’s perplexity, if this brief formula were not in use?” She must have got out of her carriage; an exertion which would ill accord with the _vis inertiæ_[4] (excuse Latin in a schoolboy) of a lady, or she must have given up her intention of leaving her card at a dozen houses to which she is now hastening, or she must have gone to dinner even later than fashionable punctuality requires! Equally annoying would the visit have proved to the lady of the house. She might have been obliged to throw “The Abbot” into the drawer, or to call the children from the nursery. Is she taciturn? She might have been compelled to converse. Is she talkative? She might have been compelled to hold her tongue: or, in all probability, she sees her friends to-night, and it would be hard indeed if she were not allowed to be “Not at Home” till ten at night, when from that time she must be “At Home” till three in the morning.
A knock again recalled me from my abstraction. Upon looking up, I perceived an interesting youth listening with evident mortification to the “Not at Home” of the porter. “Not at Home!” he muttered to himself, as he retired. “What am I to think? She has denied herself these three days!” and, with a most loverlike sigh, he passed on his way. Here again what an invaluable talisman was found in “Not at Home!” The idol of his affections was perhaps at that moment receiving the incense of adoration from another, possibly a more favoured votary: perhaps she was balancing, in the solitude of her boudoir, between the Vicar’s band and the Captain’s epaulettes; or weighing the merits of Gout with a plum, on the one side, against those of Love with a shilling, on the other. Or, possibly, she was sitting unprepared for conquest, unadorned by cosmetic aid, rapt up in dreams of to-night’s assembly, where her face will owe the evening’s unexpected triumph to the assistance of the morning’s “Not at Home.”
Another knock! Another “Not at Home!” A fat tradesman, with all the terrors of authorized impertinence written legibly on his forehead, was combating with pertinacious resolution the denial of a valet. “The Captain’s not at home,” said the servant. “I saw him at the window,” cried the other. “I can’t help that,” resumed the laced Cerberus, “he’s not at home.”
The foe was not easily repulsed, and seemed disposed to storm. I was in no little fear for the security of “the castle,” but the siege was finally raised. The enemy retreated, sending forth from his half-closed teeth many threats, intermingled with frequent mention of a powerful ally in the person of Lawyer Shark. “Here,” said I, resuming my meditations, “here is another instance of the utility of my theme. Without it, the noble spirit of this disciple of Mars would have been torn away from reflections on twenty-pounders by a demand for twenty pounds; from his pride in the King’s Commission, by his dread of the King’s Bench. Perhaps he is at this moment entranced in dreams of charges of horse and foot! He might have been roused by a charge for boots and shoes. In fancy he is at the head of serried columns of warriors! His eyes might have been opened upon columns of shillings and pence. In fancy he is disposing of crowns! Horrible thought! he might have been awakened to the recollection that he has not half-a crown in the world!”
I had now reached the door of a friend, whom, to say the truth, I designed to dun for an article. Coming in the capacity of a dun, I ought not to have been surprised that I experienced a dun’s reception. Nevertheless, I was a little nettled at the “Not at Home” of my old friend. “What,” said I, recurring to my former ideas, “what can be Harry’s occupation that he is thus inaccessible? Is he making love, or making verses? Studying Euclid or the _Sporting Magazine_? Meditating on the trial of the Queen last October, or the trial for King’s next July?” For surely no light cause should induce one Etonian to be “Not at Home” to another.
As is usual with persons in my situation, who are accustomed to speculate upon trifles, from which no fixed principle can be deduced, I negatived the theory of one moment by the practice of the next. For, having returned from my perambulations, I seated myself in my study, with pen, ink, and a sheet of foolscap before me; and, finding myself once more “at Home,” enjoined the servant to remember that I was “Not at Home” for the rest of the day.
MUSÆ O’CONNORIANÆ.
LETTER FROM PATRICK O’CONNOR, ESQ.
_Enclosing Metrical Versions in the Greek and Latin Tongues._
DEAR MR. COURTENAY,--It is both a shame and a sin that no attempt is made to perpetuate the memory of those excellent ballads with which the languages of Ireland, England, and Scotland abound. For whereas the said languages are allowed by all men of real taste to be Gothic and semi-barbarous, it is incumbent upon us to endeavour to preserve whatever good they do contain by putting it into another dress. You know Mr. O’Doherty has preceded me in this praiseworthy attempt by his admirable version of Chevy Chace, “Persæus ex Northumbriâ,” &c., which I have compared with the English ballad so often that I can hardly tell which is the original. When about to exercise my talents in this line, I held much question with myself whether I should assimilate my metre to that of my original, as is the case in the above-mentioned admirable work, or embody the ideas of my author in the rhythm of the ancient Greeks. For of the former design I do not consider myself altogether incapable; in proof of which I enclose a brief specimen of my abilities in this line--viz., a song from a MS. collection of poems in the possession of John Jackson, Esq., rendered by Patrick O’Connor, with all the original rhymes miraculously preserved.
I weep, girl, before ye, Premore dolore, I kneel to adore ye, Uror amore, My bosom is torn asunder, Anima fit furibunda; Maiden divine, O, Madeo vino, In generous wine, O, Et tibi propino I pledge thee, Rosamunda! Salutem, Rosamunda.
To a pipe of tobacco, Victa tabaco, And plenty of sack, O, Victaque Baccho, Passions and flames knock under; Flamma mi fit moribunda; I’m hasty and heady Ebrius dedi With lots of the deady; Venerem et te Diabolo, Hang thyself, Rosamunda! Rosamunda.
I trust this sample will be sufficient to convince you that when I turn my talents to the monkish style which the author above alluded to has chosen I shall come very little behind my prototype. For the present, however, I have judged that the metres of antiquity are more classical, and consequently more worthy of a place in the _Etonian_.
With regard to the poem itself, it is not, I believe, generally understood that Looney, the hero of it, is the descendant of the celebrated Phelim MacTwolter, who, in the year 1750 A.D., fought that celebrated pugilistic encounter with Patrick MacNevis, which is the subject of admiration and encomium in the sporting circles of Carrickfergus. It is gratifying to me to be able to notice this genuine son of Hibernia, because the Boxiana of modern criticism, dwelling with delight upon the minor glories of a Corcoran, a Randall, or a Donnelly, have by some strange neglect omitted all mention of the surpassing brilliancy of the merits of Phelim MacTwolter. This is the more remarkable as the above-mentioned fight was made the subject of a stanzaic heroic poem, remarkable for the animation and geniality which is preserved throughout. MacNevis, who it seems was little better than a braggadocio, gave the challenge. This is described with great force and simplicity. The landlord’s daughter of the Shamrock public-house, who is said to have had a penchant for little Phelim, had been boasting of her lover’s pugilistic fame.
MacNevis leaped up from his seat, Surgebat MacNevisius, And made his bow and told her, Et mox jactabat ultro, “Kathleen, I’ll fight for your dear sake “Pugnabo tui gratiâ Along with fierce MacTwolter.” Cum fero MacTuoltro.”
Does not this remind us strongly of Homer’s Paris?
Ἀυτὰρ ἔμ’ ἐν μέσσῳ καὶ άρηίφιλον Μενέλαον Συμβάλετ’, ἀμφ’ Ἑλένῃ καὶ κτήμασι πᾶσι μάχεσθαι.
The address of MacNevis to his antagonist upon meeting him in the ring is conceived in the same style of ferocious grandeur. He sees him applying himself to the bottle, and exclaims--
While you can see blue ruin, joy! Frater, dum tibi manet lux, Pull deeper yet and deeper; Bibe ruinæ poculum: By George! you shall return from hence, Redibis hinc, per Georgium! Without an open peeper. Utrumque cassus oculum.
Observe that the expression “blue ruin” is very poetical, but my version of it is also prophetical--a charm unknown to the original. Phelim’s reply is beautiful--
Don’t tip me now, my lad of wax, Ne sis, Ο cerâ mollior, Your blarney and locution, Grandiloquus et vanus; Och! sure you ar’n’t a giant yet, Heus bone! non es gigas tu, Nor I a Lilliputian. Et non sum ego nanus.
Here again the author, of course, had Homer in his eye--
Μήτι μευ, ἠύτε παιδὸς ἀφαυροῦ, πειρήτιζε.
And again--
Πηλείδη, μὴ δή μ’ ἐπέεσσί γε, νηπύτιον ὥς, Ἐλπεο δειδίξεσθαι.
The contest, which, it is possible, I may by-and-by transmit to you at length, is described with a minuteness which far exceeds Virgil’s Dares and Entellus, or even the pugilism of the _Sporting Magazine_. The modest MacTwolter is, as he deserves to be, the victor. The poem concludes in a high strain of triumph--
So Victory to Phelim gave Victoria dedit Phelimo A wife of fair renown; Uxorem valde bonam; And with that wife she gave besides Et dedit cum uxore hâc To him a silver crown. Argenteam coronam.
I must now cease to comment upon this fascinating character, and proceed, without further delay, to the celebration of the amour of his descendant. Looney MacTwolter is well known to you, as you have frequently heard the identical ballad from the lips of Frederick Golightly. I shall therefore give you my promised translation of it, without note or preface. Give it a classical name--“an Eclogue,” or “an Idyll,” or “an Elegy,” or what you will.
Ι.