University of Virginia Library

A SALON PICTURE.

Now that the Academy, with its babies, Governors,
Popes, and asses, is drawing the town-taste after
it, and is warping the mental habit of our ladies
into an easy connoisseurship, I do not know how I
can better fill up my paper, than by sketching a
scene or two, which will revive recollections of the
winter, and which, though they have but a small
amount of likelihood to commend them, will at
least be as fair candidates for charity, as one half
of the portraits upon the walls of `Design.'

`Mrs. Diggs' compliments to J. T., and requests
the pleasure of his company on Thursday—at 9½,
P. M.' (Bon-ton Place, No. 1.)

I hate humbug, Fritz; and fourteen letters now
under your hand, which have gone to combat it in
every shape, and to defend what is earnest and
manly, will confirm, if there be need, my assertion.
I am not, therefore, going to assume that I have
been honored with any such invitation as is written
above. Were it so, it would be an abuse of courtesy

to record it; and were it not so, it would be
an abuse of truth to avow it. In this dilemma, I
have only to assure you that it is a purely hypothetical
invitation. Mrs. Diggs never wrote it;
John Timon never received it.

But, as in our recent political, as well as natural
philosophy, an hypothesis may sometimes be safely,
if not profitably pursued to its probable results, so
in our town studies, I deem it philosophic to run
out to certain hypothetical issues, the invitation recorded
above.

In virtue of a modest R. S. V. P. au coin, an acceptance
is returned; and this, whatever may be
the real intention, or though in the crowd of engagements—which
it would be well for a man solicitous
for fashionable reputation to plead—the
time may escape attention. But we will suppose
the acceptant fairly accoutred, and in his carriage
at the proper hour, upon the evening designated.
He takes his place in the queue, that stretches the
length of a block; or, if unfashionably early, his
arrival will be announced by a shrill whistle of the
superintendent of affairs, serving as a signal to the
footman in white Berlin gloves, who is on the alert
within the lobby, at No. 1, Bon-ton Place.

He hurries through the brilliantly-lighted hall,
with the merest side-glance into the parlors, to see

how he is standing for time; and enters, upon the
second or third floor,—as the assemblage may be
for size, and the mansion for room,—the apartment
appropriated to gentlemen. And here, I shall be
opening to the eyes of the ladies themselves a little
budget that is fairly behind the scenes, and nothing
but the fact of its being purely hypothetical,
could possibly excuse my indiscretion.

In a corner, with his back quite accidentally
turned to the few persons who are present, the
novice cautiously unrolls a brown paper wrapper,
and sets himself to the task of drawing on a very
shoppy-smelling pair of gloves, with all the earnestness
of a man bent on some important pursuit.

The old stager of the balls, our town beau, on the
contrary, applies himself carelessly to a pair of kids,
which by cautious usage, and a little application of a
wheaten crust, may possibly do as effective service at
to-morrow's opera, as they did yesterday. He prefaces
this, however, by dusting his boots with a silk
handkerchief, brought for the purpose in the pocket
of his `coachman.' As he adjusts his gloves, he
moves back and forth — more from force of habit
than real intent—before the mirror, and casts casual
glances at himself, which return the interest of
a quiet and sober satisfaction. He dresses his hair

or moustache with an air of a connoisseur, and
drops his remarks here and there to acquaintances,
between touches of the brush, with a most delectable
softness, and pliancy of tongue.

The boy, in the very stiff collar and broad-armed
cravat, who by his movement and downward
glances, seems not quite sure whether his boots
pinch him or not,—takes off as much as possible
from the verdancy of his years by a noisy hilarity,
and an abandon, which give show of intimate
previous acquaintance —not so much with fashionable
circles, as with a fashionable glass of brandy
and water. He talks in amazingly flippant style
of Miss so and so, using the first names in a very audible
under tone, and impressing timid adventurers,
such as John Timon, with an enlarged idea of his
attractions and importance. He gives still farther
proof of his ease, and (as Mr. Willis would say) his
at-home-ativeness, by great constancy at the dressing-table,
and a very diligent and assiduous use of
the brush.

The married gentleman, whose wife is arranging
fixtures in an adjoining room, moves about
uneasily — glances at his watch, and wonders when
Dolly will be ready; and consoles himself with adjusting
a pair of gloves that need very little coax

ing to the hand. His special delight is to sit down
in the corner with some fellow-martyr, and talk
over the day's sales at the `board.'

The spruce foreigner bustles about with a very dignified
and ceremonious air, and perhaps patronizes
some of the young gentlemen du monde, with a
word or two of French,— venturing an inquiry possibly,
in regard to the lady of the house.

`Ah, oui—oui, monsieur,' responds our hero of
fashion.

The foreign gentleman, if not yet schooled enough
to know that such response is the limit of much of
the French talk of the salon, will perhaps throw
his interrogatory into some simpler form, in the
hope of gaining more valuable information.

`Ah, oui—oui, monsieur.'

“Mais, que diable,' says the embarrassed questioner,
`qu'est-ce que c'est donc—que oui.'

`Ah, oui—oui, monsieur.'[1]

Here and there a middle-aged bachelor, not used
to balls, and who has been seduced into this affair
by a sudden and strong fancy for one of the habituées,
will ply vigorously the ladle of the punch-bowl,
and in his nervous trepidation, will seek by

poorly feigned study of the others' action, the
proper period for a descent upon the terrors below.
With him, poor man, it is evidently one of those
horrors of social life which must, like marriage,
some time be encountered, and for which he has
been screwing up his courage by a series of fainting
resolutions, for a week past.

It would be very immodest in me, Fritz, to take
you into the adjoining room, and show you the fitting-on
of satin slippers, drawn out of oil-silk bags,
or worked reticules,—the auxiliary lacings done
at the hands of some stout friend, or the readjustment
of Martel's wreaths. I could never reconcile
it to my conscience to tell you of the laments over
some broken japonica,—or of the dexterous flirt of
the fingers, by which a crushed brocade skirt is
restored to its original rotundity,—or of the anxious
look of the novice, who is not quite sure but her
bosom is packed a trifle too low,—or of the indignant
scorn of some town belle who is waiting for a study
of the mirror, engrossed by some fussy old dowager
in diamonds. All this, gallantry compels me to leave
to the imagination; and the escapade to the
rooms below, will be as fortunate for us, as for
them.

You are received, let us suppose, by the lady of
the mansion, in a dress of modest character, for

this rule of etiquette is now punctiliously observed,
— that a hostess should not outshine her guests;
you are welcomed and commended to the mercies
of the throng. She, so far from having leisure to
drop a hint as to how you may get a foot-hold in
the socialities of the night, is belabored with unceasing
receptions, and finds it a hard task to command
breath and composure enough to welcome at
the door the crowd of new-comers.

Of course, she must not be expected to remember
names, and may possibly at supper address you
as the Reverend Doctor, while you are nothing
more than a tidy vestry-man. No such mistake
need, however, be corrected: first, because the
title is not an unfashionable one; and second, because
it will serve to embarrass the hostess, whose
fancy is as easily humored, for the time, by your
playing the Divine, as by your playing the
Roué.

Having espied a lady acquaintance, it is worth
while to consider whether she will pay the tax of a
corner, for a talk, or whether you will pay the tax
of a dance, for such fragmentary critiques on the
Opera, and complimentary sallies, as can be
hazarded in the pauses of the music. With doubt
on either point, it would be discreet to ignore her
presence.

A little caution is needful that the mother be not
mistaken for the daughter; an error, which between
jewelry, bare arms, and strong lights, it is quite
possible, and eminently pardonable, to fall into.
Should a mistake occur the other way, and a
stranger inadvertently ask a young lady of five and
twenty if her daughter is present, he has committed
an offence for which he can only forget his blushes
by a candid explanation with the mother.

The style of our salon conversation, as you would
naturally suppose, my dear Fritz, is more vivacious
than entertaining, and between the incessant scraping
of fiddles, and the toot of clarionets, there is
hardly room for any delicate balancing of those
repartées or prettinesses of speech, which give a
charm to the legitimate soirée. Custom too has
strangely hedged us in, even in the matter of subject
for talk; and though the lady purveyors of
the intellectual wardrobe, have deftly chosen for our
wear, such short-made garments, as will not in the
using embarrass the dance, they have stripped us
of all the old-fashioned, comfortable robes, and set
us up to starve under the scanty furnishings of the
ball-room topics.

Upon the Opera one may launch out safely; and
it would be interesting to meet with a young gentleman
of the town, who had not used this conversational

laxative, in the opening of his fashionable
acquaintance. The Dusseldorf gallery has proved a
most happy aperient, and has helped out more cases
of obstinate constipation of speech, than can be found
under the Sarsaparilla advertisements. If a certain
degree of intimacy exists between the parties,
talk may turn upon the last ball, or a recent marriage;
and under extraordinary circumstances it may
take a playful flight to a late book, or settle down
upon a popular author. In this event, a proper degree
of dignity will be sustained among the high-bred,
by strong praise of what is English, and by a
naïve ignorance of what is American.

The theatre, unless a star is upon the stage, is
not reckoned a legitimate subject;—with the exception,
however, of Burton's, and the new play of
Mrs. Kemble. Churches and architecture are admissible
and fertile. These give a moral tinge,
moreover;—and notwithstanding the loss of this,
I am free to say, that it would be quite refreshing
to meet with a lady chatterer, who was not possessed
of an arranged opinion about the spiral proportions
of Trinity, the gaudy windows of Grace, and
the rural simplicity (church building, and not
church offices) of the Holy Communion.

Dress is a nice topic, but reckoned too personal,
and in many instances, too low, for pertinent discussion.

A clandestine marriage, or a divorce case,
are Sacramento gold pits, from which will be drawn
out rich ingots of conversational metal, that will
need only the assaying of a leader of the ton, to
become fashionable `tender' for a twelvemonth.
An unexpected, or a conventional match, such as
that of an old roue with a modest beauty, or of an
old belle with a weak young man, is an admirable
furnisher of salon eloquence, and of such epigrammatic
hits as can be let off in the piano of an orchestra.

It is worth while that you be advised, however,
that the topics change with the advance of a season;
and that they have as regular an ebb and flow
as the Cuba news, or the morals of the church.
In early winter the tide is well up, bearing the
scum and froth of the beach: Some delightful
watering-place or fancy ball will be uppermost,
and a little, rank tid-bit of scandal, serve as a pate
de foie gras to the dinner of the talk. Then will
follow a discussion of the acceding belles, or of an
acceding family, which now entering upon the third
winter of a palace home, is game for chat, and admissible
to town circles. Next in progression, will
appear the opening flirtations, the Art-Union Collection,
the fashion for furs, the new opera, and the
length of the Indian summer. New Years and

Christmas are killing baits, that will decoy the
most shy of conversational finsters; and will fill
up wide gaps of talk, until the current of opera remark
shall have settled into a well-considered code
of condemnations and approvals.

The lions of the time will have a lion's share: and
true to Peter Parley and Buffon, whoever will pull
a thorn from their foot, will be meted their rude
caresses. As the season advances toward the blush
of spring, the current of chat will again flow out
toward the prospective charms of the watering-places,
where it is now setting, very strong, and
very turbid.

But to return to our salon;—supposing yourself
a stranger, and anxious to relieve the monotony of
staring stupidly about you, and to carry as genial a
humor as possible through the crush of the throng,
you address yourself to a lady-friend, for presentation;
since there is little hope in the crowd, of finding
your hostess.

And here it is worth while to remark a sometime
peculiarity of our salons: although, upon the barest
subterfuge of acquaintance, familiarity may run to
most riotous limit, yet without such previous or supposed
acquaintance, distance is extreme; and the
offer of even the most trifling assistance or remark, to
a stranger lady, might give a serious wound to her

social dignity. It does not seem to be an axiom of
our laws of hospitality, that the character of a
hostess is a guaranty for the character or social
level of the invited; and we present in our Republican
City the strange spectacle of well-defined
castes revolving in a single salon, under common
invitation, yet each one retaining its social individuality.

This solecism is, I fancy, hard to be found in
any other Christian country; nor is it often left
out of civilized codes,—that scorn of a guest, is
an insult to the host. The truth is, the generality
of invitations forbids coalition of sets; and
so long as fashionable position is based on notoriety,
and notoriety is sustained by the number
of protegées, we see no present help for the absurdities
remarked. We invited more freely than the
European caste-men; but we maintain our castes
under the invitation. In word only, we are
democratic; and in spirit, full of aristocratic
cravings.

Note again, Fritz, that I am not arguing for
any full and free intermingling of breeding and
vulgarity; this would be to argue against natural
laws—to create combinations without chemical
affinities; and at best, in the ungenial mixture,
crude precipitates would be thrown down, that

would not and could not re-combine. But, I am
arguing against pretence, against an assumed
mingling which is but mockery,—against a boasted
social evenness which shows in the most offensive
lights (offensive as well to humanity as to goodbreeding)
our unevennesses. We are making the
veil of an invitation the shield of our disproportions;
and yet it is a glass shield,—a paltry lens, that reveals
and distorts all that it covers!

The assemblage of different persons under one
roof, by one invitation, and in honor of the inviter,
should be, and by all reasonable laws of society is,
a virtual recognition of the social equality of those
persons for the time. It is an insult to a host to
suppose otherwise; it is a dishonor to one's self to
act otherwise. But if for the time, there may
be danger of its continuance; and here comes
up another town peculiarity which is worth its
mark.

Socialities with us, running as they do to routs,
and having their measure and culmination in
polkas and at the Opera, are not acted upon by
old-fashioned quiet gatherings, and the unaffected
easiness of familiar visiting. The consequence is,
acquaintances are formed and refined in the crush
of a ball; they are of public origin, and public
execution. Hence, a little coyness must be used

in the densely-packed salon of a friendly host, and
bonhommie must be thrown aside for seasonable
manœuvre. The social line might receive infringement,
which could not easily be made good; and
the admitted truth at the soirées of European cities,
that the intercourse of an evening, under favor of
an inviting host, is no ground for future familiarity,
modifies in no degree the action or the politesse
of our salons.

But to return again: you are presented to a
lady, a polkist, one of the —'s. Every one
talks of the —'s. Even the Home Journal indulges
in conjectures as to where the —'s will
spend the summer. The public is interested to
know; fashion is at a comparative stand-still; the
railway stocks are fluctuating, and will probably
continue to fluctuate until it is ascertained where
the —'s are going. Even Tophanes has been
heard to express a wonder, as to where the —'s
are going?

The conversation of the —'s is, of course,
what it should be, full, rich, academic, and
—'s-y. I had hoped, Fritz, and have made two
or three well-intentioned efforts, to give you a
sketch of the salon-talk; but it is useless; its
gases are too volatile; the heat of the pen-point
rarefies and disperses them altogether. With the

staple you have already been supplied, three pages
back; turn it in kalaidescope, and you will have
the various phases,—rich in colors, rectangular and
methodic in proportions, always changing, but
eternally kalaidescopic. And its variety may be
reckoned up in the witty line of the old French
comedy,—

(Double Veuvage.)

But, lest you in the country, Fritz, who are used
to base your agricultural action upon a careful
analysis of the guanos, and sulphates of fertilization,
should object that this is not a very specific
account of the ball-room conversation, I will even
give you a prescription, after the way of our town
doctors; and I am sure that any accomplished
druggist may easily prepare from it, a dose.

R. Academy of Design 3j.

Opera.. 3vii.

Watering Places

Dress... aa. f. 3iii

Scandal vel Ipecacuanhæ 3j.

Common Sense, pulv..gr. ss.

M. et cum equa (q.s) ft. mass in pil. vig. div.

And I might safely go on to add, in the way of
the schools,—an excellent carminative, and much
employed in cases of flatulence.

By varying the prescription in one or two unimportant
particulars, I have no doubt that a

patent might be obtained; and should any enterprising
individual be desirous of rivaling the fame,
and success of Moffat or Sherman, by a wholesale
manufacture, John Timon could confidently recommend
to him one or two young gentlemen as
excellent canvassers.

In the interval of talk, let us take occasion to look
about us; the Frenchman, never not easy, is making
himself charming, by calling it all magnifique!
while he flatters his hostess with a considerate
gaze—timed to the word. A little later, he will
rub his hands unctiously over the supper, and utter
a feeling superbe! The distinguished German
gentleman, stains his beard with the wines, and
gives the best possible compliment, by keeping his
stand at the table, and by a subdued and choky
—`ver goot!' Our little hero, who has forgotten
his Livy and his polka for the time, is pulling off a
partridge leg with a thumb and forefinger, and
diligently attudinizing, while he eats.

A poor dowager, who is unfortunately crowded
in the front ranks, is looking a very feeling lament
over a drop or two of creme, that has been decanted
upon her powdered head, and her protegée
is talking very gayly, and is apparently very forgetful
of a torn skirt, which is hidden by her discreet
position in a corner. Married ladies, such as are

done (for the evening) with their polka partners, are
discussing Charlotte Russe, or the scarcity of wild
fowl. A connoisseur in spectacles, is holding a
blue glass to the light, and thinks, loud enough to
be heard, that he has rarely drank better on the
Rhine. A candy, or a bon-mot is stolen by a
feint from the central pyramid, and straightway
the whole fabric goes down under the onset of
those who accept the printed mottoes as a gospel
of wit, and to whom the pastry-shop is a missionhouse.

In the next room, an old gentleman is brushing
about uneasily, casting irregular and not very
amiable glances at his wife, who is polking with
a `love of a man,' and who is evidently enjoying
the ball very much more than the husband.
At every gap in the music the old gentleman,
by a series of very earnest nods, and pretty conjugal
pantomime, endeavors to suggest a leave-taking,
but the wife has a conscience in the matter,
which she does not like to offend. Le mari trouve
que le bal est degoûtant;—Sa femme trouve que
non. Old gentlemen, and irascible young gentlemen
should stipulate about the number of polkas to
an evening, before marriage.

With the German cotillion, and three of the
morning, the bougies grow dim, and the carriages

roll away. Heads are slightly heavy with the
close air, and the champagne; but hopes are
built upon the evening's attentions which will
doubtless ripen into a very dreamy sleep.

Madame has not only paid off at a brush a
score of civilities; but she has won honor, perhaps,
by having given `one of the finest parties
of the season.' Hospitality is satisfied, and pride
is delighted. Calls of acknowledgment and
gratulation should be cautiously deferred until
the glassmen have resumed their wares, and the
scavengers cleared the wreck. Then will come
the true ovation of our hostess, in a long line of
calling equipages. Talk will be brilliant and investigation
earnest—as to where the —'s are
going? Even the delicate lady who sickened on
the Charlotte Russe and the punch, writes a delicate
note of gratulation, and thanks;—trusts she
shall be out in a few days, hopes it will be delightful
weather, and says (in a postscript)—`pray can
you tell me where the —'s are going?'

It would be very odious to show such divergence
from the town-taste as to question the propriety,
the charms, or the value of such a winter jam.
The town is its own guide; and the town relishes
and renews these proofs of its refinement and civilization.
The old-school dinner-table, well rounded,

and with a little generous wine to mollify the wit
of the after-talk, is almost forgotten; and even the
busy soiree, with its earnest groups of talks, and
playful repartée, is swallowed up in the maw of the
balls.

There is little hope for any of the old-fashioned
ideas of comfort, good cheer, and moderation;
railways have scoured the country of cosy stagecoaching;
and a species of wiry, magnetic sociality
is stretched across the town, to shock us with its
reports, and to electrify us into smiles. These are
dangerous elements to contend against; and a plain
man would be apt to fare as hardly in the combat,
as did Quixote thwacking at his mills.

But at the risk of discomfiture, I offer to suggest
for the benefit of a few aged, sensible, and respectable
people, that some measurable limit be set,
even to the extravagances of a town-ball;—that
at least enough room be guaranteed to ensure
feeble folk against bruises, or broken shins, and the
belles against being stripped of their flounces, or,
what is more terrible, their skirts.

Furthermore, John Timon, in behalf of the
petitioners, would most respectfully pray, that the
cream be handed in suitable dishes,—that the
punch be generously iced, and that—in view of
certain mishaps of the winter—written notice be

given, as on the walls of the Massachusetts groceries,
to this effect,—`not to be drunk on the
premises.' It is moreover humbly suggested, that
—according to the opinion of all practiced hunters,
leo-hunters among the rest—a small ball is as effective
as a large one, and not half so apt to tear or
damage the game. And it is specially prayed, that
if people will continue to pack, some safe retiring-place
be reserved for feeble ladies and for married
gentlemen;—and that a corner be railed off for
whist or talk, by substantial fixtures, under the
direction of the sexton.

And it is furthermore asked, that a hall of sufficient
size be set apart for those of our Ephebi,[2]
who wish to make trial by the Polka or wrestling,
as in the Spartan Gymnasia, with the women;—
and finally, that a surgeon and mantua-maker be
always in readiness, near the punch-bowl, or such
accessible locality, as may seem fitting, to splint
broken bones, and to repair drooping skirts. Humanity
and modesty alike demand the attention.
And for all these and the like privileges, the petitioners
do humbly pray, and, as in duty bound,
will ever pray.