University of Virginia Library

THE CABINET.

(Shop-door, Ann street. The Brigadier and Committee
standing, sphinx-wise, outside.)

Brig.—The “devil” was here just now for “copy,”
my dear boy!

Com.—The devil here and no Fanny Forester!
We have given our readers a taste of this charming
incognito, brigadier, and now they'll not feast without
her! I wonder whether she's pretty?

Brig.—So would she be over-endowed. No, mi-boy!
I warrant that, with all her cleverness, she has
envied, many a time, the doll of the village!

Com.—A woman is, sometimes, wholly unadmired,
who would become enchanting by a change of her
surroundings. That playful wit of Fanny Forester's,
what-like shell soever it inhabits, would make her the
idol of a circle of appreciators—for its work is in her
face, somewhere! Do you remember George Sand's
description of one of her heroines? “Elle était jolie
par juxta-position. Heureuse, elle eût été ravissante.
Le bonheur est la poésie des femmes, comme la toilette
en est le fard. Si la joi d'un bal eût reflété ses
teints rosées sur ce visage pâle, si les douceurs d'une
vie élégante eussent rempli, eussent vermillioné ses
joues dejà légèrement creusées, si l'amour eût ranimé
ses yeux tristes, elle aurait pu lutter avec les plus
belles jeunes filles. Il lui manquait ce qui crée une
seconde fois la femme:—les chiffons et les billet-doux!”

Brig.—(who had gone in to escape the French quotation,
and returned as the last word lingered on the
committee's lips).—Write a “billetdoux” to the next
unrisen star, mi-boy, and ask her—(him, it, or her)—
to shine first, like Fanny Forester, in the columns of
the Mirror. I love the baptism of genius, and (modestly
speaking) I have been the St. John in the wilderness
of new writers.

Com.—Apostolic brigadier! You do know a star,
even “at the breast”—though, from sucking poets deliver
me mostly, oh, kind Heaven! They exact a
faith in their call and mission that precludes everything
but the blindest and most acquiescent admiration.
I remember my own difficult submissions to
the corrections of the kind, but truthful and consistent
critic of my youth, Buckingham of the Boston
Courier. He was always right, but it is hard, when
your feathers are once smoothed down, to pluck out
and re-stick them in your poetical peacockery! Ah,
juvenilities! We build bridges over chasms of meaning,
but they drop away behind us, as we pass over!
In Heaven, where there will be no grammar and dictionary,
we shall have a new standard of excellence—
thought. Here, it is thought's harness—language!
What makes these people throw their potato-parings
into the gutter, my dear general?

Brig.—Ann street, mi-boy, calls for the attention
of Mayor Harper. The Mirror has a dainty nostril
or two, and there are flower-pots in the windows opposite,
and Burgess & Stringer keep the choicest of
literary conservatories, yet we reside upon a rivulet
of swill! The simple enforcement of the law would
sweeten things, but there is no police except for criminals
in this land of liberty. Look at that brace of
turtle-doves coming up-street! What loving friendships
women have, at an age when boys are perfect
Ishmaelites.

Com.—Pardon me, my dear general, if I correct
your cacology. The sportsmen call two turtles a
dule of turtles, not a brace. Though, by-the-way, I
have not long been in possession of my learning upon
that point. Let me read you a chapter on the nomenclature
of such matters from this book in my hand.
Will you listen? The book is “Goodman's Social
History of Great Britain”—a gem of delightful reading:—

“The stags which ran wild in the king's forests
were named as early (if not earlier) as Edward III,
(1307), from their antlers; thus the first year the male
is called a calf, second year a brocket, third year a
spayer, fourth year a stag, fifth year a great stag, sixth
year a hart of the first head.

“In the notes of Sir Walter Scott's `Lady of the
Lake,' is a curious account of the brytling, breaking
up, or quartering of the stag. `The forester had his
portion, the hounds theirs, and there is a little gristle,
called the raven's bone, which was cut from the brisket,
and frequently an old raven was seen perched
upon a neighboring tree waiting for it.

“The fallow-deer, which are kept in the English
parks, have also names, but not exactly the same as
for stags. The males and the females the first year
are called fawns, second year the females are called
does, which name she always retains; but the male
is called a prickett; third year he is called a shard;
fourth year, a sword; fifth year, a sword-ell, or sorrell;
sixth year, a buck of first head; seventh year,
a buck; eighth year, a full buck; he is then fit for
killing, and not before: and in the summer is very fat,
which he loses in winter. Buck-venison is not fit to
eat in winter, and ought not to be killed.

“When beasts went together in companies, there
was said to be a pride of lions, a lepe of leopards, a
herd of harts, of bucks, and all sorts of deer; a bevy
of roes, a sloth of bears, a singular of boars, a sowndes
of swine, a dryfte of tame swine, a route of wolves, a
harass of horses, a rag of colts, a stud of mares, a
pace of asses, a barren of mules, a team of oxen, a
drove of kine, a flock of sheep, a tribe of goats, a
sculk of foxes, a cete of badgers, a richess of martins,
a fessynes of ferrets, a huske or a down of hares,
a nest of rabbits, a clowder of cats, a kendel of young
cats, a shrewdness of apes, and a labor of moles.

“When animals are retired to rest, a hart was said
to be harbored; a buck lodged; a roebuck bedded; a
fox kennelled; a badger earthed; a hare formed; and
a rabbit seated.

“Dogs which run in packs are enumerated by
couples. If a pack of fox-hounds consists of thirty-six,
which is an average number, it would be said to
contain eighteen couples.

“Dogs used for the gun, or for coursing, two of
them are called a brace, three a leash; but two spaniels,
or harriers, are called a couple. They also say
a mute of hounds, for a number; a kennel of raches,
a cowardice of curs, and a litter of whelps.

“`The seasons for alle sortes of venery' were regulated
in the olden time as follows: The `time of
grace' begins at midsummer, and lasteth to holy-rood;

the fox may be hunted from the nativity to the annunciation
of our lady; the roebuck from Easter to
Michaelmas; the roe from Michaelmas to Candlemas;
the hare from Michaelmas to midsummer; the wolf,
as the fox and the boar, from the nativity to the purification
of our lady.

“So for birds there is a vocabulary; and first, for
aquatic birds: a herd of swans, of cranes, and of
curlews, a dropping of sheldrakes, a spring of teals,
a serges of herons and bitterns, a covert of cootes, gaggles
of geese, sutes of mallards, baddylynges of ducks.
Now for meadow and upland birds: a congregation
of plovers, a walk of snipes, a fall of woodcocks, a
muster of peacocks, a nye of pheasants, a dule of
turtles, a brood of hens, a building of rooks, a numeration
of starlings, a flight of swallows, a watch of
nightingales, a charm of goldfinches, flights of doves
and wood-pigeons, coveys of partridges, bevies of
quails, and exaltations of larks.

“When a sportsman inquires of a friend what he
has killed, the vocabulary is still varied; he does not
use the word pair—but a brace of partridges, or
pheasants, a couple of woodcocks; if he has three
of any sort, he says a leash.

“If a London poulterer was to be asked for a pair
of chickens, or a pair of ducks, by a female, he
would suppose he was talking to some fine finicking
lady's maid, who had so puckered up her mouth into
small plaits before she started, that she could not open
it wide enough to say couple.

“As the objects sportsmen pursue are so various,
and as the English language is so copious, various
terms have been brought into use: so that the everlasting
term pair, this pairing of anything (except in
the breeding-season) sounds so rude, uninstructive,
and unmusical, upon the ears of a sportsman, that he
would as soon be doomed to sit for life by the side of
a seat-ridden cribbage-player as to hear it.

“It is the want of this knowledge which makes the
writings of Howitt and Willis, when they write upon
this ever-interesting national subject, appear so tame;
the sportsman peruses their pages with no more zest
than he listens to the babble of a half-bred hound, or
`a ranging spaniel that barks at every bird he sees—
leaving his game.”'

Mr. Goodman adds, in a note, the explanation of
my blunders in dog-nomenclature:—

“Mr. Willis, in vol. iii., p. 203, `Pencillings by the
Way,' gives the following information, speaking of
the duke's greyhounds (at Gordon Castle): “`Dinna
tak' pains to caress them, sir,” said the huntsman,
“they'll only be hanged for it.” I asked for an explanation.
He then told me that a hound was hung the
moment he betrayed attachment to any one, or in any
way showed superior sagacity. In coursing the hare,
if the dog abandoned the scent, to cut across or intercept
the animal, he was considered as spoiling the
sport. If greyhounds leave the track of the hare,
either by their own sagacity, or to follow the master
in intercepting it, they spoil the pack, and are hung
without mercy.' Perhaps Mr. Willis will excuse me
if I show how unsportsman-like this is. In the first
place, there are no packs of greyhounds; in the next
place, those who attend on them are not called huntsmen;
in the next place, they never run by scent: if
they did, they ought to be destroyed. As to the caressing,
no dog ought ever to be caressed without he
had first performed some extraordinary feat, and then
it should be done instantly. The everlasting petting
or patting a dog, spoils it in its nature, its disposition,
its temper, and its habits. It becomes worthless, except
as a lapdog, and that is the most contemptible
and worthless thing in all God's creation.

“Many years' close observation has convinced me,
that where the dog is once admitted into the house,
and petted, the dogs rule the children, and the chil
dren rule the rest; bringing in its train all the usual
concomitants of turbulence, filth, and frowsiness; and
turning the room into a dog-kennel.

The correction is very right—thanks to Mr. Goodman.
My attention was called to the blunder, by the
duke of Gordon himself, soon after the publication
of the book in England; and I should have corrected
it in this new edition, but for determining not to read
the proofs, that the letters might be published literally
from the first copy. But what beautifully descriptive
words are those in the nomenclature of birds, my
dear general: “A watch of nightingales!—a charm of
goldfinches!—a numeration of starlings, and exaltations
of larks!” How pretty it would be, instead of
“Here come two pretty women!” to say, “Here
comes a charm of women!” Instead of, “There
stand Morris and Willis!” to have the shoemaker opposite
say, “Look at that pride of lions,” or that
“exaltation of editors!”

Brig.—A “muster of peacocks” hits my fancy—descriptive,
say, of two loungers in uniform! Aha!
mi-boy!—fine!

Com.—Most brigadierish of brigadiers! You
would rather be the sodger men have made you than
the poet God made you! So would not I!

Brig.—you rejoice in a destiny fulfilled, then?

Com.—Quite the contrary. I mean to say that God
made me a natural idler and trifler, and want made me
a poet and a worky; and unlike you, I would rather
be what God made me. By-the-way, do you know
the trouble there was in the first composing of a
horse? This same amusing book quotes from Fitzherbert's
old book on agriculture: “A horse has fifty-four
properties, viz.: two of a man, two of a badger,
four of a lion, nine of an ox, nine of a hare, nine
of a fox, nine of an ass, and ten of a woman. This
description has been somewhat altered, but perhaps
not improved upon, viz.: three qualities of a woman,
a broad breast, round hips, and a long mane; three
of a lion, countenance, courage, and fire; three of a
bullock, the eye, the nostrils, and joints; three of a
sheep, the nose, gentleness, and patience: three of a
mule, strength, constancy, and good feet; three of a
deer, head, legs, and short hair; three of a wolf,
throat, neck, and hearing; three of a fox, ear, tail,
and throat; three of a serpent, memory, sight, and
cunning; and three of a hare or cat, cunning, walking,
and suppleness.”