University of Virginia Library

6. THE LORGNETTE.

FEB. 28. NEW-YORK. NO. 6.

Pardon me, Fritz, if over your shoulder, and by
a few taps upon the tympanum of your most friendly
ear, I pass an explanatory word or two, for the
digestion of our cormorant public. It would seem
that I have been set down by not a few newspaper
critics, gossiping ladies, and by some respectable
book-sellers, (for whom I ought to say in way of
apology, that they rarely read the books they sell,)
as a caterer to the tastes of those who are facetiously
termed by the Sunday Journals, and oyster-cellar
men—`the upper Ten Thousand.' Now as I

have no particular desire of being mobbed, or burned
in effigy, and still less of being reckoned the pliant
toady to any scale or degree of social eminence,
I most respectfully decline the acknowledgment of
any imputation of this kind. And although I by no
means profess fraternization with those very earnest
paragraphists who rail at the people `above Bleecker,'
as if they were altogether destitute of those
human sympathies, which a kind Providence has
mercifully vouchsafed to people in other parts of the
town, (particularly Nassau Street, and Centre,)—
and while I cannot avow an entire coincidence of
opinion with the abettors of any Astor Place mob,
or haters of Macready, or Forrest worshipers;—
and though I do not feel at liberty to subscribe to
all the pleasant inuendos which come from the lips
of my neighbor the tasteful lodger, about the equipages
sometimes seen in Leonard Street, and the
coupes with closed windows, and the ball-room intrigues,—yet,
Heaven forbid that Mr. Crowen, or
any of his fashionable customers, from the subscribers
to the Home Journal downward, should reckon
me the mere caterer to the appetites of those
only who are rich, or—even worse—those who
would seem to be rich.

A rough-and-tumble observation of a great many
phases of life, both in the Old World and the New,

has taught me, that sincerity and worth are not
confined to any particular station of society;—that
modesty and purity are sometimes struggling under
the motherly-imposed haberdashery of a belle;
and that inordinate vanity, and a hankering after the
lusts of the flesh, are occasionally tossing under the
tawdriest ribbons that come from the Canal Street
shops.

But poverty I find to be the same unfortunate bedfellow
here, that it is in every quarter of the world
—Monsieur Cabet's Icaria (which I have not yet
had the good fortune to visit, save in the columns
of the Tribune) alone excepted. Town poverty has
at command but very indifferent means of concealing
the vices which attach to it;—thus the poor
buck from Greenwich Street, or the critical chair
of the smaller newspapers, living on forty dollars
a month, who swaggers upon Broadway of a Sunday
afternoon with a poor cigar, and one glove, will
be the mark for abundance of most friendly sneers
from the Christian people who live along the way;
and yet your pretentious man who pulls on his
couleur de paille kids, upon the steps of the New
York Club,—who sports a well-stitched palletot, and
very square-brimmed hat,—who scents Julien's
dinners, or the bouquet of mock Chambertin, as
fondly, and yet as ignorantly, as his compeer does

the Ann Street stews, or Albany beer, will not
only escape the odium of condemnation, but
will be counted a miracle of a man, by hosts of
young ladies at the front parlor windows;—not that
the ladies are looking out; on the contrary, they
are very intent upon their reading, or with kissing
the baby, and of course very unconscious that any
such gentleman, in stitched palletot, is any where
to be seen!

Now what the distinction is between these two,
in purpose, dignity, or humanity—that one should
be the object of adulation, and the other of sneers—
I think it would puzzle a nicer inquirer than Mr.
Calhoun to determine. Even in the matter of
taste, which in a highly adulterated state, is the
pabulum on which those disposed to fashionable
display inordinately feed—the advantage may lie
largely on the side of the Greenwich aspirant; and
this, notwithstanding his rival of the Club shall
have consulted incontinently the plates of La
Belle Assemblée.

So, too, a rich Cashmere, and Miss Lawson's
toggery of wadding, wreaths, and lacings, will not
only make a crooked form straight, a blanched
forehead ruddy, and restore fullness to the withered
hulk of six-and-thirty, but they will marvelously
deaden searching inquiry, and blunt the eyesight

of popular sagacity. A poor girl who scrimps the
frugal meal of a mother, that she may gratify her
woman's vanity with a flimsy mantilla, or a faded
hat ribbon, is smiled sourly upon as a worthless,
heartless creature; yet the lady of ton, squandering
thousands upon equipage and laces, deaf to the low
cries of a hundred mothers, going supperless each
night to their straw pallets,—are elegant fashionables,—most
generous lady patronesses of the
Opera,—most worthy pew-holders,—most commendable
Christians!

If, then, my observation should seem to confine
itself to that class of society whose position ought
to render it independent in action, and unimpeachable
in character, it is not surely in view of making
personal interest, for access to our Almack's, or to
tickle a vanity which needs no delicate touches of
a quill feather to be enlivened; or even were it
otherwise, enough of the town litterateurs are engaged
in the pursuit already; and I will do them
the credit of saying, that their adroitness is only
less commendable than their successes.

The Lorgnette adapts itself, then, to what the
booksellers may call, if they please, the higher
circles, only because the lower ones have less need
of the exposition intended. The follies of the latter
are bald and palpable, while those of higher life

need closer examination,—nay, they would at first
sight pass for real beauties; but the lorgnette,
properly directed, will expose—what touches of
carmine,— what dust of pearl powder, — what
shaven foreheads,—what ugly wig seams! How
many follies need only a gilding to vanish; how
many vices need only the covering of luxury to
disappear!

When, therefore, Mr. Crowen, or my worthy
publisher, think fit to announce to their customers,
that the Lorgnette confines itself to glimpses in
high life, let them be fairly understood; let it be
fully known that it is from no lack of earnest Republican
intent, and from no desire to foster the
prejudices of a self-constituted, prurient town aristocracy.
In the honesty of a straightforward,
country purpose, John Timon begs leave, not insolently,
nor ill-naturedly, but firmly, and good-humoredly,
to lay his pen upon such social sinnings
of the hour, as seem to him worth the ink-lines of
demarkation; and in the full knowledge, intuitively
gained, and dearly cherished, that very many of
those whose wealth and position are pre-eminent,
will thank a stranger for speaking plainly of foibles,
which they acknowledge, discard, and deplore.

And now, Fritz, having laid the matter straight
between our obliging booksellers and the public,
let us come back to our moutons.

LIONS.

Lions, my dear Fritz, are not confined to the
Jardin des Plantes, to the Regent's Park, to
Welch's Circus, or to Timbuctoo. They are bred,
it appears, in our town, and of such marvelous
thrift are they upon the diet, which this climate and
pasturage affords, that they will roar you, `as
'twere a nightingale,' or as stoutly as any Joiner of
the Night's Dream. We have, too, our allotment
of dear good Mrs. Leo Hunters, who are on the
search for the little cublings as soon as they are born;
and if so be they can roar, though only so much
`as a sucking dove,' they will be fondled and
nursed more daintily by them, than ever the
sinning Ephesians by the old three-breasted Diana.

These zoologic patronesses are not only mighty
quick of ear, but they have also a most delicate
sense of smell; and they will scent you a young
lion by the mere perfume of his mane, though his
voice is capable of only the most incipient roar.
They will feed him on such dainty food, and so
tickle him in the throat and haunches, that presently
he will roar, `as would do a man's heart good to
hear.' Thenceforth, he will be a caged animal, with

his hours for feed, and his hours for relaxation, and
be as regularly stirred up for the admiration of
curious spectators, as the old Bengal Tiger at the
Surrey Gardens.

These lions are not only highly useful in offering
subjects for zoologic study to the common people,
and in affording agreeable diversion to children, but
they are of signal service, and I think I may add,
highly profitable, to their zealous and sagacious
captors. The methods of capture are numerous,
and adapted to the size, strength, and habits of the
animal. A well-roasted haunch of venison is considered
very capital bait for full-grown lions,
whereas whip syllabubs, and even water-ices, are
used with great success, as decoys for the younger
animals. Some few well-known lion-takers are
so sagacious in laying their bait, that a strange
lion can scarce venture within the town, but he is
at once taken in their toils.

It is almost needless to say, after so much has
been written upon the subject by Buffon and others,
that the lion is the king of beasts; but I may safely
add, what has escaped the notice of nearly all the
writers upon Natural History, that the lion is a
fashionable animal.

Indeed, there is scarce a lady of `parts' in the town,
who maintains an elevated position,—who is, in fact,

a `leader of the ton,' but has her bevy of lions, of
different degrees of age, virility, and tameness.
Some of these are so gentle that they can be
safely led about, even in public places, without
danger to the bystanders. Others are reserved for
the salom—or, as I should say, keeping up the
zoologic illusion—for the cages,—having a large
run, but under cover. Here they are made to roar,
by being fed or tickled. Others again are never
dealt with, but on special occasions, being irascible
in their nature, and at times somewhat dangerous.
They roar only as the humor takes them, and have
been known to show their teeth even to their captors.
They are, however, somewhat rare; but are in great
demand, and much sought after by connoisseurs.
Lions, of course, differ in breed; some being of the
royal stock—true Afric; and others of so diminutive
a make, that those who are knowing in the matter,
hint at the probability of there having been sometime
a cross with the jackal.

The greater part of the town-lions are brought
into the world under favor of the professional
services of the gossiping journals; the Express
newspaper is specially to be commended in this
matter, and its delicate manœuvring would scarce
do discredit to the best Sage-femme of the quarter
of St. Antoine.

When fairly born, they are handed over to a
standard corps of wet-nurses in the shape of penny-a-liners,
and Mrs. Leo Hunters, who feed them on
pap and such like dainties, as I have already stated,
until they gain their full strength. Too
strong food at an early stage is hazardous, and in
some instances has produced a constriction that
has carried off the young lions in a stage of tender
infancy. Great numbers, too, of such as have enjoyed
the over-nursing of the Home Journal, and
the Literary World, have died from sheer surfeit;
and yet others, who have been fondled in the arms
of the old gossiping Lady, late of Broadway and
now of Wall Street, have lingered only a short feverish
existence—attributable, no doubt, to the
crude and weakly nature of the pap.

Lions, as I have already told you, are of numerous
sorts;—there are the musical lions, the literary
lions, the critical lions, the political lions, the fashionable
lions, the conversational lions, the play-house
lions, and the lions extraordinary.

Tophanes, who (I may as well say it) has been
in his day a fashionable lion, has supplied me with
a little epitome of their successive stages of growth;
and I shall select from it such examples as seem
suited to my purpose, at the same time adding
largely from my own observation.

The musical lion, for instance, he tells me, if
intended for public exhibition, must have a rhythmical
foreign name, and be announced in the journals
as the distinguished performer, who has repeatedly
delighted all the members of the first European
Courts, (I pray your particular attention,
Fritz, to that word Courts, which has an uncommonly
happy odor for all the lion hunters of the town.)

He must next have a private trial in a public
room, possibly of the Astor, or Irving,—having previously
invited the critics, who are spare, hungry
dogs, to dine with him. This exhibition is heralded
next day as one eminently successful, and as
having given unfeigned satisfaction to a distinguished
circle of unprejudiced gentlemen and ladies,
of the highest critical taste.

The critics are honored with season tickets; the
journals, (such as do the advertising,) are profuse
of praises, and the Mrs. Leo Hunters are wide
awake to secure a capture. He becomes a lion in
the papers, is applauded at the concerts, in invited
to a soiree at the house of a `leader of the ton,' and
repays the condescension of the élite, with a song,
or a dexterous dab at his fiddle.

He has only now to manifest a proper insouciance,
wear white gloves, and tolerably clean linen,
to remain for his month the musical lion. Or if

he fails in circles strictly fashionable, he can cut
off his beard, and try his hand in moderate Presbyterian,
or Baptist circles, where by cool, and assiduous
attention, and naïve repetition of fashionable
scandal, he may have a fair chance of renewing
his age of heroism.

The private musical lion gains his degree without
any newspaper noise. He is talked of in very extravagant
style by the young lady who sings duetts
with him; he volunteers (by request) his aid at an
amateur concert; and if he be really deserving in
voice, or execution, or possess any special attractions,
or even pleasant eccentricities, he will be
pounced upon by some watchful old lady hunter,
who is needful of just such advantageous commodity
to give a `pleasing variety to her receptions.'
He is petted, invited earnestly to come and pass
an evening—sometimes (but more rarely) asked to
dine—is talked of—wearies his lungs with constant
effort,—is entreated to favor that charming
young lady with the love chansion,—is assured that
his voice is absolutely bewitching,—is urged to sing
a duett with the lady in pink,—can of course make
no refusal to the deaf old lady, who has been shedding
tears—would `exceedingly gratify a distinguished
amateur' by repeating that passage from
the Puritani—in short, he finds himself unsuspectingly,

become the property of the lion-hunting
town.

As for Jeny Lind,—whose name has been, I do
not doubt, bobbing in the reader's thought ever since
he commenced the reading of this musical topic,—
there is no estimating the height to which the
Lind fever will run, by the time of her landing on
this island. Already the shirt-makers are advertising
Jenny Lind Kirtles, and we shall soon have
Jenny Lind ties, stomachers, and cuffs. Blue eyes
and light hair are more than ever rejoiced in; we
shall have before the summer is over a whole army
of Jenny Lind babies; and the nurses will take
good care to pinch the noses of the young bawlers
into the Jenny Lind shape.

As for the gentlemen, Mr. Barnum will be able
to double his Tom Thumb fortune, by selling them
scraps of Jenny's old shoes for love charms; and
if Mr. B. is properly grateful for this suggestion, I
shall expect a generous heel-tap from him, on my
own score.

Fashionable lions are to be found in plenty:
they are those you will read of, Fritz, in your fashionable
weekly, as `leaders of the ton,' `distinguished
patrons of the Opera,' eminent foreigners,
or French or Italian noblemen. They are of course
cordially hated by all shabby genteel people, and

are treated with marked indifference at the hands
of such as, by sensible conduct, and independent
action, are placed beyond the need of any lion favors.
These lions, however, are in great demand,
and have been the making of a great many unfortunate
belles, and witless coxcombs. They are
not supposed to be engaged in any other pursuit,
than simple study of the savoir-faire, or what
amounts to much the same thing, the far niente. If,
however, they lend their faculties to verse, music,
or painting, it is understood to be only in the form
of accomplishment — an accomplishment which,
however doubtful in its merit, will be sure to bring
down a great clatter of golden, and most disinterested
praises from all whose position is uncertain.

If housekeepers, these lions live in fashionable
streets, and keep fashionable hours. They will
not be guilty of any such stupidity as allowing an
Irish servant maid to attend the door-bell: they
will insist on reception-days,—first, because it
gives opportunity to shine in their own sphere, before
numerous admirers; and next, because they
may be sure of having their chair in the best possible
light—the stupid books all out of sight, the
little poodle in a clean ribbon, and their man Fidkins
in his best white gloves;—and there will be no
possible chance of their being mortified by the

stupid Irish nurse rushing down stairs, with the
baby in her arms, to see who is calling—simply
because on that day the key is turned upon the
nursery door.

Their topics are fashionable topics: the Hague
street matter is commented on in a sad, sad way,
very much as fashionable clergymen talk of the
destitute heathen of Polynesia. They never walk
Broadway at unfashionable hours; and the color
of their equipage will give the cue to a large portion
of the equipage-driving town. A hint in the
Paris correspondence of the Courrier, as translated
by an eminent Journalist, will lead to the selling
of their bays, and the spanning together of black
and gray. A marriage will be negotiated in the
best Paris style; and it will be announced by an
amiable penny-a-liner, who has been kindly smuggled
into their punch-room, on a reception-day, as
a high-life marriage, in which the beauty and
grace of the young bride was only equaled by the
elegance, and fashionable contour of the distinguished
and fortunate bridegroom.

It should be said, however, in justice to the
class, that no lions are more innocent than fashionable
lions; they are not ill-tempered, or savage;
they are the most good-natured lions that can possibly

be imagined; their roar would never `frighten
the Duchess.'

As much, however, cannot be said of the critical
lion; he is a useful attaché to old ladies, to the
editorial corps, and young authorlings. He sneers
at mere literary lions, and boasts of having
given them their rank; he is cheek by jowl with
the publishers, and is perfectly au courant of all
that is transpiring in the literary world.

He dashes out opinions upon pictures, statuary,
and music, as freely as upon books;—pushes his
name liberally into print, and wears an air of such
recondite observation as astonishes and perplexes
young authors and school-girls. He mixes his
pills of praise with such chemical tact, that a little
irritant will go down with the lump,—just enough
to inflame the mucous membrane of the vanity,
which lines the whole stomach of an author,—and
so, keeps the poor dog mindful of the power and
agency of the druggist.

He is of course familiarly acquainted with everybody
who is worth knowing, and is on terms of intimacy
with vast numbers of extraordinary men.
He assumes an air of high dignity at small literary
soirees, is very patronizing toward young authors
who are beginning to be talked about, and will

even condescend to dine with them (at their expense).
He affects something of a foreign air, and
may perhaps boast, though it be only through books,
of foreign cultivation.

He is coy of commending American success,
whether in music or letters, simply because his
much boasted principles of taste are not inherent
and sound; and because he trembles greatly lest
their suggestions should carry him counter to the
courtly charts of foreign importation. Thus
while he professes himself a patron, he is in fact
the worst enemy to true republican endeavor.

It is this, my dear Fritz, that I want most to
stigmatize—this coy-stepping, fearful, England-worshiping
spirit of American criticism! It is a
base habit of measuring everything by the standards
of the old world,—which may be great, indeed, but
great only by their association with the old world
fallacies. In taste, in ease, in grace, in a cultivated
idlesse, and in all the appliances which go to make up
life an amusement, and not a peril and a work, I
grant you, Messieurs critics, that the old world leads
us, by very much; yet surely therein lies no reason
for relaxing the effort to create in our social life, our,
literary opinions, and our more earnest action, an independence
of things European. Are we not, under
God, the administrators of a grand political, and

even social experiment; and shall we not have pride
enough to reckon successes by their agreement
with the great principles of freedom and equality—
of manly dignity, and individual earnestness,—
rather than the facitious standards which belong
to an older, and what we righteously deem a false
system of polity? Let us not bow down to courts,
though we have warmed our vanities in their
blaze; and let us not bespeak courtly sanction,
though it rise like sweet incense in our nostrils.
When shall we cease to be provincial in our tastes
and judgments, and begin to be American, and
earnest?

But—revenons à nos lions.

The literary lion is of somewhat casual and accidental
celebrity; a few, indeed, of large growth, are
much in request, and will command, at all times,
very full salons. The growth of the lesser ones is
something curious in its way, and worthy to be
set before you, Fritz.

The prospective lion must be supposed to have
written a book, or perhaps to have edited a book, or
if not this, at the very least,—to have written a
preface for a book. He must bespeak early the
friendly services of those sly old paragraphists who
live in remote corners of the town, and who are employed
for a `reasonable' compensation, as supernumeraries

in the offices of the journals. He will expect
this in most instances, by sending a copy of the
new book to the old gentleman, `with the kind
regards of his unknown, and humble friend, the
author.'

Upon this, spliced with a mug of punch and a
cigar, the young lion may count upon a complimentary
line or two, which his private friends, if
properly advised, will be studious to promulgate in
every possible way. A huge placard bearing the
title of the book, and the name of the new author,
will be hung in a prominent place at the shop doors.
His literary friend whom he has invited to dine,
and whom he has pushed into remarkable good
humor, with a bottle of Heidsieck, writes a captivating
little paragraph for a prominent journal,—
naïvely wondering who this new and rising author
can be, and intimating in a most delicate, and
scarce perceptible way, that he has a brilliant career
of prosperity, and heroism fairly dawned upon him.

The Mrs. Leo Hunters are now fairly put upon
the scent, and address rose-colored notes to distinguished
editors, asking the pleasure of their
company, and begging that they will introduce to
them the new author who has been so highly commended.
The new author has now only `to help
himself,' and without further effort becomes enrolled

upon the zoologic list. He is presented as the
writer of that `charming book,' and our lady
patroness has a prettily-contrived compliment in
store for the gentleman who has `beguiled so
sweetly her hours of ennui!'

The lion, at this early stage, should not forget
how to blush; indeed, it would be well to—positively
blush,—bow,—be very glad,—be very sorry it is
no better,—regret that it was carelessly written,—
express boldly the opinion that it was not intended
for publication,—disclaim the distinction of authorship,
&c., &c.

At all which the lady patroness will rally him with
very tender and approving smiles; and introduces
him successively to Mrs. Mulkins, who is a charming
old lady, of extraordinary literary taste; to Miss
Bidkins, a poetess of very great grace; to a greenspectacled
old gentleman, who looks very astute,
and says very cutting things, in order to inspire
the young lion with a proper degree of awe;—to a
distinguished foreigner, who is bien charme to
make the acquaintance of the author of—(he forgets
—ne se souvient pas de nom, for which he asks
a thousand pardons);—to a lovely little girl, who
looks languishingly at our author's moustache, if
he has one, or his eyebrow, if he is without; and
lastly to a decayed spinster or two, who express

themselves very extravagantly in admiration of his
work, and go on to quote some lines from Lord
Byron, which of course the young author is very
familiar with.

The lions of a month or two longer standing, will
meet him with a little hauteur, which by degrees
will wear off into an eminently patronizing manner.
Miss Sibdilkins will beg the honor of his company
on a certain evening, that she may introduce
him to an eligible young lady, who has been in
raptures with his book.

Corner conversations of very young ladies will
centre very naturally on the new lion; and though
I can hardly hope to throw the grace of their lively
bon mots into my serious page, yet, Fritz, you shall
be tempted with an echo.

“Isn't he handsome?” says one.

“Not handsome, but then so intellectual! I
wonder if he is married?”

“No, they say not.”

“What a forehead!”

“— Yes, and lip!”

“— And such eyes!”

“— And then his nose!”

“— Yes, and his chin!”

“And such a dear moustache!”

“And what dear stories he tells about those African
girls!”

“— And those naked Islanders!”

“— That sweet little Alice!”

“— And those grisettes!”

“— And those Spanish ladies!”

“How they must have been in love with him!”

“I shouldn't wonder; but do you know they
say”— (and she whispers something about dissipation—wild
fellow—at which they put their handkerchiefs
to their faces, and turn their eyes up to
the ceiling.)

“Oh, I don't believe it,” says one.

“Besides so far away,” says another.

“I wish I knew him; will you introduce me?”

“Yes; but then—you know—that dear Strinkiski—you
will introduce me?”

On a moderate computation, Fritz, I am assured
that the number of literary lions reaches five or
six a season; after which period of zoologic eminence,
the greater portion sink into comparative
obscurity, and sustain a miserable and precarious
existence between newspaper paragraphs and tailors'
bills.

A most abominable feud exists, as I am told,
among all classes of these lions, and I am credibly

informed that there is not so much as a pair of
them, who are not pawing, and roaring at each
other. They seem to delight in pulling out each
other. They seem to delight in pulling out each
other's manes; and as for anything like literary
amity, or cohesion, they are as far removed from
it, as from an International Copyright, or from any
really manly effort to better the condition of their
craft.

Even now I have given you no sketch of the
more prominent literary lions, and have not even
touched upon the political and extraordinary specimens.

You see, my dear Fritz, how this labor of painting
the Town-life is growing on my hands; and
there is reason to fear that this soft dalliance of the
Spring breezes will catch me half through my labors,
and lure me to a share in your country companionship.
Meantime give me your best wishes,
and splice them with a mug of your mountain ale.