University of Virginia Library

8. THE LORGNETTE.

MARCH 14. NEW-YORK. NO. 8.

It is the mode for periodicals of credit and ability,
to give from time to time upon their covers,
the `Opinions of the Press.' But from these opinions
are generally carefully eliminated all such as
count against the merit, or success of the publication.
Now as I wish to be à la mode, Fritz, and
am at the same time too thoroughly a foe to all
sorts of quackery, to deceive the public by expurgated
notices, I shall give you upon the cover of
the present paper, a taste of the opinions of Journals:—thanking

most cordially those who have
done me the honor of commendation, and entertaining
at the same time, a most respectful sympathy
for those who have `not seen the point.' My particular
favor is due to the erudite editor of the
Express, who has furnished me with a sarcophagus
in his columns, and a pretty epitaph from his
French reading; a more successful undertaker in
all literary matters could hardly be wished for;—
his types make a fitting entombment, and his comment
a proper shroud.

PEOPLE IN SOCIETY.

Our neighbors next door, some of whom I occasionally
see in the back-court, hanging out a bit or
two of mock Mechlin to dry, or a crushed petticoat
to be blown into proper rotundity, are worthy people,
of whom my landlady sometimes borrows a
half a pound of tea, or a little `spirits,' to tincture
the sauce for the apple-dumpling. I had expected
to meet them nearer by at one of our little parlorsoirées,
which came off not long since. After
being presented to a very showy girl in green silk,

who sang in bewitching style, and to an old lady
in bombazine, who had a good deal to say to me,—
about genteel education, I ventured to ask after
the neighbors. My landlady shook her head quite
seriously, and told me that though they were very
good sort of persons in their way, yet they were
`not in society.' This would not have been so
curious, if I had not remembered that the tasteful
lodger had remarked to me a few weeks back, with
a very sober, and I thought, sympathizing air, that
the landlady, though a very nice person, was `not
in society.'

The maid informs me that this tasteful lodger
`goes into society,' once or twice a week, on which
occasions there is a prodigious stir in his chamber;
the maid is running up and down stairs with hot
water and `fixings;' and the tasteful gentleman
gives very loud orders from the hall, about his varnished
boots, and the carriage. The Irish girl
dresses his wife's hair, and does the lacing; after
which she uniformly steps into the parlor to have
the landlady's opinion, which is, of course, always
highly enthusiastic.

I must say that I have long felt no little curiosity,
to ascertain what sort of society the tasteful
gentleman adorns with his presence: but not until
recently have I been gratified. Finding that the

old dowager with whom I take an occasional ride,
was really possessed of a carriage with a small device
upon the door-panel, he volunteered one evening
last week, to introduce me `in society.' I expressed
myself charmed, and at the time appointed,
was duly ready. He gave a running glance at my
equipments, which seemed to him to be satisfactory.
We were set down at the door of a small
house, in what he said was a very respectable
street; though he had previously admonished me
that I must not look for any very great style, as the
family, though uncommonly high, were just now
rather under the weather.

I was therefore somewhat taken aback, to find,
on entering, an uncommon glare of wax candles, a
good many plaster statuettes, and some very showy
colored engravings, which the tasteful gentleman
informed me, by a whisper, were by `crack artists.'
The everlasting folding-doors, or, as the author of
Alice elegantly terms them, the bivalves were
thrown open, and disclosed the usual vista of carpet,
book-case, and arm-chairs. The last Home Journal,
an elegant book in papier-maché covers, and an
embellished copy of Tupper's Philosophy were
upon the centre-table, while a folded number of the
Express was doing duty underneath a leaky flowerpot.

The lady of the mansion, upon my introduction,
met me with a certain assured manner of the town,
well calculated to astound and bewilder a modest
country-gentleman who was making his first entrée.
She asked me, with a glance over her company,
if I had seen much of New York fashionable
society? and upon hearing my embarrassed denial,
was clearly disposed to cheer me up, and to treat me
with very much of that kind and pitying regard, with
which missionaries look upon unmitigated Pagans,
or as our voyaging tourists regard such Marquesans
as are ignorant of the nature and uses of petticoats.

An elegant young lady in bare arms, three
flounces, and massive gold bracelets was at the
piano; her head, set off with a wreath of green
leaves and blackberry blossoms, was thrown a little
to one side, and she was singing a fragment full
of cuori and amamti, with delicate accompaniment,
in what my hostess assured me was `most captivating
style.'

She presently rounded it off with a whirl of the
fingers over the keys,—serving very much like
those notes of exclamation, which young authors
are very apt to put at the end of what they reckon
their pretty periods. The tasteful gentleman patted
his gloves together, and declared that it was
`quite charming.' The hostess kindly offered to

present me to Miss Thuggins, who was just now
rising from the piano-stool.

Miss Thuggins bowed graciously. I thought—
`it had been a fine day.' She thought `yesterday
was, too.' I assented cordially, and thought `it
had been an uncommon mild winter.' She thought
—`very mild, — the mildest she remembered;
though she did not remember many.'

Of course she did not remember many—how
should she? I thought `it was most spring.' She
thought it was `nearly.' I thought `from her
charming performance she must be a lover of music?'
She tossed her head prettily, and thought—
`oh, comme ça.

I thought—`she must go occasionally to the
Opera.' She thought `our box was rarely empty;'
and she asked me what I thought of Forti, and
then what I thought of Bertucca, and then—of
Beneventano, and then of Don Giovanni? And
she interspersed the questioning with pretty little
opinions which, Fritz, you will find condensed in
the last number of the Lorgnette, or sown broadcast
through the winter's file of the Home Journal.
Occasionally an Italian term or two were thrown
in, which, if my memory does not misgive me, were
not strictly of Roman pronunciation.

This topic, and the last ball at the Widges being

duly discussed, I diverted talk to the evening, and
toward the tasteful gentleman, who I supposed `was
an old acquaintance.' `Only slight;' she had met
him she believed, but she did not think he was `in
society.' I directed attention to our hostess, and,
as in duty bound, spoke highly of her taste and
accomplishments. `Oh yes,' said Miss Thuggins,
`she's very well; I sometimes run in here on the
`Off-nights;' she's a good body, though `not much
in society.' Indeed, since her return from abroad
(there was a little interruption, and she repeated)
—since her return from abroad, she felt little relish
for most of New York Society. `Ah! indeed,'
said I, (it is well, Fritz, to counterfeit a little surprise
at any such announcement; but not too
much; you should have `half suspected it from
her manner',) `and is society so superior abroad?'

`Vastly, sir; such breeding you see, (she unclasps
a bracelet,) and the gentlemen are so polished—so
agreeable—so —' And she reclasps
her bracelet, and looks across the room with an expression
of most intense ennui.

I ventured to ask `if foreign society was accessible?'

`Oh no; but then we had letters, (with an air
of indifference and careless dignity.) It was nothing
but dining out;—one day at the Clarendon

with a party of friends, and then down at Greenwich
to eat white-bait, and then with a merchant
who has a bijou of a place out at Hamstead, and
then at Carleton Terrace; and in Scotland we met
Lord Somebody at an inn, and were so sociable
together—a delightful man, I think I have his antograph.'

Judge, Fritz, of my humiliation in talking with
a lady of such extensive parts! `This Miss Thuggins,'
thought I, `must be a trump card; doubtless
one of the shining ornaments of the town society;
she has very likely learned the schottisch;
she is an admirer of Truffi; she has passable command
of French; she even limps in Italian; she
probably has her carriage—perhaps a coachman
with hat-band, and very likely a seat in Grace
Church, or even a coat-of-arms on her card, or over
her door.

I determined to risk the mention of her name to
my old dowager friend on my next ride. `Thuggins,'
said she—`Thuggins, upon my word, I don't
know her.'

`But, my dear madame, she is an extraordinary
young lady; she has a box at the Opera; she
dined at a Scotch inn with a Lord; she wears tremendous
bracelets; she talks French; she is horribly
ennuyée by New York Society.'

`These are good points—very,' said the old lady.
`Fidkins, (pulling the check-line,) whose drab
coachman comes to the kitchen for you so often—
the rich grocer's you spoke of?'

`Thuggins, marm.'

`Oh,' said madame, `I know now—a nice girl,
I have heard, in her way; a parvenu—she is not
`at all in society.' By the way, would you like
to call with me at the Widges?'

`My dear madame,' said I, appealingly, `I should
like exceedingly to know what it is to be in `society'
in your town?'

`Justement—at the Widges, mon cher Timon, we
shall be in society.'

To the Widges we went. Tophanes happened
to be there, and came across the room to say to me,
sotto voce, `Eh, Timon, getting in here? A devilish
good place (piano) to come for suppers, but
vulgar after all; interlopers,—well posted in music
matters,—drive a good `turn-out,' but only
half a year or so in standing; and as for Monsieur,
(pianissimo,) he is a d—n scoundrel!' And he
moved off to tell madame how charmingly she was
looking, this bright spring weather.

If you expect me, Fritz, to tell you definitively,
from such observations as these, what it is to be
`in society,' you are hugely mistaken. To be in

society is after all only a relative state of being,
and changes with your company, like the kaleidescopic
colors in a man's hand. You may meet
with warm receptions, most kindly attentions, gentle
manners, winning address, and extreme cultivation,
yet it may not be `in society.' You may
be startled with most lavish display of wealth, or
the most gorgeous of velvet cloaks, yet perhaps
`not in society.'

Impudence may set a man in society, or it may
throw him out. Goodness will never bring him
in, and it is a shabby standard of faith if among
the elect. Particular professions belong to `people
in society;' but they are in the general way, professions
without practice. The broker is dependent
on age, brain, marriage, or presumption. The
cloth-man (nothing now of coats or tailors) is subject
to the amount of cloths he may bargain for,—
whether by piece or bale. The dentist is in a most
doubtful place, hanging as it were, upon the lip of
society. The doctor (if of Divinity) passes current
like old coin which rings with a jingle, though the
device, or date of stamp cannot be made out.
The physician `in society' takes very few fees, has
few patients, (except his listeners,) is tidy, prim,
buckish, and marriageable. The bankrupt gives
good dinners, is shy of his creditors, and is a most

excellent churchman. Authors and pastry-cooks
are of a doubtful class, depending very much on
the tastiness of their wares: a piquant sauce to a
paté, or a pair of pants to a lady Alice, will be irresistible.

Mr. B— you do not know, or care to know,
though you have met him affectionately in `society.'
Miss C— you do not know, though you
have hugged her in the waltz, and felt her breath
steaming on your cheek—it was only `in society.'
Madame is a dear, delightful old lady—but only `in
society.' Mr. D— is a man in `society;' it is for
him not only a state of being, but of action. He has
the most taking chit-chat of the Journals at his
tongue's end; he has studied Count D'Orsay's etiquette
to a fault; he wears a cravat as wide as the
wings of a turkey-cock before moulting time; he
cultivates his incipient moustache with the most
assiduous handling; he compliments old ladies for
their youthfulness, and young women for their
beauty, and ugly ones for their sweet expression;
he goes to dinners, and wins the champagne for his
stories; he goes to balls, and wins a waltz, a supper,
and a headache for his pains.

`To be in society' is not to be at home; it is not
to be domestic—nor religious, except at church, or
when talking with the clergyman's daughter. It
is to say things you do not mean; to know people

you do not respect; to bow to those you despise;
to smile without intending it, and to live in mockery.

To `be in society' is a most extraordinary position;—for
a man, it is more than virtual death of
action, energy, or of anything worthy of his manliness.
For a woman, it is to ensure her trappings
the widest talk, her failings the largest scandal,
and her salons the greatest crowd. For a belle, it
is to push her into the best market for the poorest
bidders; it is to expose her ancle, her bust, her
features, her accomplishments, and her worth (if she
have any) to as `damned an iteration' as any in
Homer's verse!

Passons, my dear Fritz; we must not get heated
in this warm spring-time.

Tophanes has furnished me, in furtherance of
this humor, which has just now seized me, a few
transcripts from the journal of a lady `in society.'
It will I know amuse you, although it is not altogether
an artistic performance; at the same time
it does high credit to the class in which it found
its authorship. It is naïve, straight-forward, and
clearly written, without any suspicion of its being
one day laid before the public. To the present
state of popular taste, I am sure that nothing could
prove a higher commendation.

JOURNAL OF A LADY IN SOCIETY.

Wednesday.—What a sweet man that Signor
Birbone is. But then pshaw! only a teacher! I
must dress particularly well to-night; am to meet
Kawton they say—a love of a name; and one of the
most fascinating men in society. Why don't Martel
send home that crimson head-dress? It's so becoming,
the J—s say; and I haven't worn it now
these three evenings. I think my voice is good to-night.
L— has promised to urge me to sing;
hope Strinski won't offer for the accompaniment;
he is so anxious that everybody should admire his
playing, that he never has done with his interludes.

Marie is getting careless about my hair; must
give her the porte monnaie that Stiver gave me the
other day, and if Figgins sends a bouquet to-day,
will let her carry it to the Minerva. What a dull
time this Lent! and black doesn't become me at
all; I can't look solemn without giving that bad
expression to my lip.

Thursday.—Well, what a time, to be sure!
Kawton is fascinating, very. How prettily he paid
that compliment about American women, so much

prettier than Europeans—such complexions; and
he looked very hard at my neck. (N. B. Must be
more careful about the pearl powder; Ma said
she saw it yesterday on my forehead.) And then
he polks so sweetly; I never felt easier in all my
life; I wonder if he has money? To be sure,
Mathilde says he's a great toady, but then he's a
club-man, and knows so many distinguished men, I
hardly know if I baited him enough:—to be sure,
I didn't ask him to call; but then I told him what
a delightful street this was, and that Papa said he
wouldn't live in any other—so delightful, too, to
be on a corner; surely he must remember.

Positively, I will not dance any more with that
odious Scratch. Papa says I must not treat him
rudely; he is very rich; but he waltzes so horribly,
and then his breath! As for marrying him, it's
another matter; but I needn't hurry; twenty-five
isn't very old; and I know I can catch the old fellow
any time. He is quite desperate, I am sure of
it. How I should like to stir up a quarrel between
him and F—; how they would talk!

Saw Noddle; he talks everlastingly; very well,
they say; but who wants to hear talk at a ball?
Besides, he admires every pretty girl he sees—the
puppy!

Monday.—Went yesterday to Grace with the

Fidges—a most delightful place; hope Papa will
take a seat there; everybody listens so stupidly at
Dr. Hawks.' I do wish Strinski wouldn't talk
French to me in society; it's so embarrassing!
besides, there's no knowing who may hear you, and
you may make faults; caught myself tutoying
him the other evening, as if I had been talking to
Marie! how provoking; if it had been S—
wouldn't have cared; it might have set him on; he
is too modest.

Tuesday.—Was pale last night, but wore the
crimson head-dress, and took a seat near the scarlet
curtains. I must try and send to Paris for some
more of those gaiter boots, they are so pretty.
Marie has been trying to show me how to hold up
my dress as the French women do; it's difficult,
but then it's worth a little study.

What a handsome German teacher Miss Muggs
has got! I wonder if I had not better learn German?
I'll tell Papa that Dr. T— has recommended
it; besides, it's very well to sing snatches
from the German Opera; it gives an idea of cultivation.
I wonder where Mrs. Fidge gets that delightful
perfume, and then she never has too much;
must remember to let Marie smell me, before I go
out another evening. Miss Quiz asked me the

other day what had become of Snap, who used
to be so attentive? Oh, I told her, we were capital
friends, better than ever,—and looked very conscious;
dare say she will think I've given him the
mitten; I do hope she will, for she is just the person
who will tell it all over town.

Thursday.—Walked up street the other day with
ex-President —. What a dear, good man! And
then such a feather to be seen walking with him.
The Hidges saw me, and looked daggers; the
Simpkins bowed two or three times; how very
friendly they are getting! I wonder if we girls
couldn't get up a class in reading with Prof. —;
they say he is so agreeable; and then it gives a
delightful chance to practice; one can ask such
funny questions, and all so honest. He isn't married
either, and if I could only get him desperate!
for they say these literary characters do get desperate;
and how delightful if he'd only propose,
and then go off in a consumption. Heigho—how
sleepy I am!

Friday.—I do wish that odious Miss Thingum
wouldn't be so familiar in the street; people will
begin to call us intimates, and I am sure she's over
forty. She's very kind, certainly, but I don't like
to invite her to my soirées, she is so matronizing

and old maidish; I must send the carriage for her
some rainy morning, and ask her if she won't come
and pass the day.

Sister Belle is beginning to be admired; how
strange, and she only sixteen!—must insist on her
wearing plainer clothes; must tell mamma that the
hat is altogether too gay for a person of her age.

Saturday.—Went to the Opera last night; Forti
was quite divine; at least M— said so, and
it's safe to say it. Mr. D— came to our box,
and chatted for half an hour,—a horrid creature;
strange that he can't learn how disagreeable he is,
and not at all tonnish; yet they say he is very
clever—quite an ornament at Miss L—s. It's
very well though, upon the whole, to have a chat;
it relieves the uniformity of one's face; besides, if
any one asks me who it was, I can say,—oh, he
says such clever things!

Saw Stroskinski in the Miggs' box; what a
moustache he has got! Must ask them to present
me; they say he is all the rage.

Tuesday.—Met the Miggs' at the party;—promised
to introduce Stroskinski, but didn't, though
they danced three sets with him. I suppose Mabel
wants to keep him to herself;—I'll pay her, the
minx!

Had to dance with that little puppy, Spindle;

couldn't refuse, because he is of good family, and
amiable as a country girl. He hasn't got a leg bigger
than a pipe-stem,—and such a beard! Mean to
cut off a little fur from the cat, and send him for a
valentine—“mon chat, Monsieur, à votre chin.”

How it helps a flirtation to drink a little champagne.
Upon my word, I carried it off capitally last
night. What little squeezes one can give a gentleman's
hand; and then the polka after two or three
glasses—upon my word, it is charming! I must
get some of those brandy lozenges Miss Fidge told
me of; she says, they go straight to one's head.

I must learn, too, some more of those tender
French expressions from Marie; it's a sweet, pretty
language; have begun to read Raphael the third
time.

Wednesday.—How handsome Bidkins is; and
rich too, they say, but so shy. Danced the polka
with him last night; told him I adored it: but he
put his arm about me as if he were handling a
Vestal—yet I leaned on him very hard; how stupid
some men are! I think he must be a Presbyterian.
I told him I was engaged for the next waltz,
and asked him if he liked waltzing. He said he
did—`rather.' I can't hook him.

I do wish I knew those Fudges; they give such
delightful parties; everybody talks about them;

must persuade papa to go to the same watering-place
with them next summer; then I think I can
manage it, particularly if Pa takes his carriage;
I can get an introduction, and of course they won't
object to make a convenience of our carriage.
What a silly fellow Bunkum is. It's plain enough
he wants to please me, but he don't know how;—
only to think of his praising the Squids! To be
sure they are good friends of mine; but then they
are pretty, very pretty. And then, too, the idea
of disputing me about the pictures, and trying to
set me right,—the coxcomb! They say he has excellent
taste; for my part, I should like to see it.

Thursday.—Heigho—two bouquets; one from
little Fidge; what is the boy thinking of? I suppose
he's heard them talk at the club of sending
bouquets to belles; however, he is rich, and when
he grows up, will, I dare say, be good for something;—must
thank him kindly, and keep him in
tow. Besides, he is very useful; he never objects
to escort one—puts on shawls, and picks up the
pins that you drop, and will go back for your ball
slippers—oh no, it would be very ungrateful to
slight little Fidge!

As for the other bouquet, it has no card; who
can it be from? There's the handsome music
teacher, I wonder if he would dare? Well, I will

have it in my hand when he comes, and ask him if
it isn't sweet—watch if his fingers tremble when
he takes it: and then I'll pull out a little flower
from it—a forget-me-not, if there is one—and put
it in my bosom. (Mem. to wear the open morning
dress, with lace.) The poor fellow, he'll hardly
have strength to get through his lesson! What if
he should make love to me upon the strength of it;
—how delightful!

I am not sure whether it is best to be confirmed;
Dr. H— urges me; but Miss Hicks, who is in
the best society, tells me not to be in a hurry. So
far as church attendance and devotion go, it's very
well; it offers good contrast to one's action at a
ball, and you get the good opinion of a great many
proper ladies of excellent families; but then on Ash
Wednesday, or any time in Lent, it may be very
inconvenient; mean to consult the Squids about it.

At any rate, I must buy a book of sermons to
have on a side table—get them bound up with a
little cross on the outside. I wonder if Dr. Griswold
hasn't written any good ones?

I am sure, Fritz, you will have been delighted
with this fragmentary journal; isn't it naive and
earnest? Indeed, if I had any suspicion of who
was the author, I would address her a complimentary

note, and insist upon being favored with further
extracts; and if she will have the kindness to
address her card, or any further communication,
to John Timon, at Mr. Kernot's bookstore, she
would confer a special favor.

I have already freely offered the use of my paper
to such persons as might feel aggrieved by any imagined
personal allusions; and it is in virtue of
this offer that I give place to a feeling letter, which
seems to have been drawn up by the counsel of the
person whose character has been unfortunately impugned.
It is needless to say, that in alluding to
Mr. Browne, (of whose name I had no knowledge
except through my friend Tophanes,) I was utterly
unconscious of doing injustice to a meritorious and
useful member of society. Far be it from me to
wound the feelings or to harm the business of any
individual whose merits are so striking and timely
as those set forth in the letter below:—least of all,
an individual whose connection with the church
should screen him from hasty or injudicious remark.
My sense of propriety, as well as what is
due to the Holy Catholic Church, would forbid.

Tophanes thinks from the style of the letter, that
it may have been drafted by a distinguished member
of the bar, Mr. B—y.

As I may have some testy correspondents in future,
who may use threats to get their letters published,

I beg to say that I have associated with me
Tophanes as a literary assistant. I shall therefore
have at command the same means of getting out of
scrapes that is now so generally adopted by the city
journals;—that is to say, in case any article may
offend a pugnacious party, I shall have only to
state `that the responsible editor was absent,—that
he deeply deplores the insertion of the offensive
paragraph,—that he has known the offended party
from boyhood, &c.'

To be sure, Fritz, I have a dislike of imitating
the contemporary journals in any matter; and it
is only in view of getting out of scrapes that
might endanger my incognito, that I should ever
presume to take advantage of a popular chicane,
which, to tell the truth, is as unworthy the dignity
of a journal, as it is bemeaning to the character of
a man.

My publisher advises me that inquiries are numerous
as to the probable length of this series of
Studies of the Town, and he asks what answer
shall be given.

Tell them, Mr. Kernot, that when my whim
changes, or the town reforms, the paper will be
stopped. And this is as safe and credible an announcement
as any in the Literary World, or the

archives of the Historical Society; and the flash
weeklies may whip it into their chit-chat syllabub,
if they can.