 | THE LORGNETTE. The lorgnette, or, Studies of the town |  |
PEOPLE IN SOCIETY.
Delassare valent Fabium.—”
Hor. i. Sat. 1. 16.
A Timon's pen, or all the Scalpel's fire.
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,
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
| THE LORGNETTE. The lorgnette, or, Studies of the town | |