University of Virginia Library

9. THE LORGNETTE.

MARCH 28. NEW-YORK. NO. 9.

It is a capital amusement for me, my dear Fritz,
to listen to the world of critical remark, which our
unpretending correspondence calls forth. But I observe
that like most criticism of the day, it is not so
much based upon anything intrinsic, as upon the
supposed capabilities and the reputation of its accredited
author. I know no finer test, indeed, of
the critical acumen of our literary anatomists, than
the submission to their hands of some such amorphous
and anonymous matter as these very papers.

Putting all their keenness to the work, they fancy
they see some man's idiosyncrasy `sticking out'
in every line, and the whole is docked off with
some popular cant of judgment, which has attached
by habit to the supposed writer's manner. It is
thus that I am running the gauntlet of a hundred
opinions, and while I have been honored with the
praise that attaches to a popular author, I find
at times my mirth vinegared with the stinging condemnation
that has swept some other unfortunate
book-maker to literary perdition.

One kind friend has assured me that he was
ready to produce irrefragable evidence, founded
on parallel passages, to prove that the Lorgnette
was written by the author of a late popular romance.
I argued the point at length with him,
suggesting that the resemblance might have been
accidental or intentional, but without avail. He
prided himself particularly on his acuteness in
those matters. Nothing, I find, is harder, than to
convince a critic against his will. When he finds
that he has done me so gratuitous honor, my only
hope is, that he will not, as is the habit with most
of our litterateurs, seek to qualify the errors that
his ignorance entails upon him, by the fertility
and profusion of his abuse.

An eminent Journalist has seen a relapse into a

good style, after putting on a worse one for novelty.
Now, for my life, I can neither see any change,
nor am conscious of any affectation. It seems to
me now, as at the beginning, a plain matter of
setting down just such whimseys as pop into my
brain, in good, old-fashioned English, available
by every well-educated man, and which even the
boarding-school mistresses cannot willfully set
their faces against. The truth is, I suspect, that
the critics and authors are so full of the tricks
of literary metamorphose, both in opinion and
style, that they have not the charity to give
any new pen-man the credit of straight-forward
honesty.

A friend (Sheridan would have called him devilish
good-natured) was most earnest in his condemnation
of the papers, as the flippant observations
of a mere boy, who, he told me, was occasional
contributor to a literary paper. Now, Heaven
knows, that I have none but the most kindly feeling
toward precocious literary boys; but if my
paper is to be credited to any of them, I humbly
entreat that they would try so far to improve their
reputations, as to render the allegation no longer a
hideous reproach.

I have ascertained, too, by occasional remark,
which has been a sort of gauge to the current of

literary criticism, that the town opinion is divided
by coteries, each one of which thinks itself the special
and heaven-appointed guardian of the national
literary interests; and, as is quite natural and
humane, each clique is tooth and nail against its
fellow. Whatever is accomplished under the
smiles of one, is reckoned the worst heresy by the
other; and the two limbs of our most excellent
Presbytery, or the `Standing Committee' and the
prayerful enemies of the Bishop, are not so sincerely
and cordially at variance, as the literary
coteries.

Now, as I am not acknowledged by any of them,
I find myself kicked about unceremoniously by all;
and am very much in the position of some unfortunately
humble Christian, who gets a fisticuff
from the Old School, because he refuses to send
babies to perdition, and a slap from the New, because
a partial believer in the old doctrine of Necessity;
while he is heartily anathematized by the
advance wing of the Mother Church, because he
doubts the regenerating influence of Croton water,
or has the impertinence to prefer a black gown to
a white one.

It amuses me not a little, to watch the pretentious
manner with which some middle-aged gentlemen
condemn me; they wear a pretty air of authority,

made good by the seductive smiles of admiring
spinsters, and sustained by a large amount
of apparent causticity and acumen. Such gentlemen
are the inoffensive Nestors of large circles of
very eager, and very moderately witted ladies.
They cherish a certain cultivated frown, and condemn
by a twist of the lip, and are very sure never
to praise any who may come within hearing of their
praise, or whose proximity might throw their own
stature into the shade. I have been myself annihilated
time and again by these gentlemen; so that
really the weekly placard in my publisher's window,
has seemed to me an impertinence toward my
critics, that has made me almost tremble for my
temerity.

Yet they are worthy, kind fellows in a quiet way,
doing little harm in the world, highly amusing to
their indulgent friends, and critical enough for all
dinner purposes; if they were ever to submit
their observations to print, they would doubtless
differ widely from those of the Lorgnette. I
should be very sorry, at any rate, to think otherwise.

There is another class of men who boast too
a nil admirari air, who cultivate assiduously a
habit of condemnation, and who maintain a great
reputation with college boys, and under law-clerks,

as `cutting fellows.' They are akin to that school
of politicians which is bent on equalizing, by pulling
back the foremost. For them, nothing is good
enough to be done; and nothing that is done, is
well done. They quarrel incessantly with society,
manners, and religion; they venture showers of
regrets that nothing is done to amend them; at
every new literary endeavor, they curl their lip;—
yet they do nothing. God forbid, Fritz, that I
should seem to urge them to any literary task, or
to become the innocent cause of deluging the town
with their efforts.

My only object is to give them this little mirror
of themselves. They maintain character by assault:
a sneer cannot be answered, therefore their
arguments are sneers. They live by spoils: they
are of a hybrid-hyena race, without much tooth,
but a great deal of claw and howl: they dig at
graves, where thoughts lie buried, and suck up with
their toothless gums the putridity — leaving the
bone behind.

Not a few ladies, `town-bred,' have put to me
the direct question of authorship: if such ladies
had been blessed with a little more of the politesse of
M. de Trobriand,[1] and I quote him below, they would

have spared a harmless old gentleman the sin of
open denial, and been quit of a breach of propriety,
which they have committed through ignorance.
Where is their gentle blood? Let me warn them
to the search.

A little, truculent, round-eyed lady, who, as I
am informed, has been practicing a thousand arts
for a long period of years, to win notice, and to
thrust herself among those she worships and hates—
the people of the ton, has condemned my papers as
silly and foolish, and its author as a stupid fellow.
Softly, my dear Madam; indeed, you must not
wince because I have unmasked your arts: by so
doing, you will only individuate yourself among
the innocent toadyists of our `great:' and your
disapproval, so far from weakening the reputation
of my paper, will, I am sure, among those who
know you best, add a laurel to my humble chaplet.

Another ci-devant belle, of worshipful memory,
whose triumph-age has now passed, leaving to her
few of the rational pleasures of the fireside, has
told me that she thought the Lorgnette very insipid;

and in an excess of indignation, had burned
the numbers. She regretted that she had not
provided herself with the `Squints;' I joined
cordially in her regret, and expressed myself certain,
that the desired work would be much more to
her taste. A belle passée, who has exhausted all
moderate means of mental excitation, and whose
vanities are sickening under the neglects that age
brings in its train, has no resource but in the
piquancy of ribaldry, or the grossness of open
license. As the passions of our merely worldly
women grow too faint for fleshly gratification, or
their charms too small to ensure it, they will inevitably
run toward the debauchery of books, and
gloat over the lusts of the pen.

These prefatory sketches are not, my dear Fritz,
foreign to my aim; they give you, well as anything
can, an idea of the currents, and opinions of our
town life. We will return now to our special portraitures.

THE FASHIONABLE LADY.

—Cowley.

The fashionable lady is born of reputable parents

—not always of genteel, or even respectable parents—but
reputable ones. Her early years are
passed variously between baby-jumpers, and wet-nurses.
While at a tender age, she is taught the
advantages of dress by becoming lessons, and by
practice in very short petticoats, and very long
white stockings, as well as a hat, shaped like an
inverted slop-bowl, with proper quantity of ribbon
and flowers—to match. She toddles out in frills,
small sun-shade, and white gloves, with a shrewd
nurse, who has an eye `for folks what is folks;'
and she may frequently be seen, with her nose
curiously flattened against the window of her
mother's coach.

She is taught early the impropriety of going out
alone, or of democratic, and careless association
with the neighbors' children. Her toy-books are
well selected; and her library is specially rich in
those, which, as the advertisement says, have given
unfeigned delight to their numerous Royal Highnesses
— the children of Victoria. By these the
young fashionable lady is supposed to gain right
ideas about aristocracy of sentiment, and courtly
proprieties. She is, moreover, favored with the
moral teaching and talking of a femme de chambre,
nominally from Paris, but literally, and pronunciation-ly,
from the Auvergne.

She is taught to look with proper languishment
upon little fashionable boys, and makes early acquaintance
with a cheap, second-story hair-dresser.
She is taken to Grace Church in her best hat and
gloves,—is pinched to kneel, and pinched again to
incline herself prettily in the confession. She is
told what a charming Christian place it is—is indoctrinated
as to the ends and aims of such a delightful
religious assembly-room, and is taught to
look, with becoming feelings of pity, upon such
poor outcast creatures as go to other churches.

She spends four years at school—the most expensive
accessible—where she learns that Europe
is quite populous and gay;—that America is yet in
its infancy;—that republic is the name of our government;—that
Franklin drew down philosophy
from heaven, with a small kite-string;—that tricotage
is of many sorts; and that literature consists
mainly of Tennyson's poems, Byron's tales,
Shakespeare, Professor Longfellow, Tupper's Philosophy,
and Mister Tuckerman.

She learns collaterally, that the French is the
court language, and so, very desirable, — that
the Latin is technically `dead,'—that the waltz
and polka are of the same family, and that
the chief end of man is to get houses, and to
behusband women. She is further taught, at a

surprisingly early age, the nature and uses of fans,
of beaux, of chemisettes, of gloves, the comparative
effects of plaid and stripes, the disposition of cuffs,
and the chemical nature of perfumery and amandine.
She catches early at the distinction between
moustache and whiskers, and has a correct general
idea of sack-coats and imperials.

She is put, at a certain stage of her educational
career, under the charge of some literary gentleman
of quick wit and persuasive address, who expounds
to her fine passages of the poets, and important
epochs in history; all which is presented in an
attractive chit-chat shape, admirably adapted to
the ends in view.

She graduates in a pretty hat, with a deft use
of the fan, a passable familiarity with French table-talk,
an Italian song or two, a smart capacity
for purse-knitting, a general idea of the geographical
divisions of the globe, and some few axioms of
political economy:—such as, that money is necessary
to luxury—that lace has a tendency to become
soiled—that the best gloves are manufactured in
Paris—that campbene will clean them, and that
the law of divorce is a sort of moral make-shift.

Now comes on her age of practice,—practice of
French talk, piano practice, practice of coquetries,
waltzing practice, and Christian practice. In each

of these she has practical professors, well taught,
of the highest prices, and fully equal to their business.
They will perfect a young lady of parts, in a
surprisingly short time.

Her `coming out,' if adroitly managed, will be
a very taking card: it should not be too early or
too late, and will depend much on the strength,
height, and bodily capacity of the subject—on the
views of the advising aunts, and on the comparative
attractions and prospects of elder sisters. Thus,
a female member of a family, who has reached the
age of twenty-five, without inspiring any very tender
emotions, would do well to keep a junior sister
in pantalets, as long as propriety or prudery will
allow. If fairly `engaged' before the age specified,
a year or two may be safely docked off from her
sister's probationary, and small-girl state. In the
case of several sisters whose looks are not killingly
captivating, the youngest will be apt to fare like
Cinderella in the ash-heap, and will run a sad
chance of nursery-tails, and short dresses, up to an
unfortunate maturity.

The `coming out' will indeed sometimes depend
on the mental development and age of the individual,
and more rarely upon the common sense of the
parties. Great preparations must be made, and
assiduous efforts to secure the presence of certain

well-known leaders of the ton. There will be conferences
with Martel, and distinguished chaperon
spinsters—to say nothing of those enterprising gentlemen,
Messrs. Browne and Weller.

If the mamma has the misfortune to be merely
respectable, the fashionable young lady will gain
upon her by wide steps, and comes soon to regard
her with due sentiments of pity. She instructs her
mother as to what soirées she had better attend,
and gives her discretionary advice about remaining
in the corner. She puts forward all her powers of
fascination, to attach to herself fashionable young
men; and though at first, she will find herself
obliged to dance with very indifferent persons who
are `not much in society,' she must yet be discreet
in her refusals at this early stage of her career.

A little extra freedom in the waltz, if gracefully
caught, will not harm her prospects, but will rather
add a piquancy to her style, which if duly cultivated
may come to counterbalance the most uninteresting
face in the world. She should not be immeasurably
shocked at any double entendres she
may hear, but should credit them to a higher state
of fashionable culture than she has yet reached.
She might safely bear in mind, in this connection,
the advice Madame de Sevigné gives her daughter:
`Tachez non enfant, de vous ajuster aux mœurs et

aux manieres des gens avec qui vous avez à vivre;
ne vous degoutez point de ce qui n'est que mediocre;
faites vous un plaisir de ce qui n'est pas ridicule.'

As town fashion, like the town literature, is divided
into numerous conflicting cliques, she would
do well to select the most promising, and attach
herself firmly to it. This she can easily do by
lavishing very special praises upon all its members,
and still better, by hearty abuse of any rival clique.
It will not be reckoned indeed (as the opinion
runs), any great sacrifice of dignity, if she should
become the attachée of some enterprising lady of
fashion, whose suppers are good, whose balls are
splendid, whose religion is fair, and whose position
is undoubted.

The summer campaign, if rightly directed, will
be of essential service. She can easily ascertain,
by a little careful observation, the probable current
of the more fashionable `sets;' and she will throw
herself, inadvertently as it were, into the drift.
The United States at Saratoga, the Ocean House at
Newport, and the Pavilion of Sharon, are upon the
whole safe places, and much may be effected in the
incipient stages of fashionable growth, at either one.
Still she must be careful of her times; a visit too
early in the Summer might do her serious damage,

and an arrival just previous to the height of the
season will work capitally well.

She should be cautious, however, of meeting any
shabby country friends at either place; and to this
end, should carry on an active correspondence for a
week or two in advance, with her country cousins
—engaging to meet them late in the season. A
thin old lady in calico, who says, `our folks,' or a
young man who dresses in a flimsey, black dresscoat
of a morning, who carries a baggy cotton umbrella,
and who blows his nose on the `stoop,' with
a `silk handkercher,' might do her serious damage.

She should also be quite sure that she will not
be overtopped,—that is, that she will not be `cut'
by any established habitué; rather than expose herself
to such deterioration, she would do well to
postpone her visit. If the Papa, in any matter-of-fact
way, sets his face against an expenditure he
cannot afford, and proves deaf to all entreaties for
the `Springs,' she must change her tactics; in that
case she would do well to speak deprecatingly of
the fashionable places, as being altogether `too
mixed,'—drop hints about barbers, and bar-tenders
in moustache,—`no knowing who one will fall in
with,'—`for her part she cannot bear it!' If this
is well executed, it will be very telling.

If a fancy ball should take place within her permission,

she will select such dress as bears a fair
stamp of gentility, by having been already honored
with the wearing of some lady of distinction. She
will farther, by dint of a few coy and well-covered
hints to a gentleman friend, who knows the Express
writers, accidentally make their acquaintance;
and then, her Saracco and boudoir education has
been surely very poor, if she do not so beguile the
poor devils with her dance and smiles, as to secure
for herself a charming period about taper ancles,
and bust of Hebe, which will, of course, set her up
for the winter.

Her preparatives for the town season must be directed
with care and energy. Dress, she should
be slow to decide upon until the `leaders' have given
their orders; and by a proper intimacy (spiced with
free use of money) with Miss Lawson, she will
learn in advance what Mesdames So-and-so have
ordered, and will, by a singular coincidence, hit
upon the same. No wide difference from the popular
standard will be advisable, unless indeed, the
lady set up for an eccentric, or have recently returned
from abroad; and even in the latter case,
there will be needed a strong savor of previous respectability,
and good connections, to legitimatize
any outré trimmings of either hat or cloak. With
the vantage ground, however, of established position,

an extravagance will be smiled upon, and the
`second rates' will be taught by conspicuous example,
that the popular idea, that Paris ladies
adapt their fashions of dress to the style of the
wearer, is a great mistake.

The Opera must not be forgotten; whatever may
be one's love of music, it would be well to cultivate
a slight knowledge of the operatic art, a familiarity
with the more popular pieces, and effective criticisms
upon the different musical composers. If the
fashionable lady has been abroad, all this will be
at once presumed, and her air of indifference will be
the most naïve in the world. She must, moreover,
secure a bevy of tonnish visitors at her box; nothing
short of it will sustain her rank. For instance,
it would be well to make sure d'avance of at least
one unmistakeable moustache, one journalist, one
foreigner, one `handsome' man, one `clever' man,
one young professional man of creditable position,
and a husband who is understood to be on uneasy
terms with his wife. A boy in wide white cravat
may be treated with provoking carelessness; and a
polka dancer of doubtful grace, should be met with
equal indifference. A country cousin, who happens
to be in town, should be tolled off with a free
ticket to a concert.

If sure of the place, and has seen a particular air

applauded at the Queen's Theatre, she may clap
her hands, when all around are gossiping; unless
indeed, some lady of foreign birth should be near,
who would remark the exception. The fashionable
lady, if well instructed, will not be astonished at
any strange burst of music, or any eccentricities of
the singers. Indeed, she will never manifest surprise,
except when saluted cordially by some lady of
an under set. She will look patronizingly toward
young ladies of `family,' and regard only through
her opera-glass, the beauties who are not yet `in
society.'

After a winter or two of such experience, and
an open acquaintance with gentlemen of acknowledged
fashion, she can cast off the leading string
of her chaperons, and live her own life of fashion,
as proudly, and reasonably independent, as the
belly-full beggar in the play;—

Meantime, she is not supposed to be insensible
(few ladies are) to the virtues and necessities of a
husband. Three seasons of single life display, if
the face wears well, are the minimum for a fashionalady;

and as for the maximum, I fear I should
offend some very tender friends of mine, by even
hinting at its period.

When the matter, however, really becomes serious,
there must be a concentration of effort on the
part of our fashionable lady, to which her past life
has been altogether a stranger. It will not do at
all to retain the old flippancy when talking with
bald-headed bachelors of a certain age, who are
understood to be living on `their means.'

It will be well, moreover, to practice a little self-denial
in the polka, and not wear so languishing
an air with the young bucks, when the marriageable
gentlemen are looking on. She may even venture,
on extraordinary occasions, to abandon the
polka altogether, and her church virtues (not always
Christian ones) should, in view of marriage,
be punctiliously attended to. Of course, she will
have a running knowledge of `expectancies,' and
will detect easily how far the candidate is of a compliant
and yielding disposition. A little eminence
of position by marriage with a lion, is not to be
overlooked by the fashionable lady; but if she have
sober judgment in the matter, she will see that it
is infinitely better to become the lion herself, by
overtopping the husband, and by possession of
abundant means.

Having through papa negotiated the preliminary
terms of a `brilliant match,' she appears at careless
exhibitory intervals, upon the public walks of
the town, never forgetting herself so much as to
show a spark of enthusiasm, and never so natural
as to indulge in regrets.

The wedding is the occasion for picking up and
cementing together, by engraved reception cards,
the dispersed fashionable elements which belong to
the respective `sets' of both parties. The ceremony
must not be without its eclat. The bridal presents,
disposed with a proper eye to our growing Republican
magnificence, will make the talk of the boudoir
and salon; and the lace veil of the church,
and some manifest extravagances of dress, will give
chat material to gaping lookers-on, and the showy
finish to a `City Item.'

And yet, Fritz,—such is the morale of our town—
you shall find that this very item eulogist, who will
panegyrize the splendor of the ceremony, the magnificence
of the dresses, the style of the equipages,
to purchase a familiar nod, or possibly an invitation
to a `crush' of the winter, will, in his private
mood, vapor lustily against the town-worship of
wealth, and the bestiality of that appreciation
which measures everything by its capacity for display.
Such is the sincerity and purpose of our censors

of public taste; bowing the Baal knee to every
manifestation of wealth, where the obeisance may
stand them in small stead, and loosening their pentup
vanities only in the bar-rooms, and in the street,
against the wretched artificiality of our distinctions.
In private, they are cynics; and in print,
the veriest lick-spittles of us all!

God forbid, Fritz, that you in your luxurious
country quarters, should see in all this, a covert
sneer at wealth; in our country it must long be,
and properly is a great measurer of force; and by
force, I mean character, talent, activity, and mental
leverage. It is the forerunner, too, of those comforts
and that indulgence which give time and room
for cultivation; it is the grand furnace-warmer of
those nursery-beds from which sprout up the tropical
crop of refined luxuries. But in Heaven's name,
let us honor it, for what it is, and not for what it is
not; most of all, let us avoid that particular fallacy
which sees in wealth the essence, and not the
provocative of refinement.

It would be invidious, as well as fill too much
space, to say how many in our town are essentially
and brutally vulgar, in the possession of ample fortune:
how many are making brilliant show with
equipages and with coats-of arms—listening with
fashionable earnestness to the hand-organ-like lectures

of Mr. Lord, and who are yet as ignorant of
Abelard as of modesty, and whose library books
are but painted backs. What would you say, too,
to foul crockery and cotton napkins, within a palace
of freestone, or to the vulgarity of that wealth, which
seeks only the outward and flagrant means of addressing
the money-worshiping eye, and which is
satisfied with the stare and livery of ignorant coachmen,
as the most grateful incense to its deity, and
with the sickly mention of pamphleteers and newspaper
item, as the sweetest token of its honor?

It would be odious, too, to mention how much of
this very pabulum that feeds display, has been
gained by most deceptive practices—not, indeed,
coming within the court calendar of villanies, but
that worthier and more honorable list of chicaneries,
which are too mean to have been anticipated
by law-givers, and which even our New Code men,
with all their quickness at littlenesses, did not believe
the race to have been capable.

To be sure, there is a hatred of wealth, due to the
smallest of our litterateurs, who boast of refinement
without possessing any trace of that fine soul-thread
of gentleness, running with every nerve, and which
constitutes the life-artery of thorough breeding.
This I will cordially join you in condemning, and
with God's help, will do what is in my power to

dissipate that prurient affectation of superiority,
which the reading of current books, familiarity with
newspaper columns, and an unscholarly handling
of the pen induces—but which is without the saving
virtue of that high and true soul-refinement,
which must lie deep-seated in the man—which
must have had its office in every step of his education,
and in every shadow of his action; and which
will make his bearing and his words as unmistakeable
as the presence of genius.

But we are losing sight of our fashionable lady.
With marriage, her best life of show is only begun.
She can now run riot in a thousand frivolities
without periling her chance. Her ambition,
which before may have been bounded by some
vague traditions of virginal delicacy, is now wide
in its range. Yet withal she will be punctilious in
her church duties; she may even wear a matronly
air; and will be specially coy of manifesting any
vulgar attachment to her husband or household.
She is now mistress of her establishment, and it
will be the fault or failing of her husband's commerce,
if it do not shine with all those attractions
which decoy the vagrant peacocks of the hour.

A little whispered license will add zest to her
company, and bring her sociale nearer to the
Parisian standard. Perhaps a European tour, by

post, a smuggled ticket to Torlonia's, and a cultivated
intimacy with such Paris society, as will welcome
money, and will pay in the loose coin of social
teaching, and the piquant equivoques of conversational
intrigue, will open her eyes wider to the
mysteries and delights of higher fashion.

Perhaps with some faint remnants of a better
feeling, tracing its beginnings to a comparatively
harmless childhood, she will sigh at the vanities
which surround her, and the deceptions which
mock the little sense of truth that remains;[3] but
there is no escape; the distinguished husband, the
leader of the ton, has got no ear for the foolish
confidences of a repining lady, or for the sharputtered
sentiments of disgust, which their common
life has ripened. She is bound by brazen bands to
a set—the first set—which has demands upon her,
unceasing and regular, for her quota of the stimuli
of fashionable action.

So she lives, staving off age long as she can,
with all the appliances of a quickened and nervously
unquiet ingenuity; but time will press her, and
will, before long, strand her withered and colorless
hulk upon the beach of age; her silken sails will flap
idly against the rotting spars, and will fill no longer

under the breath of fashionable applause; all
the kedges of her golden cables will not drag her
back to the stream of popular favor.

At length she dies; she is buried by the gentlemanly
sexton, who has so ably superintended her
parties; she is honored, perhaps, with a patent
metallic sarcophagus, and goes—where?

Where should she go (if it is not impertinent to
ask), to culminate that life which has had its careful
beginnings here? Where shall she mature
those projects of town rank, those pretty polka devices,
those studies of street display, which have
been the aim of her mortal wishes? I wonder if
the pretty light of the Grace Church windows will
reach high enough to light her, or the carriages at
the door be stanch enough to carry her, of themselves,
all the way to heaven? The Devil, surely,
with all his malice, will not overlook the claims of
those who have been laboring through a long life
for a position in the `first society;' and he will,
without doubt, give invitations for the most recherché
of his evening parties, to very many of our
`leaders of the ton.'

Seriously, Fritz,—what benevolence, what rational
action, what generous self-denying endeavor,
will help our fashionable lady toward that
species of future happiness which, however the

Doctors may disagree, is very sure not to be made up
precisely, of Forti's singing, or Saratoga Springs?
Under which item of the `Sermon on the Mount'
shall we reckon her dawning chances? Upon
what text shall the Doctor preach her funeral
culogy? John Timon offers this from the Psalms;—
(and if the Doctors were as honest as they are politic,
they could not find a better)—`They have
dreamed out their dream, and awakening, have
found nothing in their hands!'

I leave it all, Fritz, the text, the woman, and
the `improvement,' to the preacher;—not the elegant
preacher of a fashionable assemblage, nor the
respectable preacher of a Presbyterian hierarchy,
nor the absolution of a political Bishop, nor the
moral novels of a seceding clergyman, but with the
best preacher of all — the individual conscience.
And if our fashionable lady has not smothered his
talk already, let her listen while she can.

This is uncommonly sober talk, my dear Fritz,
for an Opera-goer; but, remember, that we are
breathing now in the breast of Lent; and the
gray hairs, and the fleeting time warn me, that
such talk may not `fall to the ground,' even in
the careless pages of a gossiping essayist.