University of Virginia Library

12. THE LORGNETTE.

APRIL 24. NEW-YORK. NO. 12.

The sick Tiberius was never at more loss to know
in what humor he should address the Roman Senate,
than I to discover what topic will best suit my
town-readers. Not a few have suggested that I
give further sketches of the Opera, with dainty
episodes upon the extravagances of dress, and inuendoes
which would touch here and there along
the range of boxes. I have been advised that such
and such persons, by virtue of some moral obliquity,
were fair game, and that the scandal of the
exhibition, if ornamented with the quiet simplicity

of my narrative, would add hugely to the name and
repute of my work. One is represented as having
forgotten the duties of a wife, and even the moral
dignity of a mother. Another, it is said, has by
common assent, perverted all her womanly delicacy;
and by a series of eccentricities, which as John
Tyler would say, are `conterminous' with immorality,
has rendered herself the fair, and deserving
target of all a penman's arrows. But if kind
advisers would allow me, Vice is not always to be
determined by its most palpable exhibition: and
John Timon, in the course of his life, has seen
enough to show that Virtue may sometimes lie
hidden under the idiosyncrasies of native wanton,
and that all the sanctiomonious airs of a vestryman,
or a deacon, may cover the lusts that spring
from the devil.

Another most goodly patron has suggested to
my publisher, that the church quarrels, which, unfortunately,
are not rare, would offer capital topic
for what they were pleased to call, the flowing
periods of Timon. And very many who have little
to boast of, except a hankering after scandal, have
urged upon me the adoption of something more of
personality and directness of issue; and have
covered up their cravings under the softly charge,
that my papers were `too gentlemanly.'

Is it not sadning, my dear Fritz, to believe that
the town-taste is so set on edge with the vinegar of
such as push their writings to the furthest edge of
delicacy, that no modest and subdued discourse
upon the social habits of the day, can be received
with any relish whatever? Where, in the name
of Heaven, are we running, when modesty must
hide its face, and when the gross scandal of a
divorce trial, or the brutal developments of our city
police, make up the entertainment of those who
read, and of those who guide our taste? Answer
me, Fritz,—is popularity worth enough that a man
should fling behind him social proprieties, and fraternize
with the lewd panders to our growing appetite
for scandal and immodesty?

Must I, to make my letters `taking,' abandon
the better impulses which belong to me as a plain
country gentleman,—duck to the habit of the town,
and offend against those proprieties, by which alone
I know how to set valuation on society?

I know, Fritz, that I lose much by forbearance;
when the personalities of scurrilous paragraphists
are read with unction, how can a simple talker
about popular extravagances be listened to with
any degree of attention? They who have surfeited
their appetites on leeks and onions, will surely turn

up their noses at the mustard and oil of even a
well-dressed salad.

Indeed, were I to attempt to give to my papers
what my good critics would call the spice of personal
invective, it would require far more art than
I am possessed of, to steer adroitly between the host
of conflicting social jealousies, and to be sure of
winning kind consideration of one party, by hearty
abuse of another. Madame Dolittle might be intensely
gratified if I were to give the public a
tricksy portraiture of her rival, but most kind
friend, the Dowager Nettleton; and the interesting
Miss Squibbs would very likely laugh incontinently
at any sketch of what she reckons the improprieties,
or the genteel pretensions of her pretty neighbors.
Those whose moderate intelligence serves as a sort
of bar to any literary reunions, would thank me
kindly for painting some rubicund young lady declaiming
before a select circle, her own sonnets, or
a page of Mr. Tupper; and Miss Homely would be
delighted at my exhibition of some scandalous expose
of her pretty friend, in a private tableau.
People who make up their virtue out of a plain
carriage, and their religion out of two sermons a
week, would bid me, perhaps, God-speed, in reproducing
the heraldry of their coach-driving friends,

and in puncturing the windy morality which is
blown up by pretty-mouthed preachers, and guarded
by imposing ceremonial.

The small crities who give proof of head and
tongue by overmuch snarling, and who draw public
attention by their yelps at the heels of the great,
would very likely give me an encouraging snuffle,
if I were to join them in their canine pursuits; and
all the women of pliable virtue would honor me
with abundance of smiles, if I were to attempt detraction
of the pure and high-minded.

But while thinking to gain ground, I might be
inadvertently a great loser; and scratch deep,
where I only thought to curry favor. Prudence,
as well as propriety, forbids then, my dear Fritz,
that I should enter upon any invidious, personal
strictures; those who love such topic are referred
to the sources which are kindred with their tastes;
they will find none of it here; my mask shall not
be abused for any stealthy strokes; and whoever
worries his vanity with the thought of personal
injury, shall, upon due authentication of his griefs,
find a man to answer him.

But in virtue of those kind friends who are so
tenderly solicitous that a little more of the caustic
should be applied, and who are plainly of opinion
that personal sketches would derogate in no degree

from the character for propriety, which my paper
sustains, I have determined to note down their
names; and whenever, in the aggregate, they shall
present such a pretty range of characteristics as to
tempt my pen, they shall be honored with particular
attention: and thus, modestly, and without intention,
they will become the heroes and heroines of
their own suggestion. A half dozen such are
already on my list, but thus far I am compelled to
say, that their vanities are so small, and their
vices of so common-place a character, that they
will not avail to point a period, even with the most
dexterous of handling. But let them not live
without hope; common-places are sometimes remarkable
by aggregation, and even niasérie has its
heroes.

AUTHORS AND AUTHORLINGS.

—Young.

I have said, Fritz, that modesty would belong
to my remarks on literary men, or matters; but
what reviewer, from Mr. Brownson to Dr. Griswold,
was ever modest? It is a quality that does

not belong to the craft; and the moment that my pen
touches paper, to give you some of the characteristics
of our literary men, all my efforts to sustain
a proper degree of humility vanish most strangely.
But if all sense of modesty is lost, I shall be at
least kept in countenance by the herd of town
critics, not one of whom but thinks himself as
capable of analyzing the most abstruse theory
in metaphysics, as of dividing into stops the full
chorus of the Opera.

Should I so far forget myself, as to speak of the
works of town-writers with an air of levity, and a
tone of judgment which would seem to bespeak a
higher power, and a finer eye in the critic, than in
the author, let the audacity be credited where it
properly belongs—to a slight infection with the
critical rabies, and not to the impertinence of a
humble country gentleman. It is possible that a
little lurking desire to gratify my vanity impels
me; for there is scarcely a better way that a vain
man can take, to raise himself to a fair literary
level, than by so lowering the platform on which
stand the literary tribe, as to make his humble
position less apparent. Nor is this pulling down
of the platform, effected as I find, so much by open
abuse, as by a wonderfully nice critical analysis,
a few kind words, a happy familiarity of expression,

and such other means as may go to show
the critic fully capable of judging, and even rich
enough to fling out a few tid-bits of praise.

Indeed, had I ambition for authorship, further
than editing these occasional papers, I do not know
how I could so well make a respectable name as by
respectable abuse and praise of the living town-authors;
this would gain one credit with the publishing
craft, and would ensure abundance of applications
to edit the works of dead writers, and to
write prefaces to the works of the new-born. Moreover,
I should be very sure of purchase at the hands
of the authors themselves, (and this would make
no inconsiderable sale,) who are as crazily anxious
to know what is said of them, as a woman of doubtful
position. I could count safely, too, on the praises
of all the authors I had seemed to commend, and
on the hearty abuse of the rest. Better aids than
these to a `town run' could hardly be desired.

Our book-reading world has, I find, its periodic
fevers of literary fancy, a sort of author choleramorbus,
which leaves the public mind in a very
debilitated condition; nor does it operate much
more favorably upon the writer; since it reduces
him in most instances to a state of sad depletion,
if not of decided collapse.

As illustrative of this, you will remember, I

think, Fritz, a furor which some years ago attended
the publication of a book called `The Glory and
the Shame of England,' but which so completely
exhausted itself by excess of effusion, that a biography
of Sam. Houston, and the rich elaboration of
a most extraordinary `Ivory Cross,' could not
wholly revive it. The `Gallery of distinguished
Americans,' with fairly done lithographs, in lieu of
engravings, will make a better hit, it is to be hoped,
than the discharge upon the Texan President;—
as much more effective, in short, as a revolver than
a single barrel. Our distinguished men will surely
not be so ungrateful as to withhold some reasonable
`reward of merit.'

Again, not long since, about the period of the
publication of `Napoleon and his Marshals,' the
public was sadly affected with a kind of battle and
thunder delirium, which did not abate until after
very much blood-letting, and a quieting dose of the
Sacred and profane (Adirondack) Mountains. Those
who were most sadly under the influence of the
delirium, have endeavored to give the best possible
evidence of recovery, by heaping inordinate, and
most undeserved abuse upon the unfortunate author,
who so little time ago, bewitched them with
the force and vigor of his language. The name of
this author has been occasionally associated by

some over-shrewd ones with the Lorgnette. It is
surely not a little droll that suspicion of any martial
propensities should attach to the rustic plainness
of Timon; let the wiseacres pick me out, if they
can, a musket, a general, or a Sinai, in the whole
range of my papers.

The Tupper fever has become almost chronic,
but it is not now in so active a state of eruption
as a year or two since; its outbreak was attributed
to an inoculation by Mr. Willis, through the medium
of a little vaccine matter supplied by the
Home Journal. It is now understood to be confined
chiefly to school-girls, and literary young women.
It was a remarkable symptom of this disorder that
those afflicted with it were accustomed, in their
moments of delirium, to confound Martin Farquhar
Tupper with Solomon, an ancient king of the Jews;
the proverbial philosophy was bound up by church
bookbinders, and even now may be seen on the
tables of some afflicted sufferers, lying between the
Prayer Book, and the Psalms of David.

There was at one time serious danger of a Festus
outbreak; but either from the length of Mr. Bailey's
poem, or some other cause which has not come to
light, the danger has gone by; and the naive advice
of Satan, and his piquant colloquies with Mr. Festus
Bailey, are confined to scattered private rehearsals.

The truth is, Satanic colloquies are so frequent
now-a-days that no one can make a joke of
their novelty; and though comparatively few barristers
can talk to the devil as well as the barrister
Bailey, yet they make up amply by familiarity.
what they lack in elegance.

The Jane Eyre malady amounted to an epidemic,
and has sustained its ground, notwithstanding all
the efforts of the doctors, to this time. The authoress
is rapidly accumulating a stock of enthusiasm on
this side of the water, which, if it do not previously
explode, will by and by secure her a suite of rooms
at the Irving, a confectioner's image of the maniac
wife, and a classic ode from the Brigadier Morris,
about the Cyclop Fairfield, and the adorable Bronte!

The Typee disorder was a novel one, of uncertain
character, until clearly defined and made cognizable
by a London issue of the book of Mr. Melville.
It attacked with peculiar virulence adventurous
school-boys, and romantic young ladies who have
an eye for nature. At one time, shortly after the
publication of Mardi, the disorder assumed a threatening
malignancy, and patients were given over in
despair to the chrono-thermal and homœopathic
treatment. Latterly, however, the types have
changed, and Peregrine Pickle and Robinson Crusoe,
are safe cures for Redburn and White Jacket.

A highly contagious literary disease broke out
not long since upon the appearance of a book called
the `Lady Alice.' It was supposed at first, from
the highly conscientious and Evangelical views
entertained by its publishers, to be of a religious
order, and not calculated to heat much blood out
of the pale of the true Church. It was found, however,
to produce almost a frenzy, which rapidly
overleaped all ecclesiastical barriers, and crept into
every denomination of readers and thinkers. The
worthy publishers undoubtedly felt some twinges
of conscience at their evangelical error, and made
such atonement as was in their power, by the issue
of a cheap edition.

A cheek which was for a time imposed upon it
by the superveyors of the Church, was found only
to `scatter' the disorder, and produce a general
eruption upon the literary surface of society. The
exquisite moral teachings of the book were enforced
by most happy example; and its religious character
was at once picturesque and artistic. It offered
pretty inside views of the highly advanced state of
European society, and of the artless blending of
nature, morals, and religious æsthetics. It offered
tempting footing for a new step in our social progress;
and while it will multiply worthily the
number of crosses, oratories, and confessional boxes,

it will undoubtedly refine, in a corresponding degree,
the foolish rigidity of an old-fashioned, Bible morality.

Los Gringos, careless, slipshod, uneasy, yet with
a swift, invigorating canter, was rather in the
nature of a St. Vitus' dance, and could scarcely be
considered anything more than a cutaneous affection.
Under the warm treatment, and pleasantly
sweetened, mucilaginous drinks of the Home Journal
and De Trobriand's Revue, it will probably have
no very serious effects.

A kind of African fever, accompanied with great
debility, broke out on the appearance of Kaloolah;
its types were not unlike the Typee affection, and
will probably yield to the same treatment. The
author has been credited, I understand, in some
quarters, (much to my honor) with the editing of
the Lorgnette; but I would advise him, as he
values the integrity of those peculiar manifestations
which have followed upon his practice, and more
than all, as he cherishes his brilliant reputation for
chivalrous adventure with the colored woman of
Africa, to repel indignantly the charge.

St. Leger was spasmodic, but not so serious in
its manifestations, as might have been expected by
the reiterated warnings held out by the `Knickerbocker'
quarantine. As a book, St. Leger is

remarkable for short sentences, short chapters,
German names, and Greek extracts. Though it
has not created a run of fever, it has peculiarities
of type, and an individualism of character, which
will be well worth a report in the next annual
account of our Dunglinson of literature—Dr. Griswold.

There are beside, a multitude of authors, whose
works, so far from breeding any sudden epidemic,
are most sedative in their operations; such writers
are nice to an exception, and are respectable almost
to a virtue. Their influence may be likened (to
carry out our medical typography) to a mild
influenza, characterized by frequent sneezings, to
which old ladies are peculiarly subject, and easily
curable by a little hot catmint, or a blue stocking
applied to the neck.

Among these authors, Mr. T—n may be said
to hold a place of proud eminence. Others would
fairly escape notice, and the symptoms which follow
upon their attack, would scarce be cognizable,
without the acute discernment of that highly respectable
literary practitioner, Dr. Griswold. He
can be cordially commended to the humbler members
of the literary profession, as a safe observer,
and one whose faculty of auscultation is most
minute. Would you believe it, my dear Fritz, that

such laurels have been pinned to my ears, as the
association of my papers with this Coryphæus of
letters! I blush to find myself in the enviable
light; and to have become by the mere accident of
suspicion, the cynosure of admiring eyes!

The Willis affection is decidedly organic; and
the varieties in its manifestation, have been as
inconsiderable, as the changes in the types of the
infecting matter. Thus we have had Pencillings,
Inklings, Dashes, Glimpses, Ruralities, and People I
have Met, all pleasantly running together; and
any given quantity of which needs only the spice
of a prefatory chapter, and a variation upon his
most pliant name, to have the periodic run of a
fashionable fever. It is surely no little commendation
of an author, when by mere change of plate,
or dressing, the public will devour his old dishes
with as much gout, as the freshest meats of the
new writers. How his matter will be served up
next, and whether under imprimatur of N. P. W.,
or N. P. Willis, or N. Parker Willis, it would be
quite unsafe to predict. Indeed, Mr. W.'s supple
art of words renders it impossible to hazard any guess
whatever; and I should not be greatly surprised if
he were to change the name altogether, without at
all destroying its integral character.

Mr. Willis has certainly amused and instructed,

in his way, a greater number of men, women, and
children, within the last ten years, than almost
any man on this side of the Atlantic; and his name
is as familiar (I speak of the family name, and not
the titular one) in eigar-shops and journalism, as it
is in libraries, and the boudoir. How many of his
readers he has improved in moral habit,—to how
many he has given the pabulum for stirring and
healthful thought, bracing up their nerves for hard
work, and quickening them into honest endeavor,
it would be very immodest in me to answer. How
much he might have done, none can tell better
than himself. Utility is surely not the prevailing
characteristic of his writings; and he will hardly
hope to be enrolled among the reformers of the
age, whatever may become of his friends, Horace
Greeley, Cornelius Matthews, or Dr. Griswold.

He is among the keenest of observers; and yet
he might voyage through California, seeing nothing
more than lack of ladies, and shabby toilettes; or
he might make the north-west passage, and note
only the icebergs and the northern lights. Yet not
a better man could be found to bring away those
minute observations of old countries which would
go to show their social complexion, and the condition
and habit of their civilization. After all,
whatever particular qualities may be wanting,

critical analysis cannot impair the individuality of
his talent; and genius will be sure to leave a light
in its wake, whichever way it may steer.

You will smile, Fritz, at the compliment, yet
some wise ones have attributed our correspondence
to this prince of paragraphists. Now, with due
courtesy and modesty be it said, I cannot believe
that the piquant leaders of the Home Journal, and
the spice islands of his reading, would leave him
margin enough, either of time or industry, to throw
together the score of pages which light up each
week your solitude. Nor can I find any trace of
those prettily perplexed interchangements of phrase
which are the charm of Home Journalists,—nor
any of those light running similes which slide
through his periods, like a sunbeam through a leafy
thicket.

I am not conscious (and the public will acquit
me) of any of those waving sinuosities of expression
which belong to his language; and on which
you are borne along—now up, now down,—like a
boat floating over the swells of ocean. Here are
none of those easy convolutions of words, which
make the column of his type wind amid his subject-matter,
like a Kaloolah serpent gliding through
tropic foliage.

Mr. McCracken is a gentleman, who, though

not widely known to type, is by no means without
his town admirers. A little disposition that
belongs to him, to play Timon—not in the wood,
but in the palace,—has called up his name in connection
with my papers; and I am led to infer
from all that can be learned, that the allegation
should be accepted as a compliment. It costs very
little to give compliments in the dark, as every plain
woman knows; and while making due acknowledgments
for the honor done me, I would at the same
time caution those who are quite positive that the
authorship lies in that quarter, (Judge B—
among the rest) against multiplying immoderately
their wagers.

Mr. Carl Benson (Bristed) has come in for a share
of the Lorgnette honor; for which it is understood
that his high classical attainments would amply
qualify him and, indeed, entirely ensure the paper
against any unfortunate errors of citation. You
know, Fritz, that I make no scholarly pretensions,
and that the trick of the pen is not old enough with
me, to render my lapsi pennœ either unusual, or
singular. Pray, Mr. B—, is it Seneca, who
says,—

With all gratitude to those who have attributed

my observations to the erudite, and irate antagonist
of a distinguished professor, it is yet a source of
regret, that even stray citations from classic authors,
should have turned the current of susicion
toward a scholar, and so induced the belief with
any, that these letters smack more of the closet
than of the world. The public may return Mr.
Benson to his special patronage of Catullus, and
`fast trotters,' and acquit him thoroughly of any
inaccuracies which have crept into the letters of
Timon.

Mr. R. G. White is a musical critic of the town,
a gentleman, as I am informed, of fair taste, and
considerable observation. Though not enrolled in
the Griswold galaxy of authors, he will yet come
under head of `authorling,' and has been honored
with a clay statuette. Though not over familiar
with his works, yet I am content to take the verdict
of the town-public in reckoning him a writer of
shrewdness, tact, and elegance—the more especially,
Fritz, since he is your reputed correspondent.

It would appear that he is an adept with an
opera-glass, and should know much of the goings
on in our brilliant town-world; at least so much of
it as appears within the doors of the Opera-house.
But he is, after all, I fancy, much too fond of his

fiddle, and the composers, to have entered upon any
such employment, as has been gratuitously assigned
him.

Mr. Ik. Marvell (Mitchell) has also come in for
a share of the suspicion; and although, perhaps, I
ought to feel flattered by the association of my
work with the name of either author or authorling,
yet it does really seem that my unpretending, and
straightforward sentences show very little to evidence
the same paternity with the contortions and
abruptnesses of the `Battle Summer.' To say the
least of it, my errors against grammar have not been
willful; and my arrangement of style has not looked
toward the quackery of dramatic effect.

Yet withal the compliment is acknowledged,
since the same gentleman has written a most
creditable book of travels, which of an idle hour,
will repay a second reading. Mr. Marvell is certainly
a promising young man, and with thus much
of compliment, to sustain him for the loss, I relieve
him entirely of the new and unnecessarily imposed
burden of authorship.

Mr. Harry Franco (Briggs), a name not, perhaps,
new to you, Fritz, has also been associated with
our modest correspondence. He is said to possess
a ready wit, and variety of attainment which would
qualify him to do much better things than have

appeared in the Lorgnette. A little reflection of
his honor was at one time, indeed, cast upon me
by the Mirror newspaper: but latterly the penetrating
editor of that journal finds my letters losing
their `Tom Peppery' character, and growing sadly
stupid. Let the kind gentlemen bear with me;
all philosophers cannot be Franklins: all restaurateurs
cannot be Downings: and all authors cannot
be Briggses.

Mr. Cornelius Matthews is another extraordinary
member of the literary society of the town, upon
whom has casually rested (I have it on his own
authority) a share of those capricious suspicions,
which Mr. Kernot's little weekly has created;—and
this, notwithstanding his recent `money-penny'
labors. But on the other hand, it is objected, that
no announcement of such implied authorship, or
flattering paragraph, has appeared among the editorials
of the Literary World. If John Timon had
been Matthews, there would have been surely some
trace of the heroic little Abel, if not allusion to the
gallant Puffer Hopkins. A stouter Philippic, too,
than I can by any possibility fish out of the inkstand,
would have startled my readers into an
international copyright frenzy, and possibly—an
Original Literature.

Mr. Paulding is understood to be still in working

order; as his recent romance, and pungent political
letter abundantly prove. Although he is not given
to long speeches, he can yet guide a thumb and
forefinger to level his anti-Post letters at the `woolly-headed
fanatics' of whatever complexion: and,
perhaps, in virtue of this last avowal on his
part, hints have been bruited, that the hand
which furbished up the papers of the Salmagundi
may not have been ignorant of the management of
these Studies of the town. The hints, however, as
I understand, have confused other and younger
members of the author's family in the charge;—
on what ground, or with what semblance of truth,
it would hardly become me, who am ignorant of
the parties, to judge. I trust though, that if the
gentlemen alluded to are addicted to pen-work,
they will do no discredit to the elder of the name;
and if they should break ground with no worse laid
furrow than the pages of the Lorgnette, I hope
they may reap praise enough to pay them for their
pains.

Several young gentlemen just having completed
their studies, or recently returned from abroad, are
upon my publisher's list of reported authors. I
would gladly do them any reasonable favor. But
upon my conscience, it will cost too dearly to say
peccavi or peccabo, to any of the platulencies of boy-hood.

Errors of manner and thought are become
ingrained; these are not the wanton fancies of a
fresh-read youth, however promising his wit; and
though these young gentlemen do not deny the imputation
for themselves, I must, in self-defence,
abjure the charge, and settle into the repose of
that maturity, which years only can give.

There are still others, the list now running to
thirty, who in their peculiar circles, are the undoubted
Timons. Of some of these, whose names
are at command, I can find no trace either in the
literary or moral world; and if so be they have
ever used a pen, I suspect they must belong to
that numerous, and deserving class, who are
immortalized by contribution of thrilling tales to
weekly newspapers, and whose readers are devout
admirers of Prof. Ingraham, and extravagantly fond
of peanuts.

I have been not a little amused and chagrined,
my dear Fritz, on hearing these letters attributed
to an eminent beau of the town—a man well posted
indeed, in all social chat, and lively enough as the
times go; but for the matter of this new charge, I
must beg to enter a modest caveat in his behalf.
John Timon is no professional beau, and whatever
the short-comings of his mental or moral endowments,
they have had none of that social rasping of

the town, which cuts away the native qualities,
and leaves a be-padded, and be-curled woman of a
man. The study of mirror and cosmetics has
never engrossed him to the neglect of dictionaries:
and whatever else may be said in a hard way, let
him not be condemned, as one who hangs his social
ventures upon the heel of his pump, and who tunes
his talk to the play of a moustache.

Nor is it supposable that a man, devoting four or
five hours of the best of the day to the mirror, or
to the practice of a polka, can have leisure or industry
for this weekly labor. I have no faith in
those literateurs who are forever boasting of the
ease of writing;—as if a dozen pages for the
perusal, and the thought of a thousand, could be
thrown off in the interval between cigars. I have
too much respect for the public, and for you, Fritz,
to palm on your ear any such crude batter of words.
Time and attention are due even to the humility of
this toil; and though it does not smell of the lamp, or
show such touches of the file as it ought to do, be
assured that it is honored with the task-work of
determined handling. I have very little respect for
those reputations for quick parts, which are maintained
by a boasted carelessness and rapidity of
style: and if an unknown observer might hazard
the remark, our authors and authorlings, the half

of them at least, would do well to hammer at their
metal far more vigorously, and with better directed
strokes, if they hope to put such temper in it as
will hold an edge, and cut.

Even now, Fritz, but half has been said, which
might be said upon the authors of the town: a host
remains, even omitting the ontire company of our
deserving and attractive authoresses. An apology,
perhaps, is due for having alluded more particularly
to such as have become associated by careless suspicion
with our correspondence; should the correspondence
continue, Fritz, not a pen-man, or a
claqueur, but shall be honored.

In alluding to individuals by name, in the present
paper, I have confined myself strictly to such as
have rendered the publicity warrantable by their
writings; and in alluding to their mental habit
and disposition, I have scrupulously forborne to
meddle with the interior social life, where it
appears to me no gentleman can safely venture
with his pen.

Much might be said, however, of the social position
of authors; and the influence of literary cultivation
upon the graduation of the fashionable scale
of the town; the topic must lie over to some season
when the game is a little more plump; and then,

`please Providence,' I will throw a yellow cartridge
into the whole flock of poets and poetasters.

My publisher informs me, as the sheets are passing
through the press, that the twelve numbers now
issued will make a fair-sized volume; you may
possibly, therefore, my dear Fritz, miss the ensuing
week your accustomed visitant: and whether it
will make its appearance the coming month, will
depend very much on my own whim, and the
humor of the town. But do not be misled, Fritz;—
it has been thrown out by some that the Lorgnette
was nothing more than an eccentric charity; and
one very grave and important publisher assured me
that it was wholly paid for by its author, and then
placed, printed and bound, in the hands of the
publisher. The dear public will allow me to
correct this error, and to assure them that though
they may laugh at my labor, they are paying for
the laugh.

Nor is this said in vanity, but in justification; for
nothing seems to me a more absurd charity than
for a man to publish his thoughts, when the public
do not care enough for his thought, to pay for the
printing. Such a man (and on this point my opinion
will be obnoxious to many town-authors) had

much better every way drop his surplus pence into
the parish poor box: in that case, he may console
himself with knowing that no one is pestered with
his thought, and that some poor souls may possibly
be stuffing their bellies with his money.

John Timon neither owes any man, nor is he
any man's creditor. He leaves off, if he leaves off,
as fairly as he started; and he will be at liberty to
begin, whenever his whim directs.

Not a tithe of the material is yet exhausted; the
whole race of belles are still sighing for their portraits;
the salon is without its picture; even the
politicians and the churches have been sadly neglected.
A chapter might easily be based upon the
vigorous researches, the family garrulity, and the
monthly chocolate of our New York Historical Society.
The journals, from the heavy counting-room
leviathan, to the motley, home-spun, patch-quilt
of the Tribune, are topics full of fatness; and even
the editor of the Democratic might find, that
though modesty and dignity may forbid me to follow
him to his social haunts, that I can unravel
some of his slave-knotted yarns, and put a finger to
his moral pulse, that will explain much of his political
weakness.

And now a word to those who cannot determine
`what the deuce I would be at,' and who are bothered

by the sharp moral hits, that are scattered
over my social paintings. They neither see the
point, or the meaning of such things; they are
deserving of sympathy. You will remember our
quondam Yankee friend, fresh from country cookery,
who could make nothing, in the Parisian
restaurant, of a filet au sauce piquante—who would
have liked the beef indeed tolerably well, if they
had not spilled the cruet upon it!

The Grecians, on a time, used to go to their
Bacchan festivities with spears muffled in garlands
—showing the grace of flowers, but always ready
to prick a foe. Fritz,—the town-life is my Bacchan
festival; the town-topics are my Bacchan sport;
and this pen is my Bacchan thyrsus!