University of Virginia Library

2. THE LORGNETTE.

MAY 25, 1850. NEW-YORK. SECOND SERIES—NO. 2.

I like, Fritz, in my quiet way, to moisten my
pen in the dribblings from any butts of ridicule,
even though they stand upon the floor of our Tabernacle.
Our towns-people are a very Christian
people, and, of course, a very civilized people; but
they also have an odd rotatory sort of way of serving
God and the Devil by turns, as best chimes
with their humor. They get up a comfortable
charity, and the next day will hatch us a mob.

We have anniversaries of missionary movement,
which are damned with faint praise of the journals;
and we have anniversaries of mob-movement,
which are zealously defended. We keep our Chatham
well sustained, and our Churchman in lusty
health. We point the dullness of our Lenten fasts
with Opera critiques; and many good Presbyterian
Elders take off the scandalous edge of their Sunday's
Herald with the pious causticity of the Independent,
or the mild magniloquence of the Observer.

Our police arrangements, since the introduction
of the Star and cigars, and since the election of our
new Aldermanic Council, are said to be highly perfect;
and our journals are most consistent and
order-loving journals, actuated naturally by the
most conscientious intent: And yet, Fritz, the
week past we have had a demonstration of order,
philanthropy, Christian intent, police perfectibility
and newspaper independence, which must carry
the weight of a counter opinion as far as the
cracked dome of that temple of St. Peter's, which
the Christian Union and Dr. Adams are trying hard
to crack wider.

The anatomical argumentation of Dr. Grant, very
cogent as it seemed to his abettors, would have
been worse than useless, if any such infernal bickering

had disgraced a company of negroes, as belonged
to either the first or the second session of
our American Anti-Slavery Society. As for municipal
perfection, it is quite lost in the shadow of the
heavier clouds; and let them put the disturbances
at whose door they may, they reflect very badly on
town-civilization, and still worse on human dignity.

Don't understand me, Fritz, to endorse any of
the crazy fulminations of our Garrison zealots,
while I point out the barbarity and usurpations of
our Bowery demagogues. Whatever may be monkeys
or negroes—whatever may be Rhynderses or
hyenas, and whatever geese or Garrisons, order is
one thing, and disorder is another. City tranquillity
is manifestly one affair, and city turbulence,
setting its accursed heel on the altar of our churches,
is quite another. The distinction needs no Grant
anatomy for its exposition, and none of the electric
flashes from any dark Ward, to light it. It does not
even need a tea-sitting of the Aldermen, or a consultation
of his Honor the Mayor, with his other
Honor, the District Attorney, for its elucidation.

You know, Fritz, that we have been gathering
in our town, for a week past, a corps of workers,
variously equipped with white cravats, broad brims,
black coats, petticoats, and carefully-committed

discourses, to help forward the heathen and black
men a stage or two in Christian civilization; and
so vigorous has been the endeavor, that we have
recoiled with the shock into the ditch of barbarity.
Journals have been found, which, though they
pointed their eulogiums with exclamation marks at
the shooting down of the Astor mob, could yet
sketch a yielding veil of sympathy over the better
paid and better drilled mob which choked the
cackle of the Garrisonites.

We have been showing the Philadelphians latterly,
that the title of their city to the metropolis
of misrule is in danger; and we have weakened
the strong and steady influence of a great city by
a little eruption of bile, which has already grown
putrid in the eye of sense. What a story to carry
to our angust plotters at the seat of Government—
that a few conscientious and Bible-reading fanatics
could not compare notes, and quietly exorcise all
the demons in Christendom, without drawing out
a rush, and a howl from Bowery freebooters, to prove
man an ass—to stretch their pewter panoply over
our General President, and to defend the insulted
dignity of the nation! It makes a modest man
blush for his patronymic when the national dignity
is in such keeping.

Senator Foote, indeed, might accept the defence

as refreshing and germane; but the conqueror of
Buena Vista, used, as he is, to the bad smells of a
camp, one would think might turn up his nose in
disgust at the brimstone odors of such Bragg artillery.
The Disunionists will, perhaps, take heart
from this town flurry, since all disorganizing tendencies
are kindred: moreover, they have much
need to take heart, and they will find few sources
of capital so abundant and so well adapted.

But do not let me spoil the freshness of your
spring air with such nauseous memories. We
will return to topics which belong to the every-day
life of the town, and which rise at every hand,
`sueing to be pressed.'

A CHAPTER ON BELLES.

Our winter belles, my dear Fritz, having now
fairly clipped the shell of the ball-room, and having
begun to fledge in a spring array, give me good occasion
to take their figures on my canvas, before
they shall have sailed away on the full wing of the
summer passage.

Altering, for the nonce, the systematic nomenclature

of my philosophic friend, Tophanes, I shall
divide the race into

Belles by Exclusion,
Belles by Inclusion, and
Belles by Delusion.

While we are in the possession of such erudite and
delectable expounders of language and proprieties
as Mr. T—, and the Editor of the Mirror, it will
hardly be necessary to tell you what is meant by a
town belle. At least, I shall choose to be simple,
though at the expense of seeming shallow, and
shall only advise you, that we understand by a
belle, any lady not over sixty, nor under sixteen,
who is either talked about because she is admired,
or admired because she is talked about. And if
our fashionable essayists of the lady magazines,
from Morton McMichael down, can give a better
definition, which shall cover the ground with fewer
words, and less of metaphor, they will do more
than they are in the habit of doing.

Exclusiveness is a happy way of arriving at a
triumph, and of winning a place under the first
category of belles. There are various ways, I
find, of effecting this in our town, some of which
are worth your attention.

A carriage has its merits; and an attachment to
it, if rigorously persisted in, is quite effective.
Vast numbers are disposed to admire what is far
away from them; and there are certain styles of
face, which appear much better at a little remove
—say as far as the walk, from the middle of the
street; graces, too, which might suffer on a close
inspection, are multiplied by a ready imagination,
when they pass us at a sharp trot.

Even some venerable ladies, by properly darkening
the back seats, and by due circumspection in
appearing afoot, maintain a considerable stock of
admiration, and are fairly entitled to enrollment
upon our list of old belles. Such ladies will, of
course, recognize the propriety of doing their shopping
at an early hour, or upon lowery days; nor
will they expose themselves to such an exhibition
as an open carriage entails, unless (and this device
sometimes succeeds capitally) they screen themselves
with a defensive sun-shade, for which, the
fashion with elderly belles, is a lining of rose-tinted
silk.

In younger aspirants, a slight irregularity of feature,
if only lit up by passably good color, will
fairly escape observation under the shadow of a
coach-top; and a reputation for a considerable
share of beauty can be successfully maintained for

a long period of time. No better per centage on
investment in equipage can well be imagined.
Such ladies, too, if possessed of creditable forms,
with the requisite degree of fullness, (although our
French mantua-makers will be able to supply any
small lack in that way) will benefit their reputation
by an occasional ride. Horsemanship is not
altogether essential; at least I infer not, from a
comparison of the styles. The rides should not
only embrace the Bloomingdale thoroughfare, but
may be extended, in the case of a gallant-looking
esquire, through the Fifth Avenue, or even upon
Broadway, with excellent effect. Hats à l'homme
are the best, and really invest their wearers in some
instances with a dignity which could hardly be
predicated of them in a simple lady coiffure.

But belles by exclusion do not stop here. A
name, or a family will not unfrequently prove the
basis of a notoriety, which will entitle a claimant
to enrollment among the town belles. Nothing, indeed,
is requisite but a proper degree of caution,
an avoidance of simple, unpretending people, and
an assiduously cultivated intercourse with those of
distinction. Personal attractions even are hardly
of enough moment to demand the alleviating dressings
of our very worthy Martel; and I have seen
faces, which, aside from the name, I should have

stupidly thought plain, pointed out to me by my
friend, Tophanes, as belonging to accredited belles.
Exclusiveness seems to me a very safe way of
guarding such distinction, as I should think that
common observation would sadly weaken its force.

At our balls, such belles delight in an exceedingly
haughty habit; they are observed to dance with
few gentlemen, and those only who are currently
known; they meet a new acquaintance with a look
by which they seem to honor him; they look superciliously
on prettily-dressed girls who are not of
their acquaintance; they are exceedingly affable
with the hostess (if of good family), in order to throw
more force into their coldness with others. They
dance with remarkable absence of abandon, as if
they had something to depend on for salvation, besides
mere grace.

Their topics are discussed with prettily-fledged
hints, gleaned from Papa's dinner parties; the
current waves of talk are curiously avoided; even
the paragraphs of the Home Journal are kindly
tossed over to contempt, and our Lorgnette, my
country Fritz, is sneered at, as the crude melange
of a literary adventurer. I have, however, with
the help of Providence, smiled as I have listened to
such prating; and I have possibly seemed to admire
the dignity of such ladies; but in reality, have

pitied the pretence which deprives them of prudence,
and sighed over the affectations which are too
transparent to conceal their weakness.

But if you meet such belle under the favor of
some kind recommendation, or with some name for
gentlemanly character, or have the benefit of being
espied by her, in close conversation with Madame
Blank, who is distinguished, then, no matter what
may be your real worth, the tactics change. How
quick is the flow of her remark; how earnest, and
yet seemingly careless, is her effort to convince
you, that you are in the sunshine of distinction;
what an array of pertinent authorities, taken from
the upper lists! For one remark she will fling you
two; and will spice them all with an air of triumph,
that makes you then, and there, perhaps, seem to
rejoice in so delightful an acquaintance; but afterward,
and soberly, regret that so much enthusiasm
should be lost on such poor confirmation of her
superiority.

Occasionally a literary lady of uncertain age,
takes rank in this scale of belles; and by the
studious wit, and cultivated modesty of her talk,
builds a wall of exclusion about her, which none
but the most hardy, and infatuated of admirers can
overleap. I would not mean to say, however,
Fritz, that such ladies are common, or that literary

attainments are generally high enough, with any
class of our belles, to make their learning an insurmountable
obstacle to an approach; and if one
cannot fairly scale the rampart of their literary
acquisitions, he can, generally, with high-heeled
boots, see over to the flat surface that lies beyond.

Our literary ladies proper, are deserving of a
separate sketch; but such of them as class with
belles are usually measurable by a French Journal,
an Italian Phrase Book, and the Literary World.
And they do not, at the worst, possess so great a
knowledge of the occult sciences, as to damage
what little housewifery they possess, or to spoil
their eye for worsteds.

I do not justly know if I ought to include in this
galaxy of our goddesses the married belles of the
town. Our Venus is no less a Venus, though the
mother of a half a score of Cupids; Proserpine has
wooers, though princely theft has been made of her
person and her dower; and we have Penelopes, by
half less constant, and with twice as many suitors,
as paid their court to the consort of the wandering
Ulysses.

The exclusiveness of this class is not limited
even by the rights of the husband; and he is apt
to feel the weight of her claims to this species of
belleship, in a way as significant, as it is successful.

The extent, and character of his means of consolation,
will come under my pen, when I give you,
as I intend to do, a study of our clubmen, and of
our connoisseurs.

Among all the French arts which have become
acclimated with us, none is so decided in its manifestations,
and seemingly so easy of adoption, as
that of conjugal indifference; and I feel quite
satisfied that our trottoir and Opera-house would
show samples in this way, which would not do
discredit to the best studied naïveté, and most
artless intrigue of the Bois de Boulogne, or of the
summer evenings, in the Pitti gardens at Florence.

It is needless to say that this action is essential to
the state of a married belle; but she must beware
how she perils her reputation by a delectable
intimacy with any but a man of note. Literary
reputation, or a foreign air, are either of them good
outfits in a wooer, and will, if well managed, perfect
the married belle, who is the object of their
address, in those more exquisite Paris accomplishments,
which serve to distinguish the tame and
spiritless wife, from the agreeable and fascinating
femme du monde.

The education of our belles by exclusion, is necessarily
exclusive. It is naturally, too, somewhat
capricious. It does not feed on popular accomplishments;

it is on the search for extraordinary attainments.
The belle by exclusion, will be coy of
passing French compliments in the presence of the
grocer's daughter, who has learned them as well as
she, but will prefer to twist her lip into a practiced
enunciation of German terms. She will not boast
her proficiency upon the piano, which is vulgar;
but upon the harp, or guitar. She will not sing
the music that is in every shop window, but will
painfully elaborate some bit that has reached her
through the courtesy of a friend in Paris.

She withdraws herself as much as possible from
the current of the town, whether in speech or in
dress; she will flourish a `Marie Stuart' when
others are rejoicing in a simple cottage hat; or,
sustained by the authority of a Parisian friend, she
will trim her hood or her cloak with marten, when
the street-world is all given to laces.

It is grateful to approach now, Fritz, the second
class of our belles—by inclusion. These gain position
unwittingly. The town determines on their
belleship, and the belleship is accepted.

Prominent among them are the belles by good-nature;
they are lively, chatty, rarely out of
humor, always ready for a polka, and not objecting
seriously to a waltz; they are familiarly kind, not
always pretty, but have compromised with nature

for a little gracefulness. They are good dancers,
careless diners-out, capital companions, and always
ready for service. Their dress is easy without
being outré; they are up with the times without
being before the times. They make acquaintances
without condescension, and they keep them without
other bait than the sallies of unshaken goodhumor.
They talk of their neighbors without cultivating
sarcasm, and they meet acquaintances on
the street without fearing infection. They are
favorites without being hated, and are admired
without being immoderately calumniated.

Yet their position is not without its dangers; to
be a favorite of the public is always dangerous.
Popular favor is as capricious as a woman, and
whoso seeks to fill his canvas with its breath, has
need to secure quick running blocks, and ready
hands for the trimming of his yards. The man or
the woman, whose opinion or whose action is
always flattered by the public, is very certain to
have no opinion and no action which is integral, or
which is not rather an off-shoot of the public fancy.
If such a woman could marry the world, the marriage
might be happy, and the domestic life be
passably tranquil; but if she marries a man, there
is sad danger that her old suitor will continue to
pay his court, and the memory of her first love will

fill up the marriage bliss. The public is a sturdy
wooer, and if it can win favors, it will be sure to
keep its hold on a woman's vanity by being querulous
for more.

Others, among the belles by inclusion, are modest
and beautiful—two qualities so rarely associated,
that I have great fear of periling my name for
accurate observation, and of being condemned, as
one who makes up his statements from hearsay.
Yet they are to be seen, here and there, in retired
corners, and in modest attire, not taking a conspicuous
place either at the church or the opera.
They will not talk brazenly of their distinguished
acquaintances, nor make a boast of a word dropped
from a great man, or a great lady; yet something
of air or of manner may unfortunately give them
rank with our belles.

The first season of the rank may sit with a pretty
impudence upon such award; but the second, if
she be not guarded by some Cerberus of propriety,
prudence, and principle (a trio as rare as any three-headed
dog), will break her down into the hackneyed
caste of the town belles, popularly admired
and popularly sought after. From having made
her walks at discretionary intervals, she will become
a show of the trottoir; she will cultivate
showy acquaintances; she will achieve showy accomplishments;

she will become an attendant of a
showy church, subscribe to a showy loge at the
Opera, and be showy of everything, but a soul.

Again, belles by inclusion, here and there, embrace
some member of a noted family, who will be
cherished with cordial pertinacity, until age breaks
up all excuse for her charms, when she is consigned
over to the galaxy of distinguished elderly ladies.
Death, too, will solder its golden links to the chain
of town admiration, and sweep it around the ugliest
of figures, bringing them into the herd that the
town will worship for a winter. From time to
time some stray country beauty, albeit a Bostonienne,
will come within the charmed cycle, and
reign for her day the queen of a score of salons. A
lady of foreign birth, or name, if a stranger, and
if her qualities are dexterously quoted by her guiding
chaperones, will succeed to the caste, and become
a belle by inclusion.

Some little marriageable damsel, who is half
coquette and half honest, who is respectably pretty,
not a little pert, and gifted with a modicum of
esprit, will frequently become a belle by a mere
fantasy of the town; and yet the town would be
puzzled to say why she gained her position. Her
belleship is sustained by persistence of mention;
once let the name pass into the boudoir catalogue,

and force its way into the brain of our male devotees,
who are not over-apt at processes of memory,
and it will form an oily and easy hinge for chat.
And the poor stranger, twisting his moustache,[1]
will be overwhelmed with such inquiries as, `—,
have you seen Miss B—?' or, `Was Miss B— at
the Opera?' or, `What did Miss B— wear at the
ball?' or, `Do you think Miss B— is really pretty?'
or, `How painfully Miss B— laces;' or, `They
say Miss B— is an heiress.' These inquiries, successfully
pushed, will insure most young ladies a
very successful, or, what is the same thing, a very
noisy reign.

Such belles, however, require nurses; and these
may be found in the persons of indolent (not indigent)
respectable and aged females, who, perhaps,
without any daughters of their own, are fond of
matronizing young ladies of yielding disposition;
and who by dint of incessant talk, will cram the
candidate for belleship with requisite instructions,
and cram the gentler half of the public, both male
and female, with a catalogue raisonné of her
charms.

Belles by delusion remain; nor are they very
difficult of handling. On the contrary, not a few

of them are inveterate and familiar in their polkas,
to an extent that renders them the most tangible
and accessible of any whose virtues I have attempted
to describe. They are belles more by sufferance
than by election; yet they wear their
honors more proudly than any. They are loud,
and think loudness the best tone for a belle; there
is much brass in the metal from which they are
moulded. They are much in sight, and are always
conspicuous.

They compare with belles by inclusion very
much as the fire-bells compare with those of
churches. They ring, not unfrequently, false
alarms, which startle a great many unsuspecting
ones into amazement and inquiry; and even when
they herald a conflagration, they are sure to furnish
the means of its speedy extinguishment. They
are not dangerous, although they show the way to
danger; nor are they remarkably sweetened, although
well constructed and well lodged.

They are at every ball, and the chances are that
they dance in every cotillion; our young fry they
bewilder into attentions, the middle-aged they coax,
and our old beaux they flatter. They are earnest
in the polka, gay at supper, intense in conversation,
religious at church, demure at a funeral, and
serious on birth-days.

There are others who are deluded by their position
into assumption of our third rank: a little accidental
elevation either through our political fermentations,
or by sudden accumulation of property,
or perhaps by marriage with a millionaire,
will create a title, which, unlike most titles, is
sound, in proportion as it is wordy and pretentious.
As is quite natural, and true indeed to the kindliness
of the sex, these belles are held in cordial
detestation by all our belles of exclusion.

A dashing return from abroad, with the accompaniments
of new-fangled hair-dressings, familiarity
with French conversation, a tidy femme de
chambre, and well-studied talk about the Louvre
and Versahye, will prove excellent capital with this
class for a winter. Occupation of some new palace
of a house will also beget a coy disposition to appear
at pretty intervals in the places of belle resort,
and to flatter one's self into a nominal registry upon
the scroll of notoriety. Occasionally, a beauty of
a provincial city, or suburban village, will strangely
enough fancy that a winter translation to the air
of our town will only confirm her standing, and
that she will be reckoned among the admired ones.
In given instances, where the traces of maidenly
modesty are discretely dashed, it may be true;
but very many too fondly count upon their

gifts, and are utterly lost in the flood of belles,
which sets up its hybernal eddies in our bays of
fashion.

Eccentricity, either real or assumed, is a current
source of delusion; and it is mortifying to
think how many of our town ladies, who—though
destitute of any personal attractions, would make
charming housewives and most respectable companions—do,
in the sad hope of winning attentions
and establishing reputation as a belle, cultivate
the most extraordinary and unfortunate eccentricities
of conduct.

Their infatuation will even get the better of their
prudence; and in the effort to surpass their rivals,
they lose all appreciation of delicacy. De they not
perceive that they might offer as striking a contrast,
by an assumption of modesty? But this is a quality,
which, it is greatly to be feared, does not
belong to belles of whatever class; at least the assumption
should be apparent, to make its color
good.

Our eccentric belles are most wayward in their
movements, and unintelligible in their fancies:
they walk the streets at unheard-of hours; they
dress in most unheard-of colors; the fashion of
their hats is absolutely startling; and their walk
is as far removed from the grace of a belle, as it is

from the dignity of a woman. Their dance will
draw the eyes of a whole salon: modest old ladies
who stand in corners, and who carry neatly-folded
pocket-handkerchiefs, with narrow edging, will
possibly be shocked by it; but it will afford most
marked delight to our fast fellows, who linger over
the supper-table, for a talk about mademoiselle's
action.

Their talk might be fine, if it were not too rude;
and its prettiness is all of foul complexion. Their
satire might be biting, if it were not too noxious of
odor; and their playfulness sits as uneasily upon
them, as gambols upon full-grown kine. They may
possibly say clever things, which show acute observation,
or a ready wit; but they will spoil it in the
next breath by a rudesse that finds no apology
either in custom, or kindness. They may be cultivated;
but the cultivation only makes more striking
their barbarities;—`a compost on the weeds,
to make them ranker.'

They perhaps affect a great disregard for towngentlemen;
in which, indeed, their eccentricity
shows a tincture of diseretion: but they pursue the
notion oftentimes with an intensity that makes
one doubt its sincerity. And in this, as in most
kindred matters, the very noisiness with which
predilections are discarded, tempt one to believe

that the secret heart, or sense, is yearning toward
the objects of so angry disavowal.

In the country, or at the watering-places, our
eccentric belle has full scope, and is not cooped by
any of the burdensome proprieties, which, for the
sake of public decency, do hedge her in the town
Her action is most impressive in its effects upon
country bumpkins, and will win for her a name,
which even the din of a city cannot wholly drown.
In achieving publicity her pride is satisfied; and
in cherishing it with honesty, her modesty is uncorrupted.

Had she been pretty, perhaps her tactics would
have been comparatively peaceful; as it is, she
makes up for crudeness of weapon, by the assiduity
of her assaults. She scales the heights of town admiration
by the vigor of her action,—which lacks
only a little energy, a little foresight, and a little
modesty, to make it—manly.

Such, Fritz, are some of our town belles; but,
thank God, all town-ladies are not belles, though
all belles are not ladies. And those who carry the
title, and carry the talk, bear the same relation to
the unpretending ones, that our Fancy Stocks bear
to the comfortable sixes and sevens of regular dividends.
The first do admirably for speculation;
they will excite hopes, and create anxiety; and

will from time to time loom up gigantic; but the
others are true, orderly, and satisfying.

And let me, as an old man, drop a caution to
such as are cleaving the bonds of nursery and
school life, against two indefatigable efforts to win
position as a belle: even beauty and modesty will
be very apt to fall in the pursuit; and the prettiest
native graces, when acted upon by the acidity of
the extreme life of fashion, will be very sure to
corrode—leaving, if I may so speak, the merest
oxide, or protoxide of a soul.

If, however, our ladies will study to be belles, as
there is abundant reason to anticipate, let me throw
out a few hints, which will help their progress.

They must gain a running knowledge of most of
the topics afloat; and names of things will be far
less odious than opinions. They must cultivate
the Opera music, whatever may be the obstinacy
of their taste; and they must be small eaters in
public, whatever they may be in the pantry. Too
many brothers and sisters are not advisable; nor
any considerable swarm of country cousins. They
must guard their seriousness for privacy; and not
fail to appear devout, however bitter the trial, at
Grace Church. They must be familiar with belles
of the past generation; and must look with contempt

on upstarts, and (if married) on their husbands.

They must wear their eccentricities, if lack of
charms drives them to such dernier resort, with
aplomb, and dignified unconsciousness. They
must admire with enthusiasm, and condemn with
vigor. They must be coy of respectable old ladies,
confiding, and liberal with their femme de chambre,
and affable with their neighbor's husband.

From much careful observation of the town-life,
I feel quite sure that these hints faithfully followed,
offer chances to the most disconsolate, and apparently,
most hopeless cases. And even the plainest
pretender, may come to chant with the swimming
grisettes at the open baths of the Seine,—

And now, Fritz, having nicked another from my
Studies of the Town; and wishing you all manner
of goodness, n this bursting spring season,—a
world of blossoms to your parterre, and a deep
green to your sprouting corn,—a light handling to
your rod, and a plethora to your creel,—a rich
dressing to your early salad, and a charity for us
all,—I remain,