University of Virginia Library

8. THE LORGNETTE.

AUGUST 18, 1850. NEW-YORK. SECOND SERIES—NO. 8.

It is a hard case for Senex: but if he will look
at the lines taken out of the mouth of Sganarelle,
and put at the head of this paper, they may suggest
to him some very suitable, though tardy, reflections.
I would fartehr recommend an attentive
perusal of that portion of the third chapter of Burton's
treatise on melancholy, which regards jealousy;
where I think he will find some things set
down that may show him the way out of his
trouble.[1] He had best live upon short diet, give
close attention to business, and practice—resignation.

A LADY REVELATION.

If I remember rightly, there was an intimation
dropped in my first number, Fritz, to the effect
that tarts would be preferred to books. I meant
to use the words in their literal sense, and not to
express any special fondness for tart pamphlets.
It would seem that my meaning has been mistaken.

Truth stranger than Fiction, has been lying on
my table for some days; its revelations are extraordinary
enough to be sure; but with a little selfish
discretion, I have hardly ventured to join forces
with the authoress, in an attack upon what seemed
to me a substantial, old institution, that might

prove as stubborn, and unyielding an adversary,
as the Spanish Windmills. I have even foreborne
to express my regrets, that the reverend Doctors,
who preside over its destinies, should have so far
forgotten their sense of decorum, as to throw obloquy
(as the book alleges) upon defenceless maiden
ladies.

The truth is, I have entertained heretofore a very
respectable opinion of our literary institution of
New Haven, and a very pitiable regard for the
young gentlemen in long-tailed, black coats, who
are annually disgorged at that popular college.
This feeling has struggled with my gallantry—
more especially, since I fear the ladies will have a
hard task to upset that venerable foundation.

Upon the whole, I am inclined to think that
such heartless swains as are mentioned in the book
of Miss Beecher, should be left to the stings of conscience.
Youth and innocence, it is true, are not
matters to be trampled down ignominiously; and
it is very natural that in affairs of the tender passion,
all woman's nature should be roused, to plead
the cause of violated affections. But, it must be
remembered that a warm and passionate heart
sometimes misleads the judgment; and it seems
to me far better to let the tenderness of such womanly
lament, exhale silently, like the dew from

autumn flowers, rather than be sacrificed in the
pages of seventy-five cent books.

Youthful exuberance is prone to rashness—as
well in women as in men, and when the parties
shall have reached my maturity of years, they will
doubtless regard this publication—whatever duplicity
it may expose—as the careless offshoot of a
deplorable, girlish extravagance.

A TRIP TO SARATOGA.

Christian, journeying to Beulah, passed through
the town of Vanity Fair; so John Timon, in the
course of his pilgrimage, finds himself on this
August day, in the town of Saratoga.

I do not mean to flatter myself at the expense of
Saratoga; and still less is it a part of my intention
to flatter the town, at my own cost. I should
hate of all things to be recognized as a Christian
pilgrim, in such a place; it would be a dull
chance, if it did not fare as hard with me as with
Faithful, in the allegory; and I have no kind of

doubt, (and may safely challenge Dr. Cheever's
opinion in confirmation,) but that there are as many
Pick-thanks, and Love-lusts, and Carnal-delights,
and Lord Hate-goods, in this town of Saratoga, as
ever regaled themselves in the stark-mad city
which lay on the road to Bunyan's Beulah.

As I wished to see all that was to be seen, I have
taken rooms at the United States Hotel, and have entered
my name as John Stubbs, of Stubbston. This
semi-titular device, at once practical and innocent,
gives me a little dignity with the bar-tenders and
newspaper men; and has served me, I frankly
believe, in way of retainer, for a better room than
I could otherwise have hoped to secure. At the
same time, being unknown to almost all the company,
I can enjoy my cigar quietly under the trees,
or upon the corridor, without any fear of remark
or of disturbance.

I am not a little amused by the air with which
many young gentlemen of our town, whom it has
been my fortune to see wearing humbler demeanor,
make their entree. It seems to be a part of their
traveling education, as it is unfortunately of very
many others, to make a stir. They bluster up to
the register desk, and twirl the leaves as if this
village of Vanity Fair was to be startled by so
small an event as their arrival. They are clearly

surprised to find the clerk of the establishment
preserving so admirably his composure at the reading
of the important entry.

They take possession of their rooms with a loud
and testy joke with the stout Irish maid—very
much to her admiration, and very much to the
needless terror of some middle-aged lady of an adjoining
chamber. When fairly equipped in their
watering place dress, they appear in the happiest
spirits upon the corridor, and go through their first
series of observations upon the company, with the
air of sportsmen reconnoitering a covey of frightened
quail. They are not bewildered at the sight
of the most brilliant beauties, nor abashed by any
exhibitions of dignity; nothing, in short, but the
glimpse of some more successful rival in their own
sphere, gives them even a momentary embarrassment.
They are quite sure their cravat tie is
altogether the thing; and as sure, that they have
come over the direct road from the metropolis.
They order the cheapest of the showy wines at
dinner; and leer at the fragile country beauties
over the rims of their glasses. They smoke under
the trees, lolling in their arm-chairs, and laugh
with each other very heartily at jokes, which are
of course very capital, and very cutting on the
ladies.

Our town belle upon her advent to the Springs,
is accompanied by her mother,—perhaps by a servant,
and possibly by a boy in his teens, just graduated
from a first class school, who is unexceptionable
in his shirt collars, and in the polka. Our
belle, in pretty traveling dress, and with face
shielded by a particularly becoming blue veil,
alights from the carriage with a languid step, as
if she were overcome with the stifling air of a great
city, and only seeking a restoration of her wasted
energies.

At her first day's dinner she appears in uncommonly
slight dress for one so delicate, and hangs
languishingly upon the arm of a mamma, who is
conspicuous with brilliant head-dress. They eat
daintily; and are principally occupied in a quiet
study of the persons, family, and dress of the visitors;
in all which, the boy comes in with an
occasional startling observation, hazarded between
green corn and tomatoes.

Before the disappearance of the dinner service,
our belle will have formed her estimate of all who
are at the table; will have safely decided as to
who is distingue, who is vulgar, and will have
laid down in her own fancy, her future regimen
of dress and of action. If Madame, opposite, who
is common, and not of her set, is dashing in a very

low-necked dress, that threatens almost instantaneous
exposure of a frightfully large person, she will
assume more modesty in her next day's attire, than
she had hoped to display. If, on the contrary, her
opposite neighbors are something timid, and respectably
covered, she will astonish them at evening
by such naked developments, as will greatly
delight the middle-aged gentlemen, and excessively
mortify the middle-aged ladies. Our languid belle,
but little refreshed by the wine she has drank,
retires languidly to the drawing room; but will
presently revive sufficiently for a short promenade
with the very elegant young man, who has just
now complimented madame the mamma, upon her
unusual good looks—`wondering what lady it
could be with mademoiselle, whose acquaintance,—
the honor,—&c.'—and sympathized very cordially
with the delicate state, from which our belle appears
to be suffering.

The country beauties, from moderately sized
towns, behave quite differently. I was much
amused the other day, by the tripping way in which
two nice young ladies bounded up the steps; (though
they were covered with dust, and evidently much
fatigued.) They were followed very closely by a
plethoric old gentleman, whom I instantly set down
for the papa. Their dresses were a little shabby,

and it was plain that they were anxious the company
should not scan very attentively their traveling
toilette. Nothing, indeed, could be prettier
than their nervous inquietude, as they waited for
the papa and the maid, to show them their chambers.

In an hour's time they re-appear in the neatest of
barege dresses, translucent enough to expose two
pairs of exceedingly frail arms. They hang affectionately
upon the papa—who has completed his
toilette under the dispensation of a waiter with a
brush broom—as if they greatly feared contact
with the very wicked world about them, and yet,
as if they had a hope of extracting from it a considerable
quantity of innocent amusement.

In a little time they are seated cozily in a corner
of the drawing room; the papa looking attentively
at the chairs, the carpet, or the respectable middle-aged
ladies; and the girls engaged in discussing
dresses—regretting that they had not brought the
pink muslins, or the lilac silks, and remarking
naively upon the stylish air of some old female
stager, who is strolling up and down, upon the arm
of a very fierce looking young gentleman in nankeen
pantaloons, and very thin moustache. The papa, as
his attention is drawn, expresses the opinion that
the young gentleman of the nankeen pantaloons is
a puppy; whereat the nice young ladies utter a

simultaneous exclamation, look at the gentleman
very attentively, and think they would like to see
how a puppy danced, or talked;—though they say
nothing about this to the papa.

The papa steps out to have a chat with the host,
or to run over yesterday's paper in the shade;
and the nice girls shrink together, like the unprotected
females that they are. They presently espy
some old acquaintance across the room, when they
bound over, and forget themselves in a cordiality of
greeting, that absolutely shocks the elegant Miss
Miggs, who is bolstered in the corner, talking to a
nice marriageable gentleman of five-and-forty. Our
girls are already sufficiently enamored to venture
the exclamation to their new acquaintance, “is'nt
it delightful?” To which their new acquaintance
replies, with a glance at the young gentleman in
the nankeens, “oh, charming!”

The belle of two weeks standing, who has
“learned the ropes,” is most degagé in her air,
and expresses herself very nearly as well by her
step along the corridor, as by the exuberance of
her remark. She does not blush at the close approach
of the bearded face that so startles the nice
young ladies from the country; and is anxious
indeed to show her complacent daring of the most
overt acts of her admirers. She will even adroitly

swing the cane of her gentleman friend, or play
with his riding whip, or set his beaver upon her
head-dress, with a bravery which she is sure must
compel admiration, and excite the envy of the poor
weak spirited things in the corner, whose beauty,
or whose modesty, is unequal to such a triumph.

The energy and success of our married belles, has
excited in me a very great degree of wonder; and
however much I may be disposed to pity the pale-faced
husbands who appear within the drawing-room
only by special courtesy, and who splice their
energies with occasional cobblers at the bar, I cannot
but admire the dashing ventures of their wives,
and the pretty, and artless play of bellehood, which
they so deftly blend with the responsibilities of a
matron.

A little anxiety, which at times seems to work
into the minds of the husbands, is at best, but a
very unseasonable and unreasonable anxiety; and
only serves to expose them the more to an unfortunate,
and unenviable observation.

One poor gentleman I have been frequently struck
with, who at intervals of from ten to fifteen minutes,
will throw down his paper, or his cigar, and
come to peer in slily at the drawing room doors, to
watch the erratic movements of his very blooming
lady;—over whom, from appearances, he has about

the same degree of control that he has over his
equanimity, or his honor. If such gentlemen, who
I charitably suppose to be newly married, would
only study the habit of the better part of the town
husbands, who send their wives hither for a
month's recruit—to get spirit from the springs, and
a classic name in the papers (whether Aspasia or
Juno,) and who live with the utmost indifference
as to results, they would lead lives of far less care,
and have the satisfaction of rounding their domestic
economy into a very attractive, and fashionable
shape.

Upon the whole, this is a matter, with which I do
not much like to meddle; in the first place, because
it is none of my business, (an antiquated
reason for which I almost need to make an apology;)
and secondly, since I have observed that the
class of husbands alluded to, are mighty testy fellows,
who are a great deal stancher guardians, of
what they call their dignity, than they are of the
women, whom they call their wives.

I have remarked on occasions and with some interest,
the presence of nice gentlemen of small
towns, who are curiously observing in the matter
of costume, and who sidle along the corridors with
their eyes fixed upon some veteran in the modes;
and who will presently re-appear with a newly adjusted

tie, or a new boot to their heel. Thus mended,
it is their great delight to stroll along the corridor
by the drawing room windows; and though
they rarely venture in, it seems to be an infinite
gratification to them, to accept such chance glances
of admiration, as may be cast upon them, from behind
the drawing-room curtains. And yet these
entertaining gentlemen, will very likely carry back
with them to their place of nativity, large stories of
their flirtations, and convey such side winks as will
astonish their youthful townsmen.

Somewhat less modest than these in character
and management, is your blooming young lawyer
of some small city, who has escaped in the vacation
of the courts,—who is a marvel of seemliness, and
who flourishes among the gentlemen of the bar
with an air of being `somewhat' in his town, and
as if ability were not wanting, to make him a
`somewhat' even in this Babel, And when he goes
back to dust his papers, and to throw himself into
the arm-chair of his small city, he will impress the
sheriff, and deputy sheriff of his court confines, with
the propriety of his observation, the extent of his
acquaintance, and the aptness and variety of his
manœuvres of gallantry.

The action of a father of an admired belle is
worth casual observation; and has not unfrequently

given me a short respite from the stolidity of the
papers, or the plethora of a hurried dinner. The
affected carelessness with which he greets her, and
the entire coolness with which he gives her over to
the hands of the pestilent worshippers, is quite
amusing. Added to this, is the cool assumption of
his manner with the gentlemen under the trees;—
the assumed permission to talk the smartest platitudes
that ever fell from the lips of a human creature,
and the confidence that all will be acceptable,—nay,
even praiseworthy, from the mouth of
a millionaire, and the papa of a belle.

As for a sketch of those numerous ones, who are
noticeable only by effrontery of manner, and capital
study of dress, I am, Fritz, wholly unequal to
it; and no words however pointed, or however
spiced with Salic ingredients, could reach them.
Some creatures are as much below satire, as others
are above it.

Addison says, in the course of his admirable
critique upon the Paradise Lost, that he hopes
only for appreciation from men of learning; and
that he would choose, if the choice lay with him,
only learned and critical readers. Now, humble
as my labors are, Fritz, I do still need some small
measure of sense for their appreciation; and a
reproach which is hazarded on such creatures, as

reckon the reproach of an honest man, an honor, is
wildly lost. When contempt of the person, is
greater than the contempt for his errors,—when
even vanities, and follies possess a moral sublimity,
as compared with the private character from which
they spring,—all satire is at fault, and irony falls
pointless.

But my observations are by no means confined
to the hotel where I find myself lodged. If Lords
Lechery, and Hate-good, are the patrons of the
United States, I should think it ill reckoned, if the
Dowager Love-money, and the wench Live-loose,
did not sometimes thrive at the Union, or at Congress
Hall. It is true there is a colder air in that
quarter; and there hardly seems to grow upon the
frequenters that easy warmth, which is so captivating
in the wives, and middle-aged gentlemen of
the west end.

I observe here and there, at the east end of the
town, some very proper old gentleman, who brings
hither his wife or his daughters, as the case may
be, on annual pilgrimages, to look after the wagging
of the world; and to catch, at safe distance
off, such dribblings from the cauldron of fashion,
as will adorn their rusticity for a twelvemonth.

Such gentlemen are naturally, highly respectable,
and possess a few ambitious, with a great many
correct notions. They believe that the world is
worth following up tolerably close, though a very
dangerous thing to pounce upon. They remind
me of those small carnivorous birds, which through
the lower Alps, keep close in the wake of the vultures;
and who though they would shrink from
any murderous assaults themselves, will yet regale
themselves highly upon the shreds, and fragments
of the dead carcass.

There are very worshipful, elderly ladies too,
who are patterns at home, of propriety, regularity,
and every good work,—eminent members of sewing
societies,—who look solemn at mention of a dance,
and who go into `tantrums' at sight of a cigar, or
the pop of champagne;—yet they are not averse,
I observe, to taking an occasional look, through the
blinds, at the Satanic orgies which are passing at
the other house; and they will bring away such a
valuable stock of hints about dress and action, as
will quite set them up for fashionable women, in
their smart little country town.

The Union seems to me a very capital sporting
ground for such ladies as trim their religion with
a fashionable sprig or two, or who touch the color
of their fashion, with one or two soft religious

shadows. God forbid that I should speak disrespectfully
of an honest and open-hearted religion;
(and I believe in no other.) But, I must confess,
that I have but a scurvy opinion for that peculiar
stiffness of belief, which approaches as near as it
dares to the borders of extreme fashion, without
upsetting its equilibrium,—which rails at all dissipation,
and is sure to keep close in its track,—
which teaches its devotees to utter anathemas on
the extravagance of the springs, and to make a
judicious theft of the fashions, for a blaze in their
country church.

Honesty and simplicity of action seem to me
capital qualities, even of a religious belief; and any
sort of belief which can afford to live without them,
does seem to me a very expensive one. Genuine
goodness neither hangs its hope upon a hat, nor
loses its hue by any quick contrasts of color. Extravagance
and folly are odious enough in those to
whom such things are meat and drink; but in
those, who by profession live over them, they are
foul things to be sure.

I here and there fall in with a trim old gentleman,
whom I recognize as a visitor years ago, when
the Congress hall was in its glory; and I happen
upon pleasant chat with him about the vanities and
downward tendencies of the times. He laments

feelingly the great lack of beauty, as well as of propriety
in the ladies of our day, and sighs deeply at
the mention of those elegant Baltimore dames, who
twenty years ago, were the deities of the `great
colonnade.' He keeps us his old tariff of Congress
drinks, and walks as regularly, though not so
sprucely, as he walked thirty years since. Being an
habitual watering place goer, he has kept a chronicle
of all the marriages, the elopements and the bits
of scandal,—which last have so multiplied within the
six years past, that he tells me he almost despairs
of keeping his record perfect.

The peculiarities of the different cities are here
and there cognizable, and offer a pleasant afterdinner
study. The sleek-haired Philadelphian
wears his oily aspect in the pleasantest and softest
manner imaginable, and any special eminence in
the dance, or in dress, is almost sure to be credited
to our Quaker city.

The Lousianian, full of chivalry and shirt-buttons,
is fully even with the heat of the times; and
rolls off his round of French compliments, with
almost French address. The New Yorker, studious
of stocks, and of fortunes,—carelessly assuming
the umpire, fills all the chasms of talk, and riots at
the bar.

The Bostonian, never forgetting his angularities,

whether of mind, or of manner, astonishes quiet
men in the corners, affects proper disdain for such
as are not Massachusetts men; and attuned to one
of the home furors of mystics or of poultry, he
apotheosizes Emerson, or searches for `fancy fowl.'
The stray officer, dainty in his step, most assiduous
in the polka, and most learned in strategy, (but not
of Jomini or Guibert,) leaves no opportunity
neglected, for close attentions to such ladies as have
a weakness for the epaulettes, or the buttons. The
snug countryman, gaping at each, learns a new
trimming to his hair: and cures his dyspepsia with
putting six tumblers of Congress water, to his lobster
salad.

The show of equipages in the village is worthy of
its mark, and seems just now a rising token of position,
and of appreciative enjoyment of the springs.
There are few romantic rides to be sure, nor is it a
long walk to the Congress temple, but a drive into
the neighborhood, and a glass or two passed up at
the hands of a well-dressed footman, are excessively
fine. I think I might safely recommend to any
young gentleman with means to back the trial, (nor
is this always necessary,) a resort to this venture;
and I feel assured that a first class Brougham, with
a pair of bays, (a grey matched with a sorrel would
be better,) and two well-looking attachés, would

open to the proprietor, the familiarities of many a
most worthy lady—not at Saraccos.

Display, in short, is slanting off from the city
winter, and is reflected strongly from the sand
plains of our Vanity Fair; it is coming fast to be
one of the spring amusements. Even the fancy
balls are almost losing force, since the prettiest
of costumes can have only efficacy in redeeming
mediocrity for an evening. The arena will presently
be transferred to the street; nor should I be
greatly surprised, if in less than two years time,
there should grow up an out-of-door masquerade,
and flowers and moccoletti turn the village road
into a Corso Carnival.

Indeed, this wholesale, Roman festivity, characterized
by a more democratic intermingling of sets,
than can be found at any one of our places of amusement,
would, it seems to me, be far more rational
than the feverish pride, which plays, with dress and
equipage, to the eye and the envy of others.

An Eastern fable tells of a rich Emir, who wore
a brilliant diamond; and who was accosted on a
certain occasion by a poor man, who bowed to the
ground and thanked him for his jewel; `because,'
said the poor man, `I enjoy the sight of it, and
am relieved from all care of it.' The Emir had
not counted on such sort of thankfulness, which

humbled him to the position of a purveyor to the
delights of others. Our people who keep equipages
for short walks, would, I fancy, enjoy far more the
curses of the envious, than the thanks of the grateful:
and not to discourage them, I think their enjoyment
in this respect, must be complete.

With all our boasted independence, we are the
most arrant slaves of the most despotic tyrant that
exists. No sooner can a man set foot upon one of
our recreative resorts, than he looks about him for
his cue:—if carriages are in vogue, he must have
his carriage; if bowling, he must bowl; if bare
necks, he must strip his daughter to the farthest
verge of modesty; if a moustache, every appliance
is brought into requisition for its growth.

One manifest difference strikes the traveler, between
the watering places of America and of Continental
Europe. At the latter, people do as they
choose; in America, people do as others choose.
The European is set down at the Hotel d' Angleterre
of Baden Baden, to enjoy himself, just as it
pleases his humor to enjoy himself. He is utterly
careless how Madame the Duchess enjoys herself;
he is even ignorant up to the last day of his stay if
her Grace the Duchess bathes at three, or at half-past
nine: He does not even know if the Marchioness
eats lettuce to her lobster,—or drives a

brown or sorel horse to her phaeton; he has never
enquired whose is the claret coupée, or whose the
Bavarian footman in plush and plumes.

He orders his wine at the table d' hote, before
he has learned by observation what is drank; and
he drinks, for the stupid reason, that he has a fancy
for what he drinks. He orders his horse to the
door, with amazing daring, at just such hour as
humors his habit; and he is quite sure that there
will be no hangers on at the door, to remark upon
his unseasonable hour, or to get a guide for their
own times of recreation.

If he has a liking for rouge et noir, he strolls
into the saloon, perfectly careless as to who may
witness it, and perfectly sure that for his own action,
he is himself abundantly responsible. He wears
a blue coat of a morning or a black one of an
evening, without the remotest reference to what
any herzog may wear; and in agreement only with
the disposition and resources of his own wardrobe.

Among the admirable results of European civilization,
which would be, I think, pardonable in
us to adopt, is this delightful truth:—that a mans'
stomach, and a mans' caprice are his own;—and so
thoroughly his own, that they cannot, by any
possibility, become the stomach, or the caprice of
any other man.

The truth is hardly yet acclimated with us:
there is, for instance, a fashionable stomach for the
springs, which serves as a sort of guage to all the
stomachs that drink at the springs: and a given
elegant caprice will straightway drive out every
private man's caprice, and like the evil spirit that
went into the herd of swine, will infect the whole
company, and set them galloping to the devil.
What is said, controls our words; what is done,
measures our actions; what is eaten, guages our
stomachs; in religion, we believe what is believed,
and in literature, are charmed with what is admired.

This feeling is in bulk, at the springs; but it
branches widely and sets up its teachers through
the country; not only in the saloon, but in the
pulpit. And even the young clerical sprout, grafted
upon a country parish,—with not enough sense of
the honor, dignity, and independence of his calling,
to speak out plainly of things god-like, as men talk
to men,—will trim his course by the teachings of
his last scholastic divine,—will furbish up his
precepts from the skeleton of a theologic course,
and starve us with the miserable dry-bones of a
metaphysic lecture.

In God's name, has our country not enough of
breadth, for free growth, and for independent

action? In the crowded and forest ranks of more
closely peopled countries, we might expect to find
the limbs interlacing, and adapting themselves to
established figures:—even as Buffon, (to the discredit
of the bees,) affirms that the hexagonal form
of the honey cells is the result of rude mechanic
compression. But where there is width, and room
and freedom,—God overhead, and prairie-land below,—why
not make ourselves wide, and not
narrow? Why hedge our admiration by the pent
landscape of thick-set, established beauty, when
the rolling Savannah, deep with fatness, waving
with verdure, enamelled with flowers, odorous
with sweets,—an ocean of land,—is spread out by
the hand of the bountiful One for our love, and for
our growth?

This makes a queer tail-piece to a letter from
Saratoga; but now that it is writ, digest it as you
will, Fritz; and I will say to your judgment,
whatever it may be, (presuming on your charity)
—ainsi soit-il.

A temporary absence from the city must be my apology for printing
the following Errata for No. 19.

On page 156, for provinciam read provinciaux.

On page 159, line 19, for sewed read served.

On page 165, line 10, for and read as.

On page 168, line 6, for turtles read turrets.