 | THE LORGNETTE. The lorgnette, or, Studies of the town |  |
1. THE LORGNETTE.
MAY 10, NEW-YORK. SECOND SERIES—NO. 1.
Mirandola—(II satiro si anderà a poco a poco addomesticando.)
La Locandiera.
Well, Fritz, it is even true, that notwithstanding
my rusticity, I find myself approaching, little by
little, to a state of town domestication; and at the
earnest solicitation of my worthy bookseller, I am
led to resume my weekly observations, and even to
extend their influence, if influence they have, by
association with a large publishing house, which
will give to them a wide country circulation. It
is quite possible, therefore, that this may fall under
your eye at the house of your parson (if a liberal-minded
man of progress), even before you shall have broken
my private seal.
Nor shall my country readers be without their
share of aliment; for, to say nothing of the approaching
season, when the town disgorges itself
upon the rural districts, and when safely I may
turn my glass upon our Nebuchadnezzar in the
fields, I shall allow myself from time to time a
rural diversion of remark; and the damp places of
our country society shall here and there serve to
wet my pencil; and the village gossips shall have
a relisher to their tea that will marvelously
quicken the point of their Souchong and Gunpowder
talk.
Even the brusque, self-important, country pettifogger
shall have his miniature set off in the dainty
binding of a town-worker: and the fashionable
belles of the village, too delicate to be buxom, and
too buxom for the gas-lights of a Waverley Place
rout, shall have as truthful a daguerreotype as ever
was painted by the limner of the exquisite Eve
Effingham.
And as for the civilian turned loose, a little careless
and very eccentric habit of travel will enable
me,—Providence and the rheumatism willing,—to
follow them to the ocean breezes of Nahant and
The town-ladies will find an old seven-league boot
set upon my heel, which will make me as untiring
in the chase of their charms, and perhaps as romantic
in my adventure, as the Knight of La Mancha
upon his raw-boned Rosinante.
The French understand the phisiologie du gout,
as you know, and will throw in a basted partridge,
blanketed with pork, between the soberer courses
of a boiled meat and a filet; so I, Fritz, will spit
together on the same bundle of converging rays, a
squeamish town poetaster stuffed with garlic, and
a Broadway beauty gone wild in Schoharie or at
Lebanon. But as for the bill of fare setting forth
at length the name and family of the dishes, I shall
leave it to the happy initial graces of the Express
and Herald; and you must judge of the quality of
your meal, only by the taste and the spice of the
cookery.
It will astonish, doubtless, many very good people
who are not believers either in Fourierism or
in the Rochester Knockings, to find John Timon so
ubiquitous in his flights as to be one week sketching
in the city, the next brushing away the mists
from his glass in the spray of Niagara, and the
third moistening his ink-horn with the scum of the
beach at Long Branch. But let them quiet themselves;
of startling them with any narrative too improbable
for belief, he will be far more apt to shock
them with the very homely truth of his stories. At
any rate, he is content to have his matter judged
by its agreement with fact; and when he throws
away his allegiance to truth, he will lease his pen
to the — newspaper. Or, should he wish to
maintain an appearance of gentility, though truth
is discarded, he will devote his mornings to politics,
his evenings to fashionable society, and relieve his
noons with a study of the portraits at the National
Academy.
MAY MOVINGS.
`If there be any such thing as destiny in the world, I know nothing
man is so predestinated to as to be eternally turning round.'
—De Foe.
I have looked in vain, my dear Fritz, through the
chronicles of the city, from that of the venerable
Diedrich, to those of Mr. Dogget, Jr., to find any
historical account of the origin of the May festivities
of this town. Almost every people has its way
of welcoming this most cheerful of months; and
you will remember how, in the remote districts of
England, the children, in their best dresses and
with happy faces, will crowd about one, with pleasantly
The festivities of our town are of a different order;
they do not smack at all of the old dance and
garlands. The population of children, in virtue,
as I am told, of an old custom, are upon May-day
—homeless, and are wandering in a state of sad
vagabondage, up and down our streets, earnestly
petitioning the charitable passers-by—not for a
penny, but for a house.
The public roads are filled with a long procession
of spring vans, carrying immense piles of shabby
furniture; the walks are encumbered with nursery-maids
in very dusty bonnets, carrying thin-plated
mirrors tied up in a scurvy counterpane;
small boys groan along under the weight of enormous
China vases, or Griffins; and family portraits,
never intended, surely, for any but the indulgent
eyes of kindred, are carried modestly and
discreetly along the side streets. The parlors of
reception are given over to the possession of burly
and capless carmen, who spit tobacco juice upon
the polished grate, and whose heads are adorned,
in place of May garlands, with scattered flecks of
down. The hall-doors are flung hospitably open,
into which walk very distressed-looking women,
who are on that day anything but Queens of May.
cabinet-maker, in green baize jacket, passing
in at the hall door and gliding swiftly up the stairway
to his May festivity, with a small tin pail of
varnish, or haply, an iron bed-key!
As for the town-lady, a month ago so courtly,
her empire is now divided—not alone with extortionate
porters and tasteless upholsterers, but, what
is worse—with some new incoming mistress. You
have been rocked long enough, my dear Fritz, in
this rickety cradle of a world, to know what a delightful
provocative to the festivities of the season
must be this joint lady-rule under a single roof!
Character, as you may well suppose, develops
very swiftly under this May ordeal; one poor woman,
in a frenzy of fear, may be seen hunting after
some dear little vase which has escaped notice in
the general onset, and which will, by-and-by, perhaps
(to humor her good-nature), be found crushed
under some ponderous armoire. Another, with
cap-strings flying wide, and with faded shawl pinned
in very dirk-like fashion, will general the whole
May movement with an air and gesture very strongly
calculated to keep aloof any nervous husband,
or weak-limbed sons-in-law. A third will go into
husterics at the crash of some cherished bowl and
ewer, and between vexation and fatigue, will persist
of the chamber-maid to the contrary, that
the world is near destruction, and that all terrestrial
things are then and there, on that May-day,
rapidly passing into oblivion.
Out of respect to the season, meals at home, are
for the most part taken standing. A few Boston
crackers, with a delicate cut from a cold ham, and
a small bottle of London stout, are recommended.
At a late hour in the afternoon it is discovered
that the carmen have left something they should
have borne off in procession, and that they have taken
away still more that they should have left. Meantime
the scant, cool dinner humors the fatigue of being
much a-foot, and more provoked; and the evening
closes upon our blooming May queen, installed with
May festivity, in a May palace. This last is curiously
set off with beds huddled into corners; and
the stewpans, and tea-kettles, are unfortunately, if
not irreparably lost, in the depths of some subterrancan
vault.
Such, my dear Fritz, are a few hints thrown out,
to serve you as coloring matter, with which you
can work up at your leisure an imaginative painting
of our town May-day. I think you will agree
that it is an odd way of celebration, and will scarce
its origin.
If it would not be immodest, I would respectfully
suggest the topic to the New York Historical
Society, confident that it is one that will afford full
scope to those abilities for thorough and profound
investigation, which are possessed in so ample a
degree by nearly all the regular—not to mention
the honorary and corresponding—members of that
distinguished Society. I might safely predict, indeed,
I think it could be affirmed with the utmost
confidence, that a paper upon the topic alluded to,
prepared in the usual form of the Historical Society
papers, and read with characteristic enunciation,
could not fail to keep at least one-half of the
members of that association awake up to the end
of the recitation. And with an equal degree of
certitude it might be affirmed, that the author,
whoever he might be, would be unanimously thanked
for his `very able paper,' and a copy be placed
in the archives of the association: and furthermore,
a report of the resolutions might be reasonably expected
in the Express of the next morning, provided
no `extraordinary disclosures' supervened.
Since, however, the Society above referred to has
failed thus far to throw light on this important subject,
I must even venture myself, Fritz, to try and
May. Why they should occur at this particular
epoch of the year, is a matter of minor importance,
and may be safely left in the hands of the Historical
gossips; why such movements should occur at
all is a more interesting inquiry, and one which in
my view, can only be settled by a reference to the
condition and character of our social progress.
In our town, the house, in common with the
coach and the coat, is a type, and a bold type, of
social position. As position is gained, or hoped to
be gained, the types must correspond. People
must not only get on in reputation, wealth, and in
society, but they must give ocular proof of their
progress, made palpable by houses, and publicly demonstrated
at the fête of May. Furniture good
enough for a quiet housewife who cooks a small
grocer's dinner, and who, with the aid of a stout
Irish wench, is her own laundress, will never do,
when her grocer husband, by dint of shrewdness
and industry, is making a stir on 'Change; and if
new furniture is to be had, then there must be a
new house; and if a new house, then there must
be a move; and if a move, why then—a May-day
fête!
Some small mechanic comes in to fill up the place
of the promoted grocer; and the grocer, perhaps,
wave upon wave is rolling along the drift-wood that
floats upon the sea of the town; and on May-day
the tide is at the flood. And it is a remarkable
fact, and one well worthy of the attention of public
economists, that the movement is almost invariably
from small quarters to large ones. This is
certainly most flattering to the enterprise of the
town; perhaps more flattering to our enterprise
than to our honesty. For I have observed that even
bankruptcies, or defalcations, do by no means create
exceptions to our general rule of progress, but on
the contrary, seem to have a manifest tendency to
aceclerate the advance. Indeed, from a careful
series of observations, I am almost persuaded to believe
that a brilliant bankruptcy, well fastened, and
clipper-built, is one of the best craft on which to
scud over our waves of progress, into such elegant
harborage as Union Place, or Grammercy Park.
It does not yet appear to be settled upon any
Malthusian basis, what space is exigent to the
necessities of a family of a given size, or even of
given states: let the social rank be given, and the
calculation is easier. Though even here, the inquiry
is beset with difficulties; swift progress, contrary
to the law in mechanics, being understood to require
more space than the slow, old-fashioned advance.
principle of progression which is not very patent,
he must needs have a big house; if he rise slowly,
and by healthful stages, a small one is quite adequate
to his wants.
No plan, that I can learn of, has yet been laid
down—not even by the architect of the late Bowling
Green fountain,—as the ne plus ultra of a
town house. Vistas of constantly extending parlors,
and multiplying suites of rooms, mock the
judgment, and leave the inquirer, in this part of
the subject, in a state of sad perplexity. No limit,
indeed, can be safely predicated of our town houses,
except the length of a city square; and it would
not be very surprising, if some new aspirant after
position, with the requisite California credentials,
should presently build a modest mansion for himself
and a small family, reaching from street to
street. The middle rooms (though my architectural
observations are reserved for another paper),
might be lighted with wells sunk through the roof at
convenient distances, which would make pleasing
mementoes of the gold-pits, and would furthermore
serve the younger members of the family for telescopic
purposes, and for prosecuting, in a domestic
way, sidereal observations.
In most other parts of the civilized world, a certain
are reckoned essential, and complete. A well-defined
supply satisfies; and the social character is
based, not on such supply, but upon certain trivial
contingencies of private character,—such as worth,
family, or even wealth. Many a man of fortune,
as you know, Fritz, who can command respect in
various ways, is at this very time occupying a suite
of rooms upon a single floor in the Rue de Bac,
who would disdain the dashing palaces of the
Chaussée d'Antin, or the Place St. George. A cultivated
dignity is satisfied; a refined taste finds
space enough for its wants; and the home is complete.
You will recall, too, in this connection, (or
your memory misgives you) the rough brick walls
of many a modest mansion of London, not to be
named beside our free-stone palaces, and yet these
walls cover the gatherings of a delicate and accomplished
judgment; they embrace the solution of
the most difficult of social problems—that of content;
and they make the quadrature of the whole
circle of the home-pleasures complete.
But with the scions of our social nursing there
is no brick and mortar terminus, except superiority
to one's neighbor. And at the end, perhaps, our
discomfited aspirant, mortified with being overshadowed
by some new house-builder, must fly
on houses and display would very naturally
create. In Europe, however, there is relief; the
harasses of change are no longer felt. His palaces
will not make for him position, and lack of them
will not make its forfeit. A quiet suite in the Rue
Lavoisier will be enough: and enough, even in the
city of fashion and of form, has its meaning. Good
sense has assigned to it limits, and prudence has
given it a reception. The man is relieved from
strife; and any vulgar show, whatever crowds it
may bring to his dinners, or whatever jewels it may
scatter over his evening receptions, will not magnify
his repute with those who guage his character
with a knowing eye. For even French politesse,
though it may allow itself to drink applaudingly of
his Volney and Latour, cannot so far forget its sense
of truth, as to suppress a chuckle, and a murmured
—`quelle sottise!'
The sad conclusion which I am led to from this,
my dear Fritz, is the fact, that in our town, even
the comforts of a home are thoroughly conventional.
The acme of display may have been reached; but
what house-owner, or housewife, in ignorance of what
their neighbors may build, or an impending, brilliant
bankruptcy may bestow, will say that they
have arrived at true comfort?
The man who holds, or has ever held fair social
position, and yet contents himself with a modest
house, must either be possessed of great moral
courage, or he must wear a conscience in his bankruptcy;
and these are two qualities, which in the
given connection, must be sought for in our town
—as Diogénes hunted for a man—with a lantern.
It would be pleasant, Fritz, to take you to the
auctions that belong to our May festival, and which
may be met with at every half dozen steps,—
showing the last trace of the old May-pole, decorated
with a little banner of red bunting. But the
girls who throng to this part of our festival are
mostly old girls, of a buxom race, who may be
found either seated about the apartments, or diligently
feeling of the plush; and they are the most
indefatigable `snappers up' of shabby furniture
that can possibly be imagined. In what quarter
of the city they live, has never been satisfactorily
ascertained; it is conjectured, however, from the
style of their purchases, that they must be the occupants
of some of the old Dutch houses with lofty
gables. They eye you very sharply if you bid
against them; they know to a dime the value of a
broken-legged table; and they are on very familiar
terms with chatty cabinet-makers. They wear
dingy bombazine, and faded shawls, and judging
their husbands, who are too good subjects of
pity for anybody's sneers) probably `rule the
roast' at home.
There are some few meek ones, who are no
match for the habituées, and are restlessly nervous.
They are extremely anxious lest some particular
article should escape them; they are very sure to
show their anxiety to the penetrating auctioneer;
and astonishingly apt to raise their own bids.
Here and there, among the crowd of furniture
dealers, you will catch sight of some poor fellow,
who by his hang-dog walk, has evidently been driven
to the auction by his wife's command, and who
is very fearful lest some of her strolling neighbors
should report his delinquencies at the bidding.
I have reported thus, Fritz, in very homely style
the peculiar show which we make of our May festivities.
Brush up now your recollections, and
compare these new-world sketches, these creaking
furniture vans, this change, bustle, and brooms,
with the sunny May-day that you have passed on
the bank of the Obye, under the gray ruin of Chepstow;—or
with that luxuriousness of air and action,
which wrapped you round like a garment, as
you floated on a May-day, in your gleaming caïque,
along the plashing waters of the Brazen Horn.
From all this, my dear Fritz, you will fish out
the moral, that change belongs eminently to our
American life;—that the settled quietude of a ripe
civilization has not yet been reached;—that we
have not yet learned well enough how to live, to
be sure when we are contented with the modes of
living; and that even the comforts of a home are
measured by space, material, and talk. And the
whole drift of these observations will go to confirm
the remark of that sage historian, Diedrich
Knickerbocker, who says, in the third chapter of
that renowned work, which by German suffrage
has been put upon the same plane with that of
Thucydides, — `Our ancestors, like their descendants,
were very much given to outward show, and
noted for putting the best leg foremost.'
A WORD ABOUT THE POLKA AND POLKISTS.
`The gods have bestowed fortitude upon some men, and on others a
disposition for dancing.'
—Hesiod.
`Si on ne valsait que pour valser, qui valserait?'
—Stahl.
Steele was the elegant apologist for dancing, in
his day; and a certain Mr. Jno. Weaver, who so
far worked himself into the good graces of the Spectator,
as to secure a puff for his book, was the historian
of the dance. But in that time, with all
they were not advanced enough for a
Polka.
This triumph of Terpsichorean art was reserved
for a more enlightened age, and has yet to secure
its classic historian, and its moral advocate. It is
surprising, indeed, that while we are in the possession
of such poets as the author of Liberty's
Triumph, its evolutions are not moulded into an
epic; and there are moral and classic essayists about
the town, who would add hugely to their fame, by
letting slip their didactic periods upon a topic so
level to their qualities. And a book, of whatever
character, would only need a bravura from every
polkist, to make a din that would deafen the whole
town into acquiescence.
The rage, indeed, for the whole family of polkas
is most infectious; and not only has it taken educational
possession of Misses who have not cast their
nursery strings, but it has smitten men grown
gouty; and ladies, who can scarce maintain their
hold upon the charitable side of forty, in the intoxicating
eccentricity of the polka, revive their youth,
and in its pleasant delirium, cheerfully forget their
years. It has even made its appearance in the
streets, and at the circus; and the polkas made up,
for a long time, the musical stock of the performers
movement may be seen even on the public walk,
and in the periodic and luxurious oscillations of the
figures of our belles at the Opera, and Grace
Church; the springy, elastic, and long-continued
salute of a lady seems to have its accomplishment
under the influence of a certain volatile, polka
element, which pervades the system, and gives a
well-timed, though highly-eccentric vibratory action
to the nerves. I cannot well say, but think it
highly probable, that the movement may have
found its way into domestic arrangements, and the
baby be lulled, the dumb waiter rise and fall, and
the cook stove rotate—polka-wise.
One or two strolling Italians have taught the
polka action, with great effect, to tame monkeys;
the hint should not be lost upon such young gentlemen
as find, now that the ball season is over, their
occupation gone. And from not a little careful
observation, I am disposed to think that they would
meet with far greater success in the ring, than they
have ever found at the bar.
A new polka has latterly engrossed the attention
and study of our town ladies; and though some of
the old women, who are not apt to learn, are condemning
it as a little too free in its movement, it is
all the more admired by the established belles. It
is just now spreading among the young ladies;
gentlemen are absolutely required to withdraw
their arms from the waists of their partners within
three minutes after the close of the music; and
this upon penalty—of having to dance the next
set. Several of my acquaintances, in an access of
virtuous resolve, have sworn off from polking with
gentlemen they do not know, for the rest of the
season: this is not understood, however, to embrace
the watering-place campaign.
What the old gentlemen will do in time, I can
hardly imagine. A jig, or a cotillion, was not so
difficult a matter for them as to forbid their wearing
a creditable air of agility. The polkas are too
eccentric; the whist-tables are scouted; and as for
standing about the walls, in imminent danger from
the dripping candles, and with corns cruelly jammed
by those fellows who give effect to the music,
by an occasional thump with their heels, it is not
to be thought of.
Unfortunately for them, too, the Polkas are
rapidly multiplying; as much in eccentricity, as
in number. And after the success of the `Tip-top'
Polka, we shall look with interest for the introduction
of a `How d'ye do' and a `Kiss me if you
can' Polka. There's nothing like novelty in an
one's breath out to an old tune, it is quite surprising
how some fresh air will set a body going.
A little modest dance has been thrown in on occasions,
for entracte at the new Opera; but it
quite shies the matter; the man is too coy, and the
woman wears too many flounces, to make the affair
taking.
Touching the matter of polking, I have received
this bijou of a letter:—
Mr. Timon:—I have read all you have written,
and like it very much. My mamma (for a wonder)
likes it too: so does Aunt Sophy. But they have
forbid my polking with strange gentlemen, at least
those who are introduced to me at the balls. Is
not this ridiculous?—one meets such nice young
men at the balls, and nowhere else! I wish you
would persuade mamma so; if you could, you
would greatly oblige your true friend,
As I neither know the church, or the `set' of
my good-natured correspondent, I shall fling out a
few opinions of various complexion, by which her
mamma can help herself toward forming a healthful
judgment, and fixing the line of duty beyond
all possible cavil.
The Presbyterian Elder abhors the Polka from
off souls in a whirl-a-gig. He has almost as bad
an idea of polka dancers, as of the polka itself.
He thinks dancing-masters emissaries of Belial,
who are supported by stated contributions from
the world of darkness. In short, he thinks nothing
more demoralizing in its tendency, unless it be the
fancies of the Ecclesiologists, or a cross upon a
church gable.
A mother of six daughters, and of easy Religious
faith, encourages the polka, as she believes it
cultivates grace of limb, and brings young people
together into a proper degree of familiarity, which
may ripen into matrimony—which is the true and
natural state of the human family, as there is no
denying.
A young lady of retiring habits is opposed to
the polka from principle, though she does not object
to a stray turn with Cousin Harry. As she
doesn't take lessons, she is rather out of step,
which has a tendency to confirm her principle.
A stiff prigg, who smells of book-covers, sneers
at the polka as an absurdity, which no sensible
man would abandon himself to; and which puts a
person in a very ridiculous, not to say awkward
and embarrassing position.
The debutante is delighted with it, as one of the
most fascinating pursuits in life; and looks forward
to a brilliant stretch of years, made bright
with thousands of interesting polkas.
A high church Divine looks upon the dance, as
scripturally emblematic of joy, and by natural
reasoning, regards the polka as ecclesiologically emblematic
of ecstasy. He does not believe in reducing
proprieties to abstract forms, without any of
the pleasing graces of typical attachments, and
well-ordered ceremonial. The white robes of the
dancers are clearly emblematic of innocence; and
as such will have efficacy, by virtue of association,
in screening the polkists from any impure thoughts
or desires; at least they ought to have such efficacy,
and perhaps do. Let the form, and the coloring
be right, and the accessories will take care of
themselves. `Heaven has made us, and not we
ourselves.'
And now, Fritz, John Timon takes the liberty of
asking the pert and homely question—if the free
and careless handling of our town-ladies, by every
booby who can boast a boot, or a fringed cravat, is
not in the minds of many sensible ones, weakening
the delicacy and the beauty of that respect, which
every gentleman desires to feel for the other sex?
when uncommon?
It is an undeniable fact that there is a freedom
in the approach to unmarried ladies at our balls,
which cannot be found elsewhere in the civilized
world, except indeed at the public gardens of Paris,
or the Assembly-rooms of the German Spa. The
world is on the gain I know; and we affect to lead;
the waltz was stoutly combated on its introduction
to the salons of Paris, by no less a person than
Madame de Genlis; and Byron even uses strong
language in disgust for,
`hands promiscuously applied
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side.'
But is it not worth inquiry, if we are not rounding
our habit into too much wantonness in this
thing? One would suppose indeed, that brothers,
if not fathers, would place some limit to this luxury
of indiscriminate intimacy.
Do not suppose, Fritz, that with the canker of
years upon me, I am enjoying a fling at an accomplishment
which can no longer be mine. It is not
the dance, nor even the polka that is condemned;
for both are accomplishments of grace; it is only
the license that is growing out of their abuse. I
tender and delicate respect for that sex, whose
highest charm is modesty, and whose richest glory
is a spotless virtue.
| THE LORGNETTE. The lorgnette, or, Studies of the town | |