Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

same thing. There is neither poker nor tongs; you can stir it with your umbrella: nor bellows; you can blow it; unless you are asthmatic: or what is better still, Peggy will fan it with her Petticoat. 66 Peggy, is the supper coming?" In time, comes mutton, called chops, then mustard, by and by a knife and fork; successively, a plate, a candle, and salt. When the mutton is cold, the pepper arrives, and then the bread, and lastly the whisky. The water is reserved for the second course. It is good policy to place these various matters in all directions, because they conceal the defects of Mrs. Maclarty's table cloth. By this time, the fire is dying; Peggy waits till it is dead, and then the whole process of the peat and the petticoat is to be gone over again. It is all in vain. "Is the bed ready?" By the time you have fallen asleep once or twice, it is ready. When you enter, it is damp: but how should it be dry in such a climate. The blankets feel so heavy that you expect to get warm in time. Not at all: they have the property of weight without warmth: though there is a fulling mill at Kilmahog. You awaken at two o'clock; very cold, and find that they have slipped over on the floor.

:

"It is vain to try again, and you get up at five. Water being so contemptibly common, it is probable that there is none present: or if there is, it has a delicious flavour of stale whis ky so that you may almost imagine the Highland rills to run grog. There is no soap in Mrs. Maclarty's house. It is prudent also to learn to shave without a looking glass; because, if there is one, it is so furrowed and striped and striated, either cross-wise, or perpendicularly, or diagonally, that, in consequence of what Sir Isaac Newton might call its fits of irregular reflection and transmission, you cut your nose if it distorts you one way, and your ear if it protracts you in the opposite direction. The towel being either wet or dirty, or both, you wipe yourself in the moreen curtains, unless you prefer the sheets. When you return to your sitting room, the table is covered with glasses, and mugs, and

circles of dried whiskey and porter. The fire place is full of white ashes: you labour to open a window, if it will open, that you may get a little of the morning air and there being no sash-line, it falls on your fingers, as it did on Susanna's. Should you break a pane, it is of no consequence, as it will never be mended again. The clothes which you sent to be washed, are brought up wet; and those which you sent to be dried, smoked.

"You now become impatient for the breakfast; and as it will not arrive, you go into the kitchen to assist in making the kettle boil. You will not accelerate this: but you will see the economy of Mrs. Maclarty's kitchen. The kettle, an inch thick, is hanging on a black crook in the smoke, not on the fire, likely to boil to-morrow. If you should be near a forest, there is a train of chips lying from the fire place to the wood-corner, and the landlady is busy, not in separating the two, but in picking out any stray piece that seems likely to be lighted before its turn comes. You need not ask why the houses do not take fire: because it is all that the fire itself can do, with all its exertions. Round this fire are a few oat cakes, stuck on edge in the ashes to dry; perhaps a herring and on the floor, at hand, are a heap or two of bed clothes, a cat, a few melancholy fowls, a couple of black dogs, and perchance a pig, or more; with a pile of undescribables, consisting of horse collars, old shoes, petticoats, a few dirty plates and horn spoons, a kilt, possibly a bagpipe, a wooden beaker, an empty gill and a pint stoup, a water bucket, and a greasy candlestick, a rake, a spinning wheel, two or three frowsy fleeces and a shepherd's plaid, an iron pot full of potatoes, a never-washed milk-tub, some more potatoes, a griddle, a threelegged stool, and heaven and earth know what more. All this time, two or three naked children are peeping at you out of some unintelligible recess, perchance contesting with the chickens and the dogs for the fire, while Peggy is sitting over it unsnooded: one hand in her head, and the other, no one knows where, as she is

[blocks in formation]

ON tiptoe, laughing like the blue-eyed May
And looking aslant, where a spoil'd urchin strives
(In vain) to reach the flowers she holds on high,
Stands a young girl fresh as the dawn, with all
Her bright hair given to the golden sun!

There standeth she whom Midnight never saw,
Nor Fashion stared on with its arrogant eye,
Nor gallant tempted ;-beautiful as youth;
Waisted like Hebe; and with Dian's step,
As she, with sandals newly laced, would rise
To hunt the fawn through woods of Thessaly.
-From all the garden of her beauty nought
Has flown; no rose is thwarted by pale hours ́;
But on her living lip bright crimson hangs,
And in her cheek the flushing morning lies,
And in her breath the odorous hyacinth.

B.

Blessings on thee, baby!

For guiltless is thy brow,

And we know not but it may be

Ever innocent as now.

Mildews o'er thee roll,

But thy blossom is unblighted; For thy little lamp of soul

Is as yet but hardly lighted.

And though it shineth faintly
As the maiden-smiles of love,
It is heaven-born, and saintly
As the parent spark above.

Is fuel of this earth

Fit to keep such holy fire in?

(Euro. Mag.)
TO AN INFANT.

Would he who gave it birth,
Not save it from expiring?

Must wisdom check its beaming,
But through its glass display'd,
Which, for a motley gleaming,
Throws all the rest in shade.

'Tis taintless and celestial;

But, when flickers the last flame,
Having fed on things terrestrial,
Will its odour be the same?

Well, blessings on thee, baby!
For guiltless is thy brow,
That we still can hope it may be
Ever innocent as now.

B.

[ocr errors]

ON DRESS.

To the Editor of the European Magazine.

IR-Having already communicated to you some ideas on the influence which the form of Government has on dress, I shall offer a few remarks on that article in general, well aware of the powerful effect which it has on our minds in most cases, and of the effect which it produces, not only in society, but in our success or failure in our in tercourse with mankind. Dress and address are the two great external objects which are the first agents on our feelings; we judge men more by these, than by their writings, and as the organs of perception are first acted upon, we seldom wait to form our decision from actions or from report: the latter indeed is often very fallacious, but the impressions of dress and address are very generally irresistible. A man's writings may be at variance with his life, so may dress and address; yet, when that is the case, the garb sits uneasily, and, as the counterfeit is more perceptible, we place too often implicit reliance on easy gentlemanlike manners, neat, chaste, and fashionable dress. Address being a very superior quality, it is the most important, but, although dress is an object of less magnitude, yet it is indispensably necessary to adorn and set forth the former, which, without it, labours under great difficulties, and will be unavailing with the ignorant, who form the larger mass of the population in every country. Wise men alone set little value on dress, men who are absorbed in abstruse knowledge are apt to lose sight of address, but it is very incorrect to undervalue them entirely, since they are quite compatible with wisdom and with virtue. The only thing then to be ascertained is, what is the nearest point to perfection in dress? And as I have already observed that climate, country, form of government, warlike or peaceful habits, prosperity, civilization, and the rank held amongst nations affect materially the style of dress; I shall here take my stand in Great Britain, and as near St. James's as possible, where the Regia Solis is most

likely to produce fashion and elegance.
What is the dress most becoming to
persons in the rank of the nobility and
gentry, and of professional men? I
say men, because a certain latitude of
captivation is allowed to the other sex
in every class. What is most likely
to produce attraction and respect?
for these are the charms and the power
of dress. Is it costliness? no; our
nobility have assumed a simplicity,
except when officially habited, which
renders rich habits not only unneces
sary but out of use. Is it the extreme
of fashion? no; for the extreme of
fashion becomes to it, what the carica-
ture is to the portrait. Is it frequent
change, incessantly on the wing for
novelty? no; because, first, every fash-
ion is not becoming; secondly, such
changeful clothing bespeaks levity, and
is only to be overlooked in the college
youth, or the very young man entering
into life, and thirdly, because rank, per-
sonal appearance, and our habits must
be consulted in the adoption of every
new fashion. They cannot be equally
genteel, becoming, and elegant, so that
the best friend to the tailor may often
be his own enemy, by making himself
ridiculous. Should we aim at some-
thing striking? no; a person becomes
a scenic performer in the drama of life
thereby; and again, if a man or wo-
man sticks to one garb or character in
dress, the eye is tired of the sporting
frock, the farmer cut, the quaker-like
dittoes of one sex, and of the prim
style of the other, which must soon be
antiquated and rejected by persons of
taste. Constant mourning suits grave
professions, but one who would wish
to pass for a fashionable, well dressed
person, and is not a professional man,
cannot adhere to the same wearisome
garb. On many occasions it casts a
gloom over the drawing room, or din-
ner circle, and there are certain times
when good breeding forbids it-birth-
days, weddings, festivals, &c. &c.
is likewise a bad riding or travelling
dress, and admits of no mediocrity as
to fashion, make, texture, or age. In-

brella, flapping leghorn, shapeless and ridiculous hat: it may save the complexion, but a deep veil would answer the same end, and give grace and modesty to her whose charms are thus delicately withdrawn from the inquiring eye of the beholder. Tartans of all kinds bear and command respect, when worn by the chieftain, the clan, and its adherents, whether by the one sex or the other, and whether it be in stuff or silk; but neither it nor any assemblage of many colours is becoming. What would be thought of a harlequin silk? Over dressing and underdressing are two great means of disfig uring a person, as are colours at enmity with each other, purple and light blue, lilac and pink, or red, and the like. There are colours also which no gentleman can think of wearing in cloth, pompadowr, brownish yellow, drab, light blue, nor could he (in these days,) ever be considered as any thing but a caricature in a striped coat, even striped waistcoats and trowsers will ever be more fanciful than becoming, let who will wear them. The unie or plain neat style must always prevailroyal blue, black, white, mild buff colour, whilst the contrasts of black and green, blue and scarlet, when in cloth and not in uniform. Black and blue are at war with all harmony. Yellow and lilac, pea-green and dark blue are trying colours to a female, but loveliness can bear them out; the two first are odious in male attire, even the very bright yellow waistcoat. In addition to all this outline many more observations might be made; but the limits which I have proposed to myself will not admit them, and I should be afraid of tiring my reader by going into the lengthy detail. Over-length or great curtailing of skirts must always produce a ridiculous effect, as must over amplitude, or a tail like a bird; just so, sweeping trains, and very short petticoats, are to be studiously avoided, except when the former is the finish of a dress robe, which, by the by, suits not all alike. In all these circumstances; stature, size, age, condition, convenience, and effect, ought to be fairly consulted, since what adorns one person, is a satire upon another. In point

deed the moderate novelty of clothes, elegant workmanship, a good fit, and the very best materials are indispensable ingredients in dress of every colour and kind. Persons are very apt to think that black becomes all classes, persons, and complexions: this is a very gross error, nearly as great as the assumption of military undress tunic, pantaloons, black cravat and spurs, these sit ill on every one who is not military, and whose carriage and gentlemanlike deportment do not evince the military man. Both of these dresses, so very common at present, are very trying to the wearers. Black is also very uncertain in its effect on the loveliest sex: the neck and arm which rivals the Parian marble, the lily and the rose blended in the cheek, shine, in mourning, like the star piercing the thick black cloud; but the dingy Jewess, swarthy foreigner, smoke dried female citizen, with low forehead and oily hair, small grey eyes and ig noble countenance, seems like the union of obscurity and fog, a November evening, or a winter's morning, in a narrow street. There are certain colours which must always be offensive to the eye; there are likewise blendings of colours which cannot fail to be harmonious, others which are as ill-judged, and produce the worst effect. Contrasts may be most happy, or the reverse-spots, stripes, chequers, and mixtures, have no alliance with nobility; they are trying, they are the taste and livery of the lower orders, and always seem to be contrived for economy, for a quick and ready sale to the vender, to hide uncleanliness, to disguise the person for some purpose or other to the wearer. These fancies too are trying to beauty, and still further confound deformity. Middling people in class and appearance may assume a middling style of dress, and although a handsome youth, or virgin may wear almost any thing, yet groom coats, coloured silk kerchiefs, caricature hats, brown beavers, coachmanlike form in dress, can never become the former, if he be of the nobility or gentry, nor can a Belcher tied round a lovely neck, add attractions to the wearer, no more than the huge um

of ornaments, much good sense is necessary not to surcharge them; a man with a huge fist, like a shoulder of mutton, whose fingers are encumbered with costly rings, looks the more vulgar, because an attempt at show is easily detected, and only seems as a powerful contrast to a homely person; just so it is with something ponderous and vastly fine, stuck in the cravat or frill, and a long dangling watch chain, as if it were that of an informer angling for a pickpocket. People of high rank are simple in these kind of ornaments, they bring them out modestly and sparingly but whatever they be, high value added to simplicity is their general character, reserving for court days the diamond star, and other jewels, in rings, &c. All paltry ornaments bespeak poverty, pride, the miser and the upstart. In a word, the perfection in dress for gentlemen, consists in the finest texture of linen and of clothing, a chasteness in the blending of colours, excellence as to shape and make, an immaculate cleanliness in every external article worn, and of the person itself; a hat almost new, boots or shoes of the most polished appearance, the rejection of all vulgar adoptions, (for fashions they ought not to be called) the sober use of change, so as however never to wear a decaying article, nothing careless or slovenly in the operation of dressing, the avoiding of all mon

strosities and extremes, all affectations in dress, hats, cravats, great coats, frocks, &c.; the dressing in a manner appropriate to the occasion, the hunting frock for the chase, the jacket for shooting, the box coat for the box only, the travelling dress only for the road. He who hunts down St. James's Street, is a coachman in Pall Mall, a walking jockey in the squares, or a traveller at the theatres, is an object of ridicule and contempt, as far at least as regards taste in dress. Volgarity in buttons, neck-kerchiefs, buckles, or any other article, must mar the general system of gentlemanlike appearance. Nearly the same observations apply to the fair sex: a red armed and red banded young woman, with a dozen rings, is vulgar in the extreme. High dress in a morning bespeaks something let out for parade or for some worse purpose. Flowers become youth, feathers an age more advanced, diamonds sit well on the courtly dame at her meridian, pearls are pretty on a pretty woman not having attained the age of twentyone. Simplicity is the character of the spring of life, costliness becomes its autumn, but a neatness and purity, like that of the snow-drop or lily of the valley, is the peculiar fascination of beauty, to which it lends enchantment, and gives a charm even to a plain person, being to the body what amiability is to the mind.

Mr. Editor. I observe that the Reviewer of Peele's Jests, in the last LONDON, is somewhat puzzled by the epithet clenches, applied to them by Ant. à Wood, and hazards a conjecture, that it means "shifts or stratagems." In this, however, he is mistaken—it was formerly a common expression for a quibble, or play upon words, though about its etymon I am quite as much in the dark as the Reviewer himself.

I shall conclude my remarks on this weighty affair with a "modern instance," consisting of a whole string of clenches :

SONNET ON A YOUTH WHO DIED OF EXCESSIVE FRUIT-PIE.

CURRANTS have check'd the current of my blood,

And berries brought me to be buried here;

Pears have par'd off my body's bardihood,

And plums and plumbers spare not one so spare.

Fain would I feign my fall; so fair a fare

Lessens not fate, yet 'tis a lesson good;

Gilt will not hide guilt; such thin-wash'd ware
Wears quickly, and its rude touch soon is rued.
Grave on my grave some sentence grave and terse,
That lies not as it lies upon my clay,

But, in a gentle strain of unstrain'd verse,
Prays all to pity a poor patty's prey:
Rehearses I was fruit-ful to my hearse,

Tells that my days are told, and soon I'm toll'd away!

« AnteriorContinuar »