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The Ladies’ Cabinet of Fashion, Music & Romance
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semblance to some of Toot’s farces. The “Pewter Pot-Maker” is the best, and has passed into a national proverb, when a man has the vanity of wishing to leave the sphere in which he was born. Holberg was ennobled, and his death was greatly lamented.

Ewald holds a distinguished place as a lyrical poet, and the crown of the university was awarded to him on the death of Frederick the Fifth; the soul-stirring national ballad, ” King Christian by the mainmast stood,” came from his pen; that alone would have immortalized him. “The death of Beldor,” and “Ralp Krage, a drama,” are also numbered among his productions. His odes are fine, and the elegies of ” Hope” and ” Remembrance” are beautiful. Bat Fortune did not smile upon this gifted son of song, for forty years Indigence had been bis daily companion, yet the great of the earth contended who should bear his remains to the grave. Oehlenschlager holds rank, perhaps, in the estimation of some before any of the others, but he lias modestly styled himself a third-class poet. “The Death of Correggio,” “Aladdin,” “Ascel and Waldberg,” and “The Gospel of the Year,” are all marked with fine imagery, distinctness, and grace. This writer is particularly fortunate in his female characters.

Winther, Hendrich Hertz, Hendersen, N. F. Mohlbeck, and Grundtvig, are the famous modern poets; there are also a great number of novelists, whose works meet a ready sale. F. C. Sibbern is the most independent thinker in the kingdom, and Oersted’s “Aanden e Xatiiren” has been translated into most European languages. Eschricht and Paulsen are zoologists. Other writers have presented valuable works on archaeology and history to the public. Rask, Westergaard, and Fausboll are exceedingly eminent as linguists; and Nyerup, Petersen, and Mtiller have made very profound researches in Danish literature and history. Numerous critical editions of the remains of ancient Danish and Scandinavian literature have been issued, and Grundtvig stands at the head of the living historians of Denmark.

As the duchies and Denmark now engross much of the public attention, a short biographical notice of the late king may be suitably appended. The greatest English poet has well and justly remarked, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” and in no case was it more fully exemplified than in the person of Frederick the Seventh of Denmark, who has been styled by his contemporaries and the Danish press the republican king. No one ever accepted a diadem more reluctantly, nor wore it more unwillingly.

Frederick was born October the 6th, 1803, about a year after the bombardment of Copenhagen by the British. His chances of succeeding to the throne were precarious, as his father was only cousin to the reigning king. This prince had two daughters, and was only forty; reasonable hopes might be expected of male iisue. The father of Prince Frederick was engrossed wi(b dreams of kingly sway, and ac

tually wore the Norwegian crown for a few months. Prior to this, his parents separated, were divorced, and the boy spent most of his time among soldiers and peasants. At sixteen he made the tour of Europe, and resided for some time at Geneva, whence he returned home, imbued with republican ideas, and much better fitted to be a disciple of Jean Jacques Rousseau than to wield a sceptre. But things had greatly changed: his royal cousin, at the age of sixty, found himself without any male heirs. His two daughters had long since passed the bloom of early youtb, and their father, determined that they should marry, tendered the Princess Wilhelmina to her cousin Frederick. The youth refused, but the King was inflexible, and he was united, in 1828, to a woman he disliked, and whose haughty manners did not conciliate her spouse. He soon left her, and resided for some time at a mansion near the capital, where he assembled around him some of his former democratic associates, and contracted an intimacy with a certain Louise Rasmussen, the daughter of a small tradesman, but a girl of much wit and beauty. Such conduct drew the King’s ire upon the Prince, and, after a reprimand, he was sent to muse and philosophize, in 1857, to a fortress in Jutland, where he remained till liberated by the King’s death. At his father’s accession to the throne he was divorced from the Princess Wilhelmina, and married a second time to the Princess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. Chance, however, threw him into contact with his former love, whom he at once installed in a cottage, and avowed his intention of protecting. At the end of five years the Crown-Prince was divorced from the Princess of Strelitz, who returned to her native country, and Louise Rasmussen was declared favourite entire.

Christian the Eighth died on the 20th of January, 1848, and the first act of his son, on ascending the throne the same day, was to create his favourite Baroness Danner, and soon after Countess. This distinction was at first severely blamed by the nation; but the favourite was entirely on the popular side, and Frederick at once declared that he would rather resign his crown than separate from his friend, and such, in fact, very nearly ensued, when all E’irope was suddenly convulsed by the French revolution. A mob of the ultra-radicals and the Scandinavian party thronged the palace, petitioning for reform, and using seditious language; but the King at once disarmed these factious spirits, by asserting that he would abdicate the crown, become the president of a republic, or withdraw entirely from public business, and thus morally intimidate his powerful neighbour. This was more than the nation either expected or desired, and intimated that they would only accept the new constitution guaranteed by the King.

On the 7th of August, 1850, Frederick the Seventh was publicly married, at Fredericksburg, to the Countess Danner. This step greatly displeased the Danes, and, as it had long been apprehended, remonstrances against it poured in from all parts of the kingdom; but the King heeded them not, and soon after making a tour of the southern provinces of the kingdom, at a banquet openly stated that Louise Rasmussen was the best friend he had, and that if he could not enjoy the privilege of a peasant in selecting his consort, he would at once resign the crown. This plain avowal promptly silenced all complaints, and the sensible part of the Danish community at once acknowledged that the King was right, and that they would support him.

Christian was, beyond all question, the most honest prince of his day, and invariably acting for the good of his people, was ready to declare the kingdom a republic, if Russia should attempt any infringement of her liberties. To the popular voice he always lent a respectful attention, and met difficulties as they arose—a task from which kings too often shrink. His death was deeply and sincerely lamented, as a patriotic sovereign, and one who always planned his country’s welfare, and common consent has adjudged him to be the wisest and best monarch that Denmark had seen for a century.

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There arc some scenes in this onr weary life
That shine right-wistfully across the drear expanse
Of bygone years, anil midst the after-life
Of care and sorrow, strike some well-known chord
To which the heart-strings vibrate, and a tear
Starts to our poor, worn eyelids, just as when
One hears in dreams a long-forgotten strain
Of homely music which a ioved one played
Whose hand is still iu death.

It fell that on a glorious summer eve

We strolled along, by happy fancy led,

Down to the old familiar trysting place—

The old sweet lovers’ nonsense whispering low—

My bonnic Pearl and I.

Above us far, In bright mid-air, the skylarks trilled a wealth Of luscious melody, till, fainter heard, They made the very heaven aglow with song, Around the rocks kept ward, and far beyond The great calm sea lay sleeping quietly, Rippling with gentle smiles, as infancy Sunk in sweet slumber : while the breeze, Deep-tinctured with a thousand healthful scents, Toyed with the purple wind-flowers, that caressed, In loving twines, the cliffs stern, rugged brow, Like dew-gemmed llow’rets round a crater’s brink. A splendid summcr-eve it was: the sky, so pure, Shone where the sun had sunk, without the pomp And glorious pageantry of purple clouds— A charm of deep, calm blue; while one fair star Gleamed like a jewel red; and yet The moon had riseu not, to greet the waves’ Deep melody.

Hespcr alone looked down
Benignantly upon the evening’s peace;
Nought broke the charmed stillness of the hour,
Save the sad ceaseless throbbing of the waves,
Kissing caressingly the tired, parched earth.
My eyes had sought the heaven in her face,
That brightest star in all my firmament;
Her little timid hand lay fluttering,
A captive iu my scarce less timid grasp;
Ilcr whispered words awoke my heart’s response,
“And wilt thou love inc, e’en for weal and woe,
My own, my peerless one?” A whisper came.
Softer and fainter than the whispering wave
That kissed the shingle on the yellow shore;
A winning glance shot from those trustful eyes,
As shoots the sun-ray thwart a reed-fringed lake,
Tinting with golden light the marish-flowers
Enmirrorcd on its bosom. Softly then
Her proud lithe head lay pillowed on my breast,
Crowned with its wealth of burnished yellow hair;
And softer still the echo of her voice
Camo beating at my heart i “To thee alone
My young life’s love is given, and with thec
Shall it remain until we both shall die.”
A few short simplo words; but all at once
My life seemed changed for me, and hnppy lij;lit—
The glamour bright of Love’s own witchery—
Transformed the scene to fairyland, the while
My heart kept echoing to triumphal songs—
A Piean for my victory. No more
Might life appear a rugged, cheerless strife:
With love to brighten ail the weary way
It seemed enchanted; and th’ enchanter’s wand
Was, after all, but some few trembling words
That told me I was loved, in life and death,
lly a pure, honest girl, God’s fairest work.

‘Tis hard to lengthen out the threads of grief,
Long-drawn, and hastening to the bitter cud.
Life hath no charms for him whose sun has set
In clouds of lurid blackness, and perchaueo
Fond rccollcotion makes the way less drear;
Hut oft upon a summer’s eve I tit,
And conjure up the semblance of my love,
Who comes and lays her soft, cool hand iu mine,
And looks upon ine with angelic calm,
Soothing my sorrow; while Love, strong as Death,
Ilcams from her tender eyes, and bids me wait
Steadfast unto the end; when she, herself,
Among the ” Shining Ones,” will lead me forth
Unto the happiness of perfect day.

B. N. C, Oxford.

H. J. S.

Handsome Donation* To The National—Captain Hans Husk has presented to the trustees of the National Gallery a magnificent work of art by Nicolo Poussin. It is one of the finest specimens extant of that celebrated master, and is in his purest style. It is also in excellent preservation. The picture was painted iu 1641, and was purchased some years since from the Barberiui Gallery for six hundred guineas. It was considered by competent judges one of the gems of the collection of the late Mr. Hans Busk, uf Great Cumberland-place, who died iu 1862,


Chap. I.—Doubling.

“Waiter, if any one should call, you had better say I am engaged, 0r out. Let no one in: for I can see nobody.”

“Very good, sir. Will you take your dinner now? or would you prefer—”

At this point in the dialogue there came a double rap at the door of the room, cutting short the man’s speech. No answer was given to the summons, which was soon repeated. Each looked at the other, the gentleman and the waiter—each apparently waiting for the other to do something. After the lapse of a few seconds the door was tried; the effort, however, proved useless, for the key had been turned in the lock some time previously.

“I say there!” uttered a fierce voice without —” Horace Carew, if you be in this here room, I adviBe you to open, or I shall be under the necessity of doing something to make you open!”

At the close of this threat the waiter looked towards the gentleman again ; but this latter existed no longer! In an arm-chair by the bed-side sat a decrepid old woman, spectacles on her nose, and a coal-scuttle bonnet on her head—the very picture of an ancient dame.

“My good fellow,” said the metamorphosed being in the chair, “just do me a favour. Look you here: step for a minute into this wardrobe. There, thank you. For heaven’s sake make no noise, not a sound! You will understand? Ah, I see you do. Where is your hand? Right? Put that in your pocket.”

Click! The waiter was safe in the wardrobe now—there had been time for him, however, to see the sparkle of gold, ere the door closed. In the interval repeated demands had been made from without for the door to be opened: these failing to produce any effect, recourse was being had to a more decisive mode of action. Already a heavy blow had half-shattered the panel, when the old woman, alias Horace Carew, seized the prison of the incarcerated waiter, and succeeded, by dint of pushing and dragging, in forcing it in front of the door; a chest of draws, three chairs, table, and washhand-stand followed, and in two minutes a most respectable barricade had been improvised, worthy of the Boulevards des Italiens. The blows in the meantime had crushed through the door, scattering the shivered fragments of it around; but the dealer thereof stopped short in amaze at the further resistance to his attack which was now experienced in the artistic array of wardrobe, drawers, and table in the rear.

Here rushed in the landlord to the rescue. “Spare my furniture, Mr. Bailiff! If you’ll only have patience for one minute I’ll bring a keY, Spare the property!”‘

Thud, thud! fell the blows heavily on the resisting mass.

“Spare my legs!” cried an agonized voice within. “I’ll get out of the way directly I can. It’s not my fault, indeed it’s not!”

The last few blows had penetrated the back of the wardrobe, and reached the natural pedestals of the worthy waiter.

All draw back. “Who are you? asked the officer, angrily. “Where is Horace Carew i”

“Let me out, let me out, Mr. Rentner! Master, let me out!” was the only reply.

“Speak, man!” cried the bailiff—”speak, or by Jove I’ll break your legs, and not leave you one to Rtand upon! Who are you?”

“I am Charles Green! I am locked in! I am innocent! I am—”

“You’re a fool!” retorted his questioner. “Break open the door of your wardrobe, and come out.”

“Don’t!” shrieked the master—”my best mahogany wardrobe!”

“Do !” growledthe officer; “for, if you don’t, I strike!”

The unfortunate waiter made a violent effort to extricate himself, and succeeded, not in bursting open the door, but in breaking through the back of his prison, and precipitating himself into the arms of his master. This latter, in revenge for the injury done to his furniture, passed him on to the officer, who collared the offender, and asked, “Where is Horace Carew? He’s wanted. Now you understand; so don’t pretend you are stupid or deaf!”

In desperation the man pointed to the room. The crowd which had collected pressed forward to the door, and, the furniture being displaced, entered. The room was vacant: the bailiff swore: the master of the house bemoaned his loss, and talked loud of damage; while the lookers-on chuckled.


In the meantime, along the muddy streets of the town of Barnton, an old woman, apparently very infirm, carrying a large bundle on her arm, threaded her way. She tottered in her walk so much as to attract the notice of passers-by. In turning a corner of the street she encountered a crowd of men and boys, conspicuous amongst which was the discomfited bailiff. So sudden was the encounter, that the poor old thing was all but upset by the rabble. At any rate her infirmities did not seem to excite much compassion, for the irate officer of the law growled uncourteously, muttering something about “old women fitter to remain at home than to go at large I” The ancient dame got herself out of the way of the crowd as quickly as might be, and passed on. The moment she was out of sight she quickened her pace, stepping out more rapidly than one would have supposed possible for a person of her age.

Half-an-hour later this venerable pedestrian had taken her seat in a railway carriage, and was being rapidly whirled up to London.

Chap. II.—A Conference.

“Who may you please to want, marm?” asked the maid-of-all-work at No. 7, Drury Buildings, of an old woman, habited in coalscuttle bonnet, and carrying a bundle on her arm, who had just rung the area-bell.

“Is Mr. Henries at home?”

“Yes, marm. Walk in.”

And the door closed behind the visitor.

Lounging in a large easy-chair, by a blazing fire, sat a young man reading the last new novel. He was gorgeously attired in a variegated dressing-gown. A half-consumed cigar lay on a small table by his side, flanked by a jug of beer, whilst the very ugliest description of pugdog reclined at his feet. The room was on the first-floor, and appeared strewed with all kinds of heterogeneous articles. In one corner stood a microscope, on a small round-table of its own, while on the chair next to it lay a revolver, pulled to pieces in order to be cleaned. A piano-forte graced one side of the room, while, leaning against it, were fishing-rods and coachwhips, landing-nets, and an Alpine “stock,” with “Wengern,” “Lauterbriinnen,” ” Righi,” and names of a similar character, stamped on its surface. It was evident that the pursuits of the master of the room were various and varied. At this time, as we have said, all other interests were lost sight of in the enjoyment of Dickens’s last new novel.

“An old lady, sir; to speak to you. Shall I shew her up?”

“An old what?” asked the novel-reader.

“An old lady, sir; a very old lady. She is a-asking for you, sir, and seems impatient like to see you.”

“I ‘in blest if it wont be that bothering old aunt of mine,” soliloquised the owner of the dressing-gown.

“Look here, Jane,” he continued, aloud: “shew her up, of course. Be very civil; but be as long about it as you can—do you understand?”

Jane said she did understand, and, from the smile on her face, one would be willing to allow that she spoke the truth, for this once at least.

It did not take long to doff the variegated robe, and replace it by a correct-looking coat. Novel, smoking-paraphernalia, revolver, and whips were hastily pushed aside into an adjoining room. In their place the first large books which presented themselves were displayed ostentatiously on the table; and pen, ink, and paper, rulers and pencils drawn forth from their hiding-places, were added to give a studious effect. The expectant host wai bent low over

his books and papers when the door next opened. So deeply immersed was he in his occupation that he hardly lifted his eyes from the table as he rose to greet his visitor.

“How kind, my dear Aunt, to [sotto

voce] By Jove, it’s not she! Who the deuce is it? Some one escaped from Bedlam?”

These half-loud exclamations were caused by the eccentric proceedings of the old lady in question, who was scattering bonnet, shawl, and bundle about the room.

“So,Tom, even you don’t know me!”

“Why, Horace! what, in the name of all that’s wonderful, is this freak? A precious fright you gave me. I made certain it was the old aunt come to pry’into my bachelor-doings. What’s on the carpet?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” answered Horace; “but allow me to lock the door first. So. You shall have my story in two words. It’s all U. P. with your affectionate friend. He must fly, hide, or bury himself alive. That old curmudgeon, Brattles, at Cambridge, has got a writ out against me, and I had the narrowest possible shave, down at Barnton. He set a confounded bailiff on me, and nearly caught me too. Fortunately, I had these habiliments of the A.D.C., and so managed with this disguise to checkmate our friend. But I can tell you it was a near thing, and, had it not been that the window of my room was within 20 feet of the ground, I might not have been here now.”

“But I thought that you were expecting supplies from India?” asked Henries, as he again exchanged his mourning-coat for the beforementioned dressing-gown.

“So I am,” answered Horace; “but that old sinner Brattles would not wait; so I must make myself scarce somewhere till the wherewithal arrives, when I shall have it sent to you, and get you to settle for me.”

“That I will with pleasure. I wish, old fellow, I could offer to pay it myself for you; but I ‘m not too well provided for as it is. But your uncle down at Sairmouth—Lord Leven I mean —would he not be able to help you?”

“Oh no, that would never answer. I dare no more ask him than go to Silly Billy, our master, for cash. No, no; but 1 want two things from you, of whom I’m not afraid to ask, and they are, first some bottled beer, and then some advice.”

“Here’s the first,” returned Horace’s companion; “about the second we must see.”

“Stay, I have it,” said Horace, putting down the ” pewter,” which he had well-nigh emptied: “I’ll go and earn my living. ‘What more honourable fashion of meeting the untoward chances in a changing world’—you know the rest of the quotation, Henries—’ Euphemia and Adolphus, act vi., scene 7—so I’ll spare you: but seriously, I’ll go and be a waiter.”

“A waiter!” cried the other, aghast—” a waiter! Nay, try any other role but that— poet, painter, pedlar if you will; but a waiter —bah I Put you’re not in, earnest, surely f”

“Indeed but I am. It shan’t be in England: I’ll go abroad, up the Rhine, or somewhere. I tell you it will be splendid fun!”

“Ha! there’s the post,” interrupted Henries, as the well-known, quick, short rap of the postman resounded along the street. “I’ll go out on the landing and get the letter. The girl would think we were all mad, if she saw you now!”

Horace was only half-unse.xed, as he still retained his petticoats; so that the effect was singular. After a minute Henries returned with his letter. “Why, Horace,” he exclaimed, running his eyes over the page, “this concerns yon.”

“Me? How?”

“Somen, the tutor at St. Bride’s, writes to say he is coming to see me to-morrow about you. Then bis mother is going abroad, and wants to know if I can recommend a trusty servant to travel with them.”

“Much obliged for kind inquiries; but I say, Tom, suppose I offer for the situation? You would recommend me—eh?”

“But Somen would want to see you.”

“Will he have that pleasure now, I wonder, or wait till he gets it ?” returned Horace. “No, he can’t see me. I must be taken on trust. I tell you how I can manage though. I’ll meet them wherever they land—Calais, Ostend, or Antwerp, as the case may be, and that will put a meeting with Somers out of the question; for I ’11 be bail he ’11 never cross the Channel.”

So it was agreed. That evening’s post carried back a letter to Cambridge, recommending “Henly Fisher” as an experienced courier, who had travelled much abroad, was English-born, but spoke German, French, and Italian fluently: in fact, was the very man that would suit Mrs. Somers in all respects. He (Mr. Henries) could vouch for the young man’s character.

This arrangement being concluded, and some more beer discussed, Horace took himself off, leaving his female attire as a legacy to his friend.

Chap. III.—A Meeting.

Horace Carew is walking the Ostend pier, dressed in the most approved courier fashion. He has spent some time in the same occupation, for the Dover boat is already late, and not yet in sight. Mrs. Somers is expected to arrive by her j and Horace Carew, now Henly Fisher, is about to enter upon his new duties.

As he walks, reader, grant me one word of explanation, and your good-nature shall not be trespassed upon.

Horace’s parents died young, in India, whence he was sent home, a boy four years old, to the care of his uncle, Lord Leven.

This latter was an oddity. Though really attached to his nephew, he was very strict with him—more especially in money matters. Not that he allowed Horace anything (what he had Was bis own, and had come to him from his

father); but in occasional visits that our hero had made at Sairmouth Castle, Lord Leven took care to express his opinions pretty strongly regarding young men running into debt. Moreover, Horace was supposed to be the old man’s heir, as his uncle had no children. This would not necessarily be the case, as the title died with Lord Leven, and the property was entirely at his disposal; but it was naturally thought to be the most likely thing to happen. Now although people felt morally certain that Horace would succeed to the estate, it was not a subject that could be spoken of within hearing of the present possessor. The bare hint of such a thing threw him into a rage. It was his peculiarity to have an intense aversion to speaking of what should be after he was gone. Horace knew all this, and was especially careful never to let Lord Leven hear of his money-difficulties, or to allow him to suppose that he (Horace) considered himself as the heir.

The uncle and rfephew knew next to nothing of one another. During his boyhood, Horace usually spent the holidays with a friend of his father’s, whose son was at the same school, and, beyond a yearly visit at Sairmouth Castle, he saw little of Lord Leven. When he left school and went to the University, he was even less frequently at the Castle, the vacation being usually spent in travelling in Germany and Italy. So, on the whole, the intimacy between Lord Leven and his brother’s child was not great.

Let us now return to the pier at Ostend on which Henly Fisher was continuing his solitary promenade.

It blew and blew harder, and still there were no signs of the steamer. But Horace was not the only individual undergoing the penance of a long wait. On the opposite side of the pier was a middle-aged gentleman, brisk in gait, tall in figure, and snuffy in general appearance, who seemed as anxious as our hero concerning the arrival of the expected steamer. His patience, however, was of no very durable quality, and was evidently fast vanishing. He had questioned every likely and unlikely person as to the cause of the detention, and had so persecuted the look-out men, that they turned their backs when he addressed them. At last everyone avoided him, and so he had recourse to Horace, in order to pour out his complaints regarding foul weather and unpunctual steamers:

“Boat late, sir,” he began, planting himself immediately in front of the new victim. “Boat very late, sir! Waiting, I presume, for some one coming by her?”

Horace assented, and endeavoured to pass the loquacious stranger and continue his walk. But this was not to be done.

“Perhaps, sir, you can tell me how it is that the Ostend steamer is Bo exceedingly behind time. I shall write to the public papers, sir; that I will! I cannot afford to lose my”

“Hat, sir. Take care of your hat,” cried several voices at once.

But the warning came too late. A mis

L U G ET E, o v z N z R r s cu P I DIN z s Q u r,
ET Q u A NT u m r s r h o M IN U M v E N U sr I o R U M !
PA S 3 E R MO R T U U 8 F. S T M E Æ P v E L L Æ ;
PA ss E R D E L I c I A M E AE P U F L L Æ ;
CA T v L.
w er P, Y E B E L L F s, Y E B E A Ux D E P L o R E !
Po LL, T H z r. z AR D E LI G H T, T H E F A NcY,
Po LL, T H E DAR L I N G o F M Y N a N c y !
P R ETT Y Po LL, wHoM s H E p 1 D Lov E,
’BovE H ER Ey Es, o FAR A Bov E.
N O ING the other day to vifit Mrs. Penelope Doat, after I had waited fome time in the parlour, the maid re turned with her miſtreſs’s compliments, and informed me, that as ſhe was ex
tremely buſy, ſhe begged to be excuſed coming down to me, but that the would be very glad to fee me in the Nurfery. As I knew ſhe was a maiden lady, I was a good deal ſtartled at the meſlage : but however I followed the fervant up ftairs to her miftrefs; whom I found combing a little fpotted dog that lay in her kap, with a grey parrot perched on one arm of the fettee where ſhe fat, a monkey on the back, and a tabby cat with half a
dozen kittens on the other corner of it.
The whole room, which was a very large one, was indeed a nurfery for all kinds of animals, except thoſe of the human fpecies. It was hung every where with cages, containing parrots, mackaws, C inai y birds, nightingales, linnets, and gold5ncies ; on the chairs were feveral ca’s repofingon (oft cuſhions; and there were little kennels in the Chineſe talte,
in almoſt every corner of the room, filled with pugs, Fidos, and King Charles’s breed. As foon as the chattering of the birds, the barking of the dogs, and the mewing of the cats, which my en rance occafioned, began to ceaſe.– You find
* me here, Sir, faid the lady, “ tend
* ing my little family, the only joy of * my life. Here’s a dear pretty crea * ture !” holding up the dog ſhe was combing, “ a beauty : what a time long “eared ſnub nofed beauty ! Lady Faddle “ advertiled three quarters of a year, and * could not get the fellow to it. Ah, “ biefs it, and love it, ſweet foul!’–And
then ſhe ſtroaked it, and kified it for near two minutes, uttering the whole time all thoſe inarticulate founds, which cannot be comuni:ted to paper, and which are only addreſſed to dogs, cats, and children, and may be itiled the Language of the Nuriery. Upon obſerving me ſmile at the embraces the beſtowed on
her little motley darling–“I am afraid,’ faid fhe, “ you don’t love thefe pretty creatures. How can you be fo cruel ?
Poor durmb things ! I would not have them hurt for al the world. Nor do I
fee why a lady ſhould not indulge her felf in having ſuch ſweet little con pany about her, as well as you men run out eſtates in keeping a pack of filthy hounds.” Then the laid Pompey on his custaion by the fire-fide; ani raii ed at the barbarity of the human ſpecies to the reſt of the creation, and entered into a long diliertation on tendernes
and humanity. |
An humane difpofition is indeed fo amiable, either in man or woman, that
* 2O2 THE con No1sseUR.
it ought always to be cheriſhed and kept alive in our bofoms; but at the fame
time we ſhould be cautious not to render
the firſt virtue of our nature ridiculorus.
The moſt compaſionate temper may be fufficientiy gratified by relieving the wretches of our own fpecies : but who would ever boaſt of their generofity to a
lap-dog, and their conferring eternal ob ligations on a monkey? Or would any lady deſerve to be celebrated for her cha nity, who ſhould deny ſupport to a rela tion or a friend, becauſe the maintains a
litter of kittens? For my part, before I
would treat a Dutch puppy with fuch ab
furd fondneſs, I muſt be brought to wor fhip dogs, as the Ægyptians did of old; and ere I would fo extravagantly doat upon a monkey, I would (as Iago fays on a different occaſion) º exchange my « humanity with a baboom.” Yet there have been many intances,
befides my female friend, of this fond nefs for the brute creation being carried to very ridiculous lengths. The grave dostors of the faculty have been called in to feel the pulſe of a lap-dog, and infpe&t the urine of a fquirrel : , nay, I
am myſelf acquainted with a lady, who carried this nátter fo far, as to diſcharge her chaplain becaufe he refuſed to bury her monkey. But the molt folemn piece of mummery on theſe occaſions is the making proviſions for thefe animals by will; which abſurd legacies as little deferve the title to humanity, as thoſe people merit being called charitable, whỏ in a death-bed fright ſtarve their relations, by leaving their eſtates to found an hoſpital. It were indeed to be wiſhed, that money left in truft for
fuch uſes were fubjećt to fome ſtatute of Mortmain ; or at leaft that the gentle men of the long robe would contrive fome fcheme to cut off the entail from
monkeys, mackawe, Italian grey hounds, and tabby cats. That a ſtage-coachman fhould love his cattle better than his wife or child
ren, or a country ſquire be fond of his hounds and hunters, is not fo furprifing, becauſe the reaion of their regard for them is eaſily accounted for : and a ſea captain has, upon the fame principies, been known to contraćt an affećtion for
his fhip. Yet no coachman would, like C digula, tie his horfes to a golden rack; but thinks he ſhews fuiiicient kindneſs
bv giving then a good feed and clean straw : and the country ſporttimam takes
care to provide his hounds with a warm kennel and horſe-fiefh; but would never think of placing them on cufhions before
the fire, and cramming them with fri caffees, or breed them with as much
care as the heir to his eſtate.
This irregular pafiion (if I may fo call it) is mott frequently to be met with among the ladies. How often has the
flighted gallant envied the careffes given to a lap-dog, or kiffes bestowed on a
. fquirrel! , and “ I would I were thy “ bird!” has been the fond exclamation
of many a Romeo. But it is remark able, that this affećtion for birds and
beats generally wears off after marriage, and that the ladies difcard their four
footed darhings and feathered favourites when they can beſtow their endearments on a huſband. Wherefore, thefe dry nurfes to pugs and grimalkins are moſt ly to be met with among thoſe females who have been diſappointed in the af fairs of love, and have againſt their will retained the flower of virginity till it has withered in their poffefìion. It often happens that there is fome kind of ana logy between the gallant they once loved, and the animal on which they afterwards fix their affections : and I remember an
inſtance of a lady’s paffion for a lawyer being converted into a dotage on a par rot; and have an old maiden aunt who once languiſhed for a beau, whoſe heart is now devoted to a monkey. , But I ſhould not fo much quarrel with theſe humane ladies, who chufe to fettle
their afiećtions on the brute ſpecies, if their love for theſe pretty creatures was not troublefome to others who are not to
fenfible of the charms of a ſnub noſe,
or cannot diſcover any beauty in the grey eyes of a cat. A doating mother would never forgive you, if you did not cail her brat a fine child, and dandle it about and prattle with it, with as much feem ing rapture as herſelf : in like manner, a lady would take it as an affront to her own perfon, if you did not pay your addreſſes equðly to her pug or paroquet. I know a young fellow that was cut off with a fhilling by am old maiden aunt, on whom he had great dependance, be cauſe he gave poor Veny a kick, only for litting up his leg againſt the geatle man’s ſtocking : and I have heard of
another who might have carried of a
very rich widow, but that he could mot prevail upon himſelf to extend his ca refles to her dormouſe. indeed, I can
mot help thinking, that the embraces and endearments beſtowed on thefe rivals
of the human fpecies ſhould be as pri vate as the moſt fecret intrigues; and I
would have lap-dogs, like fretful and fqualling children, confined to bark and growl only in the nurfery. We may often fee a footman following his lady to church with a large common-prayer book under one arm, and a ſnarling cur under the other. I have known a grave divine forced to ſtop fhort in the middle of a prayer, while the whole congrega tion has been raiſed from their knees to
attend to the howling of a non-con forming pug: and I once ſaw a tragedy monarch diſturbed in his laſt moments, as he lay expiring on the carpet, by a
diſcerning critic of King Charles’s black breed, who jumped out of the ſtage box, and fastening upon the hero’s peri
wig, brought it off in his mouth, and lodged it in his lady’s lap. It will not appear ſtrange, after what has been faid, that thefe ladies, or lady like gentlemen, ſhould be as folicitous to preſerve the breed of their favourite animals, as a ſportfinan of his hounds and horfes. I have known a gentle man in St. James’s Street fend his little Cupid in a fedan chair as far as Groſve nor Square, to wait upon a lady’s Veny for this very purpoſe : and I ſhall never forget a Card which was ſent to another lady on a like occafion, expreſſed in the following terms. ” Mr. ––’s com “ pliments to Lady Betty –
* glad to hear Miſs Chloe is fafely de “ livered, and begs it as a particular fa
—-» 13
vour, that her ladyſhip would be pleaf ed to fet him down for a puffy.”

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