The Continental Monthly, Vol. 4, No. 1, July, 1863

Our ideas of beauty are intuitive, and it is only in a dim way that we read the types, the powers for whose immediate cognition we lost in the fall; but it is certain that a curve of any kind is far more agreeable to us than a right line; may not the reason of this fact be: every curve divides itself infinitely by its changes of direction?

What curvature is to lines, gradation is to shade and color; it is their infinity—dividing them into an infinite number of degrees.

Such examples might be indefinitely multiplied, but having placed the key in the hands of the reader, we leave him to unlock the treasure houses of suggestive thought, which he will find profusely lying in his daily paths. This key will not only open for him many of the rarest caskets in which art stores her gems, but will also unclose some of the ineffable wonders of God's mystically tender creation. 'My son, give me thy heart!' is written in God's own hand on everything He hath made.

 
'To me, the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.'
 

The absence of that mental vision which unites the visible to the invisible is not only ruinous to the art of the present age, but also to its faith, and, consequently, to its happiness. Thousands, feeling themselves in a narrow world while they unceasingly long for the infinite, rush into rash and wicked suicide, that they may thus escape from the contradictions and complicated pangs of the finite. The rays of light from the everlasting sun of wisdom and love are indeed forever falling round us, but we no longer bear the prism of faith which would decompose them for us, giving them such direction as they fall upon the symbolic, the relative, that we might read in their three-fold splendor the symbolized, the Absolute. The human soul was created for the enjoyment of God, and, consequently, touches the infinite at every point, and the health and well being of the spirit are far more concerned in its exploration than in any of the vaunted discoveries which it is at present making for the comfort of the body in the material world.

As the limits of the horizon are constantly enlarging before the eyes of one who ascends a mountain, so does the moral world, of which the physical is but the symbol, unroll its immense perspectives of light and love before the gaze of the rapt seeker of truth.

 
'Deep love lieth under
These secrets of time;
They fade in the light of
Their meaning sublime.'
 

The infinite is the vast background from which all life projects; upon whose unity the immense variety of the world is sketched. As understood or sought by the finite, it is the central fire, the burning heart of art; it is the last line in all our horizons; the last shade in all our colors; the last note in all our concerts; the alpha and omega of all true genius. It aspires in the last sigh of the mortal as he lingeringly leaves its dim manifestations upon earth: it lightens in the first smile of the immortal as its full fruition greets him in the presence of his God!

'I am alpha and omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end. To him that thirsteth, I will give of the water of life freely.'

MRS. RABOTHEM'S PARTY

AN EPISODE FROM FASHIONABLE LIFE

 
There dwelleth in sumptuous state and in Gotham
A merchant of character surnamed Rabothem.
His wife, once a letterless rustic in Needham,
Now leadeth the circles of great Upper-Threedom.¹²
 
 
There's nothing surprising in such a transition;
For many a creature, of humbler position
In the scale of creation, can shift its condition.
For instance, the wriggling, despised pollywog
In time may become a respectable frog;
Then, perched on a stump, he may croak his disdain
At former companions, who never can gain
His present distinguished, sublime elevation,
So greatly above their inferior station.
And so, too, a worm, though the meanest of things,
Becomes a most beautiful creature with wings,
That bear it for many a sunshiny hour
Through redolent meadows, from flower to flower.
And surely if changes like these may occur,
Ye men who have reason, how could ye demur
At change in superior orders of nature?
And least in a species so sure to create your
Felicity (if it is not the reverse:
In such an event she is rather a curse).
No one, that possesses a spark of the human,
Would think of opposing the progress of woman;
But all would be happy when one of her kind
A sphere more refined and exalted should find—
Should gracefully 'merge from a chrysalis state,
To bask in the light of a loftier fate.
But (those hateful digressions, I heartily loathe 'em)
I was telling you something of Mrs. Rabothem.
She's a mouthpiece of Fashion. Whatever she wears,
The closest and carefullest scrutiny bears;
And, backed by her husband's munificent pile,
Whatever she does is accomplished in style.
 
 
A wonderful party was given one season
By this excellent dame, for the excellent reason
That wonderful parties were greatly in vogue,
And a man was accounted as worse than a rogue
Whose wife did not follow the prevalent fashion,
And make what is commonly known as 'a dash' in
The choicest society found in the city.
(That the choice is not better is more than a pity.)
 
 
The writer, who happened to be a relation
To Mrs. Rabothem, though lower in station,
Was blest in receiving a kind invitation—
A delicate note, with a delicate scent on,
Whose accurate, well-chosen sentences went on,
In gentlest of terms, to 'solicit the favor,'
Et cetera, and so on. She couldn't, to save her,
Have been any more condescending; and so
I gratefully reached the decision to go.
And yet my decision was quite a concession,
As I'll have to explain by another digression,
In which, at the cost of some time and chirography,
I'll give you a taste of an autobiography.
 
 
And in its beginning, 'tis proper to state
That, somehow, it chanced to be part of my fate
To be born far remote from the populous town,
And therefore, perhaps, I've a spice of the clown.
Be this as it may, I acquired a taste
For joys which, though simple, are equally chaste.
In rural employments expended, my years
Knew not the unnatural pleasures, nor fears,
Which fall to the fortune of one who is bred
Where men on unwholesome excitements are fed,
And horrible vices their poisons distil;
Where Peace, from her home on the verdure-crowned hill,
The whispering grove, or the tapestried mead,
With the bright troop of blessings that follow her lead,
Comes seldom to gladden the wearisome hours,
And raise to new vigor the languishing powers,
But when I arrived at the age of discretion
(I find I must hasten my rambling digression),
With the popular error my mind was deluded
That life is not life from the city excluded;
So I followed the bent of my new inclination,
With the liveliest hopes of improving my station.
'Twas easy deciding, and easy to do it;
'Tis easy, when thinking it over, to rue it.
To Gotham the writer with joy was transported,
Where people in lots, either mixed or assorted,
Are found in abundance, 'kept always on hand,'
Of every conceivable texture and brand;
Exposed at the mart and awaiting their sale,
Like the cotton that lies in the corpulent bale.
A thousand of such may be bought in a trice—
Some dearly, and some at a moderate price.
I mingled among them; I met them on 'Change,
And elsewhere, and surely it isn't so strange
If sometimes, contracting to buy or to sell,
I should be contracting their habits as well.
But, though the temptations about me were rife,
I kept from the perils of 'fash'nable life,'
So that, at the time when my story begins,
I never had placed in the list of my sins
(Though often invited, declining each call)
The crime of attending a party or ball.
For, early in life, I was taught to believe
That pleasures are pitfalls prepared to deceive
By wily old Satan (who constantly tries
To catch you by throwing his dust in your eyes,
Thus, blinding his victim, securing his prize);
That the dance is a maelstrom, where sinners are whirled
Around a few times, and then suddenly hurled
From daylight to darkness, from pleasure to woe,
From terrestrial regions, to regions—below:
But now was afforded a fine opportunity
For taking some pleasure with perfect impunity;—
Ostensibly pleasing a worthy relation,
But really seeking a gratification.
 
 
I went, and, arriving at nine of the clock,
I found that the guests were beginning to flock.
I could but conclude—though 'twas early, they said—
That when folks go to parties they should go—to bed.
 
 
Ere long the magnificent parlors were thronged
By radiant beauties and gents, who belonged
To the circles composed of the lofty élite,
Whose presumption or pride 'twere not easy to beat.
'Twas a splendid, a gorgeous, a 'glorious' sight
To be viewed in that parlor on that winter night.
There were beaux, who the finest of broadcloth were dressed in—
Invested in vestments they always invest in—
And belles, who assisted to fill up the scene
With roods upon roods of their huge crinoline.
Such flounces! they seemed to my wondering eyes
Like Alps upon Alps that in majesty rise.
The costliest jewels and handsomest laces
Imparted their charms to embellish their graces.
And the men seemed to float through the mazes of girls,
Like sharks in an ocean of mermaids and pearls.
 
 
But soon, as the evening began to advance,
A movement was made to engage in a dance;
And, being invited to join in a set,
With a young demoiselle whom I never had met,
I took a position to dance with the rest,
And soon I was doing the thing with a zest.
 
 
For an hour the divinest sensations were mine;
But then my enjoyment commenced to decline.
In halting to rest, I but wearied the more,
So I finally 'vowed that the dance was a bore.
Exhausted at length, I collapsed in a chair,
And studied the various characters there.
Together they formed a remarkable show;
For further particulars vide below.
 
 
There was Trickster, a merchant of physical leanness,
Distinguished alike for his means and his meanness;
And Sharper, a lawyer, with manners as courtly,
And practice as large, as his person was portly.
There was Aderman Michaels, the head of his faction,
Who had learned, it was whispered, the rule of subtraction,
And practised it often in 'grinding his axes,'
Which helped to account for the rise in the taxes.
And there was a man with a rubicund nose,
As bright as the bud of an opening rose,
Disclosing a liking to 'live and be merry,'
With a strong fellow feeling for brandy and sherry.
And then there was one with elongated face,
Who seemed to have made a mistake in the place.
Not a jest, nor a pleasure, was known to beguile
His lugubrious countenance into a smile;
But he moved through the dance, from beginning to end,
Like a man on his way to the grave of a friend.
 
 
Again, there was Simpkins, a clerk and a fop,
Who sported a very luxuriant crop
Of whiskers, cut clearly for 'cutting a dash,'
And flanked by a stylishly twisted mustache,
Adorning the uppermost part of the gash
In his meaningless face, like a regular hedge
Of russety foliage skirting the edge
Of a cavern, containing a prominent ledge
Of rocky projections, above and below
(Though the charge was not 'cast in his teeth,' as I know).
Arrayed, with intent to astonish the vision,
In garments whose 'set' was the pink of precision;—
His chain was of workmanship costly and cunning,
And the stone on his bosom was really stunning.
The taste of which no one could doubt his possession,
Had found in his waistcoat a fitting expression;
Nor less in his neck tie, 'a neat institution,'
And collar, which threatened to do execution.
A marvel, indeed—from the soles of his boots
To the hair, that was scented and greased to its roots—
A something for silly young damsels to scan,
And sighingly say—'What a love of a man!'
And then there was one sentimental young man,
Got up on a rather irregular plan
Of features and form, with a wandering air,
A collar Byronic, and very long hair.
'Twas whispered about—'He's a genius and poet;
And as for myself, I was happy to know it,
For a package of genuine mental precocity
Is certainly always a great curiosity,
And worthy the cost and the toil of a visit—
Like Barnum's astonishing creature—'What is it?'
(A good advertisement for Phineas, that is,
And kind of the author to put it in gratis:
I hope he'll observe my benign disposition,
And send for the season a card of admission.)
 
 
Of course there was that unavoidable myth,
Who is everywhere known by the nomen of Smith—
For there never was aught in the way of sensation,
From a horrible crime to a great celebration,
But that somehow, before they had time to get through with it
Mr. Smith has had something or other to do with it.
Now Smith was a sensible sort of a fellow,
With a beard that in color was nearest a yellow,
And a visage denoting his faith in the creed
That man is a creature intended to feed.
 
 
Another one still we must certainly mention—
'Tis Mr. McFudgins, who claims our attention.
In mould of plebeian he never was cast
(His caste was of gentlemen, wealthy and 'fast').
Not noted for morals, nor even sobriety,
He always had moved in the 'highest society.'
I had seen him so 'high' as to hiccough and stutter,
And once I had noticed him low in the gutter;
Yet he was a 'very respectable' man;
And into whatever excesses he ran,
His riches and impudence safely would carry him,
And plenty of ladies were dying to marry him.
 
 
The ladies assembled were wondrously fine
(Young Sentimentality called them 'divine').
So graceful and pleasing, I could but confess
Not one of the galaxy wanted address
(For dress was abundant, nor lacking in taste,
Though the waist was reduced, there was plenty of waste).
 
 
My attention was called to a dashing young widow,
Whose husband, when living, knew not what he did owe;
For he helped her attempt to keep up with the fashion,
Which hurried him on to a terrible crash in
His business, which tended to shorten his life
And the means that were left to his sorrowing wife.
She, taken in charge by a wealthy relation,
Still lived in the style that befitted her station;
Displaying her charms with astonishing care,
In hopes of enticing a man to her snare,
Who, struck by her beauty, might hasten to court her,
Then marry, and afterward finely support her.
 
 
Of many, whose fortunes were said to be ample,
Miss Lily De Lusian may serve as a sample:
She'd a smatter of French, and a languishing air,
While of sense she possessed but a limited share.
She played the piano remarkably well,
And by all of her friends was considered a belle.
And perhaps it was so, for she certainly 'told,'
In the set where she moved, on account of her gold.
 
 
And then there was old Mr. Spriggins's daughter,
Who wondered that no one in marriage had sought her
(A trivial bait would have easily caught her);
And now she had reached the mysterious age
When maidens are far less attractive than sage.
By staying so long, she had come to be staid,
And appeared to be doomed to be always a maid.
 
 
The generous hostess was all in her glory—
A fact it is fair to infer a priori—
The costly apparel in which she paraded
Was the best to be found in the store where she traded
(The splendid establishment kept by a peer
And the ninth of a man, as is ever so clear,
If you only will notice the names on their palace—
A fact that is stated with nothing of malice;
For a Lord and a Taylor no doubt you will find
A match for two men of the average kind).
 
 
She moved through the rooms with a beautiful dignity,
Conversing with all with the greatest benignity;
Convincing her guests of a flow of geniality,
As great as the stream of her large hospitality.
Her dutiful husband was close at her side;
And, though in his house, it could scarce be denied,
He wasn't 'at home,' in the splutter and jargon,
As much as in driving an excellent bargain.
He suited his wife pretty well, for, at times,
She found he was useful to furnish 'the dimes.'
The most of his value she found in his pocket,
And now he was playing the Stick to the Rocket.
 
 
But while I was noting the forms and the faces
Of those who were present—their faults and their graces—
Reposing my arm on a volume of Tupper,
I was startled to hear the announcement of 'Supper.'
Rejoiced at the news of a change in the bill,
I sprang from my seat with an excellent will,
Presented my arm to a feminine guest,
And marched to a neighboring room with the rest.
 
 
O Ceres and Bacchus! would I were but able
To picture e'en faintly the scene on the table!
There was every conceivable thing, beyond question,
That could tickle the palate and ruin digestion.
Of course there were oysters in various styles,
And sandwiches ranged in appropriate piles;
And turkey was present in lavish abundance,
And of lobster there seemed to be quite a redundance.
The cakes on the board were amazingly nice—
The largest encased in their saccharine ice,
While some, that with nuts or with fruit were embellished,
Expectant appeared to be tasted and relished.
The light was reflected in many a gleam
From mountains of jelly and towers of cream,
With castles of Russes (I'd scorn to enlarge)
Which, like Yorktown, were taken without any charge.
And then there were several baskets of fruit—
Of such as were held in the highest repute—
With nuts, that in reckless profusion were stacked,
And (like most of the jokes) had already been cracked.
The liquors were all of the costliest brands
(They had all been obtained at 'respectable stands');
And as quickly were bottles deprived of champagne,
As ever were clouds of their treasures of rain.
Some lauded the Heidsick, while others concurred
In the settled opinion that 'Mumm' was the word.
The sires and the matrons, the lads and the lasses,
Were pledging each other and clicking their glasses;
And several gentlemen present were fain
Their goblets of stronger potations to drain:
On trifles they certainly never could bandy,
So great was their liking for excellent brandy.
For those who might happen to be in the throng
Whose nerves should be weak, or their principles strong,
A due preparation was graciously made
In the shape of a bowl of the best lemonade.
They ate and they drank, and they laughed and they chattered,
They simpered, and bantered, and lavishly flattered,
Till, finally, weary of such an employment,
They left for the scene of their former enjoyment.
 
 
And now, I had hoped there would be a variety,
For dancing, I thought, had been done to satiety;
But, as soon as the party reëntered the room,
My hopes were consigned to a terrible doom;
For I saw, to my horror, a body of dancers,
Who were clearly intent on performing 'The Lancers.'
 
 
Terpsichore ruled with unlimited sway,
While, moment by moment, the night wore away.
To me, 'twas an agony sadly prolonged,
To stay in that parlor, so heated and thronged,
And witness the sickening, senseless parade,
Which people, who claimed to be sensible, made.
I stood it as long as I could, and as well,
And struggled my rising emotions to quell,
But hotter my blood momentarily grew,
Till objects about me were changing their hue,
And, just as my brain was beginning to totter,
I rushed from the room for some air and some water.
Returning refreshed, my composure resumed,
I awaited the end, like a criminal doomed.
With one demoiselle I essayed to converse,
Whose sense I discovered was not worth a—purse.
Disgusted with one so insipidly brainless,
I turned from a task that was tedious and gainless,
Adapted myself to my strange situation,
And buried my mind in profound cogitation.
 
 
O Fashion, thou tyrant! adored as a god,
By such as obey thy imperious nod—
How mortals their 'sweet independence' resign,
When all that is precious they bring to thy shrine!
Thy altar they grace with the fruit of their lives,
Themselves and their fortunes, till nothing survives
To prove to the world that they ever were free;—
Their souls and their bodies they offer to thee.
And thou! how unworthy thou art of their trust!
Thou givest them nought but a damnable lust
Of silly, deceitful, contemptible show—
A lust that is stronger as older they grow.
For this they surrender their faith and their truth,
The artless, ingenuous goodness of youth,
The strength that belongs to maturity's years:
Exchanging their peace for the paltriest fears,
Lest something, they happen to do or to say,
Should not be considered exactly au fait;
Or lest their attempts should be wholly surpassed
By others who claim to belong to their caste.
Thy fiat, O Fashion, their questions decides;
Thy wisdom all needed direction provides
For spending their time in genteel dissipations,
For cutting their garments, and—poorer relations.
Controlled by thy will, they select their society;
Thou art their instructor in manners and piety.
And thus they obey the decrees of a power,
To which, in a servile allegiance, they cower—
A power that binds them in thraldom, and then
Makes puppets of women and puppies of men.
 
 
Reflections like these were absorbing my mind,
As I sat on the sofa, or partly reclined,
While promiscuous edibles recently 'bolted,'
In assiduous dancing were carelessly jolted.
 
 
The people about me my senses would strike,
In spite of the facts, as extremely alike;—
In physical aspect dyspeptic or bilious,
In manners affected, or quite supercilious,
In mind, rather flippant—of false education—
In heart, scarcely worthy of recommendation.
There was clearly a lack of the highest ability,
With a splendid array of the 'purest gentility.'
Of course I was not in condition to judge,
And some would pronounce an emphatical 'fudge'
At such an opinion as mine, and would scout it,
Insisting that I 'could know nothing about it.'
To which the narrator would humbly submit—
He has written what seemed to his mind as a fit
And truthful recountment of all that he saw,
Without a regard for the general law
For stuccoing statements, to give them, forsooth,
A pleasanter face than is worn by the truth.
 
 
The end came at last. I was glad, I avow;—
As glad—well, as glad as the reader is now,
When he knows that I'll shortly be making my bow.
The company left, and I marched in the van,
A wiser, though hardly a happier, man.
 
 
Of course there are 'morals' attached to my poem,
Though it may be a difficult matter to show 'em.
Well, first (let me see, now), the foolishest passion
Of mortals is that for obeying the fashion.
It has been, and now is, a curse to humanity,
A sinful, ridiculous species of vanity,
The very quintessence of perfect inanity,
And is likely to lead to a 'moral insanity.'
 
 
A second we'll have, and I think that will do—
(You will probably not recollect more than two):
If you have any taste for the honest and hearty,
Don't go to a GRAND METROPOLITAN PARTY.