Thackerayana: Notes and Anecdotes

by Unknown

AN ESSAY IN DEFENCE OF THE FEMALE SEX.

DEDICATED TO THE PRINCESS ANNE OF DENMARK.

As this book does not bear the reputation of being generally familiar, we give a slight sketch of its contents. The vitality of a work depends in so large a degree on the estimation which its subject happens to secure at the date of publication, that, as a rule, it may be held when a book is forgotten, or extinguished before its first spark of life has time to catch popular attention, the fault is its own, and, being buried, it is a charity to allow its last rest to remain undisturbed. We are inclined to believe, however, that this little treatise forms an exception. The 'Essay in Defence of the Female Sex' is written by a lady. The third edition, which now comes under our consideration as having formed one of the works in Thackeray's library (illustrated with original little sketches of the characters dealt with by their authors), was published in 1697, at the signs of the 'Black Boy' and the 'Peacock,' both in Fleet Street. The authoress disclaims any participation in a brace of verses which appear on its title:—

'Since each is fond of his own ugly face,

Why should you, when we hold it, break the glass?'

Prol. to 'Sir F. Flutter.'

The second couplet appears under an engraving of the 'Compleat Beau,' an elaborate creation adjusting his curls with a simper, whilst a left-handed barber bestows a finishing puff from his powder-box:—

'This vain gay thing set up for man,

But see what fate attends him,

The powd'ring Barber first began,

The barber-Surgeon ends him!'

The paragraphs distinguished with little drawings, which we have extracted, may give an impression that the 'defence' consists of an attack on the male, rather than a vindication of the fair sex. The arguments of the gentle champion are, however, temperate and sensible, in parts; they are stated in a lively, quaint manner, and the general quality of the book may be considered superior to the average of its class and date. The preface, which discourses of vanity as the mainspring of our actions, deals with the characters it is designed to introduce in the work as with the mimic actors of a puppet-show; this coincidence with a similar assumption in the preface to the great novel of our century, from the pen of the gifted author who at one time possessed this little treatise, is worthy of a passing remark.

Preface.

'Prefaces to most books are like prolocutors to puppet-shows; they come first to tell you what figures are to be presented, and what tricks they are to play. According, therefore, to ancient and laudable custom, I thought fit to let you know, by way of preface or advertisement (call it which you please), that here are many fine figures within to be seen, as well worth your curiosity as any in Smithfield at Bartholomew-tide. I will not deny, reader, but that you may have seen some of them there already; to those that have I have little more to say, than that if they have a mind to see them again in effigy, they may do it here. What is it you would have? Here are St. Georges, Batemans, John Dories, Punchinelloes, and the "Creation of the World," or what's as good, &c. The bookseller, poor man, is desirous to please you at firsthand, and therefore has put a fine picture in the front to invite you in.'

Character of a Pedant.

(The Authoress alludes to scholars 'falling short' of certain qualifications. The expression is literally illustrated.)

'For scholars, though by their acquaintance with books, and conversing much with old authors, they may know perfectly the sense of the learned dead, and be perfect masters of the wisdom, be thoroughly informed of the state, and nicely skilled in the policies of ages long since past, yet by their retired and inactive life, their neglect of business, and constant conversation with antiquity, they are such strangers to, and so ignorant of, the domestic affairs and manners of their own country and times, that they appear like the ghosts of old Romans raised by magic. Talk to them of the Assyrian or Persian monarchies, the Grecian or Roman commonwealths, they answer like oracles; they are such finished statesmen, that we should scarce take them to have been less than confidants of Semiramis, tutors to Cyrus the Great, old cronies of Solon and Lycurgus, or privy councillors at least to the twelve Cæsars successively. But engage them in a discourse that concerns the present times, and their native country, and they hardly speak the language of it, and know so little of the affairs of it, that as much might reasonably be expected from an animated Egyptian mummy.

'They are much disturbed to see a fold or plait amiss in the picture of an old Roman gown, yet take no notice that their own are threadbare, out at the elbows, or ragged; or suffer more if Priscian's head be broken than if it were their own. They are excellent guides, and can direct you to every alley and turning in old Rome, yet lose their way at home in their own parish. They are mighty admirers of the wit and eloquence of the ancients, and yet had they lived in the time of Cicero and Cæsar, would have treated them with as much supercilious pride and disrespect as they do now with reverence. They are great hunters of ancient manuscripts, and have in great veneration anything that has escaped the teeth of time and rats, and if age has obliterated the characters 'tis the more valuable for not being legible. But if by chance they can pick out one word, they rate it higher than the whole author in print, and would give more for one proverb of Solomon under his own hand, than for all his wisdom.'

Extracts from the Character of a Country Gentleman.

Contrasting the picture of a pedant with that of a country gentleman, the writer states these two characters are presented to show 'that men may, and do often, baffle and frustrate the effects of a liberal education as well by industry as negligence. For my part I think the learned and unlearned blockhead pretty equal, for 'tis all one to me, whether a man talk nonsense or unintelligible sense.'

After describing the relief experienced by the country squire on his release from the bondage of learning, the authoress continues her sketch:—

'Thus accomplished and finished for a gentleman, he enters the civil list, and holds the scales of Justice with as much blindness as she is said to do. From henceforward his worship becomes as formidable to the ale-houses as he was before familiar; he sizes an ale-pot, and takes the dimensions of bread with great dexterity and sagacity. He is the terror of all the deer and poultry stealers in the neighbourhood, and is so implacable a persecutor of poachers that he keeps a register of all the guns and dogs in the hundred, and is the scare-beggar of the parish. Short pots, and unjustifiable dogs and nets, furnish him with sufficient matter of presentments to carry him once a quarter to the sessions, where he says little, eats and drinks much, and after dinner, hunts over the last chase, and so rides, worshipfully drunk, home again.'

Extracts from the Character of a Scowler.

'These are your men of nice honour, that love fighting for the sake of blows, and are never well but when they are wounded; they are severe interpreters of looks, are affronted at every face that don't please them, and like true cocks of the game, have a quarrel with all mankind at first sight. They are passionate admirers of scarred faces, and dote on a wooden leg. They receive a challenge like a "billet-doux," and a home-thrust as a favour. Their common adversary is the constable, and their usual lodging "the counter." Broken heads are a diversion, and an arm in a scarf is a high satisfaction. They are frugal in their expenses with the tailor, for they have their doublets pinked on their backs; but they are as good as an annuity to the surgeon, though they need him not to let them blood.'

Extracts from the Character of a Beau.

'A beau is one that has more learning in his heels than his head, which is better covered than filled. His tailor and his barber are his cabinet council, to whom he is more beholden for what he is than to his Maker. He is one that has travelled to see fashions, and brought over with him the newest cut suits and the prettiest fancied ribands for sword-knots. He should be a philosopher, for he studies nothing but himself, yet every one knows him better that thinks him not worth knowing. His looks and gestures are his constant lesson, and his glass is the oracle that resolves all his mighty doubts and scruples. He examines and refreshes his complexion by it, and is more dejected at a pimple than if it were a cancer. When his eyes are set to a languishing air, his motions all prepared according to art, his wig and his coat abundantly powdered, his gloves essenced, and his handkerchief perfumed, and all the rest of his bravery adjusted rightly, the greatest part of the day, as well as the business of it at home, is over; 'tis time to launch, and down he comes, scented like a perfumer's shop, and looks like a vessel with all her rigging under sail without ballast.' ... 'He first visits the chocolate-house, where he admires himself in the glass, and starts a learned argument on the newest fashions. From hence he adjourns to the play-house, where he is to be met again in the side box, from whence he makes his court to all the ladies in general with his eyes, and is particular only with the orange wench. After a while he engages some neighbouring vizor, and altogether they run over all the boxes, take to pieces every face, examine every feature, pass their censure upon every one, and so on to their dress; but, in conclusion, sees nobody complete, but himself, in the whole house. After this he looks down with contempt upon the pit, and rallies all the slovenly fellows and awkward "beaux," as he calls them, of the other end of the town; is mightily offended at their ill-scented snuff, and, in spite of all his "pulvilio" and essences, is overcome with the stink of their Cordovant gloves. To close all, Madam in the mask must give him an account of the scandal of the town, which she does in the history of abundance of intrigues, real or feigned, at all of which he laughs aloud and often, not to show his satisfaction, but his teeth. His next stage is Locket's, where his vanity, not his stomach, is to be gratified with something that is little and dear. Quails and ortolans are the meanest of his diet, and a spoonful of green peas at Christmas is worth more to him than the inheritance of the field where they grow in summer. His amours are all profound secrets, yet he makes a confidence of them to every man he meets with. Thus the show goes forward, until he is beaten for trespasses he was never guilty of, and shall be damned for sins he never committed. At last, with his credit as low as his fortune, he retires sullenly to his cloister, the King's Bench or the Fleet, and passes the rest of his days in privacy and contemplation. Here, if you please, we will give him one visit more, and see the last act of the farce; and you shall find him (whose sobriety was before a vice, as being only the pander to his other pleasures, and who feared a lighted pipe as much as if it had been a great gun levelled at him) with his nose flaming, and his breath stinking of spirits worse than a Dutch tarpaulin's, and smoking out of a short pipe, that for some months has been kept hot as constantly as a glass-house, and so I leave him to his meditation.'

Extracts from the Character of a 'Poetaster.'

After commencing his education in a shop or counting-house, the poetaster sets up as a manufacturer of verse.

'He talks much of Jack Dryden, and Will Wycherley, and the rest of that set, and protests he can't help having some respect for them, because they have so much for him and his writings; otherwise he could prove them to be mere sots and blockheads that understand little of poetry in comparison with himself. He is the oracle of those who want wit, and the plague of those that have it, for he haunts their lodgings, and is more terrible to them than their duns. His pocket is an inexhaustible magazine of rhyme and nonsense, and his tongue, like a repeating clock with chimes, is ready upon every touch to sound them. Men avoid him for the same reason they avoid the pillory, the security of their ears, of which he is as merciless a prosecutor. He is the bane to society, a friend to the stationers, the plague of the press, and the ruin of his bookseller. He is more profitable to the grocers and tobacconists than the paper manufacturer; for his works, which talk so much of fire and flame, commonly expire in their shops in vapour and smoke.'

Extracts from the Character of a Virtuoso.

'The virtuoso is one who has sold his estate in land to purchase one in scallop, couch, and cockle shells, and has abandoned the society of men for that of insects, worms, grubs, lizards, tortoises, beetles, and moths. His study is like Noah's ark, the general rendezvous of all creatures in the universe, and the greatest part of his movables are the remainders of the deluge. His travels are not designed as visits to the inhabitants of any place, but to the pits, shores, and hills; and from whence he fetches not the treasure but the trumpery. He is ravished at finding an uncommon shell or an odd-shaped stone, and is desperately enamoured at first sight of an unusual marked butterfly, which he will hunt a whole day to be master of. He traffics to all places, and has his correspondents in every part of the world. He preserves carefully those creatures which other men industriously destroy, and cultivates sedulously those plants which others root up as weeds. His cash consists much in old coins, and he thinks the face of Alexander on one of them worth more than all his conquests.'

Character of a City Militiaman.

After describing the contests in Flanders being re-fought by the newsmongers in the coffee-houses, the sketch proceeds:—

'Our greatest actions must be buffooned in show as well as talk. Shall Namur be taken and our heroes of the city not show their prowess upon so great an occasion? It must never be said that the coffee-houses dared more than Moorfields. No; for the honour of London, out comes the foreman of the shop, very formidable in buff and bandoleers, and away he marches, with feather in cap, to the general rendezvous in the Artillery Ground. There these terrible mimics of Mars are to spend their fury in noise and smoke upon a Namur erected for that purpose on a molehill, and by the help of guns and drums out-stink and out-rattle Smithfield in all its bravery, and would be too hard for the greatest man in all France, if they had him but amongst them. Yet this is but skirmishing, the hot service is in another place, when they engage the capons and quart pots; never was onset more vigorous, for they come to handy blows immediately, and now is the real cutting and slashing, and tilting without quarter: were the towns in Flanders all walled with beef, and the French as good meat as capons, and dressed the same way, the king need never beat his drums for soldiers; and all these gallant fellows would come in voluntarily, the meanest of which would be able to eat a marshal.'

These descriptions of character are concluded by contrasts drawn between the virtues and vices of the respective sexes, and the authoress remarks that if the masses are to be measured by the instances of either Tullia, Claudia, or Messalina, by Sardanapalus, Nero, or Caligula, the human race will certainly be found the vilest part of the creation.

The essayist records that she has gained one experience by her treatise:—

'I find when our hands are in 'tis as hard to stop them as our tongues, and as difficult not to write as not to talk too much. I have done wondering at those men that can write huge volumes upon slender subjects, and shall hereafter admire their judgment only who can confine their imaginations, and curb their wandering fancies.'