The 'Mirror.'—Vol. III. No. 98.
A student of 'good parts' has accepted, for one year, the post of resident tutor to a young gentleman with rich expectations. He writes to the 'Mirror,' describing the little progress he can make in the advancement of his pupil's education, owing to the frivolous interruptions which postpone serious application from day to day. Study has been already set aside, on various pretexts, for the first four days of the week. The close of his letter relates how he fared on the Friday and Saturday.
'"You must know," says Mrs. Flint, the gentleman's mamma, at breakfast, "that I am assured that Jemmy is very like the Count de Provence, the King of France's own brother. Now Jemmy is sitting for his picture to Martin, and I thought it would be right to get the friseur, whom you saw last night [he has just arrived from Paris], to dress his hair like the Count de Provence, that Mr. Martin might make the resemblance more complete. Jemmy has been under his hands since seven o'clock. Oh, here he comes!" "Is it not charming?" exclaimed Miss Juliana. "I wish your future bride could see you," added the happy mother. My pupil, lost in the labyrinth of cross curls, seems to look about for himself. "What a powdered sheep's head have we got here?" cried Captain Winterbottom. We all went to Mr. Martin's to assist him in drawing Jemmy's picture. On our return, Mrs. Flint discovered that her son had got an inflammation in his right eye by looking steadfastly on the painter. She ordered a poultice of bread and milk, and put him to bed; so there was no more talk of "Omnibus in terris" for that evening.
'My pupil came down to breakfast in a complete suit of black, with weepers, and a long mourning-cravat. The Count de Provence's curls were all demolished, and there remained not a vestige of powder on his hair. "Bless me!" cried I, "what is the matter?" "Oh, nothing," said Mrs. Flint; "a relation of mine is to be interred at twelve, and Jemmy has got a burial letter. We ought to acknowledge our friends on such melancholy occasions, I mean to send Jemmy with the coach-and-six; it will teach him how to behave himself in public places."
'At dinner my pupil expressed a vehement desire to go to the play. "There is to be 'Harlequin Highlander,' and the blowing up of the St. Domingo man-of-war," said he; "it will be vastly comical and curious." "Why, Jemmy," said Mrs. Flint, "since this is Saturday, I suppose your tutor will have no objection; but be sure to put on your great coat, and to take a chair in coming home." "I thought," said I, "that we might have made some progress at our books this evening." "Books on Saturday afternoon!" cried the whole company; "it was never heard of." I yielded to conviction; for, indeed, it would have been very unreasonable to have expected that he who had spent the whole week in idleness should begin to apply himself to his studies on the evening of Saturday.'
The 'Mirror.'—Vol. III. No. 105.
The editor is enlarging on certain vanities and fashionable absurdities which town people, when they rusticate for change of air, cannot forbear importing with them.
'In the first place, I would beg of those who migrate from the City not to carry too much of the town with them into the country. I will allow a lady to exhibit the newest-fashioned cut in her riding-habit, or to astonish a country congregation with the height of her head-dress; and a gentleman, in like manner, to sport, as they term it, a grotesque pattern of a waistcoat, or to set the children agape by the enormous size of his buckles. These are privileges to which gentlemen and ladies may be thought to have entitled themselves by the expense and trouble of a winter's residence in the capital. But there is a provoking though a civil sort of consequence such people are apt to assume in conversation which, I think, goes beyond the just prerogative of township, and is, a very unfair encroachment on the natural rights of their friends and relations in the country. They should consider that though there are certain subjects of ton and fashion on which they may pronounce ex cathedrâ (if I may be allowed so pedantic a phrase) yet that, even in the country, the senses of hearing, seeing, tasting, and smelling may be enjoyed to a certain extent, and that a person may like or dislike a new song, a new lutestring, a French dish, or an Italian perfume, though such person has been unfortunate enough to pass last winter at a hundred miles' distance from the metropolis.'
