The affectation of no affectation is the most unsupportable of all. Simple Johnnie comes into the room, throwing about, from side to side, both his elbows. He immediately, in the simplicity of his nature, lets you know that he never was up to the ordinary methods of society; in testimony of which he sits down beside you on a sofa—plaits his legs, and passes his hand along his leg, from heel to knee, and vice versa. You talk of anything and everything. He is sure you are right. He never could remember anything. He is sure you are right; but he cannot say, it is so long since he read about it. He tells you at once that people call him "Simple Johnnie;" that he once tumbled into a river, whilst reading a book; that he is so absent, you have no notion; that he has forgotten his own name, and only remembered it, after having given a penny to a boy, saying, "Now, my boy, do you know who gave you that?" He puts on a blue stocking and a grey, and wonders that people observe it; he pushes through the market, snuffing, snorting, and repeating almost aloud, Thomson's "Seasons;" he is called a good sort of a body, and tells you so; but he knows in reality that he is an excellent classical scholar, and a writer of no mean degree. Affectation, however, hangs over him, like a mist; and his real merits, which are great, are greatly obscured by the medium through which they are seen.
Let us change the sex!—A farmer's daughter married to an earl—no, not an earl—a laird—a country gentleman. She is all gentility—talks of nothing beneath dukes and marquises; asks you if there is anybody of note in India; never saw fish eaten without a silver fork; and considers that Queen Victoria has never seen good company! After a', wha cares? This is a precious rag of feminality; nobody can hurt her feelings, or destroy her equanimity. You mention, in her company, that Lady Louisa Russell, her most intimate friend, of whom she talks daily, and to everybody, has left the town without calling; she assumes an air of supreme indifference, and exclaims—"Well! after a', wha cares?"
A bluestocking!—No, I will not spend ink and paper on the subject—it is literally thread-bare—not a loop in the stocking but may be seen by a man of ninety without spectacles. A fop!—faugh!—who cares for anything of the dandy or exquisite species?—A braggadocio—another Munchausen! who kills trouts by the gross, and men by the dozen—who shoots on the wing—e.g. Two individuals of this description once met in my own presence. They had been in India, and were Indianising for the benefit and entertainment of the company. Shooting came on the carpet, and their various achievements were stated. Colonel A—— had shot more than a dozen water-fowl at one shot.
"I am sure," said he, appealing to his Indian friend—"I am sure, general, you know it to be true."
"Twelve dozen, by God!" was the emphatic response.
"Who has not heard of my father, the colonel?"—viz., Colonel Cloud—and yet this colonel proved to be nothing more than plain Mr B——, from the grand town of Forfar. Oh, how shall I overtake the varied forms that rise up before me!—as well might I essay to catch and fix every butterfly from the Emperor of Morocco down to the blue wing. "Upwards and downwards, thwarting and convolved," the myriads of insects dance away their hour, and are forgot. And who art thou who thus speakest of others? A solitary fly! A large blue-bottom, madam, as insignificant and ephemeral as any amongst them. But of this enough. Let us now introduce another actor, or rather speaker.
"Well, sir, I am glad I have met you; for I was just going to call upon you, to tell you that my son John, poor fellow—you know John?—that he has got a step—what they call a step in the service, and that he has had a severe fever, but is now quite well; and that he writes to his sister—such a letter—but I have it here, sir, in my pocket. Pray do, sir, sit down for a little, and I will read it to you; it is such a funny letter—you have no notion—and so full of inquiries for everybody, amongst the rest for yourself, whom it is wonderful that he remembers—he has such a memory, my Johnnie, and always had. I remember, when just a little thing not higher than this parasol. But, bless me, sir, you are not listening!"
"No, ma'am; I beg your pardon; but I have an engagement." (Exit.)
And who does not see, at once, that this is a