Look into the pages of history! You will find there innumerable examples in support of our opinion. Pompey was importuned to give battle to Cæsar: he complied. Poor devil! He would never have been licked at Pharsalia if he had learned from us the art of saying “No.” Look at the conduct of his rival and[Pg 42] conqueror, Cæsar! You remember the words of Casca, “I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown and he put it by once; but for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it!” Now this placid “putting by” was not the thing for the Romans: we are confident Julius Cæsar would never have died by cold steel in the Senate if he had given them a good decisive insuperable “No!” Whatever epoch we examine, we find the same reluctance to say “No” to the allurements of pleasure and the mandates of ambition, and alas! we find it productive of the same consequences. Juvenal tells us of an unfortunate young man, one Caius Silius, who was unlucky enough to be smiled upon by the Empress Messalina. The poor boy knew the danger he ran—he saw the death which awaited him; but an Empress sued, and he had not the heart to say “No!” He lost his heart first, and his head shortly afterwards.
“Dam’me,” says a blood, “all that happened a hundred years ago.” An Etonian has occasionally great difficulty in carrying[Pg 43] his ideas a hundred years back. Well, then, we will go example-hunting nearer home.
There’s Sir Philip Plausible, the Parliament man. He can make a speech of nine hours and a calculation of nine pages; nobody is a better hand at getting up a majority, or palavering a refractory Oppositionist; he proffers an argument and a bribe with equal dexterity, and converts by place and pension when he is unable to convince by alliteration and antithesis. What a pity it is he can’t say “No!” “Sir Philip,” says an envoy, “you’ll remember my little business at the Foreign Office!” “Depend upon my friendship,” says the Minister. “Sir Philip!” says a fat citizen, with two votes and two dozen children, “you will remember Billy’s place in the Customs!” “Rely on my promise!” says the Minister. “Sir Philip!” says a lady of rank, “Ensign Roebuck is an officer most deserving promotion!” “He shall be a colonel! I swear by Venus!” says the Minister. Exitus ergo quis est? He has outraged his friendship, he has forgotten his[Pg 44] promise, he has falsified his oath. Had he ever an idea of performing what he spoke? Quite the reverse! How unlucky that he cannot say “No!”
Look at Bob Lily! There lives no finer poet! Epic, elegiac, satiric, Pindaric—it is all one to him! He is patronized by all the first people in town. Everybody compliments him, everybody asks him to dinner. Nay! there are a few who read him. He excels alike in tragedy and farce, and is without a rival in amphibious dramas, which may be called either the one or the other; but he is a sad bungler in negatives. “Mr. Lily,” says the Duchess, his patroness, “you will be sure to bring that dear epithalamium to my conversazione this evening!” “There is no denying your Grace,” says the poet. “I say, Lily,” says the Duke, his patron, “you will dine with us at seven?” “Your Grace does me honour,” says the poet. “Bob,” says the young Marquis, “you are for Brookes’s to-night?” “Dam’me! to be sure,” says the poet. Mark the result. He is gone to eat tripe with his tyrannical bookseller; he has disappointed his patroness, he has offended his[Pg 45] patron, he has cut the Club! How unlucky that he cannot say “No.”
Jack Shuttle was a dashing young fellow, who, to use his own expression, was “above denying a thing;” in plainer terms, he could not say “No.” “Sir!” says an enraged Tory, “you are the author of this pamphlet!” Jack never saw the work, but he was “above denying a thing,” and was horsewhipped for a libeller. “Sir!” says an unfortunate pigeon, “you hid the king in your sleeve last night!” Jack never saw the pigeon before, but he was “above denying a thing,” and was cut for a blackleg. “Sir!” says a hot Hibernian, “you insulted my sister in the Park!” Jack never saw the lady or her champion before, but he was “above denying a thing,” and was shot through the head the next morning. Poor fellow! How unlucky that he could not say “No!”
In the position we are next going to advance we know everybody will differ from us; but this only[Pg 46] strengthens our opinion. Nothing is so becoming to a female mouth as the power—ay, and the inclination—to say “No.” So firmly, indeed, are we attached to this doctrine, that we never will marry a woman who cannot say “No.” For the most part, indeed, the sex are pretty tolerably actuated by what the world calls a spirit of contradiction, but what we should rather designate as a spirit of independence. This natural inclination to negatives renders it unnecessary for us to point out to our fair countrywomen the beauties and advantages of a word which they use as constantly as their looking-glass. Nevertheless, they do occasionally forget the love of opposition, which is the distinguishing ornament of their sex; and alas! they too frequently render themselves miserable by neglecting our conclusive monosyllable. We most earnestly entreat those belles who honour with their notice the humble efforts of the Etonian, to derive a timely warning from the examples of those ladies who have lived to regret a hasty and unthinking assent. Anna would never have been the mistress of a colonel; Martha would[Pg 47] never have been the wife of a cornet; Lydia would never have been tied to age, ugliness, and gout, if these unfortunate victims had studied in early youth the art of saying “No.”
Short—strong—sharp—quaint monosyllable! Forcible, convincing, argumentative, indisputable “No!” How we delight in thy expressive sound! We love to hear the Miss of fifteen plaguing her uncle for her Christmas ball, till Squaretoes, finding vain the excuses of affection, finishes the negotiation with the “No” of authority. We love to hear the enamoured swain pouring forth his raptures at the feet of an inexorable mistress, till the lady changes her key from the quiet hint of indifference to the decided “No” of aversion. We love to hear the schoolboy supplicating a remission of his sentence, until his sable judge alters the “I can’t” of sorrowful necessity, to the “No” of inflexible indignation. We love—but it is time for us to bring our treatise to a conclusion, and we will merely observe, that whenever we see a man engaged in a duel against his will or in a debauch against his conscience; whenever[Pg 48] we see a patriot accepting of a place, or a beauty united to a blockhead, we turn from the sight in disgust, and mutter to ourselves: “This comes of not being able to say ‘No.[Pg 49]’”
THOUGHTS ON THE WORDS “TURN OUT.”
“We all, in our turns, turn out.”—Song.