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moves the rosy dimpled cheek, and the bewitching lips are put into motion by the utterance of endearing sentiments arising from a warm, an affectionate, and benevolent heart; then irresistibly arises a correspondent feeling, which shows that "man is a pendulum vibrating between a smile and a tear, and it is woman that winds up the moving power," or more poetically, she can

66 -Rule like a wizard the world of the heart,

And call up its sunshine, or bring down its showers."

This feeling, if not too powerful, (as is sometimes the case,) may express itself as follows:

THE LIP OF THE MAID I ADORE.

Not the sun, when its brightness begins to unfold,
And peeps from its bed on yon eastern shore,
Nor its radiance and glory, though of ruby and gold,
Is like the lip of the maid I adore.

Nor the banquet so luscious, spread on days to regale,
Nor the vines sparkling juice oft press'd o'er;
Nor the fruits from warm Italy's fam'd classic vales,
Is like the lip of the maid I adore.

Nor the tabor and dance, nor the smiles of the gay.
Nor the lark's warbling notes as it soars-

Can equal the thrill, the pulse madd'ning play,

Like a kiss from the maid I adore.*

The above song has been set to music by Mr. John Willis, and will be found on page 341 in the appendix.

GALLANTRY.

"I rather hoped-I should no more

Hear from you o' th' gallantry score."-HUDIBRASS.

THE impression on my mind, delineated by the diarists and other writers of these reigns, is, that for the most part, people married at an age younger than is now the case.

But Burns, with the most graphic sweetness, thus describes eyes of another tint :

"Sae flaxen were her ringlets,
Her eyebrows of a darker hue;
Bewitchingly o'er-aching

Twa laughing een o' bonny blue."

But the prettiest idea, upon this very pretty subject, was given by an Oxonian, in the shape of an order to the waiter at a tavern, viz: "bring me a glass of brandy and water as strong as woman's passion, and as sweet as her ruby lips;" the beauty of the sentiment, I trust, will excuse my relating it, even should the reader be a member of a temperance society.

In the sonnets of Shakspeare, published 1609, which compositions exhibit some of his most thrilling and sweetest sentiments, and which, in the language of Schlegel, "betray an extraordinary deficiency of critical acumen in the commentators of Shakspeare, that none of them, as far as we know," (but this deficiency has since been supplied,) "have ever thought of availing themselves of his sonnets for tracing the circumstances of his life. These sonnets paint most unequivocally the actual situation and sentiments of the poet; they enable us to become acquainted with the passions of the man: they even contain the most remarkable confessions of his youthful errors. Wordsworth also writes:

"Scorn not the sonnet critic; you have frowned
Mindless of its just honours; with this keyt
Shakspeare unlocked his heart."

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One of these exquisite compositions is addressed to his friend, persuading him to marry :

"When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tattered weed of small worth held.

Then being asked where all thy beauty lies;
Where all the treasures of thy lusty days?
To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and shriftless praise.

How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use
If thou couldst answer, 'This fair child of mine
Shall count, and make my old excuse-'
Proving his beauty by succession thine.

This were to be new made when thou art old,

And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold."

Shakspeare was a fine describer of the human countenance, he has graphically described the effect of age in the following line: "Thus is his cheek, the map of days out worn."

The following lines, in which he invokes Time, are capable of warming the coldest insensibility:

"Oh! carve not with thine hours my love's fair brow,

Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen."

Well may we apply the following couplet to this wonderful writer :

* Lectures on Dramatic Literature, by A. W. Schlegel.

The Portuguese have an aphorism, that "the sonnet ought to be shut with a golden key."

"His verse still lives, his sentiments still warms,
His lyre still warbles, and his wit still charms."

From the beginning of the sonnet he intimates forty as past the time of marriage, while at this time many marry then about, and bring up families.

After the death of Cromwell, and the restoration of King Charles, love," like a chemical spirit," extracted all the folly and flagitiousness of the age. Not to love, was not to be; and, therefore, all were lovers, from the half-fledged stripling fresh from the teacher's rod, to the hoary veteran, whose dim eyes could scarcely discern the charms with which he thought his heart was smitten,* from the impoverished swain whose last sixpence was bent into a " to and from my love," to him who could buy a heart with coronets, crowns, jewels, and pensions. Foppery in dress was the natural result of this overwheening desire to please, and gallants endeavoured to make themselves irresistible by the newest cut of a French suit, or an enormous fleece of perriwig. Foppery in speech was also as natural as foppery in dress; and it was now the fashion to interlard the conversation with French phrases, that it was 66 as ill-breeding to speak good English as to write good English, good sense, or a good hand." But the charm of charms was, for a lover to possess the reputation of a wit; and if he could pen a few smooth verses on the attractions of his mistress, the success of his suit was sure to answer his utmost wishes. Many who sought the reputation without the trouble of gallantry had their pockets stuffed with billet-doux, addressed to them which they had forged for the nonce; and these they paraded before company with as much pride as Caligula, when he led Roman slaves in his triumphal procession, disguised like German warriors. Those who sought random adventures repaired to the theatre, where they might accost a vizor in the pit without fearing to put it to the blush; or they could ascend to the gallery, which was the chosen place for such intrigues, and where every masked she adventurer might pass for a countess, or a goddess in a cloud. Even the penetralia of the theatre were not sacred from intrusion; and it was the fashion for gallants to haunt the stage behind the scenes, and invade the 'tiring-rooms of the actresses. The other resorts for such adventures were the

* The poet Crabbe has a pretty conceit when he compares an old newmarried couple to two dried sticks rubbed together, and chafed, till,

+ "

"All in one part unite the cheering rays,

And kindling burn, with momentary blaze."

-Like sixpence crooked,

With to and from my love it looked."-HUDIBRAS.

Wycherley's Gentleman's Dancing Master.

masquerades, which were now convenient places of assignation. Spring Garden, (Vauxhall,) which now enjoyed a double portion of its former bad repute; or the New Exchange, which, since St. Paul's walk was no more, was become the fashionable covered lounge, and where the little millinery shops that were profusely sprinkled about the piazzas, were kept by beautiful young women.*

When love was, however, made in a more formal and open fashion, the lover sallied forth in the evening, at the head of a band of fiddlers, and serenaded under the window of his mistress with some choice sonnet. When courtship ended in matrimony, the wedding made the whole neighbourhood ring with crowding, fiddling, and dancing; and the loud flourish of fiddles was the first sound by which the happy pair was awoke on the following morning. The chief fashionable matrimonial markets in the metropolis were Hyde Park and Mulberry Garden; at the last of which places (now the gardens of Buckingham Palace,) especially, lovers nourished their mutual affection and plighted their troth over collations of cakes and syllabubs.†

Among the fashionable classes the spirit of gallantry was still more potent and active than that of politics. It appears very clearly from the popular literature, that the generality of these men, or rather these mice, dressed, looked, acted, and studied entirely with a reference to the tastes and humours of the fair sex. In the present day, when love is but an episode, rather than the great subject of life, a lady's man of the time of Queen Anne would be regarded as a lusus-naturæ ; but the following features grouped together from the various editorial sketches of the period will, I hope, convey an idea of a numerous class of beings now happily become extinct, never to rise again till the day of dismal doom, as perhaps it may be to them.

From ten till twelve o'clock the fashionable beau received his visits in bed, where he lay or lolled in state, his perriwig, oh! those perriwigs, nicely powdered, was beside him on the sheet, while, on his dressing-table, near to him, were placed a few volumes of voluptuous love poetry, a cannister or two of the choicest Lisbon or Spanish snuff, a cut glass or richly enamelled smelling bottle, and other fashionable trinkets. The author of "Cambridge Learning, a Dialogue," thus speaks of them:

"Our gallants now to towne repaire,

What endless pleasures wait them there
One-half the day is past in sleep,

They study how the rest to waste."

*Ethridge's "Sir Fopling Flutter;" Wycherley's "Country Wife." + Wycherley's "Love in a Wood, or St. James' Park ;" Sedley's "Mulberry Garden."

They were a match for the Sybarites of old, who boasted that 66 they never saw the sun rise, nor saw it set."

At twelve they rose, being fatigued with lying, and managed, if possible, to finish adorning the lazy carcass by three o'clock. In this complicated process they had to undergo various ablutions-perfume their clothes; soak their hands in various medicated washes, to make them delicately white; tinge their cheeks with carmine, so as to give them the gentle glowing blush which the bed had been robbing them of; arrange a few patches of court-plaster on their faces, to produce the effects of moles and dimples, to inspire in every beholder the thought, that "A hair brain'd sentimental trace,

Is deeply marked on the face." BURNS.

The tying of the cravat, and squaring the ends, was a most weighty affair, which occupied much time, as well as the adjusting of the wig, and the proper cock of the hat; after he had surveyed the whole, arranged in a six feet looking glass,* it was necessary to practice before it the most becoming attitudes, arranging the due altitudes of the arms when set akimbo, to give his finery full effect, and study such smiles and simperings, as would show the whiteness of his teeth. He then dined, after which he ordered his Sedan,† and was carried out to the favourite cocoa or chocolate house, where he endeavoured, by his wit or gallantry; the former by railing at the last publication, or giving mysterious hints, that he had some hand in producing it; the latter, by pulling out some tailor's or laundress' bill, and kissing it with great fervour, pretending that it was some billet doux from a celebrated toasted lady of high rank. The bar of a coffee house was generally attended by some belle belonging to the establishment, whose charms were intended to draw company and custom to the place; and here the beau paid his usual devoirs, with his arms akimbo, and his snuffy nose within an inch of her face; while the poor damsel, who had no place of retreat, (the bars being so small,) was compelled to give ear to his impertinences.I

After daudling an hour in this manner, it was time to repair to the theatre, upon which our spark readjusted his cravat and wig; sprinkled his face with snuff, to give him a critical air, and repaired to the house; but then, as he did not go to see, but to be seen, instead of seating himself quietly, he shifts

*Looking glasses, as furniture, did not become general, until the time of Charles II. And sashes, hung with weights and lines, came also into use during the same reign.

Up to the reign of Charles I., before Sedans were introduced, horse litters were often used by the fashionable, in their town visits.

Works of T. Brown. Spectator, vol. iii p. 66.

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