Punch or The London charivari (3.1842)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

83

the hundredth time reads over the names of the two views, and won-
ders which is the more attractive, Cabul, or the Battle of Waterloo.

At Cranhourn Alley, new sources of delay arise. He gazes at the
straw bonnets until the young women in the dingy cloaks, who stand
with such unflinching pertinacity at the doors of the shops, commence
thinking that he is about to become a purchaser on a large scale—
perhaps for an emigration colony, who knows ?—and directly rush np
and overwhelm him with such voluble panegyrics on their wares,
that he is compelled to seek refuge in flight by crossing Castle-street
and plunging into that paradise of fourteen-shilling Wellington boots,
small-tooth combs, pastrycooks, outfitting warehouses (each with so
large a stock that they have taken two or three years to sell it off,
even at a tremendous sacrifice), umbrellas, Berlin wool, and travelling
trunks, which connects the last-named thoroughfare with St. Martin's
Lane.

And having brought him thus far, we will leave him, lost in wonder
at a railway carpet-bag or an expanding portmanteau, until next
week ; when, we shall, in all probability, find him at the same place,
and continue our journey with him as before.

THE NATURAL HISTORY OF COURTSHIP.

Chapter "VII.—Of the Men who are always accepted.
In England men are the active members of society, women the
passive ones. Amidst the aristocracy and affiuenced, it is considered
somewhat of a disgrace for a young man to have nothing to do ; and
if he have no talents for the bar or for the pulpit—if he cannot
muster enough capacity for electioneering, or to fill a situation in the
Treasury, he either turns author, or spends his time in dangling after
the fair sex, and in making love. So that, for once, Bulwer was
right, when he said, " With us, women associate with the idler por-
tion of society—the dandies, the hangers-on." These are the animals
who, in the natural history of society, come under the genus "Ladies'
men;" but we, who are envious of their successes, and would give
our brains for half the favour Beauty bestows upon them, call them
" Coxcombs."

" Sit not in the midst of women," is by no means their motto. They
are seen at fancy bazaars, fttes charnptlres,and morning concerts ; they
loll in carriages, and lounge in opera boxes; they leave the dinner-
table with the ladies, being amateurs in embroidery, and talk in
" lisping numbers " of Cerito and the poetry of motion. Their so-called
devotion to the sex is equal in amount to that of the ancient chivalry,
but it is of a different character. They are knights dubbed upon
" carpet consideration,"* whose achievements are all performed in
the drawing-room or the boudoir. Their sole occupation is—

"To pick up gloves, and pins, and knitting needles;
To list to songs and tunes;—to watch for smiles,
And smile at pretty prattle, and look into
The eyes of feminine, as though they were
The stars receding to our early wish."

This is the most prominent class of men who are always accepted—
perhaps the women pity them ; and we know what pity is akin to. But
certain it is, that whenever these butterflies will condescend to flutter
around one flower—if he will only choose a bright particular star to
pay his devotions to—he triumphs, whilst better men despair.

This is the whole secret. Let ever so perfect a ladies' man beware
of becoming too popular ! Let him beware of distributing his favours
too lavishly ! Let him once banish, by a too general attention to all,
the hope which each cherishes that she is the real object of his de-
votion, and he is lost !—he must get into another set immediately.
But when he adroitly chooses the right time for making his selection,
the selected, knowing the chances he possesses with her friends, will
surely not refuse him, nor deny herself the triumph of an envied
conquest. But when it is once doubted by each of the ladies to
whom he is so useful, so attentive, so self-sacrificing, that all his
"nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles" are directed specially to
herself, they go for nothing—they are valueless. Even his chances of
success are lost.

Thus it is that men who are popular in society are seldom agree-
able to a feminine unit. She is afraid that the devotion and attention
which ought to belong exclusively to her will be too liberally be-
stowed upon her friends. Hence there is one character most fre-
quently met with whose success is certain. The reserved, retiring,
generally unnoticed individual,—he it is upon whose disposition, and
character, and heart, she loves to speculate—to invest him with
the highest attributes of intellect and the deepest throes of feeling.

* The " carpet knight " was the satirical designation of the civil knight, to dis-
tinguish him from those who gained the honour by deeds of arms.

What a thrilling, marked compliment is conveyed if he who has not
addressed, scarcely looked at any other girl, speaks to her, even if it
be merely to complain of the heat. But, oh ! should he appear to be
the victim of some secret sorrow, some soul-absorbing grief—should
he, though dressed according to the latest fashion, express a disgust
at the gew-gaws of the world—should he, who is seen at every
assembly he can get into, sigh for solitude, and so present to the
fancy of his fair listener the picture of a drawing-room Diogenes—
she is enraptured. Few imaginations can withstand such a combina-
tion of elegance and misanthropy, or philosophy so tastefully attired
Such men are never rejected.

Lastly—courteous student of the arts of courtship, would you con-
vert your chances of success into certainty*—would you outstrip all
competitors—be rich !

"Heretic !" exclaims my excellent Priscilla, bristling with anger,
" have we no discrimination—no disinterestedness ? Are we devoid of
sensibility ? Have we no hearts %"

"By no means, champion of your sex. You have all these.
You forget: lam not inditing about love. You wander from the
subject, which, please always remember, is the making of love ;—
the manufacture of that counterfeit feeling which is so often mis*
taken for the true one."

SONGS OF THE FLOWERS.

So. I.—THE SONG OF THE DAISY.

I'm a delicate daisy, and all the day long,

When the bee from his hive to the garden takes wing,
I watch him intently, and list to the song

That a bee, when 'tis jocund, will cheerfully sing.
Oh ! what is't to me that the dafFydowndilly

Is fairer, and taller, and sweeter than I ?
To envy the great would be idle and silly,

A daisy I've lived, and a daisy I '11 die.

In the morning, when Phoebus is tinging with gold

The tops of the trees, and of chimneys the pots,
To drink in the dew all my buds I unfold,

For of dew the young daisies are regular sots.
What though of the garden I am not the pride?

For gaudier flowers though coldly pass'd by,
In my humble condition I'd rather abide—

Yea ! a daisy I 're lived, and a daisy I '11 dis.

They soli me for little ; the fact I must own—

A penny is all they demand for a root-—
And often I perish before I'm full blown.

When stifled with London's unbearable soot.
No matter! I'd rather the window adorn

Of a snug little parlour that's next to the sky,
Than in the bouquet of a cold one be worn,

Who'd leave the too-delicate daisy to die.