PECULIARITIES IN CARRIAGE AND DEMEANOR.
“By her graceful walk, the Queen of Love is known.”
VIRGIL.
As order is the beautiful harmonizer of the universe, so consistency is the graceful combiner of all that is in woman to perfection.
In reference to this sentiment, her manners must bear due affinity with her figure, and her deportment with her rank. The youthful and delicate-shaped girl is allowed a gaiety of air which would ill become a women of maturer years and larger proportions; but at all times of life, when the figure is slender, a swan-like neck, and the motions are naturally swaying, for that girl, or that woman, to affect what is called a majestic air, would be as unavailing as absurd. It is not in the power of a figure so constructed ever to look majestic. By stiffening her joints, walking with an erect mien, and drawing up her neck, she would certainly be upright; she would seem to have had a determined dancing-master, who, in spite of nature and grace, had made her hold up her head; but she would never look like anything but a stiff, inelegant creature. The character of these slight forms corresponds with their resemblances in the vegetable world: the aspen, the willow, bend their gentle heads at every passing breeze, and their flexible and tender arms toss in the wind with grace and beauty: such is the woman of delicate proportions. She must enter a room either with the buoyant step of a young nymph, if youth is her passport to sportiveness; or, if she is advanced nearer the meridian of life, she then may glide in, with that ease of manner which gives play to all the graceful motions of her elegantly undulating form. For her to crane up her neck, would be to change its fine swan-like bend into the scraggy throat of the ostrich: all her movements should be of a flexible character. Her mode of salutation should be rather a bow than a courtesy; and when she sits, she should model her easy attitude rather by the ideas of the painter, when he would pourtray a reclining nymph, than according to the lessons of the grace-destroying governess, who would marshal her pupils on their chairs like a rank of drilled recruits. In short, for a slender or thin woman, to be stiff at any time, is, in the first case, to render of no effect the advantages of nature; and, in the next, to increase and aggravate her defects, by making it more conspicuous by a constrained and ridiculous carriage.
Though we cannot unite the majestic air which declares command with this easy, nymph-like deportment, the dignity of modesty may be its inseparable companion. The timid, the retreating step; the downcast eye; the varying complexion, “blushing at the deep regard she draws!” all these belong to this class of females; and they are charms so truly feminine, so exquisitely lovely, that I cannot but place them with their counterpart, the ethereal form, as the perfection of female beauty.
The woman whose figure bears nature’s own stamp of majesty, is generally of a stately make; her person is squarer, and has more of embonpoint than the foregoing. The very muscles of her neck are so formed as to show their adaptation to an erect posture. There is a sort of loftiness in the natural movement of her head, in the high swell of her expansive bosom. The step of this woman should be grave and firm: her motions few and commanding; and the carriage of her head and person erect and steady. An excess in stateliness could not have any worse effect on her, than perverting the majesty of nature into the haughtiness of art. We might admire or revere the first; the last we would probably resent and detest. The dignified beauty must therefore beware of overstraining the natural bent of her character: it is like the bombast of exalted language which never fails to lose its aim, and engender disgust. We might laugh at a delicate girl, so far exaggerating the pliancy of her form and ease of manners, as to twist herself into the thousand antics of a Columbine: she aims at pleasing us, and though she chooses the wrong method, we will not frown, but only smile at the ridiculous exhibition. But when a majestic fair one presumes to arrogate an undue consequence in her air, it is not to gratify our senses that she assumes the extraordinary diadem: and, irritated at the contempt her greatness would wish to throw upon us inferior personages, we treat her like an usurper; and, armed with a sense of injustice, we determine to pull her at once from her throne.
The easy, graceful air, we see, belongs exclusively to the slender beauty, and the moderated majestic mien to a greater embonpoint.
There is a race of women whose persons have no determined character. These must regulate and adopt their demeanors according to the degrees in which they approach the two before-mentioned classes. But in all cases, let it never be forgotten, that a too faint copy of a model is better than an overcharged one. Excess is always bad. Moderation never offends. By falling easily into the degree of undulating grace, or the dignified demeanor which suits your character, you merely put on the robe which nature designed, and the habit will be fit and becoming.
But when the nymph-like form assumes a regal port, or a commanding dame pretends to “skip and play,” the affectation on both sides is equally absurd: discords of this kind are ever ridiculous and odious. Besides these, there are affectations of other descriptions, of equal folly and bad effect. Some ladies, to whom nature has given a good sight, and lovely orbs to look through, must needs pretend a kind of half-blindness, and they go peeping about through an eye-glass, dangling at the end of a long gold chain, hanging at their necks. Not content with this affectation of one defect, they assume another, and lisp so inarticulately, that hardly three words in a sentence are intelligible. All such follies as these are not more a death-blow to all respect for the novice that plays them off, than they are sure antidotes to any charms she may possess. Simplicity is the perfection of form; simplicity is the perfection of fine dressing; simplicity is the perfection of air and manners.
In the details of carriage, we must not omit a due attention to gait, and its accompanying air. We find that it was “by her graceful walk the Queen of Love was known!” In this particular, the French women far exceed us. Pope observes, that “they move easiest who have learnt to dance.” And it is the step of the highly-accomplished dancer that we see in the generality of well-bred Frenchwomen; not the march of the military sergeant, which is the usual study with our pedestrian Graces. There is a buoyant lightness, a dignified ease in the walk of a lady, who has been taught the use of her limbs by a fine dancer, which is never seen in her who has been drilled by the halbert, and told to stand at ease with her hands resting on her stomach, as if reposing on the trigger of her fire-lock. Such a way as we have fallen upon to teach our daughters the graceful step of the Queen of Love, is, indeed, so singular, that until another race of Amazons arise, to whom military tactics may be useful, we have no chance of any imitators. Indeed, the marching walk of Englishwomen is so ridiculous, even in the eyes of their own countrymen, that I remember of being one day in St. James’s Park, with one of these female recruits, when a sentinel, with a humorous gravity, struck his musket to her as she passed.
Both in the case of air and gait, it is necessary to begin early to train the person and the limbs to the ease and grace you wish. It is difficult to straighten the stem long left to diverge into irregular wildness; but the tender tree, pliant in youth, needs only the directing hand of a careful gardener to train it to symmetry and luxuriance.
Many of the naturally most pleasing parts of the female shape have I seen assume an appearance absolutely disgusting; and all form an outre air, vulgar manners, or hoydening postures. The bosom, which should be prominent, by a lounging attitude, sinks into slovenly flatness, rounding the back, and projecting the shoulders! On the one side, I have seen a finely-proportioned figure transform herself into a perfect fright by this awkward neglect of all propriety and grace; and, on the other, I am acquainted with a lady, whose beauty, taken in the common acceptation of the word, would not obtain her a second look, but in the elegance of her manners, in the dignity of her carriage, in the taste and disposition of her attire, and in the thousand inexpressible charms which distinguish the gentlewoman, she is so powerful that none can behold her without captivation.
A late author, in a work entitled, “Remarks on the English and French Ladies,” very ably points out the superior attention which the women of France pay to the cultivation of their air and manners; and he proceeds, with no inconsiderable degree of eloquence, to exhort the British fair not to lose, by a careless neglect, the advantages which nature has given them over the belles of la grande nation.
“It must not be dissembled,” says this writer, “that our much fairer countrywomen (the English) are too often apt to forget that native charms may receive considerable improvement by attending to the regulation of carriage and motion. They ought to be reminded, that it is chiefly by an attention of this kind, that the Frenchwomen, though unable to rival them in such exterior perfections as are the gift of nature, attain, however, to a degree of eminence in other accomplishments, that effaces the recollection of their inferiority in personal charms.” He proceeds to observe, that “the gracefulness of a French lady’s step is always a subject of high commendation in the mouth even of Frenchmen;” and again he says, “conscious where their advantage lies, they spare no pains to improve that grace of manner, that fund of vivacity, which are in their nature so agreeable, and which they know so well how to manage to the best effect.”
My intimacy with the French manners makes me quote these short extracts with greater pleasure; and as I bear witness to the truth of their evidence, I hope that an amiable ambition will unite in the breasts of the British fair, to rise as much superior to their French rivals in all feminine graces, as our British heroes are to the French on the seas! We shall then see cultivated understandings, unaffected cheerfulness, and manners of an enchantment not to be exceeded by the fairest sorceresses in beauty and grace.
Sorceresses I would make you, my gentle friends; but your spells should be those of nature and of virtue. While I exhort you to preserve your persons in comeliness, to array yourselves in elegance and sweet attractive grace, I would not lead you to believe, that these are all your charms; that these are sufficient “to take the captive soul of love, and lap it in Elysium!” No; woman was created for higher attainments; many a heart was formed to pant for dearer joys than these can produce. Woman must, in every respect, and at all times, regard her form as a secondary object; her mind is the point of her first attention; it is the strength of her power; the part that links her with angels; and, as such, she must respect, cultivate, and exalt it.
But as these familiar pages are expressly intended as a little treatise on the dress of these admirable qualities, I do not suppose it demanded of me to enter so minutely into the subject of mind, as I otherwise should have esteemed it my duty. We have before admitted, that while on this earth wandering amongst the erring and voluptuous sons of men, virtue must be clad in an attractive garb, else few will love her for herself. To this end, then, like Solon of Athens, I give the best directions the inmates of this gay world are capable of receiving—though, perhaps, not the best I could lay down. I would win the too earth-clinging soul by his senses, to give up his sensual enjoyments, and, caught by earthly charms, see and feel his connexion, and leaving the grosser part, aspire to mingle being with those alone which partake of immortality.
It is not by the showy attire of meretricious splendor, by the seductive air of Sybaritical refinement, that I would effect this. “It is good that virtue keep ever with its like!” my means should ever be consistent with their object. So, with me, beauty, elegance, and grace, should be the only pleaders for the empire of morals and religion. On these principles, as I am aware that the most estimable and amiable qualities adorn the wives and daughters of our isle, I cannot but be the more solicitous that their outward deportment and appearance should exhibit a fair specimen of their inward worth.
“An upright heart, and sensibility of soul, are doubtlessly the most noble qualifications of the fair sex. These, Englishwomen possess in an eminent degree. But there are lighter, and perhaps more catching attractions, which, though they will not bear a competition, are nevertheless great smoothers of the rough passages of life, and very necessary conducives to social happiness.”
It is the opinion of wiser heads than mine, that no circumstance, however trifling in itself, should be neglected, which strengthens the bonds of an honorable and mutual attachment; and so great is the privilege allowed for this purpose, that it is deemed laudable in woman to collect into herself all the innocent advantages, mentally and corporeally, which may render her most admirable and precious in the eyes of him who may be, or is, her husband.
This latter sentiment reminds me to impress upon my young friend, that there are shades of demeanor which must be varied according to the sex, degree, and affinity of the persons with whom she converses. To men of all ranks and relations, she must ever hold a reserve on certain subjects, and indeed on almost every occasion, that she does not deem necessary to observe with regard to her own sex. To inferiors of both sexes she must ever preserve a gracious condescension; but to the men a certain air of majesty must be mixed with it, that she need not assume to the women. To her equals, particularly of the male sex, her manners must never lose sight of a dignity sufficient to remind them that she expects respect will be joined with probable intimacy. In short, no intimacy should ever be so familiar as to allow of any infringement on the decent reserves which are the only preservers of refinement in friendship and love. What are called cronies amongst girls, are among the worst of connexions, as they generally are the very hotbeds of fancified love-fits, secrecies, and really vulgar tale-bearing.
“Celestial friendship!
Whene’er she stoops to visit earth, one shrine
The goddess finds, and one alone,
To make her sweet amends for absent Heaven,—
The bosom of a friend, where heart meets heart,
Reciprocally soft—
Each other’s pillow to repose divine!”
This friendship is indeed the gift of Heaven—a boon more precious than much fine gold; but it is not usually to be found in school cronies, or in the confidence of misses, whose unbosomings usually consist of flirtations, complaints against parents and guardians, and schemes for future parties of pleasure. Friendship is too sacred for these pretenders; under her influence, “heart meets heart,” and acknowledges her as the pledge of Heaven to man, of immortality, and endless joys. To such an intimate your whole soul may be laid open. But such an intimate is rare. You may meet her once in the shape of a female friend, and in that of a tender husband! But believe not that her appearance will be more frequent. Hers are “like angels’ visits, few and far between!” Earth would be too much like heaven were it otherwise.
To the generality, then, of your equals, while you are affable and amiable with them all, you must be intimate with few, and preserve an ingenuous reserve with most. Show them your sense of propriety demands a certain distance, and with redoubled respect they will yield what you require. With men of your acquaintance, you ought to be more reserved than with women. But while I counsel such dignity of manners, you must not suppose that I mean starchness, stiffness, prudery; I only recommend the modesty of the virgin—the sober dignity of matron years.
The present familiarity between the sexes is both shocking to delicacy, and to the interests of women. Woman is now treated by the generality of men with a freedom that levels her with the commonest and most vulgar objects of their amusements. She is addressed as unceremoniously, treated as cavalierly, and left as abruptly, as the veriest puppet they could pick up at a Bartholomew Fair.
We no longer see the respectful bow, the look of polite attention, when a gentleman approaches a lady. He runs up to her; he seizes her by the hand, shakes it roughly, asks a few questions, and, to show that he has no interest in her answers, flies off again before she can make a reply.
To cure our coxcombs of this conceited impertinence, I would strongly exhort my young and lovely readers. When any man, who is not privileged by the right of friendship or of kindred, to address her with an air of affection, attempts to take her hand, let her withdraw it immediately, with an air so declarative of displeasure, that he shall not presume to repeat the offence. At no time ought she to volunteer shaking hands with a male acquaintance, who holds not any particular bond of esteem with regard to herself or family. A touch, a pressure of the hands, are the only external signs a woman can give of entertaining a particular regard for certain individuals; and to lavish this valuable power of expression upon all comers, upon the impudent and contemptible, is an indelicate extravagance which, I hope, needs only to be exposed to be put forever out of countenance.
As to the salute, the pressure of the lips—that is an interchange of affectionate greeting, or tender farewell, sacred to the dearest connexions alone. Our parents—our brothers—our near kindred—our husband—our lover, ready to become our husband,—our bosom’s inmate, the friend of our heart’s core—to them are exclusively consecrated the lips of delicacy, and wo be to her who yields them to the stain of profanation!
By the last word, I do not mean the embrace of vice, but merely that indiscriminate facility which some young women have in permitting what they call a good-natured kiss. These good-natured kisses have often very bad effects, and can never be permitted without injuring the fine gloss of that exquisite modesty, which is the fairest garb of virgin beauty.
I remember the Count M——, one of the most accomplished and handsomest young men in Vienna. When I was there, he was passionately in love with a girl of almost peerless beauty. She was the daughter of a man of great rank and influence at court; and on these considerations, as well as in regard to her charms, she was followed by a multitude of suitors. She was lively and amiable, and treated them all with an affability which still kept them in her train, although it was generally known that she had avowed a predilection for Count M. and that preparations were making for their nuptials. The Count was of a refined mind and delicate sensibility. He loved her for herself alone—for the virtues which he believed dwelt in a beautiful form; and, like a lover of such perfections, he never approached her without timidity, and when he touched her, a fire shot through his veins that warned him never to invade the vermilion sanctuary of her lips. Such were the feelings, when one night at his intended father-in-law’s, a party of young people were met to celebrate a certain festival. Several of the young lady’s rejected suitors were present. Forfeits were one of the pastimes, and all went on with the greatest merriment, till the Count was commanded by some witty mademoiselle to redeem his glove by saluting the cheek of his intended bride. The Count blushed, trembled, advanced to his mistress, retreated, advanced again—and at last, with a tremor that shook every fibre in his frame, with a modest grace he put the soft ringlet which played upon her cheek to his lips, and retired to demand his redeemed pledge in evident confusion. His mistress gaily smiled, and the game went on. One of her rejected suitors, but who was of a merry unthinking disposition, was adjudged, by the same indiscreet crier of the forfeits,—“as his last treat before he hanged himself,” she said,—to snatch a kiss from the lips of the object of his recent vows—
“Lips whose broken sighs such fragrance fling,
As Love had fanned them freshly with his wing!”
A lively contest between the lady and the gentleman lasted for a minute; but the lady yielded, though in the midst of a convulsive laugh. And the Count had the mortification, the agony, to see the lips, which his passionate and delicate love would not allow him to touch, kissed with roughness and repetition by another man, and one whom he despised. Without a word, he rose from his chair, left the room—and the house; and, by that good-natured kiss, the fair boast of Vienna lost her husband and her lover. The Count never saw her more.