The collected works of William Hazlitt, Vol. 12 (of 12)Hazlitt, William
General
The collected works of William Hazlitt, Vol. 12 (of 12)
Hazlitt, William
English essays -- 19th century
their betters, till they themselves fall in love, marry, set up a public
house, (the only thing they are fit for,) and without habits of
industry, resources in themselves, or self-respect, and drawing
fruitless comparisons with the past, are, of all people, the most
miserable! Service is no inheritance; and when it fails, there is not a
more helpless, or more worthless set of devils in the world. Mr. C——
used to say he should like to be a footman to some elderly lady of
quality, to carry her prayer-book to church, and place her cassock right
for her. There can be no doubt that this would have been better, and
quite as useful as the life he has led, dancing attendance on Prejudice,
but flirting with Paradox in such a way as to cut himself out of the old
lady’s will. For my part, if I had to choose, I should prefer the
service of a young mistress, and might share the fate of the footman
recorded in heroic verse by Lady Wortley Montagu. Certainly it can be no
hard duty, though a sort of _forlorn hope_, to have to follow three
sisters, or youthful friends, (resembling the three Graces,) at a slow
pace, and with grave demeanour, from Cumberland Gate to Kensington
Gardens—to be there shut out, a privation enhancing the privilege, and
making the sense of distant, respectful, idolatrous admiration more
intense—and then, after a brief interval lost in idle chat, or idler
reverie, to have to follow them back again, observing, not observed, to
keep within call, to watch every gesture, to see the breeze play with
the light tresses or lift the morning robe aside, to catch the
half-suppressed laugh, and hear the low murmur of indistinct words and
wishes, like the music of the spheres. An _amateur footman_ would seem a
more rational occupation than that of an amateur author, or an amateur
artist. An insurmountable barrier, if it excludes passion, does not
banish sentiment, but draws an atmosphere of superstitious, trembling
apprehension round the object of so much attention and respect; nothing
makes women seem so much like angels as always to see, never to converse
with them; and those whom we have to dangle a cane after must, to a
lacquey of any spirit, appear worthy to wield sceptres.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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