EDITORIAL HISTORICAL NARRATIVE OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE:
NUMBER NINETEEN.--Our last number of this 'Narrative-History' was
shorter by some eight pages than its predecessors: so that we had
no space to finish our consideration of the 'Ollapodiana Papers,'
which we now resume, in connection with other early writings for
the KNICKERBOCKER. The few brief passages which we quoted, did
not afford a fair example of the variety, the change of mood and
manner which this short but admirable series displayed. A passage in
the remarks of the author of the paper in the last _North-British
Review_,' elsewhere noticed in these pages, admirably and truly
represents the characteristics of WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK'S mind and
pen, in these popular papers: 'The man who can laugh as well as
weep is most a man. The greatest humorists have also been the most
serious seers, and men of most earnest heart. And all those who have
manifested the finest perfection of spiritual health have enjoyed
the merry sun-shine of life, and wrought their work with a spirit
of blithe bravery.' The very last chapter of 'Ollapodiana,' written
when the writer was prostrated by the illness from which he never
recovered, was as felicitous and mirth-moving as any of the numbers
which preceded it: and yet the pathos which characterized his sadder
musings, as he drew near and nearer to the grave, failed not to draw
tears from many a sympathetic soul. We pass to a few more brief and
characteristic passages.
As WILLIS approached the end of his earthly pilgrimage, his thoughts
grew solemn, deep, mournful possibly, but yet not sad. Thus he says,
in the last number but one of _Ollapodiana_:
'IT is no long time, respected reader, since we communed
together. Yet, how many matters have happened since that period,
which should give us pause, and solemn meditation! _We_ are
still extant; the beams of our spirit still shine from _our_
eyes; yet there are many who, since last my sentences came to
yours, have drooped their lids forever upon things of earth.
Numberless ties have been severed; numberless hearts rest from
their pantings, and sleep, 'no more to fold the robe o'er secret
pain.' All the deceits, the masks of life, are ended with them.
_Policy_ no more bids them to kindle the eye with deceitful
lustre; no more prompts to _semblance_, which feeling condemns.
They are gone!--'ashes to ashes, and dust to dust;' and when I
think of the numbers who thus pass away, I am pained within me;
for I know from them that our life is not only as a dream which
passeth away, but that the garniture, or the carnival of it, is
indeed a vapor, sun-gilt for a moment, then colored with the dun
hues of death, or stretching its dim folds afar, until their
remotest outlines catch the imperishable glory of eternity.
Such is life; made up of successful or successless accidents;
its movers and actors, from the cradle to three-score-and-ten,
pushed about by Fate not their own; aspiring but impotent;
impelled as by visions, and rapt in a dream--which who can
dispel?'
We cite the following here, to show still farther the solemnity of
his musings, and mellifluous perfection of his versification. Mark
how the _liquid_ sounds melt into melody in the lines which ensue:
'YOU must know, reader, that there lieth, some three miles or
so from Brotherly Love--a city of this continent, a delectable
city--a place of burial, 'Laurel Hill' by name. On a sweeter
spot the great sun never threw the day-spring of the morning,
nor the blush of the evening west. There the odors and colors of
nature profusely repose; there, to rest of a spring or summer
afternoon, on some rural seat, looking at trees, and dancing
waters, and the like, you would wonder at that curious question
addressed of DEAN SWIFT, on his death-bed, to a friend at his
side: 'Did you ever know of any really _good weather_ in this
world?' You would take the affirmative. Well, thus I sang:
'HERE the lamented dead in dust shall lie,
Life's lingering languors o'er--its labors done;
Where waving boughs, betwixt the earth and sky,
Admit the farewell radiance of the sun.
'Here the long concourse from the murmuring town,
With funeral pace and slow, shall enter in;
To lay the loved in tranquil silence down,
No more to suffer, and no more to sin.
'And here the impressive stone, engraved with words
Which Grief sententious gives to marble pale,
Shall teach the heart, while waters, leaves and birds
Make cheerful music in the passing gale.
'Say, wherefore should we weep, and wherefore pour
On scented airs the unavailing sigh--
While sun-bright waves are quivering to the shore,
And landscapes blooming--that the loved should die?
'There is an emblem in this peaceful scene:
Soon, rainbow colors on the woods will fall;
And autumn gusts bereave the hills of green,
As sinks the year to meet its cloudy pall.
'Then, cold and pale, in distant vistas round,
Disrobed and tuneless, all the woods will stand:
While the chained streams are silent as the ground,
As death had numbed them with his icy hand.
'Yet, when the warm soft winds shall rise in spring,
Like struggling day-beams o'er a blasted heath;
The bird returned shall poise her golden wing,
And liberal nature break the spell of death.
'So, when the tomb's dull silence finds an end,
The blessed Dead to endless youth shall rise;
And hear the archangel's thrilling summons blend
Its tones with anthems from the upper skies.
'There shall the good of earth be found at last,
Where dazzling streams and vernal fields expand;
Where Love her crown attains--her trials past--
And, filled with rapture, hails the better land!'
'Thus I strummed the old harpsichord, from which I have
aforetime, at drowsy hours and midnight intervals, extracted a
few accidental numbers, (more pleasant doubtless to beget than
read,) 'sleepless myself, to give to others sleep!''
'WELL, that is the only way to write without fatigue, both to
author and reader. In all that pertains to the petty businesses
which bow us to the routine of this work-day world, I am as
it were at home. I am distinctly a mover in the great tide
of Action sweeping on around me; yet when I enter into the
sanctuary of the Muses, lo! at one wave of the spiritual wand,
this 'dim and ignorant present' disappears. I breathe a rarer
atmosphere. Visions of childhood throng upon my soul; the blue
mountain-tops; the aerial circles of far-off landscapes; the
hazy horizon of ocean-waters; the wind-tossed verdure of summer;
the hills that burst into singing; and the sweet harmonies
of nature--Universal Parent!--all appeal to my spirit. This
dismemberment of the ideal from the actual, is a fountain of
enjoyment, which whoso knows not, has yet the brightest lessons
of life to learn. He has yet to enter that fairy dominion
which seems the intermediate territory betwixt the airy realms
conceived of in this world, and the more radiant glories of the
'undiscovered country.''
Yet in the succeeding number we find the writer indulging in such
whimsical imaginings as the following:
'OBSERVE, my friend, I am not writing _against_ time; so let us
slowly on. My impressions of the old gentleman are sometimes
extremely fantastic. I was looking the other day at a playful
young cat, just emerging from the fairy time of kittenhood;
something between the revelry of the fine mewer, and the gravity
without the experience of the tabby. Now one would think that
no great subject for contemplation. It would be looked upon by
the million as inferior to astronomy. But it is the connection
of the events having reference to the quadruped which renders
her of interest. _Time_ will expand her person, increase her
musical powers, and bring her admirers. In her back, on winter
evenings, will sleep a tolerable imitation of the lightnings
of heaven. She will make great noise o' nights, and lap at
interdicted cream. So much for her exterior--her love-passages
and obstreperous concerts. But look within! That compact
embodiment of ligaments and conduits, now treading gingerly over
those fading leaves, and grapes of purple, what may they not
be hereafter? Whose hearts may they not thrill, when strung on
the sonorous bridge of a cremona, guided to softest utterances
by the master hand? How many memories of youth, and hope, and
fond thoughts, and sunny evenings, and bowers by moonlight,
radiant with the beams of Cynthia, and warm with the sweet
reflex of Beauty; the heart, touched by the attempered entrail,
rosin-encompassed and bow-bestrid, may bound in age with
recollections of departed rapture. And all from what? Smile not
at the association, my friend--from Time and cat-gut.'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
''TWAS a new idea to me, that conveyed of late by the author of
'LESLIE,' surnamed NORMAN, that the only things you see, after
crossing the Atlantic, which you have seen before, are the
orb of day, sometimes vulgarly called PHOEBUS or the sun, the
chaste Regent of the Night or LUNA, that greenhorns sometimes
denominate the moon, and those jewels of heaven--'doubloons of
the celestial bank,' as a Spanish poet calls them--sometimes
named stars, by plain uninitiated persons. These, it seems,
are the only old acquaintances a man meets abroad. They are
not to be put by. A man may curse his stars, indeed, but he
cannot _cut_ them. As well might the great sea essay 'to cast
its waters on the burning Bear, and quench the guards of the
ever-fixéd pole.' Therefore shall I learn henceforth yet more
to love those dazzling planets, fixed or errant, because in no
long time I may meet them in Philippi. Precious then to me will
be their bright companionship! Milky feelings will come over me,
as I scrutinize the _via lactea_, with upturned eyes; conscious
will be the moon; inexpressibly dear every glimpse of the lesser
lights that rule the night with modest fires. Without the
slightest premonitory symptoms of astrology, and being withal
no horologe consulter, I yet do love the stars. Rich, rare and
lustrous, they win my gaze, and look into my soul.'
In the twenty-sixth number, the last of the series, there is the
same combination of the humorous and the pathetic, which constituted
the variety and the charm of the Ollapodiana Papers. With these
brief passages we close our 'labor of love' and duty to the literary
memory of our departed twin-brother.
'How do you bear yourself, my friend and reader, on the subject
of _winter_ generally? What are 'your views?' If you are young
and sanguine, with no revulsions or tempests of the heart to
remember, I will warrant that you like old Hyem, and patronize
that most windy individual, Boreas, of that ilk. Well, you have
a free right to your opinion, and if you held it two years or
less ago, you had the honor to agree with me. But I confess
on that point a kind of warped idiosyncrasy; an unaccountable
change of opinion. The truth is, reader, between you and me,
there is not much dignity in winter, in a city. When, in the
country, you can look out upon the far-off landscapes, the cold
blue hills rising afar, and where a snow-bank _is_ really what
it is cracked up to be; where the blast comes sounding to your
dwelling over a sweep of woods, and lakes, and snowy fields, for
miles of dim extension, there is some grandeur in the thing. But
what is it to hear a blast, half-choked with the smoke and soot
of the city, wheezing down a contemptible chimney-pot, or round
a corner, where the wind, that glorious emblem of freedom, has
no charter at all to 'blow out' as he pleases, but is confined
by the statute of brick-and-mortar restrictions?'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
'I HAVE turned this subject of steam-music extensively over
in my mind, of late; and I have married myself to the idea,
after a very short courtship, that it is a kind of thing that
must _go on_. At the first blush, indeed, it might appear
chimerical; but I ask the skeptic why the steam-whistle of a
locomotive should not discourse in tones more soft and winning?
Why cannot a locomotive ask a cow to leave a railroad track in
a politer manner than in that discordant shriek, which excites
the animal's indignation, and awakens her every sentiment of
quadrupedal independence? I protest against such conduct. We
presume a locomotive to buzz, and _vapor_, and deport itself
pragmatically; but its conversation by the way ought to be
chastened into something like propriety: and please APOLLO,
I think it will. I once saw an animal of this stamp killed
instantly by the crushing transit of a train; and I thought
I saw in the singular turn of her upper lip, as her torn-out
heart lay yet palpitating on the rails, a peculiar curl of
disdain, in her dying moments, at the treatment she had won. I
put this down, because I hope 't will be remembered as a warning
to whistlers in especial, and the great generation of calves
unborn.'
* * * * *
'ON one of those warm April-like afternoons, with which, in our
Philadelphia meridian, the fierce February chose to delight us,
as if by contrast, I sat by my open window, which commands,
through and over pleasant trees, fine glimpses of the country:
and
'As the red round sun descended,
Mid clouds of crimson light,'
I began to feel coming upon me the influence of a reverie. For a
long time, my good friend whom I 'occupy' at present with this
matter, I have had my day-dreams sadly broken in upon; in the
few roses I have gathered, I have found the cypress mingling
among their faded leaves; and a voice, as from the lowly
leafiness of an autumnal wilderness, has spoken of the lost and
of the past. Why is it, that though the mind may wander, the
_heart_ can never forget? Well could I say with him who sings so
well:
'Thou unrelenting Past!
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain;
And fetters, sure and fast,
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.
'In thy abysses hide
Beauty and excellence unknown; to thee
Earth's wonder and her pride
Are gathered as the waters to the sea!'
And there they rest in dust and cold obstruction! Oh! that those
who walk about in the beauty of the morning, with the greenness
of earth around them, and the mysterious vitality which makes
the elements in their nostrils, would think of this; considering
truly their coming end!'
AMONG our frequent and always welcome early contributors, in prose
and verse, was LEWIS W. MANSFIELD, Esq. Our old readers will recal
the papers which appeared from his pen, under the signature of
'JULIAN.' His prose was more felicitous than his verse; although in
the 'Morning Watch,' and other of his poems, there were many noble
passages. The subjoined will afford an example of his humorous prose:
'IT would be amusing, if one could laugh at any thing so sad,
to observe the humors of the few who think upon the bearings of
this solemn time. In the year to be, there are many to come,
many to go, and but few to tarry; yet _all_ have their ambitions
of a life-time; those even, to whom the stars have grown dim,
and life become almost a mockery under Heaven, dashing into the
coming day with something of the old zest; while the many, the
_oi polloi_, who have not yet made their grand move, are now
ready, and think that therefore the earth is to take a new route
in creation: forgetting that the old round must be the round
forever. Nights sleepless with joy, nights sleepless with pain,
nights long with watching, feverish thought; crime that stings
like an adder, and nights short, with perfect rest; days long
and weary, days bright and dashing, hot and cold, wet and dry,
and days and nights with all of these--as hath been in the time
that's past, and will be in the time to come.
'There is something very pitiable in these humors; indeed very
laughable, if your mouth is shaped to that effect; but as it
happens with me to-night, my mouth refuses to twitch except
in one direction. Its corners have the 'downward tendencies.'
Perhaps it is because this is with me the anniversary of a
day upon the events of which are hanging the movements of all
after-life; it may be this, and there may be thereto added the
coloring of a winter's day. The wind howls about the house-tops,
and the air pierces like needles; even the stars, when they
look down in thousands, as the rack goes by, seem to shiver in
their high places; yet perhaps there is nothing so personal in
all that, considering that just so the wind howled last night,
and may for a month to come; but oh! as I am a nervous man, and
look back upon the circling months, and feel the sting here and
the stab there, in that galvanic battery; and as I look forward
with eager eye, and ear open to the faintest whisper of the dim
to-morrow, it is not as the stars shiver from excess of light,
but with a shudder at the heart from the cooler blood of ----
Good night, my kind EDITOR: that sentence is quite too long
already, and there are some things too personal to tell.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
'P. S.--Whoop! hurrah! Light is upon the world again! Where are
you, my dear friend? I say, Sir, I was an ass--do you hear?--an
_ass_, premature, wise before my time, a brute, a blockhead!
Did I talk of dust and ashes? O Sir! I lied multitudinously.
Every nerve, every muscle that didn't try to strangle me in that
utterance, _lied_. No, Sir; let me tell you it's a great world;
glorious--magnificent; a world that can't be beat! Talk of the
stars and a better world, but don't invite me there yet. Make
my regrets, my apology to DEATH, but say that I can't come;
'positive engagement; happy some other time, but not now.' Oh!
no; this morning is quite too beautiful to leave; and beside,
I would rather stay, if only to thank God a little longer for
this glorious light, this pure air that can echo back my loudest
hurrah. And then, my boy----But haven't I told you? Why, Sir,
I've got a boy!--a _boy_! ha, ha! I shout it out to you--a BOY;
a ten-pounder, and the mother a great deal _better_ than could
be expected! And, I say, my old friend, it's _mine_! Hurrah and
hallelujah forever! O Sir! such legs, and such arms, and such a
head!--and _he has his mother's lips_! I can kiss them forever!
And then, Sir, look at his feet, his hands, his chin, his eyes,
his every thing, in fact--so perfect! Give me joy, Sir: no
you needn't either, I am full now; I run over; and they say
that I ran over a number of old women, half-killed the mother,
pulled the doctor by the nose, and upset a 'pothecary shop in
the corner; and then didn't I ring the tea-bell? Didn't I blow
the horn? Didn't I dance, shout, laugh, and cry altogether?
The women say they had to tie me up. I don't believe _that_;
but who is going to shut his mouth up when he has a live baby?
You should have heard his lungs, Sir, at the first mouthful of
fresh air; such a burst! A little tone in his voice, but not
pain; excess of joy, Sir, from too great sensation. The air-bath
was so sudden, you know. Think of all his beautiful machinery
starting off at once in full motion; all his thousand outside
feelers answering to the touch of the cool air; the flutter and
crash at the ear; and that curious contrivance the eye, looking
out wonderingly and bewildered upon the great world, so glorious
and dazzling to his unworn perceptions; his net-work of nerves,
his wheels and pulleys, his air-pumps and valves, his engines
and reservoirs; and within all, that beautiful fountain, with
its jets and running streams dashing and coursing through the
whole length and breadth, without either stint or pause--making
altogether, Sir, exactly ten pounds avoirdupois!
'Did I ever talk brown to you, Sir, or blue, or any other of
the devil's colors? You say I have. Beg your pardon, Sir,
but you--are mistaken in the individual. I am this day, Sir,
multiplied by two. I am duplicate. I am number one of an
indefinite series, and there's my continuation. And you observe,
it is not a block, nor a block-head, nor a painting, nor a
bust, nor a fragment of any thing, however beautiful; but a
combination of _all_ the arts and sciences in one; painting,
sculpture, music, (hear him cry,) mineralogy, chemistry,
mechanics, (see him kick,) geography, and the use of the globes,
(see him nurse;) and withal, he is a perpetual motion--a
time-piece that will never run down! And who wound it up? But
words, Sir, are but a mouthing and a mockery.
'When a man is nearly crushed under obligations, it is presumed
that he is unable to speak; but he may bend over very carefully,
for fear of falling, nod in a small way, and say nothing; and
then, if he have sufficient presence of mind to lay a hand upon
his heart, and look down at an angle of forty-five degrees,
with a motion of the lips, unuttered poetry, showing the wish
and the inability, it will be (well done) very gracefully
expressive. With my boy in his first integuments, I assume that
position, make the small nod aforesaid, and leave you the poetry
unuttered.'
We hope our readers will soon welcome 'JULIAN' as heartily to our
pages as they were wont to do aforetime.
STORY OF 'THE LITTLE BLACK SLIPPER.'--The spirited sketch of '_The
Little Black Slipper_,' which ensues--the beautiful manuscript
of which is a treasure to our compositors--was accompanied by a
characteristic notelet from our esteemed friend and correspondent,
'H. P. L.,' of Philadelphia, to the following purport: 'The
accompanying MS., the production of my amiable friend, Mr. JAMES
O'FISTIAN, of Castle-Bangeroary, details a little incident in his
'_Careerings and Loaferings in Other Lands_,' and--among _other_
ladies. I have copied it and corrected it from his original MS.,
but can lay no claim to its vitality. Its publication would prove a
jubilition to its author:'
'SAID I, 'HARRY, where did you get that slipper?' Said he,
'JAMES, this is the tale:
'If any thing will alleviate the little miseries of a two
days' diligence-journey, it is having as pretty, good-natured,
and cosmopolitan a little widow for your opposite travelling
companion, as I had from Cordova on the Guadalquivir, to Madrid
on the Manzanares. Tumbling into the 'interior' of a diligence
at two o'clock of a June morning after a few hours spent in a
vain attempt to sleep, rendered vain and profane by a legion of
those _tirailleurs du diable_, long-horned mosquitoes, one is by
no means as serene in temper as one should be. The writer was
savage that morning; and not until the _mayoral_ (conductor)
had brought a light to see if the passengers were all properly
packed in, revealing the cheerful little face of a pretty woman
opposite to him, did his good nature shine out as a patent
reflector and dissipate the fog of discontent.
''A long journey before us: let us make ourselves comfortable,'
said the lady, the departing _mayoral_ with light just enabling
me to see that there was a smile on her face. Then there was a
shaking of black silk skirts, _Gracias a Dios!_ there were no
steel or whalebone petticoats on her blessed form; two little
feet sought refuge on my side; two good-sized ones searched
for an asylum on her side the diligence; and behold, we were
disposed to be friends for life. I don't know whether TUPPER,
in his 'Proverbial Philosophy,' mentions under the head of
'Friendship' that it is 'a travelling shawl,' but in his next
edition he'd better do it, you know, BECAUSE IT IS! At least
that morning, when I spread mine over my legs, and extended
the courtesy to the limbs (_Lingua Americana_) of the fair
widow, she accepted the woollen with a kind acknowledgment that
made me feel blessedly pleased with myself and with her. The
bells of the eight mules pulling the diligence were jingling;
the postillion on the right leader had settled himself in his
saddle; the _arriero_ had hold of the reins; the _mayoral_
jumped into his seat in the Imperial; and the _zugal_, holding
his calañes hat tight on his head, sprung out of the door of the
diligence-office, uttering fearful yells and cracking his whip
with the ferocity of a mad monkey; when--creak, bang, slide,
slip! and we were launched on our journey to Madrid.
'I went to sleep and had a pleasant dream of being a cherubim,
the kind that flew round NOAH when he was building the Ark, and
had no legs! and having a dear little pair of gaiter boots for
wings; while I had for a companion, another æronaut with large
black eyes, _a propos_ of which--
'I NEVER loved a dear gazelle,
And gazed upon its soft, black eyes,
But what it turned out a d---- sell--
A damsel heaving gentlest sighs'--
who was all thy's and thou's. In addition to black eyes, she had
black hair and a travelling-shawl, and she had feet; and both
the tiny little ones were somehow thrust into the pockets of my
shooting-coat, and ---- I woke up and found that there were a
pair of little, high-heeled, black slippers, with white silk
stockings attached, resting on the cushion by my side. You may
talk about dream-books, and explanations of dreams, but such
bona-fide realizations please me most: and I looked down at them
and determined they should be mine if I had to go a hand on
them--matrimonially of course, _à la mode de_ 'I'd offer thee
this hand of mine,' with piano accompaniment.
'But she woke up, and as the sun was now shining brightly, she
saw me regarding those 'leather mice,' whereupon she at once
hid them, not by rudely withdrawing them, but by cuddling them
up under one end of the travelling-shawl; which end was in
close proximity with my pantaloons pocket. Now reader fancy my
feelings nursing a pair of twins like those; belonging to a very
pretty woman--moreover a widow.
''_Buenas dias, Señor_!' It was so cheerfully, pleasantly
spoken, and with such a winning smile, and the dark eyes beamed
so softly under the long black eye-lashes, that it elicited
all the writer's stock of amiability in return. It came out in
conversation that the lady was from Seville, was a widow, and
her first name was JUANITA, (_tal y tal_, or So-and-So;) and
as I had passed many pleasant days in Seville, and bore away
gay souvenirs of 'The Marvel,' we were soon in earnest chat
about its wonders and beauties. She was charmingly _naïve_ in
conversation, and showed in every remark, what is an exception
with Spanish ladies--an intelligent and animated disposition.
At Bailen, where we dined, I lost my heart when I handed her
from the diligence--beside, she faintly pressed my hand with her
gloved hand, and showed me those feet!
'There is no use doing things in a hurry, so I determined, as
we were yet thirty-six hours from Madrid, to wait until we were
within three hours of the city before I formally proposed for
her heart, hand, and high-heeled shoes. _Ay, que gusto, que
placer!_
'Again was the old diligence _en route_; again the shades of
night were on us, and cool air brought out the travelling-shawl;
and again a joint partnership was entered into between JUANITA
and me. Somehow, near Las Navas de Tolosa, the diligence gave
a fearful lurch, and JUANITA was pitched nearly into my arms;
seems to me, she must have assisted the shock, else how, in all
the darkness of night, for it must have been nearly ten o'clock,
and raining, could I have kissed her and taken charge of her for
nearly a minute, while the diligence was coming to time?
'QUIEN SABE!
That's the way to get over the difficulty in Spain; in Italy
with a--
'CHI LO SA!
or to hunt it up to head-quarters in Arabic:
'MA AHRIF!
if you want it at home:
'WHO KNOWS!
That was a rose-colored rainy night--the diligence pitched
several times with equal success.
'I made up mind to turn Spaniard, buy one of those velvet tiles,
a black lamb-skin jacket, knee-breeches, pounds of silver
waistcoat and coat buttons, leather gaiters with long leather
fringe; learn to roll _cigarritas_ and become a _cigarrista_.
Go twice a week to the _Circo Gallistico_, 'where roosters
do combat;' bet my _duros_ on the winning _gallo_, (not gall
oh! but on the contrary;) attend every bull-fight, and mass
once a week, to keep my hand in; dance the _bolero_; drink
_aguardiente_ very cautiously; shoot red-legged partridges
all the year round, and, to sum up, come out strong as a
full-blooded _majo_! either this or edit a paper in Madrid
_progresisto_.
'Again the morning broke and up came the sun illumining our
breakfast at Valdepeñas, where the wine comes from, at least the
baptismal name to table-wine half over Spain. I determined to
edit a paper in Madrid, _progresisto_!
'The day wheeled by until we arrived at Tembléque, where our
diligence was wheeled on to a railroad-car, and we were to
make the fifteen leagues between there and Madrid with great
diligence by steam. _Tembléque_ means a diamond pin; it sticks
me with pain when I think of it, for there, yes there! JUANITA
was lost to me (as a wife) forever.
'At Tembléque, while taking a hurried lunch, I saw a bill
announcing a bull-fight to come off in Madrid next day, and was
glad to be able to enjoy this amusement once more; on my return
to the diligence, I communicated to the widow the interesting
fact.
''_O jala!_' said she, 'how I do love bull-fights! And to see
CUCHARES with the _capa_ in one hand and sword in the other,
_Hésoos!_ he is a _spada_; but you should have seen JUAN,
(pronounce WHAN,) he always killed first blow. _Ay Caramba_!
there was a man for you--and such clothes and such legs--poor
soul! that last black bull from the mountains was too much for
him--too much, too much!' and here the widow paid a tribute of
two tears to his memory, and flourished her little hands and
white cambric disconsolately.
'This JUAN did not please me, although he had succumbed to the
bull, and was gone where good bull-fighters go; the tribute to
his memory made me a little-slightly jealous. But concealing my
feelings, I asked as unconcernedly as possible: 'Well, who was
JUAN?'
''JUAN?' replied the dear widow, 'JUAN? why, he was my husband!'
'Farewell, orange-flower wreaths, white lace veils, and
slow on--farewell, ideas matrimonial. I, HARRY BUTTONS DE
BUTTONVILLE, marry a bull-fighter's widow! By the shadow of my
respectability, never!
''JUANITA, I never can be thine!' said I, in a burst of feeling.
''_Ay Caramba!_ but you will see me home in a carriage, when I
arrive at Madrid, won't you?' asked the widow.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
'I did--and she gave me the slipper.'
* * * * *
'WORKING-MEN' AT HOME AND ABROAD.--We encounter the following
passage in a recent editorial letter from abroad, in 'WILKES' Spirit
of the Times.' He is speaking of the little town of Veviers, a place
containing some thirty thousand inhabitants, (with a large suburban
population,) on the road thenceward from Paris to Cologne: a city,
as Mr. WILKES remarks, that has more _need_ of 'Cologne-water' than
any which _he_ has ever visited. That was COLERIDGE'S impression,
also; since the multitudinous seas, he thought, could never wash the
river clean again, that 'washed' the town of Cologne:
'VEVIERS is devoted mainly to cloth manufacture, in which
it employs some fifty thousand hands, who work from twelve
to fifteen hours a day, and who are drilled to as close a
discipline as the convicts in a prison, or slaves at an oar. A
few work in their houses, but the greater number labor in large
shops, the various lofts of which are filled with men and women,
who seldom look up from their looms, and who never venture
to speak, except by permission of the overseer. This silent
system is terrible to the mind as well as body; but there is no
power on the part of the oppressed to resist, for a discharge
from an establishment is a condemnation to starvation, since,
according to a convention among the employers, none will hire
a man whom another has turned off. This of course reduces the
working classes to a state of absolute vassalage, and wherever
such a regulation exists, they may be said to breathe only by
the sufferance of their employers. Attempts have been made at
different times by certain manufacturers, to introduce this
system in the United States, but the atrocious project has
always been defeated with infamy to the inventors. The working
people of Veviers, those at least who labor in the factories,
are remarkable for their downcast look, and the first curse
seems to be written in heavy lines upon their brows. They go
along like men without hope, as if life were a penalty, and the
only expiration of their term of condemnation were to arrive
with death. Ah! if these poor people could but see an American
mechanic, with his bright eye, erect head, and proud and
cheerful carriage, they would understand the value of liberty at
a glance, and increase their hours of toil till they could earn
enough to enable them to escape into an atmosphere where they
may breathe and live.'
Such are the thoughts which we love to see entertained by observant
Americans travelling abroad.
* * * * *
THE 'NORTH BRITISH' ON AMERICAN HUMOR.--A favorite and popular
correspondent of our Magazine once wrote for these pages a paper
upon '_Wit and Humor_,' separately considered and artistically
contrasted: but he has been out-written and out-argued, by a most
admirable and evidently competent critic in the last 'North-British
Review,' in an article upon '_American Humor_.' In quoting from
it, we really feel '_l'embarras des richesses_'--the embarrassment
of riches--for it is full and conclusive upon every point which it
touches; while, as to the _manner_ of the reviewer, there cannot
possibly be but one opinion. But listen to him, please, in a few
segregated passages:
'THE influence of healthy Wit and Humor is a benign one, if it
comes to us at times, and kindly makes us forget sad thoughts
and cankering cares; makes the oldest feel young and fresh,
and turns the wrinkles of our sorrow into ripples of laughter.
SHAKSPEARE, who mirrored our whole humanity, did not leave the
laugh out of its reflected face. He tells us, 'Your merry heart
goes all the day;' and he knew how much the merry heart may have
to carry. 'We may well be refreshed,' says JEREMY TAYLOR, 'by a
clean and brisk discourse, as by the air of Campanian wines, and
our faces and our heads may well be anointed and look pleasant
with wit, as with the fat of the Balsam tree.' Humor not only
has an earlier beginning than Wit, but it has also a far wider
range. It will reach the uneducated as well as the educated; and
among the former may often be found very unctuous humorists. In
the earlier history of nations and literatures, when life is
strong and thought is unperplexed, we get writers full enough
in force, and direct enough in expression, to touch nature at
most points. Hence the earlier great writers reach the depths of
tragedy, and the breadths of humor. In their times they see the
full play of the outward actions in which Life expresses itself:
all those striking _contrasts_ of life; those broad lights and
bold shadows of character which, as they cross and re-cross in
the world's web, make rare and splendid patterns for the tragic
poet and humorist. It would have been perfectly impossible for
the wit of _Punch_ to have been produced in any other time than
ours, or in any other place and societary conditions than those
of London. No past time could have given us THOMAS HOOD.... Wit
deals more with thoughts, and Humor with outward things. Wit
only reaches characteristics, and therefore it finds more food
in a later time and more complex state of society. Humor deals
with character. The more robust and striking the character, the
better for humor: hence the earlier times, being more fruitful
in peculiar character, are most fruitful in humor. Wit is more
artificial, and a thing of culture; Humor lies nearer to nature.
Wit is oftenest shown in the quality of the thought; Humor by
the nature of the action. With Wit, two opposite and combustible
qualities of the thought are brought into contact, and they
explode in the ludicrous. Humor shows us two opposite personal
characters which mingle, and dissimilitude is dove-tailed in
the laughable.... One of Wit's greatest elements of success is
surprise. Indeed, sometimes when your surprise is over, you find
nothing else; you have been cheated upon false pretences. Not
so with Humor. He is in no hurry. He is for 'keeping it up.' He
don't move in straight lines but flows in circles. He carries
you irresistibly along with him. With Wit you are on the 'qui
vive;' with Humor you grow glorious. If brevity be the soul of
Wit, the soul of Humor is longevity.
'Humor makes as much of its subject as possible. It revels in
exaggeration; it reigns in Brobdignag. Wit is thinner; it has
a subtler spark of light in its eye, and a less carnal gush of
jollity in its laugh. It is, as we often say, very dry. But
Humor rejoices in ample physical health; it has a strong ruddy
nature, a glow and glory of sensuous life, a playful overflow of
animal spirits. As the word indicates, Humor has more moisture
of the bodily temperament. Its words drop fatness, its face
oozes with unctuousness, its eyes swim with dews of mirth.
As stout people often make the best dancers and swimmers, so
Humor relies on size. It must have 'body,' like good old wine.
Humor has more common human feeling than Wit; it is wealthiest,
wisest, kindliest. Lord DUDLEY, the eccentric, said pleasantly
to SYDNEY SMITH: 'You have been laughing at me constantly,
Sydney, for the last seven years, and yet in all that time, you
have never said a single thing to me that I wished unsaid.'...
Humor, like imagination, pours itself out, strong and splendid
as flowing gold, with oneness and continuity. Wit twinkles
and corruscates, gleams and glances about the subject. Humor
lightens right to the heart of the matter at once, without
by-play. Wit will show you the live sparks rushing red-rustling
from the chimney, and prettily dancing away in the dark, a
'moment bright, then gone forever.' But Humor shall give you a
pleasanter peep through the lighted window, and show you the
fire glowing and ruddy--the smiling heart of home--shining in
the dear faces of those you love, who are waiting to overflow
in one warm embracing wave of love the moment the door is
opened for your coming. Wit teases, tickles, and titillates.
But Humor floods you to the brim with measureful content.
Wit sends you a sharp, sudden, electric shock, that leaves
you tingling from without. Humor operates from within, with
its slow and prolonged excitation of your risible soul. Wit
gives you a quick, bright nod, and is off. 'What's, going on?'
said a bore to DOUGLAS JERROLD. 'I am,' said he. That is just
what Wit does. You must be sharp, too, in taking the hit. The
most obvious characteristic of American humor is its power of
'pitching it strong,' and drawing the long bow. It is the humor
of exaggeration. This consists of fattening up a joke until it
is rotund and rubicund, unctuous and irresistible as FALSTAFF
himself, who was created by SHAKSPEARE, and fed fat, so as to
become for all time the very impersonation of Humor. There are
many differences betwixt the Wit and Humor of different nations.
German humor generally goes ponderously upon all fours. French
_esprit_ is intangible to the English mind. Irish humor is often
so natural that its accidents look intentional. The Scotch have
been said not to understand a joke. Undoubtedly they have not
the Cockney quickness necessary to catch some kinds of word-wit.
But where will you find richer, pawkier humor?'
We commend the entire article, from which these brief passages are
taken, to the notice and admiration of our readers. It is one of the
most attractive papers in the entire number.
* * * * *
GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--A Boston correspondent,
'_A Believer in Phrenology_,' must look again, and 'mark, learn,
and digest' what it _was_ that OLLAPOD said in our last, as to the
'science' of Phrenology. Its 'general principles' he admitted; it
was only its 'infinitesimal detail' which he satirized. Phrenology,
let us say to our 'Believer,' has always had a 'fair show' in
the pages of the KNICKERBOCKER; 'else wherefore breathe we in
a Christian land?' For the '_New-York Observer_,' a religious
journal, states that pious probulgences are to 'rule' hereafter as
a clerical test in our Church; an exaggerated 'explication,' of
course, of the remarks of an able Episcopal contemporary. But as
for ourselves, have we not been 'through the mill?' 'Slightuously!'
Ask our friends, FOWLER and WELLS, leaders in 'Bumpology,' else.
Were we not 'manipulated?' Did we not lie down in a box like a
coffin, and were we not then and there covered, from our 'burst'
upward, with a Plaster-of-Paris hasty-pudding? Did not the operation
'fix' us? _Rather_! It was solemn at first, and upward to the
mouth, such was the expression, in the sudden 'solidarity' of our
'mug;' but when Mr. FOWLER directed his assistant to use a spoon
in feeding us with the white pudding, and not to suffocate us by
stopping up our nostrils, we began to laugh; but the laughing
muscles stopped short off at the junction with the lugubrious
fixed plaster. We saw the _result_ next day, in the show-window
of Mr. FOWLER, on the Nassau street side of CLINTON-Hall. There
we were, large as life, labelled and sandwiched between ROBINSON,
the New-Brunswick murderer, and Colonel JAMES WATSON WEBB, of the
'_Courier and Enquirer_' daily journal. Haven't we 'suffered' for
the 'science' of Phrenology? 'Probably!' 'Phrenology,' says our
'down-east' correspondent, 'can no longer be laughed at.' 'We caänt
be laughed at!' is the amusing 'objugatory' of an English Cockney
in a modern play; but people _will_ laugh at the marvels which
are said to accompany the development of even the smallest and
thickest-set organs of the human head. When GALL and SPURZHEIM were
in 'Edinboro,' had established the first Phrenological Society in
Great-Britain, and were gaining 'converts' only by slow degrees,
they and their confrères were 'laughed at' to something _more_
than 'their hearts' content.' On one occasion, we remember, a dry
Scottish wag bought from a countyman a vegetable _lusus natura_, in
the shape of a big Swedish turnip, which presented in perfection
the features and 'developments' of a not very good-looking but
remarkably 'intellectual' human head. He had a mould made from it,
and sent a plaster image to the new Phrenological Society, as a
'cast from the head of Professor THORNIPSON, a learned Swede of
Sockholm!' The bait took; a chart was made at once of the 'cerebral
protuberances;' lectures were delivered upon its characteristics;
and two or three officers and _savants_ of the Society were
overjoyed to find corresponding 'bumps' on their own craniums!
Edinburgh, inappreciative of fun though the Scotch are said to be,
gave one loud guffaw when the diverting 'trick' was exposed in the
'_Courant_' by the shrewd joker who perpetrated it, But _a propos_
of 'Bumpology;' our Cedar-Hill neighbor, 'the COLONEL,' tells a
capital story thereanent, which we will essay to jot down: One day,
in the weekly newspaper of a small village in 'old Chatauque,'
there appeared an advertisement, setting forth that Professor
FEELOVER, Practical Phrenologist, had arrived, and stood ready to
examine heads, give 'certified charts' of character, lecture, and
give lessons upon the 'Science.' He 'put up' at the principal hotel,
which he found a 'good '_stand_' for business,' for a week had
passed on, since the paper came out, yet not a solitary person had
inquired for the PROFESSOR. Tired of this indifference to 'science,'
he was broodingly 'fetching a walk' in the outskirts of the village,
when a 'slow,' green-looking young countryman entered the hotel, and
addressing the landlord, said: 'Be yeöu the Phrenologist that feels
of folkses' heads, and gives a receipt for what's inside on 'em?'
'Yes,' answered the fat, good-natured BONIFACE, who loved a joke
better than his dinner; 'yes, I 'm the man.' 'What d' yeöu tax?'
'Half a dollar.' 'Wal, go ahead.' The landlord seated his 'patient,'
and directed his clerk at the desk to take down, in two columns, the
result. He fumbled, and pinched, and pressed the head of his wincing
customer, calling out at the same time the subjoined developments:
Gullibility, 16 Verticality, 19
Reverence, 7 Shallowness, 18
Assininity, 24 Ideality, 4
Caution, 3 Exteriority, 1
Noodleity, 10 Quantity, 13
Philoprogenitiveness, 9 Horizontality, 5
Combativeness, 1 Benevolence, 8
Color, 2 Inertness, 11
Sound, 13 Rotundity, 6
'There, that'll do; got 'em all down? Now _add 'em up_!' said the
landlord, without moving a muscle. 'Comes out _exactly even_!' said
the clerk; 'eighty-five in each column.' 'Why,' exclaimed BONIFACE,
looking down contemptuously upon his astonished 'customer,' you
haven't _got_ any character at all; _you_ don't want any chart;
you'd be ashamed to show it the second time; _I_ should be ashamed
even to _keep_ it. I never _saw_ such a case in all my large
experience; 'comes out even!'--a perfect blank! Why, you must be the
'DAMPHOOL' that Mr. DOESTICKS describes!' With great shamefacedness
the 'customer' arranged his disordered locks, put on his hat, and
departed a sadder but a wiser man.' * * * A CORRESPONDENT of _The
New-York Observer_, writing from Wales, in regard to the great
religious revival which is prevailing among the workmen in the
lead-mines of Conroy, says: 'Some of the miners established '_An
Underground Prayer-Meeting_,' and assembled at it in large numbers,
continuing to praise and pray for several hours. It was followed by
extraordinary effects; and the result was 'a wonderful reformation
in the morals and character of the miners.' One writing from the
'Gogian Lead-Mines,' says: 'Prayer-meetings are held here far below
the surface of the earth. The 'clefts of the rocks,' in which they
assemble for prayer and praise, seem to remind them of the 'cleft'
in another rock, even CHRIST, in which the sinner is permitted to
behold the divine glory:
'ROCK of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in THEE.'
The men work in companies; and there is not a company without its
prayer-meeting under ground. It is delightful to hear the voice
of melody and praise ascending to heaven from the very bowels of
the earth. 'Out of the depths cried I unto THEE,' may literally be
said of this subterranean 'Great Awakening.' There was but _one_
person working in the mine who was not a converted subject of the
revival, and _his_ conversion was made the subject of daily 'fervent
prayer.'' The very _reverse_ of this, was the foundation of a most
interesting story which we remember having heard when a boy, some
twenty years ago. It was connected with one of the coal-mines of
England, and was, if we remember rightly, to the following purport:
A young miner, who led a most exemplary life, who was a CHRISTIAN by
'profession,' by 'precept,' and by 'example,' was in the daily habit
of retiring from the mouth of the mine with the mid-day meal which
his wife had prepared, and which his little son had brought to him
in a small tin vessel, together with a worn and dingy copy of the
New Testament, from which he always read a chapter before touching
his dinner. One of his every-day maxims, whatever might happen, was:
'_It is all for the best_: it is well ordered: IT IS ALL FOR THE
BEST.' One day, while reading and 'pondering' his customary 'BOOK of
Books,' a vagrant dog passed along, seized his 'tin' dinner and ran
off with it: his fellow-miners jeering and shouting, '_Is the loss
of thy Dinner_, too, JOE, 'for the best?'' After having their laugh
out, and while their comrade was racing around after the canine
delinquent, the bell rang, and the 'operatives' descended into the
mine. Meantime, unable to overhaul the dog-thief, the 'victim' had
returned, and was nearing the mine, when a loud explosion and fire
and smoke issuing from the wide open fissure in the ground, revealed
the ignited '_Fire-Damp_' and its inevitable, awful accessories!
Not a man of all his late jeering companions was rescued from that
terrible subterranean 'consuming fire!' And how natural was the
exclamation--the story, we remember, was in verse--which poured from
his over-burthened, grateful heart:
'HOW could it appear to a short-sighted sinner,
That my life should be saved by the loss of my dinner.'
The simple '_Working-Man's Lesson_' involved in this anecdote,
and the 'fulness of faith' which it embodies, are not unworthy of
remembrance and of heed. It impressed _us_ forcibly. * * * 'TOM
HOOD' once mentioned, 'in his own way,' his experience in crossing
the Great Desert. He 'came to grief in the journey by means of
'getting off the track' of antecedent camelian-caravans. They had
nothing to eat and less to drink, on their hot and toilsome journey.
They encountered a 'simoom,' which a Yankee sailor described as
'a Boston East Wind _boiled_;' there was a mirage, too, in which
they saw, far off on the level rim of the desert, camels and 'men
as trees walking.' Long was their journey over the burning sands:
and HOOD narrates that the travellers were reduced to the greatest
straits. HUNGER and THIRST--terrible tyrants--asserted their
prerogatives. 'On the dim, faint line toward Cairo,' says HOOD, 'we
_thought_ we saw a well in the desert: for much people were gathered
together far beyond us upon the level, sultry plain. We approached;
we joined them: but only to be again, for the third time, most
grievously disappointed.' 'It is no joke,' he adds, 'to be without
food or water in an Egyptian desert. When we were at the worst, we
went in ballast with the soles and uppers of the newest shoes in
the caravan; and we were enabled to slake our burning thirst by a
second-hand 'swig' at the cistern of a freshly-deceased and still
warm camel, which had 'given _out_' early in the journey, and had
now 'given _in_:'' This was certainly a bad state of affairs; but
when we read the hardships of recent African travel, as recorded
by the German African explorer, Dr. KRAPF, in his '_Researches in
Eastern Africa_,' we could no longer deem the story fabulous. The
good DOCTOR had succeeded in making his escape from an attack,
which had been made upon himself and his party, by a band of
sable 'salvages;' he had wandered far: was 'weary and way-worn,'
and had lain down behind a bush, for protection against the keen
wind which blew over the plain, from which he had no protection
save the dry grass which he spread under and over his body. After
a fitful slumber, he awoke unrefreshed, 'and started again.' 'I
felt,' he says, 'the pangs of hunger and thirst: the water in my
telescope-case ran out, and that in the barrels of my gun, which
I had not drunk, had been lost on my way, as the bushes had torn
out the grass stoppers, and so I lost a portion of the invaluable
fluid, which, in spite of the gunpowder flavor imparted to it by
the barrels, thirst had rendered delicious. My hunger was so great
that I tried to chew leaves, roots, and elephant's excrement to
stay it: and when day broke, to break my fast on ants.' Night came
on; and he travelled on until day-light. Soon after day-break, he
saw four immense rhinoceroses feeding behind some bushes ahead of
him: they 'stared at him, but did not move.' 'Coming presently,'
he mentions, to a 'sand-pit,' with a somewhat _moistish_ surface,
'like as a hart panteth for the water-brooks,' I anticipated the
precious fluid; I dug into the sand for it, but only to meet with
disappointment: so I put some of the _wet sand_ in my mouth, which
only increased my thirst.' What ensues could not be better told
than in the brave explorer's own words: 'About noon I came upon the
dry and sandy bed of the river, which we must have crossed to the
south-west only a few days before. Scarcely had I entered its bed
when I heard the chattering of monkeys, a most joyful sound, for I
knew that there must be water wherever monkeys appear in a low-lying
place. I followed the course of the bed, and soon came to a pit dug
by the monkeys in the sand, in which I found the priceless water. I
thanked GOD for this great gift; and having quenched my thirst, I
first filled my powder-horn, tying up the powder in my handkerchief,
and then my telescope-case, and the barrels of my gun. To still the
pangs of hunger, I took a handful of powder and ate it with some
shoots of a young tree which grew near the water; but they were very
bitter.' Such 'experiences' as these will serve to show how much
the world owes to our indefatigable modern explorers, self-denying,
self-abrogating men, like LIVINGSTONE and KRAPF, who scarcely 'set
their life at a pin's fee' in pursuing unwearied their laborious
and painful researches. * * * OBSERVE now how this old friend of
ours _could_ write, if he _would_. In the pauses of his avocation
as President of a Bank in 'Old Erie,' he drops us a hasty note,
in which he says: 'At times I feel chock-full of unwritten words,
and say to myself: 'I only wish I had the use of a stenographic
amanuensis for about an hour or so. I would create an article worth
an hour's existence.' I wish I could only stop growing older; I
don't mind having time 'roll on,' for I shouldn't want to be always
living at the same moment; but I don't care about rolling on with
it, and finally being rolled off or 'dumped' off. I frequently
smile at the consolatory remark of the divine to his hearers, that
they had great cause to be thankful that Death was at the end
of life instead of the beginning, for this fortunate arrangement
of PROVIDENCE gave them time to prepare for the event. Now such
reasoning appears at the first glance quite ludicrous; and yet when
you analyze it you will find there is a great deal of force in it. I
have scratched this off in the midst of my financial correspondence,
and you are lucky not to find any 'dollars and cents' in it.' We
wish 'E. P.' would come to the 'scratch' often. * * * JAMES SUNNEY,
the 'Atmospherical Poet,' in our last, and the 'Blooming Bard' of a
'Blossoming Hotel,' in previous 'issoos,' is a man without envy of
his inspired brothers in art. Song, to be sure, is his _specialite;_
but _music_ hath charms also wherewith to soothe his savage breast.
We do not jest, on the contrary, we ask especial attention to the
following fervent tribute, paid by Mr. SUNNEY to the musical powers
of our friend and cosmopolitan correspondent, Colonel PIPES, of
Pipesville, otherwise known as STEPHEN C. MASSETT, Esq., the popular
vocalist, lecturer, and _raconteur_. Instantaneously the 'COLONEL'
dispatches to us the flattering missive, or missile; as like unto a
non-resistant catapult it was 'precipitated' from the o'ercharged
brain of the appreciative poet. _We_ feel with 'PIPES:' for, as
EDITOR of the KNICKERBOCKER, _we_ too have been 'indorsed' by
SUNNEY, as a man, take us by and large, 'not likely to be met with
by any body in a hurry!' But we keep our readers from the '_Letter
from James Sunney, 'Blossoming Bard' of the 'Blooming Hotel,' to
Colonel Pipes, the Ripened Reciter and Vocalist_.' Hear him for his
cause, and 'hold your yawp,' till he has said what he has _got_ to
say. Can't you do _that_ much? 'Sa-a-y?' Try it:
'_New-York, Nov._ 12, 1860.
'DEAR SIR: It affords me great pleasure to acknowledge the
delicacy of delight and joy I felt while perusing the many songs
composed and sung by you, at the palacious rooms in London and
elsewhere. The presses of Great Britain has certainly paid a
great tribute to your mental capacity and physical ability, as a
vocalist superior to RUSSELL, whose name was entitled to record
on the first pages of history. You are certainly a man of high
standing and respectability, whose intellectual faculties has
added much to the brilliancy of youth, taste, and grandeur. I
rejoice at the testimony bore to your character by some of the
most eminent and distinguished writers in Ewrop. Melody of the
feathered songsters could not warble with more harmony through
the refractive powers of the _Atmosphere_, than did your voluble
fluency vociferate in the grand '_Adelaide of Australia_.'
As an elocutionist, your name is eminently combined with the
ablest men of the age; and elevated to a higher degree than my
pen is able to expound. At the same time I cannot refrain from
any thing that has a tendency to morality without giving it my
humble but human approbation.
'Yours respectfully,
'JAMES SUNNEY.'
Where is our sable friend and correspondent of the Louisville Hotel?
That colored orator and model letter-writer must look to _his_
sesquipedalian fame. But this aside. The above, Mr. SUNNEY, is
fine prose; but you must look to your poetic 'bays:' not a _span_
of spanking 'bays,' Mr. SUNNEY, on the Bloomingdale-Road, but the
laurel _greens_ by which 'bards,' although quite unlike yourself,
were wont to be crowned. We repeat that you must look to _this_ kind
of 'bays,' because there is a fellow-bard, a Yankee, yet a kindred
spirit, down in Maine, who can rhyme you 'out o' house and home.' He
is the '_Bard of Misery_,' and hence, of course, a most miserable
poet. Where Sorrow dwells, there is his country. He revels
especially in marine disasters: _there_ he 'expands and bourgeons.'
A friendly 'DEVIL,' (no 'Goblin-Damned,' we'll be sworn,) writing to
us from a newspaper printing-office in Bangor, Maine, says: 'Will
you kindly permit me to approach your Most Excellent Ma'--gazine,
of which I am a constant reader, with a little contribution which
I have picked up from the many similar 'favors' which we have had
the honor of printing for the 'Son of the Muse,' whose effusions,
somehow, don't seem to what-they-call 'TAKE:' but I expect these
passages _will_.' Our modest, welcome correspondent is right: the
'passages' which he has marked for us _must_ 'take.' For example:
only a few 'brief stanzas' from the 'poem' depicting '_Levi P.
Willey's Last Voyage to Cubey_.' LEVI had, 'by all accounts,' a
hard time. 'A few' of his 'experiences' are recorded in the lines
which we annex: EBEN BABBIDGE being the name of the skipper, 'as he
sailed, as he sailed:'
'IN eighteen hundred and fifty-nine,
It was to me a solemn time:
To a port in Cuba I did go;
What happened there you shall know.
'As GOD would have it so to be,
I was cook on board the open sea;
I was at work, the crew did know,
And from my lungs fresh blood did flow.
'Unto the captain I did go,
He did for me all that he know;
He called the mate and all the crew,
And for the doctor they did go.
'In due time the doctor came
To stop the blood and ease my pain;
He said that I must go on shore,
And stop a day, or two, or more.
'And the Spanish people there
Did use me well, I do declare;
Five days on shore I did remain,
Then went on board the brig again.
'My captain was so kind and good,
He done for me all that he could,
He is a kind and generous man,
Would always lend a helping hand.
'SCOTT COOKSON was our second mate,
As to my friends I will relate;
He was loved and honored too,
By the captain, mate, and the crew.
'ROSCOE, and GEORGE, and FREDERICK, too,
That was the names of all the crew;
They were smart and noble boys,
To reef topsails it was their joys.
'When our brig was ready for to sail,
We was blest with a pleasant gale;
As GOD would have it so to be,
We came to Boston in America.
'When we arrived in Boston town,
We got a bed for to lie down,
For I was tired and very weak,
I had been three days without sleep.
'The next morning, at seven o'clock,
We made bargain with the truck,
Across the city for to go,
To the Eastern Main Depo.
'From Boston to Camden I came,
My lungs were weak and racked with pain,
To the doctor I went straightway,
He gave me some relief without delay.'
Still more 'terrible' are the '_Verses on the Loss of the Lady
Elgin Steamboat_,' 'composed by A. W. HARMON,' the 'gifted' author
of the foregoing animated lines. Our extract must be brief: but we
can assure our readers that the entire 'lot' is fully equal to the
subjoined 'sample:'
'COME old and young, pray now attend
To the sad tale that I've now penned,
About the _Lady Elgins_ fate,
And her disaster on the lake.
'Captain JOHN WILSON, with courage brave,
Esteem'd by all on land or wave,
Associated in many minds,
_And memories of the choisest kinds_.
'At the moment the ships together came,
Music and dancing were the game;
But in one instant all was still,
In thirty minutes the steamer filled!
'Whether they were not aware
Of their sad danger and despair,
Or whether their appalling fate,
Them speachless made, I cannot state.
'A boat was lowered with the design,
If possible, the leak to find:
To stop the leak was our intent,
But in one half-hour down she went.
'The noble Captain firm and brave,
Is thus supposed in trying to save
That mother and her child he fell
And died beneath the foaming swell.'
The 'verses' are too _horrible_ to bear farther quotation: 'The
lake with fabrics did abound, and human beings floated round,'
is the opening of a most miserable picture. SUNNEY, you have a
'rival near your throne.' * * * A CLEVER correspondent, dating from
'Saline Mines, Illinois,' sends us the following amusing specimen
of '_Keeping Score by Double-Entry_.' It will be a 'nut' for
book-keepers:
'YOU know ELIJE SCROGGINS, up here in White County? Yes? Well,
about six years ago, ELIJE kept a kind of 'one-horse' grocery
on the edge of 'Seven-mile Pararie.' I don't think he kept
much beside 'bald-faced, thirty-day whiskey,' and may-be some
ginger-brandy. Times were 'mighty tight,' and not much money
stirring in that settlement; so ELIJE had to credit most of
his customers till corn-gathering time, or till fur was good;
and, as he had no 'book learning,' he used to make some kind
of a mark for his different 'patrons' on a clapboard which he
kept for the purpose, and then chalk down 'the drinks' against
them as they got them, which in some cases was pretty often.
One day there was a 'big meeting' appointed at the 'Possum
Ridge school-house,' about five miles from ELIJE'S, and his
wife persuaded him to go: so on Sunday morning they gathered up
the children and 'toted' off to meeting to 'make a day of it.'
Along through the day some of the neighbors getting a 'leetle
dry,' went over to ELIJE'S to 'moisten their clay,' and finding
the door shut, and nobody about, they were somewhat alarmed,
and 'didn't know but some body was either sick or dead;' so
they pushed in to see about it, and finding things all right,
they concluded that ELIJE and his 'old woman' had gone off on a
visit; so they took a drink all around, out of friendly feeling
to him, and were about going off, when one of them caught sight
of the tally-board stuck under the rafter, and pulled it down:
and either out of pure devilment, or thinking it an easy way to
pay off a score, gave it a wipe, and stuck it back again. In the
evening, when ELIJE got back, he had occasion to look at his
accounts for some purpose or other, when to his great amazement
and dismay, he found it considerably 'mixed!' He scratched his
head over it for some time, evidently trying to make it out,
and finally calling his wife in he showed it to her, and said:
'There, that's what a man gets for going off and neglecting
his business.' On the whole, however, he got over it pretty
quietly for him, for ELIJE use to swear 'mightily' 'when his
back was up.' He didn't have much to say now, though, but sat
with his chin on his hands, and his elbows on his knees, looking
in the fire all the evening: but on Monday morning he got up
'bright and early,' and taking down the clap-board, gave it a
good wash, and began very industriously to figure away upon it.
Two or three times during the morning his wife looked in, and
he was still working away at it; and at dinner-time, when she
came to call him, she ventured to ask how he was getting on.
'Well,' said he, holding the tally-board off at arms'-length,
and looking at it very earnestly, with his head on one side, 'I
don't know as I've got as much charged as I had, _but I've got
it on better men_!''
'A new way to make old debts!' * * * HOW suddenly, how unexpectedly,
in a _Winterish Day in the Country_, comes up the 'fond remembrance'
of days and friends that are no more! As one walks mid-leg deep
amidst the damp-rustling leaves, listens to the moaning of the
winds, and watches the red sunlight dying into shadow between the
folds of the hills over the broad river, the sad hours of memory
come up in long review:
'I FELT the leaves were shed,
I felt the birds were dead:
And on the earth I snowed the winter of my soul!'
Expressive words, and only too true! * * * NOT less than a 'good
many' readers of the KNICKERBOCKER can 'place' the parties who
figure in this little anecdote, which we are assured is entirely
authentic: 'A young lady named TAYLOR, meeting a former acquaintance
named MASON, at a party, where the latter was assuming any quantity
of importance in consequence of her wealth, and who did not
deign to notice her, revenged herself by stepping into the group
surrounding the haughty belle, and thus addressing her, with the
most winning smile: 'I have been thinking, my dear MISS MASON,
that we ought to exchange names.' 'Why, indeed?' 'Because my name
is TAYLOR, and my father was a mason; and your name is MASON, and
your father was a tailor.' There was a scene then; but there was
no help for it. * * * 'I WAS exceedingly amused,' writes a Boston
friend, 'by your double-brace of '_The Practical Jokes of the late
Colonel E. L. Snow_.' I knew that original 'Joker' well. There
was never any _mischief_ in his fun: it was always harmless and
always good-natured. I spent a winter four years ago in your 'Great
Metropolis,' and saw much of 'THE COLONEL' in the very barber's
shop which you designate. One cold blustering morning he came in,
and as he took his seat in the 'operator's chair,' he said, with
a 'wondering' expression of countenance: 'That is a strange thing
about the Fountain: it's frozen over sixty feet high!' 'Is that
_so?_' asked three or four gentlemen, seated on a sofa, waiting
their 'turn.' 'Yes: it's a fact: I saw it myself before I came
in.' Out they rushed, to the Park Fountain, which at _that_ time
used to throw up its white column of water into the clear, cold
air. Pretty soon they came back 'disgusted,' and looking daggers
at SNOW, 'It's all a lie!' they said: 'the Fountain is playing
eighty feet high: HUMBUG!' 'No humbug at all,' responded the
'COLONEL:' 'I meant the Fountain in Union-Square! It's a good deal
_more_ than sixty feet high from here; and I saw it frozen solid
not more than half-an-hour ago!' 'The laugh' was on the other side
now: but the victims were good-natured fellows, and laughed as
heartily as the rest. On another occasion, upon entering the shop,
I found SNOW 'in the chair,' with a very lugubrious countenance
'on him,' as the Irish have it. 'That was a terrible thing,' said
he, 'which happened on the Harlem Railroad this morning!' 'What
was _that_?' asked several 'voices.' 'Why,' explained SNOW, 'the
entire New-Haven train, of eight cars, ran over four men and a young
lady.' 'They were instantly killed, of course?' 'No: miraculous as
it may seem, not a single life was lost!' 'Why, how was _that_?'
'Well, they were _under the Harlem Bridge_, when the train passed
over them, and not a car touched them! Cur'ous, wasn't it?' * * *
THANKS to our old _Boyhood's Friend_, 'J. B. B.,' for his notelet,
written in our absence at the desk of our town-sanctum. One 'plum'
in it we are going to transfer to our own 'pudding:' 'I met an
old school-mate in the cars last evening, who gave me an amusing
anecdote of a character who lived in Pittsfield, (Mass.;) a man full
of hearty humor--his name S---- P----, Jr. He was at Cleveland;
and recognizing a nephew across the street, hailed him, as he was
walking along in solemn mood: and as he took his hand he said:
'Well, TOM, I understand you have sold out entirely and gone into
a new business: taken up the MILLERITE business, eh!' 'Well, Uncle
LEM.,' was the reply, 'what would _you _do if you certainly expected
the Last Day would come at twelve o'clock to-day?' 'Why, TOM,'
said LEM., laughing, 'I'll _tell_ you what I would do: I would just
work till five minutes before twelve, and then I'd wash up!'' Not
a bad reply to a 'hard question!' * * * CAN any of our readers or
correspondents inform us who is the author of the ensuing stanzas?
They are certainly very beautiful: and their melody and fervor lead
us to think that they may be from the pen of Rev. Mr. BONAR, from
whom we have heretofore quoted two or three exquisite effusions.
These lines bear this motto, from ISAIAH: '_I will lead thee in the
paths they have not known_:'
'HOW few who, from their youthful day,
Look on to what their life may be;
Painting the visions of the way
In colors soft and bright and free;
How few who to such paths have brought
The hopes and dreams of early thought!
For GOD, through ways they have not known,
Will lead HIS own.
'The eager hearts, the soul of fire,
Who pant to toil for GOD and man;
And view with eyes of keen desire
The upland way of toil and pain;
Almost with scorn they think of rest,
Of holy calm, of tranquil breast,
But GOD, through ways they have not known,
Will lead them home.
'A lowlier task on them is laid--
With love to make the labor light;
And there their beauty they must shed
On quiet homes and lost to sight.
Changed are their visions high and fair,
Yet calm and still they labor there;
For GOD, through ways they have not known,
Will lead HIS own.
'The gentle heart that thinks with pain,
It scarce can lowliest tasks fulfil;
And if it dared its life to scan,
Would ask but pathway low and still;
Often such lowly heart is brought
To act with power beyond its thought:
For GOD, through ways they have not known,
Will lead HIS own.
'And they, the bright, who long to prove,
In joyous path, in cloudless lot,
How fresh from earth their grateful love
Can spring without a stain or spot--
Often such youthful heart is given
The path of grief, to walk in Heaven:
For GOD, through ways they have not known.
Will lead HIS own.
'What matter what the path shall be?
The end is clear and bright to view;
We know that we a strength shall see,
Whate'er the day may bring to do.
We see the end, the house of GOD,
But not the path to that abode;
For GOD, through ways they have not known,
Will lead HIS own.'
These fervent lines are 'poetry.' * * * Mr. CHARLES L. ELLIOTT, the
eminent portrait-painter, was safely delivered of the subjoined
remark, at a quarter to four of the clock, on the afternoon of
February the twenty-second, while crossing the Hudson River. He
commenced as follows: said he: The epitaphs which you quote in a
late number of the KNICKERBOCKER, remind me of a _verbal_ one which
my father once heard. An old fellow, a coarse, ill-grained Dutchman,
died one day. He was a disagreeable man, and a bad neighbor: even
the children feared and disliked him. One of his neighbors asked
him just before his death, if he was ready to go, to which he
answered: 'Yes.' 'Well,' was the rejoinder, 'if you are willing to
die yourself, all your neighbors are willing you should.' At the
grave, even, there was no one to say a good word for him, except
one good-hearted old German, who remarked, as he turned away to go
home: '_Well, he vas a goot shmoker!_'' This was the 'shmoker's only
epitaph. * * * A FRIEND mentioned to us the other evening an amusing
example of '_A Dutchman's Reliance on Providence_.' There had been
a great drought in the county of Columbia: no rain had fallen
for the space of two or three months; and all the upland fields
were parched and dry: insomuch that great fears were entertained
that there would be an utter failure of the usual crops. In this
extremity, a meeting was called of all devout citizens of that
particular 'rural district,' to offer up _Prayers for Rain_ to the
'LORD of the Harvest.' One honest old Dutchman who had a large farm,
stated _his_ 'views' to the meeting in this way: 'Dere ish some
vields along der hills dere, dat ish pooty dry: I wis you bray for
some rain on _dem_: but you needn't bray for any mores vater on
der moisht black ground under der hills dere; 'cause corn _moosht_
grow on _dem_ vields any how!' The 'argument' was effective! * * *
AMONG the _Public Lecturers of the Season_ we may mention the name
of our correspondent, and country neighbor, Mr. WILLIAM WIRT SIKES.
His lectures are upon attractive themes, are well written, and he
delivers them with entire effect. The subjects of four, which we
have seen mentioned, are: '_The Beautiful_,' '_William Wirt_,' '_The
Noble Life_,' '_Insanity_.' Mr. SIKES' address is, Nyack on the
Hudson. * * * '_A Conundrum by Induction_,' must have cost a good
deal of hard work to make:
WHY is a bee-hive like a bad potato?
Because a bee-hive is a bee-holder:
And a beholder is a spectator,
And a speck-tater is a bad potato!
'Apt,' for a metaphysician. * * * WE call attention to the
advertisement elsewhere of '_The Cosmopolitan Art-Journal_. It
has succeeded in securing the liberal favor of the public, having
reached a circulation of nearly forty thousand copies. '_The
Falstaff_,' which it furnishes as a premium picture, is an excellent
work of art, and cannot fail of a very wide diffusion. * * * _The
Editorial Correspondence of The Knickerbocker_,' extending through
a period of over twenty years, will be commenced in our next.
Having to gain nearly a month's time in the advance preparation of
the present number, we have not found the requisite leisure to do
justice to the opening paper.
Fifty-Seventh Volume of the Knickerbocker.