humorous. Mr. Buzby in particular, who after several unsuccessful
efforts succeeded in describing the painful situation of a pig, in
whose ear a dog was whispering some confidential communication. He
also attempted to imitate the remonstrating scream of the animal;
but failed, owing to his utterance having become somewhat thick.
Mr. Gunter then rose to offer thanks to Mr. Kornicker; but sat down
on discovering that Mr. Buzby was terminating his communication by
an address of a similar character; and that Mr. Steekup was engaged
in restraining Mr. Sludge, who was bent on performing an intricate
hornpipe on the table, which he guaranteed to do without breaking a
plate or discomposing a glass; but which Mr. Steekup resisted, being
of opinion that his guarantee was but doubtful security. Mr. Sludge,
however, was not to be thwarted. He grew animated; Rust encouraged
him; he discussed the matter vehemently; he addressed every body, on
all subjects; he struggled; he fought, and was finally removed from
the room, and cast into the arms of the desperadoes, in the entry,
to whom he protested manfully against this treatment; and one of
the skirts of his coat, which had been torn off in the debate, was
ejected after him. This occurrence, together with the fact that a
third bottle had become empty; and that no more was called for by
Rust; and that it was growing dark, which was the hour for deeds
of chivalry among choice spirits like themselves, seemed to be the
signal for a general break-up. After shaking hands affectionately
with Rust, and telling him that he was 'a potatoe of the largest
kind,' and slapping Kornicker kindly but violently on the back, and
saying that they were sorry to see him so 'd--d glum,' they all
spoke on promiscuous subjects at once, and departed in a body, each
trying in a very earnest manner to impress upon the rest something
which he forgot before he uttered it, but which he supposed he would
remember presently.
Rust waited until the silence showed that the guests and the
'desperadoes' had departed together; and then turning to Kornicker,
and rubbing his hands together, said:
'A very pleasant little party we've had, Mr Kornicker; a
_very_ pleasant little party. Michael Rust is much obliged to
you for dispelling the gloom of his office, and making it the
gathering-place of such select society. He can't express his thanks
in terms sufficiently strong. He feels grateful, too, for your
strict adherence to the terms of the agreement between us. Twenty
dollars a month, meals for one, liquor for none. These were the
terms, I think; but Michael Rust is growing old, and his memory
may have failed him. Perhaps, too, brandy isn't a liquor; he isn't
certain; it used to be, when he was a boy; and he doesn't think that
it has changed its character; but it may have done so, and he may
have forgotten it; for you know he's old and childish, and even in
his dotage.'
Mr. Kornicker shook his head. 'I knew it must come!' thought he.
He muttered something about his 'standing the shot for the brandy
himself.' He made a futile effort to get at his snuff-box, but
failed; said something about 'apology to offer,' and was silent.
'Well, Sir,' said Rust, after a pause, altering his manner, 'I have
found _you_ out. You haven't yet discovered what _I_ am. Get these
things removed; for I have that on hand which must be attended to.
I'll overlook _this_, but it must never be repeated.'
'Kornicker, glad to escape thus easily, and yielding, partly to that
ascendancy which Rust invariably acquired over those whom he made
use of, and partly cowed by the consciousness of guilt, and the fear
of losing a comfortable situation, slunk out of the room in search
of the boy from the refectory.
MOHAWK.
A CLUSTER OF SONNETS TOUCHING THAT VALLEY.
BY H. W. ROCKWELL
I.
FULL many a glorious image have I caught,
Sweet valley! from thy gentle scenery;
Brooks blue with the June heaven; white cliff, and sky,
And forest-shaded nooks; nor less, the Thought
That stirs in Nature's hushed solemnity,
The boundless Thought which fills the solitude
And holy twilight of the pathless wood,
With its perpetual and present mystery.
How like a passion it pervades these deep,
Dark groves of hemlock, while the sultry noon
Fills the green meadows with the heats of June,
And hangs its haze upon the mountain-steep!
It is the breath of GOD, who here hath made
Meet worship for Himself, amid the thickest shade.
II.
BENEATH this roof of maple boughs, whose screen
Of thick, young leaves is painted in the brook,
The golden summer hath a pleasant look,
Caught from blue, stainless skies, and hill-tops green
With field and forest. Deep within this nook
Of bright, smooth waters, where the lace-like fern
Is pictured with the wild-flower's crimson urn,
And thickets by the winds of noontide shook:
Amid the twinkling green and silver, lies
His glorious image; clouds that sweep the vale,
White wood-hawks breasting the sweet August gale,
Inverted forests, and serenest skies
Scooped out below the loose and glittering sand,
With many a glimpse of town and sunny mountain land.
III.
THERE is a romance mingled with this sweet,
Wild forest scenery; this cool, deep glade,
Whose nooks at noon are dark with thickest shade,
These gulfs where boughs of beech and maple meet
And mingle in the sultry mid-day heat;
Dark hollow, and green bluff, all teem with wild
And glorious legends. From this cliff up-piled
With moss-stained rocks, where mid his green retreat
In the dense thicket the brown wood-thrush sings,
Far through the landscape's mild and mellowing haze
I mark the battle-fields of other days,
Fields trod of old by the red Mohawk kings,
And misty valleys golden with the blaze
Which Summer from the heaven of August flings.
_Utica_, (_New-York_,) 1843. H. W. R.
SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY.
BY PETER VON GRIST.
IT is Sunday in our pleasant village, and the very air seems to
feel it. It is lighter and purer than it was yesterday, and moves
stealthily, as though afraid of breaking the general stillness by
its rustling. The shops are all shut, but there is no gloominess
about them: they too are enjoying the season of rest. And three or
four venerable cows are stretched on the green common, lulled to a
state of philosophic calmness, and sunk in sober meditation. What
delicious music the church-bell makes! It rings out, _sotto voce_;
and the still, charmed air modulates with a gentle motion, like
unbroken ripples on the surface of a sleeping pond. First comes a
single, heavy peal; then a vibration, like a distant echo; then
another, fainter and more distant still; and another, and another,
each fainter and quicker than the preceding; till in the course
of a few seconds nothing is heard but a confused jingling; and
while we are thinking whether this jingling is not that which we
sometimes hear in our ears at the dead of night, and which we then
decide to be fairy-bells, afar off, another heavy stroke sends down
another clear, sweet wave of sound, and the process of vibrations is
repeated.
But now the people from the country around begin to come in. Huge
lumber-wagons, containing farmers and their sons, in Sunday coats
and stiff collars, with their wives and daughters in straw bonnets
and pink ribands, and calico dresses, come rattling through the
streets, and deposit their loads on the church-steps. The villagers
too come out of their houses and walk slowly over toward the
meeting-house. It is easy to distinguish the great men of the place;
(what place has not its great men, on one scale or another?) the
lawyer, the physician, and those older inhabitants, who came here
first, and have grown rich through age. They wear finer clothes,
their boots are polished, and perhaps their faces are ornamented
with spectacles. It is easy to distinguish them, too, by their
demeanor. Their walk shows their consciousness of possessing
superior importance; and a very pleasant thing that consciousness
is, on any scale. Arrived on the steps, they accost each other with
affability; nod to the farmers with benignity, and say, 'How do you
do, Mrs. Johnson?' in an open tone of voice, that the standers-by
may see how friendly they are to all. The young men and maidens
look on them with silent veneration: for from their earliest youth
they have been accustomed to regard Doctor Brown and 'Squire White
as among the greatest in the land; men who had a care over the
whole country, and whose dignity of bearing was the consequence and
indication of that elevation of mind which was necessary in order
to take in such wide views. They are men whose knowledge knows no
bounds; they are the ones who make speeches on the Fourth of July;
are officers of the temperance society, and the regiment of militia;
and therefore the young men and maidens reverence them, and the
old men make way for them, in the assembly of the people. It is a
natural feeling, natural and pleasant to all parties; and I cannot
tell to which it is the most pleasant, the admirer or the admired.
But they are going in: I enter with them, and walk down the aisle
with a sedate step and slow.
One of those of whom I have spoken last, the doctor, I should judge
from his appearance, has given me a seat in his slip, near the
centre of the church. What a holy repose steals over the spirit, as
we sit down in the house of worship! The strife and turmoil of the
world never obtrude themselves into this sacred place; all are for
a while forgotten. The oil of awe, and yet of gladness, is poured
on the bubbling waters of passion, and they sink to rest. The faint
heart, 'wounded, sick, and sore,' is revived and healed by the very
breath of the sanctuary; for within these walls the air itself
seems consecrated. A solemn and reverential feeling settles down on
the mind of the worshipper; and he involuntarily assumes a serious
deportment. The people come in, one by one, and take their seats
noiselessly, as though they had put off their shoes from their feet
on this holy ground. The light rustle of a lady's dress, and the
occasional slam of a pew-door, in opening or shutting, alone are
heard; and these interruptions only serve to make the succeeding
silence more deeply felt.
I look around on the assembly, and among so many men, who for the
past week have been digging in the earth, or hammering incessantly
on the anvil or the lap-stone, or engaged in the most mean and
unintellectual employments, there is not one careless or vacant
face. Every heart is elevated, and every face is refined in its
expression, by the associations of the place. The humble are
exalted, as it is in man's nature to be, when his eyes and thoughts,
from being fixed on the earth, are lifted up, and hold communion
with things above the earth. Ambition of honor or wealth is shamed;
the world is but a little thing, when, as now, we look down on it;
and here pride finds no place. Care smooths his rugged brow, and
over the sunny face of the maiden steals a shade of deeper thought.
Therefore we are all alike; the barriers of ice which during
the week have separated man from his fellow, are to-day broken
down; and we feel, sitting here worshipping together, that we are
fellow-pilgrims; that we are indeed of the same family.
Anon the minister comes in, with reverend countenance and careful
step. Every eye is bent on him, with affectionate respect, as he
places his hat on the bright little table under the desk, and
mounts up to, and shuts himself in, the pulpit. Instinctively we
all rise when _he_ does, and invoke the divine presence; though
we are conscious that that presence has been with us, and around
us, ever since we entered the house. When the rustle of re-seating
ourselves, like that of many dry leaves shaken by the wind, has
subsided, how calmly and soothingly the voice of the speaker falls
on our ears, reading out of the holy book! It is a familiar passage;
a passage which I had heard often and often before I could read it,
or understand all the words; one which I learned by heart almost as
soon as I could learn any thing; which I have heard repeated week
after week for many years; and yet now every syllable is sounded
so distinctly that the picture comes up as vividly as ever, and I
cannot help listening. I forget for the time all that is to come;
submit myself to follow slowly along with the words of the speaker,
and feel my quiet heart overflowing, as it receives the beautiful
story, with its simple and sublime moral.
While I sit and suffer these thoughts, like the spontaneous images
of a dream, to pass over my mind, the hymn has been read, and
my reveries are broken by music from the choir, floating softly
down. I am in no mood to criticise, and it is not difficult to
imagine that the sounds do not proceed from mere human lips; but
that beings who take a deeper interest in man's welfare than he
himself takes, are clothing their words of exhortation or comfort
in melody, and speaking at once to our heart and understanding. If
this was not fully imagined before, it becomes almost real when
the last long-drawn note dies away, as though the sweet minstrels
had accomplished their mission to this earthly tabernacle, and had
departed toward their own abode.
And now rises the preacher, severe and grave. Every glance is
directed toward him, and every ear is open to catch the first,
long-coming accents. I do not wonder that they love to gaze on
him; even I do now. He is a man past the prime of life; gray hairs
are plentifully sprinkled over his head; his face is somewhat thin
and worn, as though with long watching and study; but his frame
is upright, and the look which he slowly casts over the expectant
congregation, is full of import and solemnity. There is a mild,
affectionate light in his eye, and love to God and to all God's
creatures beams out from every lineament of his countenance.
Calmly he displays, after the good old fashion, his handkerchief
of spotless white, and calmly deposits it under the right lid of
the book before him. There is such an air of quiet dignity about
the movement, that I love him for it. But the preparations are all
gone through with; a routine which we would not miss, and which he
would be lost without. He reads his text with emphatic enunciation,
and begins his heart-felt address. It is evident that he does feel
it. I cannot doubt it for a moment, when I look on his face. I can
_see_ that it is heart-felt; and therefore it is not strange that it
should be heart-felt by his hearers too.
What a luxury to hear those plain truths! There is no mystery about
them, no darkness. The mind is not led off into futile speculations
concerning things infinitely above its reach, or so subtle as for
ever to elude its grasp; but the grandest principles--and there are
none but what are grand--appear on their natural level, the level of
the humblest comprehension. While we are least thinking of it, the
good man turns some general remark, in the truth of which we have
just acquiesced, toward us, personally, as individuals; meanwhile,
by his eye, making every hearer feel that _he_ is meant. I cannot
divert my attention; I am compelled to think only as he wills,
and am startled by the conviction which forces itself on me, so
personally does he speak to me, that he is looking strait into my
heart. The chapel becomes a hall of justice; my evil motives, and
passions, and actions, in long array come thronging up, and I must
perforce sit in judgment on them. No excuses or shiftings avail;
in the twinkling of an eye, I see the character of the motive or
action, and, in spite of myself, decide justly respecting them. It
is humbling, truly, and it ought to do me good.
In fact, it _has_ done me good already, as well as the rest who
hear. For now, when the speaker comes to tell of love, and goodness,
and mercy, how much sweeter sound the words than ever they did
before! The house itself seems lighter, and the faces of all in
it are brightened, like the faces of men which have been darkened
through fear, under the shadow of an eclipse, when it passes
happily away. We all feel that it is good for us to be here, and
are surprised that it is so late, when, after another brief prayer,
we are summoned to rise and receive the benediction--it seems to me
that we should kneel to receive a blessing from such lips--and the
morning services are over.
If I followed my inclinations, I should stay here during the
intermission; but that would expose me to notice; so I take up my
hat, and mingle in the crowd which is pouring out. How different
from the crowd which one meets in the saloon of fashion, or at a
political meeting, or at any other place, where men are accustomed
to congregate! Here we are all jostled together, but gently,
decorously. We do not lose sight of ourselves, or of the dignity of
reflecting beings. We are rather a company so full of the thoughts
which we have just received, that we must think them all over again,
and have no time to stop and exchange compliments, or to respond to
them with laughter equally inane. Not even when we emerge on to the
common, and all take our diverging ways toward home, can a voice be
heard rising higher than a whisper. A Sabbath stillness reigns over
all.
In the afternoon, the scene is much the same as in the morning. With
the first stroke of the bell, I take my former seat, and occupy
myself with turning over the leaves of a pocket-Bible that belongs
to the slip. There is rather more confusion and noise of people
coming in, than there was in the forenoon. Footsteps fall heavier,
and pew-doors slam louder. A few old ladies, collected into two
or three contiguous seats, for the purpose of enjoying, in the
interval of worship, a little whispering consultation, have not yet
intermitted their humming voices. Children, released from the Sunday
school, come clattering along the aisles. Young gentlemen and ladies
do not appear quite so stiff as they did in the morning, and are not
so careful that their attitudes should be exactly perpendicular. The
chorister also makes some remarks to the choir on the importance
of keeping time, and on sundry other things, in a tone of mild
command. All these little things go to make up a good deal of
confusion in the house; all which, nevertheless, it is exceedingly
pleasant to sit and listen to.
But the pastor enters; the bell ceases its tolling; the whispering
old ladies disperse themselves to their respective seats; the
deacons, who have been waiting for the minister on the steps, follow
him in; and in less than a minute silence once more settles down on
the assembly.
It may be fancy, but it strikes me that the choir sing a trifle
louder and freer than before; that the female singers put in
variations, which are not set down for them in the book, sliding
graces, one might call them; all indicative of increased confidence
in their own powers. However this may be, I am certain that the
young damsel in the slip before me, whose face I have not seen, is
mingling her voice in the harmony. I can almost hear it. But while
I am watching to catch her tones, a universal shutting of books
announces that the hymn is ended.
It may be fancy, too, but the preacher seems to me a thought less
solemn than in the forenoon; perhaps a little warmer and more
animated. Perhaps, too, the hearers are more restless and disposed
to be critical. There is not that same hush of breathless listening.
But they are sweet words; and the speaker appears to be conscious
that he is not giving utterance to idle breath, so deliberately and
thoughtfully do the lessons of good come from his lips. And this
deliberation and thoughtfulness increase as he draws near the close
of the sermon; till at last, his voice is sunk almost to a whisper;
and our attention has to be closely riveted to catch the sounds. Now
may be seen the whole congregation bending forward with strained
eyes, and animated faces, drinking in the thoughts and precepts, and
exhortations, as though for their lives. And when the conclusion of
the whole matter comes, '_And thereby shall ye have hope of eternal
life_,' and during the deep pause which succeeds the enunciation of
these words, an hundred long-drawn sighs may be heard, telling of
relieved and lightened bosoms.
After the prayer, a hymn is read; a good old hymn, unmutilated from
Watts, and we all rise to sing it. It is set to a good old tune
too, one with which every body is familiar, and the first verse is
carried roundly off. The second verse sets in heavier; the voices
of the singers grow louder through use. The bass, which before was
rather faint, now comes out with the power of a dozen organs, from
fifty pairs of lungs that never knew what weakness was. The air,
too, has cast off its timidity, and rises high and shrill; while the
alto and tenor, each clear and distinct, fill up the intermediate
space, and all four blend together harmoniously, so that no jar or
dissonance is perceptible. The tide of song sways up and down, like
the breathless rocking of the wave. The whole house is crowded with
sound. The voices gush out and swell with measured movement; and
while the different parts combine and unite, a mingled stream of
harmony and praise is sent up toward the heavens. It is evident that
the hearts of the singers are rising with their words. I can speak
for myself, at least; I find it difficult to resist the current of
enthusiasm; so I allow myself to be borne away; and, albeit somewhat
unskilled in the gentle art of psalmody, into this grand hallelujah
chorus I cast the strength of my voice with right good will.
SONG.
I.
A PHILOSOPHER once, to the mountain
Of Helicon came, to explore
The cause of the wonderful fountain
That gushed from its summit of yore.
II.
Disbelieving, until he had tried it,
That water the Fancy could raise,
Ere he tasted its freshness, he eyed it
With a most philosophical gaze.
III.
Then dipping his fore-finger in it,
He just wet the tip of his tongue;
He sipped and he sucked; in a minute
Beside it his full length he flung.
IV.
He swallowed his fill, O delicious!
Sure never was Chian like this!
He was drunk! yet the ass was ambitious
To find out the _cause_ of his bliss.
V.
So he dug, all the morning, around it
With his long, philosophical paws;
Eureka! cried he; I have found it!
This black-looking root is the cause.
VI.
He pulled up the fibre; he smelt it,
And bit it, and kneeling again,
Kissed the liquid, and fancied he felt it
Had ceased to enliven his brain.
VII.
Home took he the plant, and sawed it asunder--
Analyzed it with acids and brine;
And found it at last, to his wonder,
Nothing more than the root of--a vine!
VIII.
Then he doubted, the more he reflected;
And the question to this day is moot,
If the grape-vine the fount had affected,
Or the fount gave its force to the fruit.
THE DEVIL-TAVERN.
A TALE OF TINNECUM
'THE day being fair, and the sun shining bright,
I thought of Far-Rockaway, which causes me to write;
I thought of Cow-Neck which will ever be dear,
Though I should be away from there these full twenty year.
The place of one's birth he always thinks the best.
Though we should have to live there half clothed, and half dress,
What then must it be, to one in my case,
Who had whatever he wanted when I was into the place't?'
COPIED FROM MRS. PETTIT'S ALBUM AT ROCKAWAY.