upon '_The Poetry of the Bible_,' written for the KNICKERBOCKER
some years since by Rev. WILLIAM T. BRANTLEY, President of the
'College of South Carolina,' there was an incidental allusion to
the proofs of the authenticity of the Sacred Word, as contained
in the fulfilment of the 'prophecies concerning the nations.' A
dilapidated book-stall volume before us, with the title-page gone,
and the author's name nowhere to be met with, (facts in themselves
noteworthy in this connection,) thus illustrates the position of
our valued correspondent: 'The primitive Christians regarded the
Scriptures as their chief and dearest treasure; and often laid down
their lives rather than deliver the sacred records to their enemies,
who used every art of terror to seize and destroy them. Then, as
now, different parties and sects existed, who all appealed to the
Scriptures for proof of their several opinions; and these must have
been so many checks upon each other, to the general exclusion of
mistake and fraud. But aside from this, look at their predictions,
in the case of the 'chosen and peculiar people.' The separation of
the Israelites from the rest of mankind, not for their own sakes but
for the sake of all, and their preservation amidst their enemies,
what a display is it of the divine power! This great scheme of
wisdom and goodness was carried on by its omnipotent Author 'with
a mighty hand and an outstretched arm.' 'He sent a man before his
people, even JOSEPH, who was sold to be a bond-servant. He increased
his people exceedingly, and made them stronger than their enemies.
He sent MOSES his servant, and AARON; and these showed his tokens
among them, and wonders in the land of Ham. He sent darkness, and
it was dark, and turned their waters into blood. Their land brought
forth frogs, yea, even in their king's chambers. He gave them
hail-stones for rain, and flames of fire in their land. He spake the
word, and locusts came innumerable, and devoured the fruit of their
ground. He smote all the first-born in their land, even the chief of
all their strength. He brought forth his people from among them. He
spread out a cloud to be a covering, and fire to give them light in
the night season. He rebuked the Red Sea also, and it was dried up:
so he led them through the deep as through a wilderness. At their
desire he brought quails, and filled them with the bread of heaven.
He opened the rock of stone, so that rivers ran in dry places.
Yet within a while they forgot his works, and tempted GOD in the
desert. Then the earth opened and swallowed up DATHAN, and covered
the congregation of ABIRAM. The plague also was great among them.
Then, being chastised, they turned to their GOD. He led them over
Jordan: the waters divided to let them pass. He discomfited their
enemies. At His word the sun abode in the midst of Heaven; and the
moon stood still, and hasted not to go down for a whole day; so He
gave the kingdoms of Canaan to be an heritage unto his people; that
all the nations of the world might know that the hand of the LORD is
mighty, and that they might fear the LORD continually.' Such was the
result of a scheme determined by divine goodness, planned by divine
wisdom, foretold by divine knowledge, accomplished by divine power.
'The things of the earth were changed into things of the water, and
the thing that did swim went upon the ground. The fire had power in
the water contrary to his own virtue, and the water forgat his own
kind to quench. Thus the elements were changed among themselves by
a kind of harmony, as when one tune is changed upon an instrument
of music, and the melody still remaineth.' How graphic also is the
description of the 'gift of tongues,' conferred upon the Apostles!
'And they were all amazed, and marvelled, saying one to another:
'Behold, are not all these which speak, Galileans? And how hear we
every man in our own tongue, wherein we were born? Parthians, and
Medes, and Elamites, the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in Judea,
and Cappadocia, in Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia in Egypt,
and in the parts of Lybia about Cyrene. And strangers of Rome; Jews
and proselytes, Cretes and Arabians; we do hear them speak in our
tongues the wonderful works of GOD!' * * * MOST likely many of our
readers will remember this 'vexed question' in logic: 'It either
rains or it does not rain: but it does _not_ rain; therefore it
rains.' This used to puzzle us hugely; as did also the mathematical
problem, in simple equations, which ensues: '_A cat_ has one more
tail than _no_ cat; no cat has two tails; ergo, _a cat has three
tails_!' The conclusion is irresistible. Here is something, however,
which is of deeper import: 'JOHNSON studied law with DOBSON, under
the agreement that he should pay DOBSON, when he (JOHNSON) _gained
his first cause_. After a time DOBSON got tired of waiting for
the conditions of the contract, and sued JOHNSON for his pay. He
reasoned thus: 'If I sue him I shall get paid at any rate, because
if I _gain_ the cause, I shall be paid by the decision of the court;
if I _lose_ it, I shall be paid by the conditions of the contract,
for then JOHNSON will have gained his first cause; therefore I am
safe.' JOHNSON, on the other hand, being prodigiously frightened,
sought counsel, and was told to reason thus: 'DOBSON reasons well,
but there must be a flaw in his argument; because _I_ and not _he_
will gain the victory. If the suit goes in my favor, I shall gain
it by the decision of the court; if it goes against me, I shall
gain it by the terms of the contract, not having yet won my first
cause. Of course I shall not have to pay him!' _Vive la Logique!_ *
* * This fine picture of the Arabian Desert is from the pen of the
late lamented N. H. CARTER, Esq., formerly editor of the _New-York
Statesman_, a daily journal long since discontinued. We thank 'C. P.
D.' for his offer, which is gladly accepted:
'No verdure smiles; no crystal fountains play,
To quench the arrows of the god of day;
No breezy lawns, no cool, meandering streams,
Allay the fervor of his torrid beams;
No whispering zephyrs fan the glowing skies,
But o'er long tracts the mournful siroc sighs.
Whose desolating march, whose withering breath,
Sweeps through the caravan with instant death.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
''Tis night: but here the sparkling heavens diffuse
No genial showers, no soft distilling dews:
In the hot sky, the stars of lustre shorn,
Burn o'er the pathway of the wanderer lorn,
And the red moon from Babelmandel's strand
Looks, as she climbs through pyramids of sand,
That, whirled aloft, and gilded by her light,
Blaze the lone beacons of the desert night!'
A CORRESPONDENT, well known to our readers, in a note to the Editor,
remarks as follows, upon the passage of our May 'Gossip' which
touched upon COLERIDGE and his conversations: 'I am glad of your
remarks on COLERIDGE and WORDSWORTH. I have been for years sick
of the interminable cant about those two men. Their admirers have
too long exalted them above all that is human. And would you know
the reason? In discovering more depth, and pure humanity, and high
inspiration, in _their_ school of the prophets than the _rest_ of
the world have seen, they think the world will give them credit for
deep penetration, high and refined sense, and a large share of the
same or a kindred humanity and inspiration. Witness a sixty pages'
laudation of WORDSWORTH, opening a number of the 'New-York Review,'
by a writer who doubtless thought his own fame was thereby planted
like an eternal light-house on the rock of his idol. Now I hope I am
Christian enough to admire greatly the genius of COLERIDGE; and I
am yet to find any thing in English or elsewhere more movingly and
musically beautiful than 'Genevieve,' or more wizard-like and solemn
than the 'Rime of the Antient Mariner.' I also plead not guilty to
a contempt of 'Christabel' and 'Wallenstein.' Nor am I such a rebel
to reason, or heretic in taste, as not to see surpassing beauty in
many of WORDSWORTH's minor poems, and lofty grandeur in his 'Ode
to Childhood,' and 'Stanzas on the Power of Sound,' and a high,
philosophical, and musing mind in his great 'Excursion.' I have read
him twice in the last two years, and my admiration has not at all
diminished. But I choose to deny that he or COLERIDGE _invented_
poetry, or carried it farther, or as far, as some others before and
with them. I choose to deny that they have struck the great chord
of humanity, unstruck before, or have sympathized more deeply or
more sweetly with the joys and sorrows of the lowly million, than
the great poets before them have done. I choose to assert, what
has been abundantly proven, that they were both great egotists,
eaten up by self, which the great poets have rarely been; and that
COLERIDGE in particular often knew not what he meant himself, but
between opium and metaphysics, frequently tied the tail of one idea
to the head of another, and called the monstrous and unintelligible
coalition a _theory_; a mixture of Platonism, Spinozaism, and the
d----l knows what 'ism. And for believing this, the Coleridgeites
and Wordsworthites, who are the most intolerant of bigots, would
call me an earthy blockhead, and for expressing this, an ignorant,
blaspheming fool. Why, I once had almost broken with a friend,
because I would not admit that WORDSWORTH was superior to BYRON, and
that BYRON stole almost all his beauties from him! And the secret
was, that the poor fellow thought he had the Wordsworthian gift,
and undeifying WORDSWORTH was undeifying him!' * * * ARE not the
circumstances narrated in the following communication from a truly
veracious correspondent, 'very remarkable,' to say the least? Can
their truth be _doubted_ for a moment, however, by any intelligent
reader? Yet 'it's curious, isn't it?' In a note to the Editor, our
friend writes: 'I have an uncle 'down East,' a retired sea-captain,
who having nothing else to do, frequently writes me long gossipping
letters. Sometimes they are very amusing: an extract from one of
them I now send you. The story appears almost incredible; but
knowing my correspondent to be a strictly conscientious man,
who would scorn to draw the long-bow on any occasion, I have no
hesitation in believing every word of it, whether others are willing
to credit it or not. I give it to you in his own language, for there
is a strait-forward simplicity about it, that should command belief:'
* * * 'ALL these things, dear S----, happened in my younger
days, of course. As I have still a white page before me, I
will detail to you one of my youthful adventures. I had one
night been to a convivial party, which did not break up until
nearly morning, when, on arriving at my boarding-house, I found
the doors closed. Not wishing to disturb the inmates at that
unseasonable hour, I proceeded in search of temporary lodgings,
not doubting but that I should get accommodated at some one of
the numerous hotels. In this however I was disappointed; every
place was shut as tight as an oyster. It happened to be a wet,
drizzly night; and after wandering about the streets for some
time, and getting pretty well soaked, I began to feel rather
disagreeable. What added not a little to my discomfort, was the
fact that within a few nights there had been committed several
daring highway robberies, in the very heart of the city, in one
of which the victim was murdered; and as a natural consequence,
no watchman dared to venture out from his hiding-place; thus
making my situation doubly lonesome. In this dilemma, finding
all legitimate places closed against me, I began to consider
the expediency of seeking shelter at least, if not sleep, in
any place that might seem to offer it. While in this mood, I
found myself abreast of the ---- church; and leaning against
the lightning-rod a moment, the query occurred to me: 'Why
not 'shin up' this rod into the belfry? I have slept in worse
places than that, no doubt, and can do so again.' Now I had been
a great climber in my boyish days; and feats which to others
seemed difficult, if not absolutely impossible, were to me often
matters of mere pastime. I therefore hesitated but a moment in
such an emergency, but slipping off my boots and swinging them
round my neck, I commenced the ascent; and in less than five
minutes I had mounted a hundred feet or more, and got safely
into the belfry. My accommodations here were much better than I
could have anticipated. Some carpenters had been to work a few
days previously, repairing the railings on the outside of the
tower, and had left a quantity of shavings, which lay scattered
on the floor. Placing these together in a heap, I threw my weary
limbs down upon them, and was soon in a deep slumber, but not
a quiet one. My horizontal position enabled the fumes of wine
to reach my head, which before they had been unable to do, in
consequence of my extreme height, for you know I am six feet
three, and I soon began to have all sorts of fantastic dreams.
Strange wild shapes flitted around me, and loud unearthly
sounds filled my ears. But prominent over all, was an incessant
ding-dong of apparently distant bells, which reached me in
every variety of volume and tone; now low and sweet, and anon
loud, startling, and many-toned, as if the thousand steeples
of Moscow were again pouring forth lamentations over the ruins
of their beautiful city. Suddenly, a single stroke, that sent
its vibrations through every limb, startled me from sleep; and
lifting my head slightly, I at the instant received a blow upon
the back of it that sent me quivering against the frame of the
belfry. I lay stunned for some moments; and on recovering my
consciousness, the bell of the steeple was just closing, with a
strange jangle, the peal for seven o'clock in the morning!
'I now comprehended the whole. The edge of the bell, on its
return revolution, had come in contact with my head at the
instant I had lifted it, on being roused by the first stroke.
I placed my hand upon the back of my scull, and the proof of
that fact lay there too prominent to be denied. A bump had been
raised as big as a hen's egg. I paid but little attention to
it, however, as the pain was but slight, and I was moreover
exceedingly anxious about the mode of extrication from my
present unenviable predicament. Sliding down the lightning-rod
of a meeting-house, in broad day-light, was not quite so
pleasant a performance as 'shinning up' one at midnight. While
considering this matter, in a sort of a 'quandary way,' as
brother JONAS used to say, the scuttle-door slowly opened, and
the sexton of the church made his appearance. He did not observe
me, but went immediately to the bell, which he began to walk
round, and to inspect very minutely. At last he stopped: 'It's
just as I expected,' said he to himself: 'the bell's cracked!
Now what upon airth could ha' done it? I am sure I felt it hit
something hard.' Here I mechanically placed my hand to the
back of my head, and coughed slightly. The man turned, and
observing me, started back with affright. I immediately stepped
forward, and told him my story in a few words, taking care to
make it as lucid as possible by the aid of a little silver,
and saying nothing, of course, about the bump on my head. The
man appeared satisfied, and told me I could go down with him.
Before starting, however, I bestowed a hasty glance upon the
bell, and perceived that it was indeed cracked, longitudinally,
from the flange to the crown, and that a lock of my hair was
firmly inclosed in the crevice, just on the outer edge. This of
course was enough to remove from my mind all doubt, had I had
any, as to the cause of the mischief; but I said nothing, and
followed the sexton down the scuttle. In a few moments I was
once more in the streets, with my hat under my arm, for I found
it impossible to place it any where near its true position on
my head, in consequence of the new phrenological development
already mentioned. But now, dear S----, comes the most wonderful
part of my narrative. This little incident happened twenty years
ago; and to my certain knowledge, since that date, the bell in
that steeple has been replaced four times; and yet to this very
day, whenever I pass within hearing of its tones, my ears begin
to ring, my head violently to oscillate, and straitway I am
seized with a stupor and dizziness that continue until I can get
beyond the reach of its sound. You will recollect you once asked
me why old Major N---- called me sometimes 'Captain Hardhead,'
and sometimes 'Captain Waghead?' You have now the answer.'
* * * * *
THE water stood in our eyes, reader, (and it will stand in yours
if you have a heart to feel,) as we perused the subjoined eloquent
passage of a letter from a friend to whom our readers have often
been indebted for amusement, entertainment, and instruction. What
a startling picture it presents of the first approaches of that
'hectic,' 'phthisic,' 'consumption,' or whatever be the favorite
title of that most wily and fatal foe, who in one hand presents the
insidious olive-branch, and in the other conceals his inevitable
sword, cutting down youth in its blossom and manhood in its fruit!
'For very many years, from twelve to two have been my hours of
retiring, and my exercise has been nothing, or nearly so, during the
day. One result has been, that I have read one half of the Greek
and Roman classics, and feasted largely in modern literature. A
parallel result has been, that owing to corporeal sluggishness and
nervousness, the curse of the sedentary, I have no doubt reaped less
pleasure and profit than I might have done from half that assiduity
coupled with a due regard to the wants of the body. The final result
is, that an iron constitution is now largely disorganized; and from
the constant presence of a dull, deep, stationary pain in my left
side beneath the ribs, and fixed I fear upon the lungs, I begin to
indulge in sad and deep forebodings. Often, when wakened by its
painful urgency, I lie in the silence of the night, listening to
my heart's deep beatings, and recall my early and yet unfulfilled
dreams--dreams oh! how glorious!--and array before my unsated eyes
this world, with all its lovely learning, and sweet poetry, and
burning passion; and reflect how unfit I am to die, and try the
conditions of a new existence, before I have fulfilled the duties
and perused the mysteries of this, and then think of the wormy bed,
and anticipate the hour when I shall lie there, closing my eyes
to coloring and my ears to sound; the impatient longing I have
sometimes felt for death is repaid by an indefinable horror; and
between the tenderness of natural regret and the shudderings of
unconquerable awe, passion masters pride, and both sink to meekness
and humility in a flood of gushing tears!' * * * '_The Warning_,' in
its _spirit_ at least, is borrowed. We are sorry to intimate this,
but it is a _fact_, friend 'P.' You could not say that you have not
read the poem which commences as follows, (if we rightly remember,)
'could you, now?' Guess not:
'ALL in the wild March morning I heard the angels call;
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul!'
* * * * *
We gave on one occasion an extract from one of the 'Short Patent
Sermons' of 'DOW, Jr.,' illustrating the endless extent of _for
ever_. The same sublimity of conception is apparent in the subjoined
glance at the magnitude of the planets, and the unsocial 'distance'
they keep up between one another: 'If a person were sufficiently
long-legged to step from star to star, and were to go at a decent
dog-trot, he might as soon think of travelling from everlasting to
everlasting and back again in a day, as to undertake to find an end
to the planets which roll round their respective suns, as far beyond
this insignificant solar system of ours as the farthest flight of
imagination is beyond the jump of a ham-stringed grasshopper!'
By the by, 'speaking of DOW,' here is a capital anecdote of the
veritable LORENZO, which is worthy of record. 'It appears' that
DOW, in one of his odd, quaint sermons, declared that he 'had known
sinners so very wicked that they actually bu'st!' This statement
threw an old, ignorant, and fat impenitent present into a state
of alarm and perspiration; and home he waddled, in mortal terror.
At night, in the horror of his anticipated explosion, he rolled
about until he could no longer bear it. He fancied he was already
swelling. He rose and attempted to dress himself, in order to go
out 'al fresco.' Who can paint his consternation, when he found
he could but just strain the garments over his limbs, and even
then they would not meet! He was suffering a rapid sin-dropsy; his
iniquities were coming to light! He screamed in the agony of his
fear; and a lamp being brought in, he found that in his haste he had
put on his brother's clothes. 'The impression, however, says our
informant, a clergyman of the Church of England, 'was a salutary
one, for he became a pious man.' * * * THE 'KNICKERBOCKER'-STEAMER,
that floating palace of the Hudson, must not pass unnoticed by
'the editor hereof.' To _describe_ her, however, and her superb
'belongings,' her Dutch paintings and quaint adornments, is quite
another thing. We have no space for an _essay_ in this department
of MAGA. It shall suffice to say, therefore, that this truly
magnificent vessel is in all respects worthy the honored _name_
she bears. Could we say more? Appropos of this: It was not until
the first volume of the KNICKERBOCKER appeared, (this is our
TWENTY-SECOND, reader; and, _non_-reader, an excellent opportunity
for you to commence _your_ subscription,) that one met our noble
potronymic 'about town.' How is it _now_? Let the KNICKERBOCKER
steamers, bathing-houses, omnibii, restaurants, clubs--aquatic,
literary, social, military, scientific, and artistic--and eke the
Temperance-halls and root-beer _perambulatories_, make answer! Their
reply is triumphant; and yet 'our' children play with the neighbor's
children, just the same as if these were not 'parlous facts!'
This, however, is one of the tendencies of that republican form of
government under which it is our happiness to reside! * * * ARE not
these lines of MOTHERWELL very beautiful? Such thoughts have we had
a thousand times; and we desire to thank the writer for expressing
them for us so well:
'FLOW down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver;
No more by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.
Flow softly down, by lawn and lea,
A rivulet, then a river:
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.
But here will sigh thine alder-tree,
And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
For ever and for ever.
A hundred suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever!'
* * * * *
SMALL game, Mein Herr, of Albany--small game! A 'two-penny dip'
would be wasted on it. Our correspondent's critique reminds us of
the tailor in Laputa, who being employed in making a suit for the
facetious GULLIVER, disdained the vulgar measures of his profession,
and took that gentleman's altitude by the help of a quadrant! We
can pounce upon _fair_ game, but we cannot 'like French falcons,
fly at any thing we see.' Beside, if the satire was 'caviare to
the GENERAL' of the '_New-Mirror_,' how should it find a place in
_these_ pages? Our friend 'the Brigadier' is a fastidious and a
prudent person. Did he not alter a quotation from BYRON, in one
of our friend GRAHAM's 'Sketches by a Briefless Lawyer,' wherein
'_waistcoat_-pocket' was substituted for that startling indelicacy,
'_breeches_-pocket?' Verily, he did! * * * THE following reflections
upon the death of friends, and the memories of the departed, which
we transcribe from a private letter to the Editor, are too beautiful
and true to be confined to one or two readers only: 'I have read the
exhortations of PLUTARCH, and SENECA, and JEREMY TAYLOR, and others,
all hinging upon the idea that pain and bereavement are natural,
necessary, inevitable, in this world of successive bloom and
desolation. But pain is to me none the less painful because natural,
nor separation less overwhelming for its necessity; nor yet is the
blasting of cherished hopes less withering to my heart because the
same blight has fallen on the verdure of other hearts, and kindred
tears are falling from a world of mourners in a wide companionship
of grief. 'The head may _reason_, but the heart will _feel_.' Time,
however, is a great and effectual healer. Though a tree be lopped
to the very root, the maimed giant will send up a new creation
of vegetable strength. So the human soul, like some evergreen
creeper, if you cut off or tear away its branches of affection with
the object round which they entwined themselves, will send forth
other tendrils, and wind its clinging arms around some other idol,
embalming it with fragrance and clothing it in verdure. The sweet
lines of WORDSWORTH are most practical and true, as well as poetical:
'There is a comfort in the strength of love:
'T will make a thing endurable, which else
Would overset tire brain, or break the heart.'