their iron sleep I would gladly purchase by a subtraction from the
remnant of my own dismembered life, and principally that visible
gushing tears, and the test of so great a sacrifice, might be some
atonement for causeless misconceptions, and some proof of warm love
beneath the outward shows of an inflexible hardness; yet I know
that Time in his weary revolutions will soon bring us all together
in a world of infinite knowledge, and liberal forgiveness, and
uncircumscribed affection; a world where we shall 'see face to
face,' and feel heart to heart; 'where no grief makes the heart
heavy and the eye-lids red.' * * * STANDING with a friend the other
day by the river-side, to take in the noble _coup d'oeil_ of the new
steamer KNICKERBOCKER, we overheard a little anecdote connected with
water-craft, which made our companion merry all the way home; which
we shall here transcribe; '_and_ which it is hoped may please.' 'It
seems there was' (nay, we know not _seems_, there _was_) a verdant
youth from the interior of Connecticut, for the first time on board
a steam-boat. His curiosity was unbounded. He examined here, and he
scrutinized there; he wormed from the engineer a compulsory lecture
on the steam-engine and mechanics in general, and from the fireman
an essay on the power of white heat, and the 'average consumption
of pine cord-'ood.' At length his inquiring mind was checked in its
investigations, and 'the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties'
made at once apparent. He had mounted to the wheel-house, and was
asking the pilot: 'What you doin' _that_ for, Mister?--what _good_
does't do?' when he was observed by the captain, who said, in a
gruff voice: 'Go away from there! Don't you see the sign, 'No
talkin' to the man at the hellum? Go 'way!' 'Oh! certing--yäes; I
only wanted to know ----' 'Well you _do_ know now that you can't
talk to him; so go 'way!' With unwilling willingness, the verdant
youth came down; and, as it was soon dark, he presently went below;
but four or five times before he 'turned in,' he was on deck, and
near the wheel-house, eyeing it with a thoughtful curiosity; but
with the captain's public rebuff still in his ears, venturing to ask
no questions. In the first gray of the dawn, he was up, and on deck;
and after some hesitation, perceiving nobody near but the pilot, who
was turning the wheel, as when he had last seen him, he preferred
his 'suppressed question' in the oblique style peculiar to his
region: 'Wal, goin' it _yit_ ha?--been at it all night?--_screëwin
on her up?_--eh?' What vague conjectures must have bothered the poor
querist's brain, during the night, may be partly inferred from the
absurd but 'settled conviction' to which he had at length arrived! *
* * WHAT a mingling of the dead Past with the busy, bustling Present
pervades the mind of the thoughtful observer, as he looks down from
the rising tower of the New Trinity Church upon tens of thousands of
the dead whose bones crowd the grave-yard below; bones, and dust and
ashes, over which are thrown in wild confusion huge blocks from the
quarry, and piles of uprooted grave-stones, and slabs and urns of
marble! As you have marked an elaborately-carved stone sink slowly
from its ponderous 'drop' to its place in an edifice which is to
stand for ages, did you never scan closely its grained streaks,
its delicate chissellings, with the thought that when you were
senseless clay, that _very stone_ might arrest the eye of another,
gazing upon it with sensations like your own? So at least have we
thought, concerning those who have gone before us, as we have looked
at the ornamental marbles of our older public buildings, erected in
another age. But from the countless Dead, who slumber below, how
solemnly comes up toward this rising tower the voice of warning and
monition! Each 'storied urn' takes the form of the Departed whom it
commemorates, and seems to say:
'TIME was I stood, as thou dost now,
And viewed the Dead as thou dost me:
Ere long thou'lt lie as low as I,
And others stand to look on thee!'
* * * * *
Mr. WALLACE, the great musical _Wonder_, is not now in town, but,
reader, should he return among us, be sure to neglect no opportunity
to hear him. In his hands, the piano seems like an instrument
hitherto unknown. It has the chant of woodland birds, the silver
sound of dropping waters, and 'all voices of nature and of art.' We
have heard no resemblance to Mr. WALLACE, as a pianist. But it is
his violin which _speaks_ to us; and on this instrument no approach
to Mr. WALLACE has been met with in this country. How exquisite the
notes, pathetic, joyful, or in 'linked sweetness long drawn out'
which he conjures from that most facile of all instruments! We would
travel ten miles to hear him play, in his style, that ravishing
melody, 'The Last Rose of Summer.' We shall have occasion, we hope,
again to advert to the performances of Mr. WALLACE. He is yet a
young man, and possesses the characteristic modesty of true genius;
and has hardly yet learned that 'the world meets nobody half way;'
in _his_ case, however, not a necessary lesson. * * * IF any of our
town readers are fond, by way of literary variety and contrast, of
disinterring the intellectual treasures of the buried Past, they
will find 'pleasant employment and liberal wages' in glancing over
the antique stores of Messrs. BARTLETT AND WELFORD, under the Astor
House. We have been indebted to the courtesy of these gentlemen
for sundry communings with authors who have been in their graves
for five or six centuries. Every _ancient book_ is an argument in
favor of the immortality of the soul. 'Fancy a deep-buried Mastodon,
some fossil Megatherion, Icthyosaurus, were to begin to _speak_
from amid its rock-swathings, never so indistinctly! Yet the most
extinct fossils of Men can do, and does, this miracle--thanks to
the letters of the alphabet!' * * * THE friend who sends us, for
'a fragment of Gossip,' the anecdote of the verdant field-preacher
who spoke of Saint PAUL's having 'sat at the foot of _Gammel-Hill_,'
is informed that it has already appeared in the KNICKERBOCKER. The
following specimen of kindred ignorance, however, is quite new to
us, and worthy of repetition. It is a precious bit of ignorant
bathos, which occurred in a discourse upon the sufferings of CHRIST:
'The blessed SAVIOUR, my hearers, was dreadfully persecuted.
Once, when going to Jerusalem, the Jews put him on a wild young
jack-ass, and scattered branches in the road, and put clothes onto
'em, in order for to scare the little colt, and make him break
the blessed Redeemer's neck!' The speaker actually preached this
_three times_, till one of his congregation corrected him!' * * *
THE articles in the Edinburgh Review, and other eminent European
periodicals, against the custom of the _duello_, would seem to be
but the echoes of a prevalent public opinion. We perceive by late
English journals that an _Anti-Duelling Association_ has recently
been formed in London. 'It consists of three hundred and twenty-six
members, including twenty-one noblemen, thirteen sons of noblemen,
sixteen members of Parliament, fifteen baronets, thirty admirals
and generals, forty-four captains R. N., twenty-three colonels
and lieutenant-colonels, seventeen majors, twenty-six captains in
the army, twenty lieutenants R. N., and twenty-four barristers.
They denounce duelling as 'sinful, irrational, and contrary to the
laws of GOD and man;' and pledge themselves to 'discountenance the
practice, both by example and influence.' The association includes,
says a London journal, many members who have been successful
heretofore in 'killing their man.' * * * ONE of the most delightful
as well as most accessible places of summer resort in the vicinity
of New-York, is the 'HAMILTON HOUSE,' a spacious and elegant
_palace_ of an edifice, situated on the south-westernmost extremity
of Long-Island, on the picturesque bluff at the ocean-entrance to
the Narrows, commanding a wide view of the sea, the lower bay,
Staten-Island, and the rich and cultivated fields of Long-Island;
a combination of scenery unsurpassed on the Atlantic sea-board.
Here, amidst healthful and invigorating sea-airs, and charming
views; with spacious and well-ventilated apartments, public and
private; 'tables richly spread;' wines of the best, and the means
of recreation, natural and artificial, in abundance; what could one
want more?--save perhaps the ready attention and courtesy of the
proprietor, Mr. J. R. CURTIS, and these are 'matters of course.' Go
to the 'Hamilton House,' ye invalids and pining wights 'in populous
city pent.' * * * WE find the annexed charming translation in
the hand-writing of Mr. LONGFELLOW, among the papers of the late
lamented WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK:
SUMMER TIME IN GERMANY.
FROM JEAN PAUL.
THE summer alone might elevate us! Heaven! what a season! In sooth,
I often know not whether to stay in the city, or go forth into the
fields, so alike is it every where, and beautiful. If we go outside
the city gate, the very beggars gladden our hearts, for they are no
longer a-cold; and the post-boys can pass the whole night merrily on
horse-back; and the shepherds lie asleep in the open air. We want no
gloomy house. We make a chamber of every bush; and so have my good
industrious bees before us, and the most gorgeous butterflies. In
gardens on the hills sit school-boys, and in the open air look out
words in the dictionary. On account of the game-laws there is no
shooting now; and every living thing in bush and furrow and on the
green branches, can enjoy itself right heartily and safely.
In all directions come travellers along the roads. They have their
carriages, for the most part, thrown back. The horses have branches
stuck in their saddles, and the drivers roses in their mouths. The
shadows of the clouds go trailing along, and the birds fly between
them up and down. Even when it rains do we love to stand out of
doors, and inhale the quickening influence; and the wet does the
herdsman harm no more!
And is it night, so sit we only in a cooler shadow, from which we
plainly discern the day-light on the northern horizon, and on the
sweet, warm stars of heaven. Whithersoever I look, there do I find
my beloved blue; on the flax in blossom, on the corn-flowers, and
the godlike, endless heaven, into which I would fain plunge as into
a river!
And now if we turn homeward again, we find only fresh delight. The
whole street is one great nursery; for in the evening after supper,
the little ones, though they have but few clothes upon them, are
again let out into the open air, and not driven to bed as in winter.
We sup by day-light, and hardly know where the candle-sticks are. In
the bed-chambers the windows are open day and night, and likewise
most of the doors, without danger. The oldest women stand by the
window without a chill, and sew. Flowers lie about every where; by
the ink-stand, on the lawyer's papers, on the judge's desk, and
the tradesman's counter. The children make a great noise, and one
hears the rolling of nine-pin alleys. Half the night through, one
walks up and down the street, and talks loud, and sees the stars
shoot in the high heaven. The foreign musicians, who wend their way
homeward toward midnight, go fiddling along the street, and the
whole neighborhood runs to the window. The extra posts arrive late,
and the horses neigh. One sits in the noise by the window, and drops
asleep, and the post-horns awake him; and the whole starry heaven
hath spread itself open. Oh, GOD! what a joyous life, on this little
earth!
_Cambridge, July 20._
LONGFELLOW.
* * * * *
The following we derive from the same source with the above. It is
placed in type from the MS. of Mrs. FANNY KEMBLE BUTLER:
THE PARTING PLEDGE.
I.
YET once again! but once, before we sever,
Fill me one brimming cup--it is the last,
And let those lips now parting and for ever,
Breathe o'er this pledge 'The memory of the Past!'
II.
Joy's fleeting sun is set, and no to-morrow
Smiles on the gloomy path we tread so fast;
Yet in the bitter cup, o'erfilled with sorrow,
Lives one sweet drop--the memory of the Past!
III.
But one more look from those dear eyes now shining
Through their warm tears, their loveliest and their last.
But one more strain of hands in friendship twining,
Now farewell all, save memory of the Past!
'WHAT is more ridiculous to a dandy than a philosopher, or to a
philosopher than a dandy?' We thought of this query, while reading a
description, in a communication before us, of a knot of fourth-rate
dandies, the 'apes of apes,' _which_ the writer encountered in the
bar-room of an inn, in one of the fourth-rate towns of Maryland.
Doubtless these artificial 'humans' looked upon our friend as quite
to be pitied that he was not '_one of us_:' 'In their ultra dress,
affected manners, drawling tones, and whey-faces, you might read
the foolish inanity of an existence parallel in every respect to
that of BEAU BRUMMEL, except that his was original absurdity, and
theirs was folly on loan. It was Parisianism adulterated in London,
qualified in Broadway, weakened in Chestnut-street, reduced in
Baltimore, and at last in these provincial decoctions diluted to
the lowest possible degree of insipidity, with scarce a perceptible
tincture of the original liquid. These had no souls by nature; and
the only idea they could inspire was one of humiliation, that apes
were permitted to wear the likeness of GOD's image.' * * * WE annex
below a few random comments from an old and favorite contributor,
(a 'scholar ripe and good,' who holds a felicitous pen,) upon three
or four papers in our May number: 'JOHN QUOD is beyond all praise.
I read the May chapters throughout with unqualified delight. The
passage describing the old lawyer's affixing his own name, in
his confusion, to the blind man's will, aroused me to unseemly,
uproarious laughter; and the _painting_ of Kornicker's manner,
particularly his laugh, is scarcely inferior to COOPER's account of
Leatherstocking's noiseless, inward laugh, the impression of which
could not fade from my fancy in a thousand years. I'll wager my head
that the May number of no Magazine in the world contains a sketch of
more power and humor. As for the '_Lay of Ancient Rome_,' I cannot
praise it too highly. The imitations of ancient manners, and the
_keeping_ with ancient ideas, is excellent, _excellent_ indeed; far
better than the efforts of BULWER, in his 'Last Days of Pompeii,'
or than any other late imitations which I just now remember to
have seen. Fresh from the perusal of ANTHON's 'Horace,' (ANTHON's
classics are entirely unequalled,) and with LIVY in my reach, the
verisimilitude strikes me as almost perfect. You cannot fail either,
to observe that, as in the '_Three Passages in the History of a
Poet_,' there is a great deal of sweet poetry scattered about among
the jewels of delicate criticism and mirthful wit. I believe my
love for the old Greeks and Romans is a little unreasonable; but
it is my first love. I often woo other mistresses, but I always
return to my 'prima donna.' Twelve or fourteen years ago I ingorged
all of SMOLLET, FIELDING, RICHARDSON, SCOTT, and COOPER, at one
intemperate meal, and then lay some months inert and drowsy, like
a huge boa-constrictor after swallowing a bullock. Then again
for several years I dieted on Greek and Roman and early English
literature. Once more I devoured all then published of EDGEWORTH,
BULWER, JAMES, MARRYAT, and I know not how many others, rolled up in
one monstrous mass. I wonder it had n't killed me; but the process
of digestion brought me again to a state of healthful depletion,
and my natural appetite revived. So, although I am delighted with
genius, or talent, or wit, or mere taste, no matter when or where
I encounter it, yet I cannot forget my youthful worship, or forego
my early gods. The death-scene in '_The Young Englishman_,' I do
declare, went to my very heart. I have had since continually before
my eyes the poor youth, flying from his destroyer, whose unerring
dart was already in his bosom. What a mournful comment on that most
affecting passage of Virgil, where the wounded deer flies from the
pursuer, (who is in truth her companion,) with the arrow for ever
in her side--_hæret lateri lethalis arundo_--flies through the
summer forests, all heedless of their greenness, and lies down by
some blue streamlet, helpless and hopeless to die! Seeing the other
day a number of 'GRAHAM's Magazine,' I read in it an article by E.
A. POE, who comes down on your old correspondent 'FLACCUS' like a
mountain of lead! It is clear that 'FLACCUS' has in many places
exposed himself to the charge of unmelodious rhymes, incongruous
figures, and occasionally faulty taste. But there is a difference
between a POPE that sometimes nods, and a CIBBER that _never wakes_!
I am not easily moved, in the matter of poetry; I _think_, at
least, that it must have merit to please me; and I well remember
that FLACCUS's metrical love-tale in your pages seemed to me very
sweet and original, and strongly redolent of the early English odor.
His 'Epistle from my Arm-chair' was in good hexameters, and his
'Address to the President of the New-England Temperance Society'
had a TOM MOORE-ish spice of elegant wit about it, and might have
been written by Mr. POE in about a century of leap-years.' * * *
THE venerable NOAH WEBSTER, full of years and full of honors, has
gone down to his grave, 'like a shock of corn fully ripe in its
season.' Our very earliest associations, like those of millions
of others, are associated with his name. That blue-covered
spelling-book of his, with its progressive lessons of learning
and morality; its pleasant fables and pretty pictures; its large
type and dingy paper--the very _smell_ of that spelling-book--all
are as vivid in our mind as when we first took it to bed with us,
in an ecstacy of enjoyment, some score and a half of years agone.
And then his great philological work, which is now so well known
in both hemispheres, what a monument it is of careful research,
discriminating judgment, laborious industry! It will die only with
the 'land's language.' Mr. WEBSTER has been a frequent and always
a welcome contributor to these pages; and we have even now in our
possession late communications from his pen, of which our readers
will know more hereafter. NOAH WEBSTER was an honor to his country.
He was a scholar; a 'gentleman of the old school,' who lived a life
void of offence toward GOD and toward man; and he died in the full
assurance of a blessed immortality. May he rest in peace! * * *
'_Poetry run Mad_' is inadmissible, on two accounts. In the first
place, it strikes us we have met _parts_ of it at least before; and
in the second, the style has 'outlived our liking.' Nobody but HOOD
manages well this ragged species of verse; a very clever specimen of
which is contained in his '_Custom-House Breeze_,' the story of a
lady-smuggler who would not go ashore at Dover, because there was 'a
_searching_ wind' blowing, which might expose the lace-swathings of
her person:
'IN spite of rope and barrow, knot, and tuck,
Of plank and ladder, there she stuck!
She couldn't, no, she wouldn't go on shore.
'But, Ma'am,' the steward interfered,
'The wessel must be cleared.
You mus'n't stay aboard, Ma'am, no one don't!
It's quite ag'in the orders so to do,
And all the passengers is gone but you.'
Says she, 'I cannot go ashore and won't!'
'You ought to!'
'But I can't!'
'You must!'
'I sha'n't!''
WE have given no notice of CARLYLE's '_Past and Present_,' for the
reason, let us inform the publishers, that we received no copy of
the work. We have perused the book, however; and are compelled to
say that in its style it exhibits no improvement upon the previous
writings of its distinguished author. It is even less clear, to
our comprehension, (or perhaps from the _lack_ of it,) than any of
his former productions. We are sorry to see, moreover, that he is
obliged to _repeat himself_ so frequently. Yet is there much matter
for deep thought in his pages, and sometimes a whole sermon in a
single sentence. His heart bleeds for his suffering fellow-men in
England, Ireland, and Scotland; 'twelve hundred thousand workers,
their cunning right hand lamed, lying idle in their sorrowful
bosoms; asking only for work, and such return for it in food,
clothes, and fuel, as shall enable them to live, that they may still
work on;' yet we do not see that Mr. CARLYLE points out any means
by which these many 'workers' may obtain redress of the 'crowned,
coronetted, shovel-hatted, quack-heads' whose rule he stigmatizes
so severely. Here is a fine passage illustrating the fact that he
only is successful who is 'fortunate for good:' 'Success! If the
thing is _unjust_, thou hast not succeeded, no, not though bonfires
blazed from north to south, and bells rang, and editors wrote
leading articles, and the just thing lay trampled out of sight, to
all mortal eyes an abolished and annihilated thing. Success! In
a few years thou wilt be dead and dark; all cold, eyeless, deaf;
no blaze of bonfires, ding-dong of bells, or leading articles,
visible or audible to thee again for ever! What kind of success is
that?' It is not possible for Mr. CARLYLE to write a stupid or an
unreadable volume; and it can only be affirmed, in dispraise of the
present work, that it is less forceful and attractive than one or
two of its immediate predecessors. * * * YOU are wrong, Sir 'P. F.,'
_altogether_ wrong. The 'competence' of the tiller of the soil, the
'abundance' of the successful mechanic, and the 'sufficiency' of the
tradesman, we conceive to be better calculated to promote happiness
than 'great wealth,' even when unencumbered. We are not insensible
to the value of money. Our remark was pointed as to the _wants_ that
wealth brings; but the _cares_ of it are not less exacting. 'Don't
you _know_ me?' said a western millionaire, soon after 'the crisis,'
to a friend of ours, with whom he had formerly been intimately
acquainted; 'don't you _remember_ me? My name is ----.' 'Good
heavens! it can't be possible!' exclaimed our friend; 'why, what has
wrought such a change in your appearance? Where's your flourishing
head of hair? where's your flesh gone? what's put that bend in your
back?' 'The times! the times!' replied the 'poor rich man;' as for
my back, I broke that last year, _lifting notes_; some of them were
very heavy.' A grievous and unnecessary burden no doubt they were;
and how much better was the rich man's 'wealth,' with its carking
cares, than the 'abundance' of the contented mechanic?' * * * A MOST
forcible warning to 'nations that know not GOD' is contained in the
following passage from a recent discourse by Rev. GEO. B. CHEEVER:
'THIS world has been the theatre of a mighty experiment--whether
nations could be prosperous and permanent in pride and sin. The
result has been overwhelming. Empire after empire has fallen
to the ground. I have passed over the ruins of dead and buried
kingdoms; have seen the shades of departed monarchies, and
conversed with them, haunting the spots of their former glory;
and the hollow voice, as if the wind were moaning from earth's
central sepulchres, has spoken in the words of Scripture, deep
unto deep, in my hearing, THE NATION AND KINGDOM THAT WILL NOT
SERVE THEE SHALL PERISH; YEA, THOSE NATIONS SHALL BE UTTERLY
WASTED! It is a solemn thing to stand in the Colosseum at Rome,
beneath the shadow of the Parthenon at Athens, within the
crumbling shrine of the temple of Karnak in Egypt, and to listen
to the echo of those awful words. These historical materials and
monuments are so many intelligent chords, which men's iniquities
have wrought for that great harp of the past, across which God's
Spirit sweeps with its majestic, awful utterance! GOD grant that
the history of our nation may not add another tone of wailing to
the melancholy voices of dead empires!'