[I did not think it probable that I should have a great many more talks
with our company, and therefore I was anxious to get as much as I could
into every conversation. That is the reason why you will find some odd,
miscellaneous facts here, which I wished to tell at least once, as I
should not have a chance to tell them habitually at our
breakfast-table.—We’re very free and easy, you know; we don’t read what
we don’t like. Our parish is so large, one can’t pretend to preach to
all the pews at once. One can’t be all the time trying to do the best of
one’s best if a company works a steam fire-engine, the firemen needn’t be
straining themselves all day to squirt over the top of the flagstaff.
Let them wash some of those lower-story windows a little. Besides, there
is no use in our quarrelling now, as you will find out when you get
through this paper.]
—Travel, according to my experience, does not exactly correspond to the
idea one gets of it out of most books of travels. I am thinking of
travel as it was when I made the Grand Tour, especially in Italy. Memory
is a net; one finds it full of fish when he takes it from the brook; but
a dozen miles of water have run through it without sticking. I can prove
some facts about travelling by a story or two. There are certain
principles to be assumed,—such as these:—He who is carried by horses must
deal with rogues.—To-day’s dinner subtends a larger visual angle than
yesterday’s revolution. A mote in my eye is bigger to me than the
biggest of Dr. Gould’s private planets.—Every traveller is a self-taught
entomologist.—Old jokes are dynamometers of mental tension; an old joke
tells better among friends travelling than at home,—which shows that
their minds are in a state of diminished, rather than increased vitality.
There was a story about “strahps to your pahnts,” which was vastly funny
to us fellows—on the road from Milan to Venice.—_Cælum_, _non
animum_,—travellers change their guineas, but not their characters. The
bore is the same, eating dates under the cedars of Lebanon, as over a
plate of baked beans in Beacon Street.—Parties of travellers have a
morbid instinct for “establishing raws” upon each other.—A man shall sit
down with his friend at the foot of the Great Pyramid and they will take
up the question they had been talking about under “the great elm,” and
forget all about Egypt. When I was crossing the Po, we were all fighting
about the propriety of one fellow’s telling another that his argument was
_absurd_; one maintaining it to be a perfectly admissible logical term,
as proved by the phrase “reductio ad absurdum;” the rest badgering him as
a conversational bully. Mighty little we troubled ourselves for _Padus_,
the Po, “a river broader and more rapid than the Rhone,” and the times
when Hannibal led his grim Africans to its banks, and his elephants
thrust their trunks into the yellow waters over which that pendulum
ferry-boat was swinging back and forward every ten minutes!
—Here are some of those reminiscences, with morals prefixed, or annexed,
or implied.
Lively emotions very commonly do not strike us full in front, but
obliquely from the side; a scene or incident in _undress_ often affects
us more than one in full costume.
“Is this the mighty ocean?—is this all?”
says the Princess in Gebir. The rush that should have flooded my soul in
the Coliseum did not come. But walking one day in the fields about the
city, I stumbled over a fragment of broken masonry, and lo! the World’s
Mistress in her stone girdle—_alta mænia Romæ_—rose before me and
whitened my cheek with her pale shadow as never before or since.
I used very often, when coming home from my morning’s work at one of the
public institutions of Paris, to stop in at the dear old church of St.
Etienne du Mont. The tomb of St. Genevieve, surrounded by burning
candles and votive tablets, was there; the mural tablet of Jacobus
Benignus Winslow was there; there was a noble organ with carved figures;
the pulpit was borne on the oaken shoulders of a stooping Samson; and
there was a marvellous staircase like a coil of lace. These things I
mention from memory, but not all of them together impressed me so much as
an inscription on a small slab of marble fixed in one of the walls. It
told how this church of St. Stephen was repaired and beautified in the
year 16**, and how, during the celebration of its reopening, two girls of
the parish (_filles de la paroisse_) fell from the gallery, carrying a
part of the balustrade with them, to the pavement, but by a miracle
escaped uninjured. Two young girls, nameless, but real presences to my
imagination, as much as when they came fluttering down on the tiles with
a cry that outscreamed the sharpest treble in the Te Deum. (Look at
Carlyle’s article on Boswell, and see how he speaks of the poor young
woman Johnson talked with in the streets one evening.) All the crowd
gone but these two “filles de la paroisse,”—gone as utterly as the
dresses they wore, as the shoes that were on their feet, as the bread and
meat that were in the market on that day.
Not the great historical events, but the personal incidents that call up
single sharp pictures of some human being in its pang or struggle, reach
us most nearly. I remember the platform at Berne, over the parapet of
which Theobald Weinzäpfli’s restive horse sprung with him and landed him
more than a hundred feet beneath in the lower town, not dead, but sorely
broken, and no longer a wild youth, but God’s servant from that day
forward. I have forgotten the famous bears, and all else.—I remember the
Percy lion on the bridge over the little river at Alnwick,—the leaden
lion with his tail stretched out straight like a pump-handle,—and why?
Because of the story of the village boy who must fain bestride the leaden
tail, standing out over the water,—which breaking, he dropped into the
stream far below, and was taken out an idiot for the rest of his life.
Arrow-heads must be brought to a sharp point, and the guillotine-axe must
have a slanting edge. Something intensely human, narrow, and definate
pierces to the seat of our sensibilities more readily than huge
occurrences and catastrophes. A nail will pick a lock that defies
hatchet and hammer. “The Royal George” went down with all her crew, and
Cowper wrote an exquisitely simple poem about it; but the leaf which
holds it is smooth, while that which bears the lines on his mother’s
portrait is blistered with tears.
My telling these recollections sets me thinking of others of the same
kind which strike the imagination, especially when one is still young.
You remember the monument in Devizes market to the woman struck dead with
a lie in her mouth. I never saw that, but it is in the books. Here is
one I never heard mentioned;—if any of the “Note and Query” tribe can
tell the story, I hope they will. Where is this monument? I was riding
on an English stage-coach when we passed a handsome marble column (as I
remember it) of considerable size and pretensions.—What is that?—I
said.—That,—answered the coachman,—is _the hangman’s pillar_. Then he
told me how a man went out one night, many years ago, to steal sheep. He
caught one, tied its legs together, passed the rope over his head, and
started for home. In climbing a fence, the rope slipped, caught him by
the neck, and strangled him. Next morning he was found hanging dead on
one side of the fence and the sheep on the other; in memory whereof the
lord of the manor caused this monument to be erected as a warning to all
who love mutton better than virtue. I will send a copy of this record to
him or her who shall first set me right about this column and its
locality.
And telling over these old stories reminds me that I have something which
may interest architects and perhaps some other persons. I once ascended
the spire of Strasburg Cathedral, which is the highest, I think, in
Europe. It is a shaft of stone filigree-work, frightfully open, so that
the guide puts his arms behind you to keep you from falling. To climb it
is a noonday nightmare, and to think of having climbed it crisps all the
fifty-six joints of one’s twenty digits. While I was on it, “pinnacled
dim in the intense inane,” a strong wind was blowing, and I felt sure
that the spire was rocking. It swayed back and forward like a stalk of
rye or a cat-o’nine-tails (bulrush) with a bobolink on it. I mentioned
it to the guide, and he said that the spire did really swing back and
forward,—I think he said some feet.
Keep any line of knowledge ten years and some other line will intersect
it. Long afterwards I was hunting out a paper of Dumeril’s in an old
journal,—the “Magazin Encyclopédique” for _l’an troisième_, (1795,) when
I stumbled upon a brief article on the vibrations of the spire of
Strasburg Cathedral. A man can shake it so that the movement shall be
shown in a vessel of water nearly seventy feet below the summit, and
higher up the vibration is like that of an earthquake. I have seen one
of those wretched wooden spires with which we very shabbily finish some
of our stone churches (thinking that the lidless blue eye of heaven
cannot tell the counterfeit we try to pass on it,) swinging like a reed,
in a wind, but one would hardly think of such a thing’s happening in a
stone spire. Does the Bunker-Hill Monument bend in the blast like a
blade of grass? I suppose so.
You see, of course, that I am talking in a cheap way;—perhaps we will
have some philosophy by and by;—let me work out this thin mechanical
vein.—I have something more to say about trees. I have brought down this
slice of hemlock to show you. Tree blew down in my woods (that were) in
1852. Twelve feet and a half round, fair girth;—nine feet, where I got
my section, higher up. This is a wedge, going to the centre, of the
general shape of a slice of apple-pie in a large and not opulent family.
Length, about eighteen inches. I have studied the growth of this tree by
its rings, and it is curious. Three hundred and forty-two rings.
Started, therefore, about 1510. The thickness of the rings tells the
rate at which it grew. For five or six years the rate was slow,—then
rapid for twenty years. A little before the year 1550 it began to grow
very slowly, and so continued for about seventy years. In 1620 it took a
new start and grew fast until 1714 then for the most part slowly until
1786, when it started again and grew pretty well and uniformly until
within the last dozen years, when it seems to have got on sluggishly.
Look here. Here are some human lives laid down against the periods of
its growth, to which they corresponded. This is Shakspeare’s. The tree
was seven inches in diameter when he was born; ten inches when he died.
A little less than ten inches when Milton was born; seventeen when he
died. Then comes a long interval, and this thread marks out Johnson’s
life, during which the tree increased from twenty-two to twenty-nine
inches in diameter. Here is the span of Napoleon’s career;—the tree
doesn’t seem to have minded it.
I never saw the man yet who was not startled at looking on this section.
I have seen many wooden preachers,—never one like this. How much more
striking would be the calendar counted on the rings of one of those awful
trees which were standing when Christ was on earth, and where that brief
mortal life is chronicled with the stolid apathy of vegetable being,
which remembers all human history as a thing of yesterday in its own
dateless existence!
I have something more to say about elms. A relative tells me there is
one of great glory in Andover, near Bradford. I have some recollections
of the former place, pleasant and other. [I wonder if the old Seminary
clock strikes as slowly as it used to. My room-mate thought, when he
first came, it was the bell tolling deaths, and people’s ages, as they do
in the country. He swore—(ministers’ sons get so familiar with good
words that they are apt to handle them carelessly)—that the children were
dying by the dozen, of all ages, from one to twelve, and ran off next day
in recess, when it began to strike eleven, but was caught before the
clock got through striking.] At the foot of “the hill,” down in town,
is, or was, a tidy old elm, which was said to have been hooped with iron
to protect it from Indian tomahawks, (_Credat Hahnemannus_,) and to have
grown round its hoops and buried them in its wood. Of course, this is
not the tree my relative means.
Also, I have a very pretty letter from Norwich, in Connecticut, telling
me of two noble elms which are to be seen in that town. One hundred and
twenty-seven feet from bough-end to bough-end! What do you say to that?
And gentle ladies beneath it, that love it and celebrate its praises!
And that in a town of such supreme, audacious, Alpine loveliness as
Norwich!—Only the dear people there must learn to call it Norridge, and
not be misled by the mere accident of spelling.
Nor_wich_.
Por_ch_mouth.
Cincinnat_ah_.
What a sad picture of our civilization!
I did not speak to you of the great tree on what used to be the Colman
farm, in Deerfield, simply because I had not seen it for many years, and
did not like to trust my recollection. But I had it in memory, and even
noted down, as one of the finest trees in symmetry and beauty I had ever
seen. I have received a document, signed by two citizens of a
neighboring town, certified by the postmaster and a selectman, and these
again corroborated, reinforced, and sworn to by a member of that
extraordinary college-class to which it is the good fortune of my friend
the Professor to belong, who, though he has _formerly_ been a member of
Congress, is, I believe, fully worthy of confidence. The tree “girts”
eighteen and a half feet, and spreads over a hundred, and is a real
beauty. I hope to meet my friend under its branches yet; if we don’t
have “youth at the prow,” we will have “pleasure at the ’elm.”
And just now, again, I have got a letter about some grand willows in
Maine, and another about an elm in Wayland, but too late for anything but
thanks.
[And this leads me to say, that I have received a great many
communications, in prose and verse since I began printing these notes.
The last came this very morning, in the shape of a neat and brief poem,
from New Orleans. I could not make any of them public, though sometimes
requested to do so. Some of them have given me great pleasure, and
encouraged me to believe I had friends whose faces I had never seen. If
you are pleased with anything a writer says, and doubt whether to tell
him of it, do not hesitate; a pleasant word is a cordial to one, who
perhaps thinks he is tiring you, and so becomes tired himself. I purr
very loud over a good, honest letter that says pretty things to me.]
—Sometimes very young persons send communications which they want
forwarded to editors; and these young persons do not always seem to have
right conceptions of these same editors, and of the public, and of
themselves. Here is a letter I wrote to one of these young folks, but,
on the whole, thought it best not to send. It is not fair to single out
one for such sharp advice, where there are hundreds that are in need of
it.
DEAR SIR,—You seem to be somewhat, but not a great deal, wiser than I
was at your age. I don’t wish to be understood as saying too much,
for I think, without committing myself to any opinion on my present
state, that I was not a Solomon at that stage of development.
You long to “leap at a single bound into celebrity.” Nothing is so
common-place as to wish to be remarkable. Fame usually comes to
those who are thinking about something else,—very rarely to those who
say to themselves, “Go to, now, let us be a celebrated individual!”
The struggle for fame, as such, commonly ends in notoriety;—that
ladder is easy to climb, but it leads to the pillory which is crowded
with fools who could not hold their tongues and rogues who could not
hide their tricks.
If you have the consciousness of genius, do something to show it.
The world is pretty quick, nowadays, to catch the flavor of true
originality; if you write anything remarkable, the magazines and
newspapers will find you out, as the school-boys find out where the
ripe apples and pears are. Produce anything really good, and an
intelligent editor will jump at it. Don’t flatter yourself that any
article of yours is rejected because you are unknown to fame.
Nothing pleases an editor more than to get anything worth having from
a new hand. There is always a dearth of really fine articles for a
first-rate journal; for, of a hundred pieces received, ninety are at
or below the sea-level; some have water enough, but no head; some
head enough, but no water; only two or three are from full
reservoirs, high up that hill which is so hard to climb.
You may have genius. The contrary is of course probable, but it is
not demonstrated. If you have, the world wants you more than you
want it. It has not only a desire, but a passion, for every spark of
genius that shows itself among us; there is not a bull-calf in our
national pasture that can bleat a rhyme but it is ten to one, among
his friends, and no takers, that he is the real, genuine, no-mistake
Osiris.
_Qu’est ce qu’il a fait_? What has he done? That was Napoleon’s
test. What have you done? Turn up the faces of your picture-cards,
my boy! You need not make mouths at the public because it has not
accepted you at your own fancy-valuation. Do the prettiest thing you
can and wait your time.
For the verses you send me, I will not say they are hopeless, and I
dare not affirm that they show promise. I am not an editor, but I
know the standard of some editors. You must not expect to “leap with
a single bound” into the society of those whom it is not flattery to
call your betters. When “The Pactolian” has paid you for a copy of
verses,—(I can furnish you a list of alliterative signatures,
beginning with Annie Aureole and ending with Zoë Zenith,)—when “The
Rag-bag” has stolen your piece, after carefully scratching your name
out,—when “The Nut-cracker” has thought you worth shelling, and
strung the kernel of your cleverest poem,—then, and not till then,
you may consider the presumption against you, from the fact of your
rhyming tendency, as called in question, and let our friends hear
from you, if you think it worth while. You may possibly think me too
candid, and even accuse me of incivility; but let me assure you that
I am not half so plain-spoken as Nature, nor half so rude as Time.
If you prefer the long jolting of public opinion to the gentle touch
of friendship, try it like a man. Only remember this,—that, if a
bushel of potatoes is shaken in a market-cart without springs to it,
the small potatoes always get to the bottom.
Believe me, etc., etc.
I always think of verse-writers, when I am in this vein; for these are by
far the most exacting, eager, self-weighing, restless, querulous,
unreasonable literary persons one is like to meet with. Is a young man
in the habit of writing verses? Then the presumption is that he is an
inferior person. For, look you, there are at least nine chances in ten
that he writes _poor_ verses. Now the habit of chewing on rhymes without
sense and soul to match them is, like that of using any other narcotic,
at once a proof of feebleness and a debilitating agent. A young man can
get rid of the presumption against him afforded by his writing verses
only by convincing us that they are verses worth writing.
All this sounds hard and rough, but, observe, it is not addressed to any
individual, and of course does not refer to any reader of these pages. I
would always treat any given young person passing through the meteoric
showers which rain down on the brief period of adolescence with great
tenderness. God forgive us if we ever speak harshly to young creatures
on the strength of these ugly truths, and so sooner or later, smite some
tender-souled poet or poetess on the lips who might have sung the world
into sweet trances, had we not silenced the matin-song in its first low
breathings! Just as my heart yearns over the unloved, just so it sorrows
for the ungifted who are doomed to the pangs of an undeceived
self-estimate. I have always tried to be gentle with the most hopeless
cases. My experience, however, has not been encouraging.
—X. Y., æt. 18, a cheaply-got-up youth, with narrow jaws, and broad,
bony, cold, red hands, having been laughed at by the girls in his
village, and “got the mitten” (pronounced mitt_i_n) two or three times,
falls to souling and controlling, and youthing and truthing, in the
newspapers. Sends me some strings of verses, candidates for the
Orthopedic Infirmary, all of them, in which I learn for the millionth
time one of the following facts: either that something about a chime is
sublime, or that something about time is sublime, or that something about
a chime is concerned with time, or that something about a rhyme is
sublime or concerned with time or with a chime. Wishes my opinion of the
same, with advice as to his future course.
What shall I do about it? Tell him the whole truth, and send him a
ticket of admission to the Institution for Idiots and Feeble-minded
Youth? One doesn’t like to be cruel,—and yet one hates to lie.
Therefore one softens down the ugly central fact of donkeyism,—recommends
study of good models,—that writing verse should be an incidental
occupation only, not interfering with the hoe, the needle, the lapstone,
or the ledger,—and, above all that there should be no hurry in printing
what is written. Not the least use in all this. The poetaster who has
tasted type is done for. He is like the man who has once been a
candidate for the Presidency. He feeds on the madder of his delusion all
his days, and his very bones grow red with the glow of his foolish fancy.
One of these young brains is like a bunch of India crackers; once touch
fire to it and it is best to keep hands off until it has done popping,—if
it ever stops. I have two letters on file; one is a pattern of
adulation, the other of impertinence. My reply to the first, containing
the best advice I could give, conveyed in courteous language, had brought
out the second. There was some sport in this, but Dulness is not
commonly a game fish, and only sulks after he is struck. You may set it
down as a truth which admits of few exceptions, that those who ask your
_opinion_ really want your _praise_, and will be contented with nothing
less.
There is another kind of application to which editors, or those supposed
to have access to them, are liable, and which often proves trying and
painful. One is appealed to in behalf of some person in needy
circumstances who wishes to make a living by the pen. A manuscript
accompanying the letter is offered for publication. It is not commonly
brilliant, too often lamentably deficient. If Rachel’s saying is true,
that “fortune is the measure of intelligence,” then poverty is evidence
of limited capacity which it too frequently proves to be, notwithstanding
a noble exception here and there. Now an editor is a person under a
contract with the public to furnish them with the best things he can
afford for his money. Charity shown by the publication of an inferior
article would be like the generosity of Claude Duval and the other
gentlemen highwaymen, who pitied the poor so much they robbed the rich to
have the means of relieving them.
Though I am not and never was an editor, I know something of the trials
to which they are submitted. They have nothing to do but to develope
enormous calluses at every point of contact with authorship. Their
business is not a matter of sympathy, but of intellect. They must reject
the unfit productions of those whom they long to befriend, because it
would be a profligate charity to accept them. One cannot burn his house
down to warm the hands even of the fatherless and the widow.
THE PROFESSOR UNDER CHLOROFORM.
—You haven’t heard about my friend the Professor’s first experiment in
the use of anæsthetics, have you?
He was mightily pleased with the reception of that poem of his about the
chaise. He spoke to me once or twice about another poem of similar
character he wanted to read me, which I told him I would listen to and
criticize.
One day, after dinner, he came in with his face tied up, looking very red
in the cheeks and heavy about the eyes.—Hy’r’ye?—he said, and made for an
arm-chair, in which he placed first his hat and then his person, going
smack through the crown of the former as neatly as they do the trick at
the circus. The Professor jumped at the explosion as if he had sat down
on one of those small _calthrops_ our grandfathers used to sow round in
the grass when there were Indians about,—iron stars, each ray a rusty
thorn an inch and a half long,—stick through moccasins into feet,—cripple
’em on the spot, and give ’em lockjaw in a day or two.
At the same time he let off one of those big words which lie at the
bottom of the best man’s vocabulary, but perhaps never turn up in his
life,—just as every man’s hair _may_ stand on end, but in most men it
never does.
After he had got calm, he pulled out a sheet or two of manuscript,
together with a smaller scrap, on which, as he said, he had just been
writing an introduction or prelude to the main performance. A certain
suspicion had come into my mind that the Professor was not quite right,
which was confirmed by the way he talked; but I let him begin. This is
the way he read it:—
_Prelude_.
I’M the fellah that tole one day
The tale of the won’erful one-hoss-shay.
Wan’ to hear another? Say.
—Funny, wasn’it? Made _me_ laugh,—
I’m too modest, I am, by half,—
Made me laugh ’_s though I sh’d split_,—
Cahn’ a fellah like fellah’s own wit?—
—Fellahs keep sayin’,—“Well, now that’s nice;
Did it once, but cahn’ do it twice.”—
Dön’ you b’lieve the’z no more fat;
Lots in the kitch’n ’z good ’z that.
Fus’-rate throw, ’n’ no mistake,—
Han’ us the props for another shake;—
Know I’ll try, ’n’ guess I’ll win;
Here sh’ goes for hit ’m ag’in!
Here I thought it necessary to interpose.—Professor,—I said,—you are
inebriated. The style of what you call your “Prelude” shows that it was
written under cerebral excitement. Your articulation is confused. You
have told me three times in succession, in exactly the same words, that I
was the only true friend you had in the world that you would unbutton
your heart to. You smell distinctly and decidedly of spirits.—I spoke,
and paused; tender, but firm.
Two large tears orbed themselves beneath the Professor’s lids,—in
obedience to the principle of gravitation celebrated in that delicious
bit of bladdery bathos, “The very law that moulds a tear,” with which the
“Edinburgh Review” attempted to put down Master George Gordon when that
young man was foolishly trying to make himself conspicuous.
One of these tears peeped over the edge of the lid until it lost its
balance,—slid an inch and waited for reinforcements,—swelled
again,—rolled down a little further,—stopped,—moved on,—and at last fell
on the back of the Professor’s hand. He held it up for me to look at,
and lifted his eyes, brimful, till they met mine.
I couldn’t stand it,—I always break down when folks cry in my face,—so I
hugged him, and said he was a dear old boy, and asked him kindly what was
the matter with him, and what made him smell so dreadfully strong of
spirits.
Upset his alcohol lamp,—he said,—and spilt the alcohol on his legs. That
was it.—But what had he been doing to get his head into such a state?—had
he really committed an excess? What was the matter?—Then it came out
that he had been taking chloroform to have a tooth out, which had left
him in a very queer state, in which he had written the “Prelude” given
above, and under the influence of which he evidently was still.
I took the manuscript from his hands and read the following continuation
of the lines he had begun to read me, while he made up for two or three
nights’ lost sleep as he best might.
PARSON TURELL’S LEGACY:
OR THE PRESIDENT’S OLD ARM-CHAIR.
A MATHEMATICAL STORY.
FACTS respecting an old arm-chair.
At Cambridge. Is kept in the College there.
Seems but little the worse for wear.
That’s remarkable when I say
It was old in President Holyoke’s day.
(One of his boys, perhaps you know,
Died, _at one hundred_, years ago.)
_He_ took lodging for rain or shine
Under green bed-clothes in ’69.
Know old Cambridge? Hope you do.—
Born there? Don’t say so! I was, too.
(Born in a house with a gambrel-roof,—
Standing still, if you must have proof.—
“Gambrel?—Gambrel?”—Let me beg
You’ll look at a horse’s hinder leg,—
First great angle above the hoof,—
That’s the gambrel; hence gambrel-roof.)
—Nicest place that ever was seen,—
Colleges red and Common green,
Sidewalks brownish with trees between.
Sweetest spot beneath the skies
When the canker-worms don’t rise,—
When the dust, that sometimes flies
Into your mouth and ears and eyes.
In a quiet slumber lies,
_Not_ in the shape of unbaked pies
Such as barefoot children prize.
A kind of harber it seems to be,
Facing the flow of a boundless sea.
Rows of gray old Tutors stand
Ranged like rocks above the sand;
Rolling beneath them, soft and green,
Breaks the tide of bright sixteen,—
One wave, two waves, three waves, four,
Sliding up the sparkling floor;
Then it ebbs to flow no more,
Wandering off from shore to shore
With its freight of golden ore!
—Pleasant place for boys to play;—
Better keep your girls away;
Hearts get rolled as pebbles do
Which countless fingering waves pursue,
And every classic beach is strown
With heart-shaped pebbles of blood-red stone.
But this is neither here nor there;—
I’m talking about an old arm-chair.
You’ve heard, no doubt, of PARSON TURELL?
Over at Medford he used to dwell;
Married one of the Mathers’ folk;
Got with his wife a chair of oak,—
Funny old chair, with seat like wedge,
Sharp behind and broad front edge,—
One of the oddest of human things,
Turned all over with knobs and rings,—
But heavy, and wide, and deep, and grand,—
Fit for the worthies of the land,—
Chief-Justice Sewall a cause to try in,
Or Cotton Mather to sit—and lie—in.
—Parson Turell bequeathed the same
To a certain student,—SMITH by name;
These were the terms, as we are told:
“Saide Smith saide Chaire to have and holde;
When he doth graduate, then to passe
To ye oldest Youth in ye Senior Classe.
On Payment of”—(naming a certain sum)—
“By him to whom ye Chaire shall come;
He to ye oldest Senior next,
And soe forever,”—(thus runs the text,)—
“But one Crown lesse then he gave to claime,
That being his Debte for use of same.”
_Smith_ transferred it to one of the BROWNS,
And took his money,—five silver crowns.
_Brown_ delivered it up to MOORE,
Who paid, it is plain, not five, but four.
_Moore_ made over the chair to LEE,
Who gave him crowns of silver three.
_Lee_ conveyed it unto DREW,
And now the payment, of course, was two.
_Drew_ gave up the chair to DUNN,—
All he got, as you see, was one.
_Dunn_ released the chair to HALL,
And got by the bargain no crown at all.
—And now it passed to a second BROWN,
Who took it, and likewise _claimed a crown_.
When _Brown_ conveyed it unto WARE,
Having had one crown, to make it fair,
He paid him two crowns to take the chair;
And _Ware_, being honest, (as all Wares be,)
He paid one POTTER, who took it, three.
Four got ROBINSON; five got DIX;
JOHNSON _primus_ demanded six;
And so the sum kept gathering still
Till after the battle of Bunker’s Hill
—When paper money became so cheap,
Folks wouldn’t count it, but said “a heap,”
A certain RICHARDS, the books declare,
(A. M. in ’90? I’ve looked with care
Through the Triennial,—_name not there_.)
This person, Richards, was offered then
Eight score pounds, but would have ten;
Nine, I think, was the sum he took,—
Not quite certain,—but see the book.
—By and by the wars were still,
But nothing had altered the Parson’s will.
The old arm-chair was solid yet,
But saddled with such a monstrous debt!
Things grew quite too bad to bear,
Paying such sums to get rid of the chair!
But dead men’s fingers hold awful tight,
And there was the will in black and white,
Plain enough for a child to spell.
What should be done no man could tell,
For the chair was a kind of nightmare curse,
And every season but made it worse.
As a last resort, to clear the doubt,
They got old GOVERNOR HANCOCK out.
The Governor came, with his Light-horse Troop
And his mounted truckmen, all cock-a-hoop;
Halberds glittered and colors flew,
French horns whinnied and trumpets blew,
The yellow fifes whistled between their teeth
And the bumble-bee bass-drums boomed beneath;
So he rode with all his band,
Till the President met him, cap in hand.
—The Governor “hefted” the crowns, and said,—
“A will is a will, and the Parson’s dead.”
The Governor hefted the crowns. Said he,—
“There is your p’int. And here’s my fee.
These are the terms you must fulfil,—
On such conditions I BREAK THE WILL!”
The Governor mentioned what these should be.
(Just wait a minute and then you’ll see.)
The President prayed. Then all was still,
And the Governor rose and BROKE THE WILL!
—“About those conditions?” Well, now you go
And do as I tell you, and then you’ll know.
Once a year, on Commencement-day,
If you’ll only take the pains to stay,
You’ll see the President in the CHAIR,
Likewise the Governor sitting there.
The President rises; both old and young
May hear his speech in a foreign tongue,
The meaning whereof, as lawyers swear,
Is this: Can I keep this old arm-chair?
And then his Excellency bows,
As much as to say that he allows.
The Vice-Gub. next is called by name;
He bows like t’other, which means the same.
And all the officers round ’em bow,
As much as to say that _they_ allow.
And a lot of parchments about the chair
Are handed to witnesses then and there,
And then the lawyers hold it clear
That the chair is safe for another year.
God bless you, Gentlemen! Learn to give
Money to colleges while you live.
Don’t be silly and think you’ll try
To bother the colleges, when you die,
With codicil this, and codicil that,
That Knowledge may starve while Law grows fat;
For there never was pitcher that wouldn’t spill,
And there’s always a flaw in a donkey’s will!
—Hospitality is a good deal a matter of latitude, I suspect. The shade
of a palm-tree serves an African for a hut; his dwelling is all door and
no walls; everybody can come in. To make a morning call on an Esquimaux
acquaintance, one must creep through a long tunnel; his house is all
walls and no door, except such a one as an apple with a worm-hole has.
One might, very probably, trace a regular gradation between these two
extremes. In cities where the evenings are generally hot, the people
have porches at their doors, where they sit, and this is, of course, a
provocative to the interchange of civilities. A good deal, which in
colder regions is ascribed to mean dispositions, belongs really to mean
temperature.
Once in a while, even in our Northern cities, at noon, in a very hot
summer’s day, one may realize, by a sudden extension in his sphere of
consciousness, how closely he is shut up for the most part.—Do you not
remember something like this? July, between 1 and 2, P. M., Fahrenheit
96°, or thereabout. Windows all gaping, like the mouths of panting dogs.
Long, stinging cry of a locust comes in from a tree, half a mile off; had
forgotten there was such a tree. Baby’s screams from a house several
blocks distant;—never knew there were any babies in the neighborhood
before. Tinman pounding something that clatters dreadfully,—very
distinct, but don’t remember any tinman’s shop near by. Horses stamping
on pavement to get off flies. When you hear these four sounds, you may
set it down as a warm day. Then it is that one would like to imitate the
mode of life of the native at Sierra Leone, as somebody has described it:
stroll into the market in natural costume,—buy a water-melon for a
halfpenny,—split it, and scoop out the middle,—sit down in one half of
the empty rind, clap the other on one’s head, and feast upon the pulp.
—I see some of the London journals have been attacking some of their
literary people for lecturing, on the ground of its being a public
exhibition of themselves for money. A popular author can print his
lecture; if he deliver it, it is a case of _quæstum corpore_, or making
profit of his person. None but “snobs” do that. _Ergo_, etc. To this I
reply,—_Negatur minor_. Her Most Gracious Majesty, the Queen, exhibits
herself to the public as a part of the service for which she is paid. We
do not consider it low-bred in her to pronounce her own speech, and
should prefer it so to hearing it from any other person, or reading it.
His Grace and his Lordship exhibit themselves very often for popularity,
and their houses every day for money.—No, if a man shows himself other
than he is, if he belittles himself before an audience for hire, then he
acts unworthily. But a true word, fresh from the lips of a true man, is
worth paying for, at the rate of eight dollars a day, or even of fifty
dollars a lecture. The taunt must be an outbreak of jealousy against the
renowned authors who have the audacity to be also orators. The
sub-lieutenants (of the press) stick a too popular writer and speaker
with an epithet in England, instead of with a rapier, as in France.—Poh!
All England is one great menagerie, and, all at once, the jackal, who
admires the gilded cage of the royal beast, must protest against the
vulgarity of the talking-bird’s and the nightingale’s being willing to
become a part of the exhibition!
THE LONG PATH.
(_Last of the Parentheses_.)
Yes, that was my last walk with the _schoolmistress_. It happened to be
the end of a term; and before the next began, a very nice young woman,
who had been her assistant, was announced as her successor, and she was
provided for elsewhere. So it was no longer the schoolmistress that I
walked with, but—Let us not be in unseemly haste. I shall call her the
schoolmistress still; some of you love her under that name.
When it became known among the boarders that two of their number had
joined hands to walk down the long path of life side by side, there was,
as you may suppose, no small sensation. I confess I pitied our landlady.
It took her all of a suddin,—she said. Had not known that we was keepin
company, and never mistrusted anything particular. Ma’am was right to
better herself. Didn’t look very rugged to take care of a femily, but
could get hired haälp, she calc’lated.—The great maternal instinct came
crowding up in her soul just then, and her eyes wandered until they
settled on her daughter.
—No, poor, dear woman,—that could not have been. But I am dropping one
of my internal tears for you, with this pleasant smile on my face all the
time.
The great mystery of God’s providence is the permitted crushing out of
flowering instincts. Life is maintained by the respiration of oxygen and
of sentiments. In the long catalogue of scientific cruelties there is
hardly anything quite so painful to think of as that experiment of
putting an animal under the bell of an air-pump and exhausting the air
from it. [I never saw the accursed trick performed. _Laus Deo_!] There
comes a time when the souls of human beings, women, perhaps, more even
than men, begin to faint for the atmosphere of the affections they were
made to breathe. Then it is that Society places its transparent
bell-glass over the young woman who is to be the subject of one of its
fatal experiments. The element by which only the heart lives is sucked
out of her crystalline prison. Watch her through its transparent
walls;—her bosom is heaving; but it is in a vacuum. Death is no riddle,
compared to this. I remember a poor girl’s story in the “Book of
Martyrs.” The “dry-pan and the gradual fire” were the images that
frightened her most. How many have withered and wasted under as slow a
torment in the walls of that larger Inquisition which we call
Civilization!
Yes, my surface-thought laughs at you, you foolish, plain, overdressed,
mincing, cheaply-organized, self-saturated young person, whoever you may
be, now reading this,—little thinking you are what I describe, and in
blissful unconsciousness that you are destined to the lingering asphyxia
of soul which is the lot of such multitudes worthier than yourself. But
it is only my surface-thought which laughs. For that great procession of
the UNLOVED, who not only wear the crown of thorns, but must hide it
under the locks of brown or gray,—under the snowy cap, under the chilling
turban,—hide it even from themselves,—perhaps never know they wear it,
though it kills them,—there is no depth of tenderness in my nature that
Pity has not sounded. Somewhere,—somewhere,—love is in store for
them,—the universe must not be allowed to fool them so cruelly. What
infinite pathos in the small, half-unconscious artifices by which
unattractive young persons seek to recommend themselves to the favor of
those towards whom our dear sisters, the unloved, like the rest, are
impelled by their God-given instincts!
Read what the singing-women—one to ten thousand of the suffering
women—tell us, and think of the griefs that die unspoken! Nature is in
earnest when she makes a woman; and there are women enough lying in the
next churchyard with very commonplace blue slate-stones at their head and
feet, for whom it was just as true that “all sounds of life assumed one
tone of love,” as for Letitia Landon, of whom Elizabeth Browning said it;
but she could give words to her grief, and they could not.—Will you hear
a few stanzas of mine?
THE VOICELESS.
We count the broken lyres that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,—
But o’er their silent sister’s breast
The wild flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them;—
Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them!
Nay, grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts’ sad story,—
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory!
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep
O’er Sappho’s memory-haunted billow,
But where the glistening night-dews weep
On nameless sorrow’s churchyard pillow.
O hearts that break and give no sign
Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
Till Death pours out his cordial wine
Slow-dropped from Misery’s crushing presses,—
If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!
I hope that our landlady’s daughter is not so badly off, after all. That
young man from another city who made the remark which you remember about
Boston State-house and Boston folks, has appeared at our table repeatedly
of late, and has seemed to me rather attentive to this young lady. Only
last evening I saw him leaning over her while she was playing the
accordion,—indeed, I undertook to join them in a song, and got as far as
“Come rest in this boo-oo,” when, my voice getting tremulous, I turned
off, as one steps out of a procession, and left the basso and soprano to
finish it. I see no reason why this young woman should not be a very
proper match for a man that laughs about Boston State-house. He can’t be
very particular.
The young fellow whom I have so often mentioned was a little free in his
remarks, but very good-natured.—Sorry to have you go,—he
said.—School-ma’am made a mistake not to wait for me. Haven’t taken
anything but mournin’ fruit at breakfast since I heard of it.—_Mourning_
fruit,—said I,—what’s that?—Huckleberries and blackberries,—said
he;—couldn’t eat in colors, raspberries, currants, and such, after a
solemn thing like this happening.—The conceit seemed to please the young
fellow. If you will believe it, when we came down to breakfast the next
morning, he had carried it out as follows. You know those odious little
“saäs-plates” that figure so largely at boarding-houses, and especially
at taverns, into which a strenuous attendant female trowels little dabs,
sombre of tint and heterogeneous of composition, which it makes you feel
homesick to look at, and into which you poke the elastic coppery
tea-spoon with the air of a cat dipping her foot into a wash-tub,—(not
that I mean to say anything against them, for, when they are of tinted
porcelain or starry many-faceted crystal, and hold clean bright berries,
or pale virgin honey, or “lucent syrups tinct with cinnamon,” and the
teaspoon is of white silver, with the Tower-stamp, solid, but not
brutally heavy,—as people in the green stage of millionism will have
them,—I can dally with their amber semi-fluids or glossy spherules
without a shiver,)—you know these small, deep dishes, I say. When we
came down the next morning, each of these (two only excepted) was covered
with a broad leaf. On lifting this, each boarder found a small heap of
solemn black huckleberries. But one of those plates held red currants,
and was covered with a red rose; the other held white currants, and was
covered with a white rose. There was a laugh at this at first, and then
a short silence, and I noticed that her lip trembled, and the old
gentleman opposite was in trouble to get at his bandanna handkerchief.
—“What was the use in waiting? We should be too late for Switzerland,
that season, if we waited much longer.”—The hand I held trembled in mine,
and the eyes fell meekly, as Esther bowed herself before the feet of
Ahasuerus.—She had been reading that chapter, for she looked up,—if there
was a film of moisture over her eyes there was also the faintest shadow
of a distant smile skirting her lips, but not enough to accent the
dimples,—and said, in her pretty, still way,—“If it please the king, and
if I have found favor in his sight, and the thing seem right before the
king, and I be pleasing in his eyes”—
I don’t remember what King Ahasuerus did or said when Esther got just to
that point of her soft, humble words,—but I know what I did. That
quotation from Scripture was cut short, anyhow. We came to a compromise
on the great question, and the time was settled for the last day of
summer.
In the mean time, I talked on with our boarders, much as usual, as you
may see by what I have reported. I must say, I was pleased with a
certain tenderness they all showed toward us, after the first excitement
of the news was over. It came out in trivial matters,—but each one, in
his or her way, manifested kindness. Our landlady, for instance, when we
had chickens, sent the _liver_ instead of the _gizzard_, with the wing,
for the schoolmistress. This was not an accident; the two are never
mistaken, though some landladies _appear_ as if they did not know the
difference. The whole of the company were even more respectfully
attentive to my remarks than usual. There was no idle punning, and very
little winking on the part of that lively young gentleman who, as the
reader may remember, occasionally interposed some playful question or
remark, which could hardly be considered relevant,—except when the least
allusion was made to matrimony, when he would look at the landlady’s
daughter, and wink with both sides of his face, until she would ask what
he was pokin’ his fun at her for, and if he wasn’t ashamed of himself.
In fact, they all behaved very handsomely, so that I really felt sorry at
the thought of leaving my boarding-house.
I suppose you think, that, because I lived at a plain widow-woman’s plain
table, I was of course more or less infirm in point of worldly fortune.
You may not be sorry to learn, that, though not what _great merchants_
call very rich, I was comfortable,—comfortable,—so that most of those
moderate luxuries I described in my verses on _Contentment_—_most_ of
them, I say—were within our reach, if we chose to have them. But I found
out that the schoolmistress had a vein of charity about her, which had
hitherto been worked on a small silver and copper basis, which made her
think less, perhaps, of luxuries than even I did,—modestly as I have
expressed my wishes.
It is a rather pleasant thing to tell a poor young woman, whom one has
contrived to win without showing his rent-roll, that she has found what
the world values so highly, in following the lead of her affections.
That was an enjoyment I was now ready for.
I began abruptly:—Do you know that you are a rich young person?
I know that I am very rich,—she said.—Heaven has given me more than I
ever asked; for I had not thought love was ever meant for me.
It was a woman’s confession, and her voice fell to a whisper as it
threaded the last words.
I don’t mean that,—I said,—you blessed little saint and seraph!—if
there’s an angel missing in the New Jerusalem, inquire for her at this
boarding house!—I don’t mean that! I mean that I—that is,
you—am—are—confound it!—I mean that you’ll be what most people call a
lady of fortune. And I looked full in her eyes for the effect of the
announcement.
There wasn’t any. She said she was thankful that I had what would save
me from drudgery, and that some other time I should tell her about it.—I
never made a greater failure in an attempt to produce a sensation.
So the last day of summer came. It was our choice to go to the church,
but we had a kind of reception at the boarding-house. The presents were
all arranged, and among them none gave more pleasure than the modest
tributes of our fellow-boarders,—for there was not one, I believe, who
did not send something. The landlady would insist on making an elegant
bride-cake, with her own hands; to which Master Benjamin Franklin wished
to add certain embellishments out of his private funds,—namely, a Cupid
in a mouse-trap, done in white sugar, and two miniature flags with the
stars and stripes, which had a very pleasing effect, I assure you. The
landlady’s daughter sent a richly bound copy of Tupper’s Poems. On a
blank leaf was the following, written in a very delicate and careful
hand:—
Presented to . . . by . . .
On the eve ere her union in holy matrimony.
May sunshine ever beam o’er her!
Even the poor relative thought she must do something, and sent a copy of
“The Whole Duty of Man,” bound in very attractive variegated sheepskin,
the edges nicely marbled. From the divinity-student came the loveliest
English edition of “Keble’s Christian Year.” I opened it, when it came,
to the _Fourth Sunday in Lent_, and read that angelic poem, sweeter than
anything I can remember since Xavier’s “My God, I love thee.”—I am not a
Churchman,—I don’t believe in planting oaks in flower-pots,—but such a
poem as “The Rosebud” makes one’s heart a proselyte to the culture it
grows from. Talk about it as much as you like,—one’s breeding shows
itself nowhere more than in his religion. A man should be a gentleman in
his hymns and prayers; the fondness for “scenes,” among vulgar saints,
contrasts so meanly with that—
“God only and good angels look
Behind the blissful scene,”—
and that other,—
“He could not trust his melting soul
But in his Maker’s sight,”—
that I hope some of them will see this, and read the poem, and profit by
it.
My laughing and winking young friend undertook to procure and arrange the
flowers for the table, and did it with immense zeal. I never saw him
look happier than when he came in, his hat saucily on one side, and a
cheroot in his mouth, with a huge bunch of tea-roses, which he said were
for “Madam.”
One of the last things that came was an old square box, smelling of
camphor, tied and sealed. It bore, in faded ink, the marks, “Calcutta,
1805.” On opening it, we found a white Cashmere shawl with a very brief
note from the dear old gentleman opposite, saying that he had kept this
some years, thinking he might want it, and many more, not knowing what to
do with it,—that he had never seen it unfolded since he was a young
supercargo,—and now, if she would spread it on her shoulders, it would
make him feel young to look at it.
Poor Bridget, or Biddy, our red-armed maid of all work! What must she do
but buy a small copper breast-pin and put it under “Schoolma’am’s” plate
that morning, at breakfast? And Schoolma’am would wear it,—though I made
her cover it, as well as I could, with a tea-rose.
It was my last breakfast as a boarder, and I could not leave them in
utter silence.
Good-by,—I said,—my dear friends, one and all of you! I have been long
with you, and I find it hard parting. I have to thank you for a thousand
courtesies, and above all for the patience and indulgence with which you
have listened to me when I have tried to instruct or amuse you. My
friend the Professor (who, as well as my friend the Poet, is unavoidably
absent on this interesting occasion) has given me reason to suppose that
he would occupy my empty chair about the first of January next. If he
comes among you, be kind to him, as you have been to me. May the Lord
bless you all!—And we shook hands all round the table.
Half an hour afterwards the breakfast things and the cloth were gone. I
looked up and down the length of the bare boards over which I had so
often uttered my sentiments and experiences—and—Yes, I am a man, like
another.
All sadness vanished, as, in the midst of these old friends of mine, whom
you know, and others a little more up in the world, perhaps, to whom I
have not introduced you, I took the schoolmistress before the altar from
the hands of the old gentleman who used to sit opposite, and who would
insist on giving her away.
And now we two are walking the long path in peace together. The
“schoolmistress” finds her skill in teaching called for again, without
going abroad to seek little scholars. Those visions of mine have all
come true.
I hope you all love me none the less for anything I have told you.
Farewell!