speedily arranged that the hunter should accompany the family back
to the house, to inter the dead husband. As the party approached
the cabin, the family halted, and the hunter advanced to look into
the condition of the interior, before the mourners ventured to take
another gaze of horror. Hunters, as well as sailors, have their
superstitions, which deduct somewhat from their general fearless
bearing. They believe in charms on their rifles, and sometimes employ
a person skilled in magical incantations to 'take off the spell.' It
is not, therefore, unaccountable, that this woodsman felt greater
apprehension in approaching the cabin where a dead body lay, than he
would in conflict with an Indian, or in a close hug with an 'old he
bear,' provided his butcher-knife was stiff, of approved temper, and
sharp at the point. He 'laid out' an old she wolf with his rifle,
that was scratching at the door of the desolate habitation, and was
on the point of raising the latch, when he heard issuing from within
a low moaning sound. Venturing to peep through an opening where
the chinking had fallen out, a single glance at the frightful and
mutilated corpse satisfied his heated imagination that the sound
proceeded from the dead husband. He ran off with wild affright, under
a full conviction that the house was haunted. The earnest entreaties
of the widow induced him, in company with herself, to approach the
cabin once more. They looked in at the same moment, and beheld, as
their superstitious imaginations severally painted the scene before
them, in the conception of the hunter, a black, cloven-footed beast,
sitting on the body of the deceased, while the widow insisted that
something like a swan was hovering over the remains of her dead
husband. The moaning was renewed; the confinement of the cat was
not remembered, and the spectators of the horrors within ran away
in despair. The hunter once more ventured near enough to the cabin
to throw a torch upon its roof. When the flames had spread, and were
rapidly reducing the house to a mass of vivid ruin, the funeral party
mounted their horses, and turned their backs upon the ashes of the
DEAD HUSBAND.
FOOTNOTE:
[13] THE writer of this very spirited sketch of western life, assures
us that it is essentially true, having been narrated to him by a
respectable citizen, only six miles from the closing scene of the
tragic adventure. A fictitious name has been substituted, out of
delicacy to the survivors of the family.
EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.
THE DYING BOY.
BY THE LATE J. HUNTINGTON BRIGHT, ESQ.
IT must be sweet in childhood to give back
The spirit to its Maker, ere the heart
Hath grown familiar with the paths of sin,
And soon to gather up its bitter fruits.
I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,
And when the eighth came round, and called him out
To revel in its light, he turned away,
And sought his chamber to lie down and die.
'Twas night; he summoned his accustomed friends,
And on this wise bestowed his last request:
'Mother, I'm dying now!
There's a deep suffocation on my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed,
And on my brows I feel the cold sweat stand.
Say, mother, is this death?
Mother, your hand!
Here, lay it on my wrist,
And place the other thus, beneath my head;
And say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead,
Shall I be missed?
'Never beside your knee
Shall I kneel down at night and pray,
Nor in the morning wake, and sing the lay
You taught to me.
Oh! at the time of prayer,
When you look round and see a vacant seat,
You will not wait then for my coming feet--
You'll miss me there!
'Father, I'm going home!
To that great home you spoke of, that blessed land,
Where there is one bright summer, always bland,
And tortures do not come;
From faintness and from pain,
From troubles, fears, you say I shall be free--
That sickness does not enter there, and we
Shall meet again!
'Brother, the little spot
I used to call my garden, where long hours
We've stay'd to watch the coming buds and flowers--
Forget it not!
Plant there some box or pine,
Something that lives in winter, and will be
A verdant offering to my memory,
And call it mine.
'Sister, the young rose-tree,
That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give to thee;
And when its roses bloom,
I shall be gone away--my short course run--
And will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb?
'Now, mother, sing the tune
You sang last night; I'm weary, and must sleep:
_Who was it called my name?_ Nay, do not weep--
You'll all come soon!'
Morning spreads over earth her rosy wings,
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep. The morning air
Came through the open window, freighted with
The fragrant odors of the lovely spring.
He breathed it not. The laugh of passer-by
Jarred like a discord in some mournful note,
But worried not his slumber. He was dead!
A FEW THOUGHTS ON PHRENOLOGY.
IN TWO PARTS.--PART ONE.
'Hear me for my cause, and be silent that you may hear.'
--'JULIUS CÆSAR.'
WHATEVER conflicts with the opinions or prejudices of mankind, must
commend itself to public favor by something more than its simple
truth, or according to the world's estimate of its danger or folly,
persecution or ridicule will ever wait upon its progress to general
belief.
The phrenologist has not been compelled to ascend the scaffold,
nor has he been tortured with 'a slow fire of green wood,' for
his heretical opinions; and for this mercy, he is indebted to
the enlightenment of the age in which he first proclaimed his
discoveries: but he has been preserved, in order to be 'roasted'
by the burning satire of his contemporaries, and to be 'served up'
for the gratification of those epicures in wit, who, with the aid
of a good tailor, can do more for the cause of truth by a look and
a laugh, than a Gall or a Spurzheim, by the labors of a life. To
these laughing philosophers, your phrenologist is a very eccentric
man indeed--very; to their humble apprehensions, his science appears
quite stupid--quite; and all he converses about, appears to them to
be nothing more nor less than 'bumpology,' positively. Moreover, they
have heard some amusing anecdotes upon the subject. A travelling
disciple of this wonderful science, who wrote out characters for
eighteen pence per head, once departed from the scene of his labors
without paying his bill, and his landlord was represented as so far
becoming a convert to his guest's theory, as to believe in the organ
of '_unpayativeness_!'
These philosophers ill conceal their mirth at the frequent occurrence
of mistakes made by those gentlemen termed practical phrenologists,
and have been known to violate every rule for the suppression of
ungentlemanly laughter, when the fact has been related, that a
manipulator of heads, supposing himself (being blindfolded,) to be
in a prison, pronounced the wealthy mayor of a city to be a thief;
a retired butcher to be a murderer; and a minister of the gospel to
have been convicted of rape!
More important opponents have been found among the traders in the
current literature of the day; as well your 'penny-a-liner,' as the
man who has had the courage to write a book, and the good fortune to
vend a copy-right, have been unmercifully witty at the expense of my
brethren; and without waiting to inquire whether any important truth
was concerned in phrenological investigation, they have only sought
to know whether any thing ludicrous could be derived from it. These
oracles Ignorance consulted, and the response was--a laugh.
One American author, whose writings denote the combined action of
mirthfulness and destructiveness, very magnanimously allowed the
phrenologist the distinction of being one of the 'Three Wise Men of
Gotham.' He is portrayed as sallying forth with no less enthusiasm
than La Mancha's renowned knight, nor with less 'rueful visage,'
upon a forlorn pilgrimage to some Golgotha, in quest of specimens to
illustrate the truths of his mighty discovery; while one of his high
compeers sails in quest of the great central hole of the earth; and
the other stands in a glow of intense rapture, viewing the sudden
perfectability of human nature. But alas for such noble enthusiasm!
If our grave author's relation of the facts be genuine, (and who
doubts his historical accuracy?) the
'Three little boys that a-sliding went,
All on a summer's day,'
met with an enviable fate, compared with that of these children
of wisdom. The captain's boat never entered the wished-for haven;
the philanthropist failed to make the lion and the lamb lie down
together in peace and safety; and the unhappy phrenologist, in his
'meditations among the tombs,' erred in pronouncing upon the traits
of mind that once inhabited the poor fragments he had gathered up;
and he found his science blown to atoms, because he mistook the
cranium of a fool for that of a philosopher!--a mistake which the
vanity of an author might possibly make in his own case, with far
better opportunities of judging aright.
A science that could survive an attack like this, must have had
_brains_ indeed to support it; and he who ventured to proclaim its
truth, after a world's laugh had announced its folly, must have
possessed more than an ordinary share of moral courage.
But the science of Human Nature survived this satire, and having
outlived the sneers of learned prejudice, and the obstreperous mirth
of vulgar ignorance, now commands much of the serious attention of
mankind.
The world had long known the principal facts which suggested
phrenological inquiry, but had omitted to pursue the investigation
necessary to form a correct conclusion from them. Established
theories in government, civil and moral, and in mental philosophy,
presented great obstacles to such an inquiry as has finally been
made. For many centuries, man had been regarded as a depraved moral
being--instinctively inclined to do wrong--without a countervailing
good sentiment; and the phrenologist has not yet been forgiven, in
certain quarters, for his refutation of this slander. To him it was
obvious, that no man could be found devoid of any good attribute.
One is condemned for injustice; may he not be benevolent? Another
professes to hate mankind, and yet loves his own offspring, and
cherishes them with the most tender solicitude and care. One is a
coward, but nevertheless benevolent and just; another is cruel, and
yet he is enthusiastic and brave. Here is a prodigal; but he is kind
and noble in his dispositions, and may yet return to paternal love,
with forgiveness and blessings upon his head. There, again, is a
thorough hater, and yet by the influence of the same temperament,
a most ardent lover, whom no maiden would despise. Who had failed
to observe as much as this?--and yet where was the apologist of his
race--the defender of man's moral nature against the charge of total
depravity?
Again: The intellects of men varied in activity and strength, and
this difference was known to be early developed in persons born
and nurtured under the same roof, and subjected to the same mental
and moral discipline. The father who discovered that his son could
not easily acquire a knowledge of words, but could nevertheless
demonstrate with readiness the most difficult problem in mathematics,
observed the fact in profitless silence. The phrenologist pointed
the father to the conformation of his child's brain as the origin
of his mental peculiarity; and demonstrated, that the effect which
the parent had observed in silent wonder, had an adequate cause. For
this he was ridiculed; while he who stupidly believed in the effect
without the cause, was reverently regarded as both orthodox and wise.
The world knew that the genius of Fulton was not adapted to the
writing of romance, while no one ever supposed that Sir Walter
Scott was possessed of mechanical skill; yet it was regarded as
mere accident, or great good fortune, that these distinguished
men stumbled into a career of thought which demanded the world's
admiration; and few dreamed that the causes of their varied
excellence were as great and different, as the effects were
dissimilar. Burns walked a poet behind his plough; and yet no other
Scottish farmer seemed a poet 'ready made,' although he may have been
as strong, as tall, and equally handsome. There _must_ have been
some difference in the head of Scotia's own bard--something that
elevated his nature, and lifted him above his walk in life. To adopt
his own language, he must have been 'one of Nature's noblemen, who
derived the patent for his honors directly from the Almighty;' and
yet, by what _outward seal_ the patent was impressed which conferred
the native title to distinction, the world knew not, and but for
phrenology, never would have known. Pope
'Lisped in numbers, _for the numbers came_;'
and so did Zerah Colburn; and yet how different their _numbers_ were!
So wonderful was this latter individual, when a mere child, that he
was esteemed by his friends as an intellectual prodigy; and parental
love, fondly doting on its gifted child, and admiring
----'such wisdom in an earthly shape,
Showed up a 'Colburn' as we show an ape.'
People had not ceased to wonder at the brilliancy of the boy, when
his mediocrity as a man produced a second surprise. He excelled in
nothing but numbers--and that was very mysterious indeed!
Woman has three characteristics, in great perfection and strength, to
wit: fear, attachment, and veneration; so much so, that a wag might
define woman to be 'a timid, affectionate, and religious animal.' Now
the phrenologist has observed, that at certain points where he has
located the organs of cautiousness, adhesiveness, and veneration,
woman's head is much fuller than man's. The most ordinary observer
will admit this to be the fact, upon inspection; but the answer he
will be likely to make, will be, that this is so, because she is
a woman; whereas she happens to be a woman, _because this is so_!
Without the full manifestations of these organs of the mind, woman's
nature would be radically changed; her gentle dependence upon man
for safety and protection would cease; her meek reliance upon her
Creator, and her distinguished reverence for sacred things, would
fail; and the gentleness, grace, and piety of her sex would depart
from her. Ambition would usurp the place of loveliness; the lord of
the creation would have to bear a _sister_ 'near the throne;' and a
rough contest for dominion would as much distinguish the sexes, as
they are at present characterized by the fullest manifestation, of
mutual courtesy and kindness.
Before phrenological investigation and discovery, man's moral and
intellectual nature seemed destined to perpetual mal-treatment. The
passion of fear was appealed to alike, to quicken the intellectual
faculties and moral sentiments of youth. If one failed to acquire
a lesson in a particular study with the same facility as another,
it was set down to his indolence; if one betrayed an unruly
propensity, which another did not manifest, it was charged to the
general corruption of human nature; and the lash, in either case,
was regarded as the blessed quickener of mental and moral dulness.
The lesson was no better acquired, nor was the dangerous propensity
diminished in activity, after the application of this remedy; and yet
the rod and the delinquent urchin remained inseparable companions.
The youth who, under the influence of angry excitement, had
taken vengeance on his fellow, was never found to have had his
destructiveness attempered with benevolence through the influence
of scourging; nor has he who neglected mathematics, for the love of
poetry, ever been flogged into an admiration of the exact sciences.
The world was wondering at the reason of the failure, when the
phrenologist stepped forth and informed them; but they laughed at
him, and whipped the children still!
Again: The man who was never forbidden to steal, may never have
stolen; while another, to whom has been repeated every day of his
life the command, 'Thou shalt not kill,' may nevertheless commit
murder; and yet both have been treated as though they possessed the
same sentiments and passions in an equal degree; and so of course
they have received the same moral discipline. In him who knows no
fear, how vain the attempt to inspire terror as the preventor of
crime! And yet how readily would a noble sentiment respond to your
appeal, and come to the rescue, when his virtue was at its greatest
need, had it been trained to do so? Pride often concedes what cannot
be obtained from a love of justice, while love of approbation will
bestow in charity such sums as put benevolence to the blush for her
scanty gifts. Cautiousness often gives to vice the fair aspect of
virtue; while ingenuousness and courage often expose the purest man
to accusation and censure. The love of glory may stimulate to deeds
of heroism, which the dauntless patriot cannot excel; and people may
worship the hero for braving danger in their behalf, when it was only
his vanity he designed most particularly to serve.
The courtier approaches the minister of state with flattery, and
obtains power and place; the robber awaits his sojourn through a
lonely wood, and by putting in bodily fear, obtains his gold; while
the thief secretly creeps into his mansion, and carries off his
choicest plate and richest jewelry. Would the minister, the courtier,
the robber, and the thief, profit by the same moral lecture, and the
like mental discipline? Men often possess great religious reverence,
who are as often detected at cheating in trade. Is the world right
in denouncing such as hypocrites? May not great veneration and
acquisitiveness, with moderate conscientiousness, produce this
result? What correction has been applied to defects like these? Not
the right one, surely. The patient wants no more religion than he has
got, but a little more integrity. Quicken his conscientiousness, and
he is cured.
Whose benevolence is heightened by fear? Who refrains from theft for
the hope of reward? The just man tells you he has no _desire_ to
steal. Will the fear of punishment inspire devotion? The devout man
'_feels_ to adore' his Creator. Will fear convince the atheist of
his error?--or the hope of reward convert him to a reasonable faith?
Both of these have been lavishly dealt out to him, with very little
effect. There are those who love contention better than truth. Will
argument convince such? They avoid nothing so much as conviction,
which puts an end to contention, and of course to all the pleasure
derived from it. Such interpose combativeness between your argument
and their reason, and your blows fall thick upon the shield only,
and arouse it to more and more resistance. Why spin out the night in
fruitless argument? Let them alone, and they will be convinced as
soon as the spirit of strife slumbers, and reason assumes her throne.
The phrenologist observed all this, and much more; and he could not
fail to conclude, that men's intellectual and moral natures varied
almost indefinitely. Here was one distinguished for passion, there
another for philosophy; one was celebrated for the brilliancy of
his fancy, another for the solidity of his judgment. Here was a
mathematician, there a poet; here a mechanic, and there a musician;
and those who resembled each other in mental dispositions, still
varied in activity and strength; so that there was as much difference
in their intellectual as in their physical power. Again, as we have
seen, their sentiments were unlike. Benevolence was contrasted with
meanness in every condition of human life, and conscientiousness
warred with injustice, wherever man was found; so that the moral
aspects of men, differed no less than their countenances.
A PRACTITIONER, HIS PILGRIMAGE
PART ONE.
INVOCATION.
HAIL, great Hygeïa! Healing Goddess, hail![14]
And lend one moment to a touching tale;
One moment stay thy pestle-driving hand,
And let thy half-compounded physic stand:
That tale is this: I have a subject here,
Not anatomical--but very near;
A starving vot'ry of the 'healing art,'
Who shows its wond'rous power in every part:
But cannot find the language to describe,
In proper guise, a member of thy tribe.
Oh! then vouchsafe me a '_composing_ draught,'
Potent as ever willing patient quaff'd!
* * * * *
I thank thee, for I feel it working now,
And _composition_ flows, no matter how.
THE PILGRIMAGE.
'FELIX QUI POTUIT RERUM COGNOSCERE CAUSAS.'
THE doctor sate sole in his easy chair,
And his visage was stamped with the marks of care,
And his vacant eye said, as plain as eye could,
That his mind was digesting but meagre food.
At all events, it were safe to say,
That his own wise thoughts were its food that day.
What ails thee, doctor?[15] Are patients thin?
Nay, I know what you mean by that ready grin:
Don't suppose I thought physic would make a man thrive,
When he's specially blessed, if it leaves him alive:
No; I knew that the veriest wretch that lies
On street-pick'd straw, and with wistful eyes
Covets the _steam_ of the baker's bread,
With which he could never afford to be fed,
If he puts in his stomach one nauseous pill,
Will make himself only more _retchéd_ still:
All this I can fathom; but now I mean,
Are your '_visits_,' like angels', far between?
The _Angel of Death_, that is, of course,
That rides the pale steed, alias '_Pallida Mors_?'
Pray have you not 'cases' enough, to pay
For your coat of black and your breeches of gray?
Your perpetual mourning for visiting-friends,
Who, (alas for your purse!) met untimely ends?
Or art sad, that the dose, 'hora _somni_ sumendum,'
Which was meant to soothe suff'rings, should very soon end 'em?
And lamentest, with tears such as doctors weep,
That the patient, in consequence, slept his _long sleep_?
Or art thinking, if longer you could not have kept him,
If your dose had been '_pilulæ, numero septem_?'
Now don't be down-hearted; for people enough
Still live who will patronize medical stuff;
And to whom do you think that a man would come quicker
To find out his ailment--in short, be 'made sicker?'[16]
But softly! It's wasting one's breath to ply
A doctor with questions, and get no reply;
{ And indeed, as he's sitting companionless,
{ For a wiser man 't would be hard to guess
{ That I had been making a _mental_ address:
So I'll call into service that eye of the mind,
Which can see though its owner be never so blind,
And in my own absence can safely depend
On the word of my fancy--a poet's best friend;
And will venture to say my report shall compare
With the best ever written, it matters not where.
For the truest reporter, (his minutes will show,)
Though he uses 'short hand,' often draws 'the long bow.'
The doctor, alone, as I said before,
Was pond'ring some mystical subject o'er;
It puzzled him sorely to know what to think,
And, the scales being even, which side to make sink.
Now made he a gesture, with eloquent hand,
As one who explains what he can't understand;
And anon, with his finger laid fast by his nose,
Impatiently heard what he meant to oppose;
Then, with sagest look and a lengthened face,
He seem'd to maintain t' other side of the case;
But however he view'd it, before or behind,
He never could see it at all to his mind;
And he made a wry face, as a doctor will,
When he sets the example of taking a pill.
But one thing he determin'd--at once to set out,
And fathom the matter beyond a doubt.
'The long and the short of the matter is this:
I'll visit this personage--vis-à-vis!
Come, saddle me up my snow-white horse,
That looks like some phthisical donkey's corse,
When, surmounted by me, with my 'phials of wrath,'
He carries me round on my death-dealing path,
{ Hobbling along in the murky night,
{ And glimmering pale through the dim twilight,
{ With a little more spirit, an excellent sprite.
'But alas! he will travel no road beside
The road to that patient's--the last who died!
In that case, to be sure, I used exquisite skill,
But--it's rather too early to carry my bill:
Let him stand--for I'll own he has duty enough,
And '_Recipiat_ pabuli quantum suff.''
* * * * *
NO MAN who inhabits the smallest room
That ever had tenant, (this side of the tomb,)
Let its shape or its furniture be what they may,
If his seat have been in it for day after day;
If its little odd corners, the hardest to find,
Were familiar as bosom-friends, time out of mind;
If his coat have hung here and his boots lain there,
And his breeches been toss'd about any where;
No man ever left such a well-known spot,
Uncertain if soon to return or not,
But he stopped at the door, though he knew not why,
And took a last look, and perhaps heav'd a sigh.
So the doctor paused at the open door,
With his hat in his hand that he always wore;
(Its crown was low and its brim was wide,
And an old prescription was stuck inside.)