it will be remembered, at the farther end; where, thronging the
Islands of the Blessed, that were covered with fruits and flowers,
and 'interwoven with shining seas that ran among them,' were seen
'innumerous persons, dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon
their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of
fountains, or resting on beds of flowers;' and there was a confused
harmony of singing-birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical
instruments. 'Gladness,' exclaims the rapt dreamer, 'grew in me,
upon the discovery of so delightful a scene! I longed for the wings
of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats!' But there
was no passage to them, except through the gates of death, that were
opening every moment upon the bridge. Happy are they who can say, in
the fullness of faith and hope, 'Come the hour of reünion with the
loved and lost on earth! and the passionate yearnings of affection
shall bear us to that blessed land! Come death to this body!--this
burthened, tempted, frail, failing, dying body!--and to the soul,
come freedom, light, and joy unceasing!--come the immortal life!'
* * * THE '_Tale_' of our Zanesville (Ohio) friend is too long for
our pages. It is well written, however; and especially the third
chapter, which describes the progress of a Yankee pedler through
the 'Buckeye State,' thirty-five years ago. But for the injunction
of the writer, we should have ventured to appropriate this chapter
entire. The ''cute trick' upon the _honest_ farmer was capital,
and a fair _quid pro quo_. It was not better, however, than the
following, which is equally authentic. A gentleman from New-York,
who had been in Boston for the purpose of collecting some moneys
due him in that city, was about returning, when he found that one
bill of a hundred dollars had been overlooked. His landlord, who
knew the debtor, thought it 'a doubtful case;' but added, that if
it _was_ collectable at all, a tall raw-boned Yankee, then dunning
a lodger in another part of the room, would 'annoy it out of the
man.' Calling him up, therefore, he introduced him to the creditor,
who showed him the account. 'Wal, 'Squire, 'tan't much use tryin', I
guess. I _know_ that critter. You might as well try to squeeze ile
out o' Bunker-Hill monument, as to c'lect a debt o' him. But any
how, 'Squire, what'll you give, s'posin' I _do_ try?' 'Well, Sir,
the bill is one hundred dollars. I'll give you--yes, I'll give you
_half_, if you can collect it.' ''Greed!' replied the collector;
'there's no harm in _tryin'_, any way.' Some weeks after, the
creditor chanced to be in Boston, and in walking up Tremont-street,
encountered his enterprising friend: 'Look o' here!' said he,
''Squire, I had considerable luck with that bill o' your'n. You see,
I stuck to him like a dog to a root, but for the first week or so
't wan't no use--not a bit. If he was home, he was 'short;' if he
_wasn't_ home, I couldn't get no satisfaction. By and by, says I,
after goin' sixteen times, 'I'll fix you!' says I; so I sot down on
the door-step and sot all day, and part o' the evenin'; and I begun
airly _next_ day; but about ten o'clock, he g'in in. _He paid me my
half, an' I 'gin him up the note!_' * * * WE invite the attention
of our readers to the following spirited lines. We shall be glad
to hear again from the writer, when he returns to his 'several
places of abode.' He tells us that his physician, 'after giving him
a little of every thing in his shop, and doubly jeopardizing his
life by a consultation, has advised a change of air.' We shall less
regret his temporary indisposition, if we can be made the recipient
of his pleasant letters from the Southern Springs. In the stanzas
annexed, not unmixed with one or two infelicities, are several fine
pictures. The chant pealing from the choir of the North Winds; the
fierce armies of the pole issuing from their battlements of snow to
ravage the fair fields of the temperate regions; the hail-stones
beating the march of Winter on the hollow trees; the snow falling
silently in the garden of the dead; all these are poetical
conceptions, graphically expressed:
WINTER.
BY THE SHEPHERD OF SHARONDALE, VALLEY OF VIRGINIA.
AND art thou coming, Winter!
In thy wild and stormy might
To cast o'er all earth's lovely things
Thy pale and withering blight?
Ay, here he comes o'er the dreary wold;
I feel his breath--ah me! how cold!
He wears the same wild, haggard brow
Which he wore when in his prime;
And he singeth the same shrill, wailing song,
Which he sang in the olden time;
The same hoarse moan o'er field and fell--
Ah! ha! old WINTER! I know thee well!
Thou art coming, icy Winter!
To tell the same sad tale,
Of bright things passing from the earth,
With sigh and moan and wail;
Of fair flowers fading, one by one,
As thy sable banners cloud the sun:
A chant from the polar choir peals out,
Wildly, and full of wo,
As march thy fierce escadrons forth
From their battlements of snow:
A requiem 'tis o'er pale Summer's form,
Or the deep war-cry of the gathering storm!
Thy cohorts with their night-black plumes
Shut out the bright blue sky;
All nature mourns the fast decay
Of Summer's blazonry:
Now murmuring low, now shrieking wild,
She sorrows o'er her dying child.
The lips of the prattling brook are sealed,
And the singing birds have flown
Away, away to some bright land
To thee and thine unknown;
And even man in his pride grows pale,
And trembles at thy fierce assail.
Thy trumpet rings through the mountain pass,
With a fitful, wild halloo;
And the hail-stones drum on the hollow trees,
With a mournful rat-tat-too!
Oh spare, in thy fearful marches, spare
The fruitful field and the gay parterre!
But the fierce battalions, filing on,
Nor heed nor hear my cry;
And a dirge for the fair and flowery field
Swells through the darkened sky:
And showers of icy javelins fall,
The only answer to my call!
But ho! a flag of truce hangs out
In spotless folds on high;
And the snow-flakes wheel in light platoons
Through the dark and troubled sky:
And now, like the ghosts of murdered flowers,
They seek the earth in countless showers;
They fall on the mountain's giddy height,
In the dark ravine they fall,
And o'er the distant city's domes
They spread their radiant pall;
That beauteous snow, like a winding-sheet,
Is spread over forest and field and street.
On the storied monument it falls,
Blots out the studied verse,
And covers all the high and low
With one unsculptured hearse.
Methinks it lies more lightly on
The grave of the broken-hearted one.
The folds of a Paynim turban now
The village spire doth hide;
And see! it dresses the old yew-tree
As gay as a bonny bride;
With an ermine-cloak it wraps the plain,
And shuts the blast from the growing grain.
Come on! come on! old Winter!
Spring wears a winning smile,
And Summer has a lulling art
To charm and to beguile;
And Autumn is in beauty drest;
But thy rough form I love the best!
Thou tellest me 'of long ago,'
Of childhood's spotless day;
Of boyhood's freaks by th' old fire-side--
Of friends now passed away:
Albeit to me thy accents drear
Tell that LIFE'S winter draweth near!
* * * * *
THE '_Tribune_' daily journal finds the October number of the
KNICKERBOCKER 'well filled with readable and pleasant papers, upon
a gratifying variety of topics;' its 'Literary Notices extended and
interesting;' and 'its Editor's Table admirably filled, as usual,
with whatever is light, graceful, and pleasing.' We hold ourselves
bound to be duly grateful for praise so much beyond our deserts; but
we cannot permit the young associate-editor of that print, howsoever
prompted, to misrepresent us, as he has done, in the notice from
which we derive the encomiastic tributes we have quoted. We are
accused of 'going out of our way' to attack the writings and the
fame (Heaven save the mark!) of the author of '_Puffer Hopkins_;'
and of being actuated in this by a spirit of malevolence and
personal pique. We choose, for the nonce, to occupy space which we
could much better employ, in opposing a _point-blank denial_ to this
charge. Such a course is not the wont of the KNICKERBOCKER; a fact
no better known to our readers themselves than to the absent senior
editor of the 'Tribune,' with whom for ten years and upward we have
walked hand-in-hand in the support and encouragement of such native
literature as was worthy of the name. Were this Magazine accustomed
to be swayed in its judgments by private pique, its adverse opinions
would need no corrective; its 'sneers' would be impotent; its
'satire' unavailing. No; our sin consists in exposing, without fear,
favor, or hope of reward, the literary pretensions of one who has
no claim to be regarded as an 'American author;' who has foisted
upon the community such works as we have elsewhere considered; and
whose efforts to establish a literary reputation are of a kind to
heighten rather than to lessen the effect of his uniform failures.
We are gravely told, that this writer has 'just conceptions of
what an American literature _ought_ to be; of _the mission_ of the
American writer,' and so forth. We have had and have nothing to say
of his 'conceptions' of what our literature should be, nor of his
ideas of literary 'missions;' but we _have_ had something to say
of his _performances_, and of the manner in which they have been
presented to and received by the public; and for this reason, and
this alone, are we accused of being actuated by private prejudice.
But so it has always been. 'Tell these small-beer littérateurs,'
says CHRISTOPHER NORTH, 'that they are calves, and sucking calves
too, and they low against you with voices corroborative of the truth
they deny.' We should like to know whether _all_ who hold our own
opinions touching 'Puffer Hopkins' and the other 'writings' of its
author are _also_ actuated by 'personal pique.' If so, there is a
goodly number of us! ''Fore Heaven,' as DOGBERRY says, 'we are all
in a case;' for we can truly say, that we never heard an individual
speak of these productions, who did not agree with us _entirely_ in
the estimate we had formed of them. 'Personal pique!' Was it this
which led the kindly 'Boston Post' to pronounce 'Puffer Hopkins'
'about as flat an affair as it ever tried to wade through?' and
the 'Poem on Man' a 'mere pile of words,' in which even poetical
thoughts were 'completely spoiled by verbiage?' Was it this which
prompted our own lively 'Mercury' to say that Mr. MATHEWS had 'no
more humor than a crying crocodile,' and that his short-lived
_Arcturus_ 'died of a lingering 'Puffer Hopkins?'' Was it this which
caused a monthly metropolitan contemporary to declare, that his
writings were 'characterized by an air of pretension, and an eternal
succession of futile attempts at humor, which at once disposed the
reader to dislike him and his works?' Was it 'malevolence' which
prompted the publishers of 'Behemoth,' (over whom the writer had
'come the evil eye,') when they saw his proposals for a '_new_
edition,' to advertise _their's_--'four years old and complete'--at
half the money? Was it 'personal pique' which caused the house
whose name appears as publishers on the title-page of his last
work, to complain that it had previously been used by him without
their consent, and to object to its being again employed?--on the
ground, too, that they did not desire their names to appear upon
any of his productions? Was it 'malevolence' which suggested a new
title-page, at the publisher's expense, from which their names might
be omitted? As well might 'the disaffected' upon whom a humorous
'work' of the author had been inflicted abroad, be accused of acting
from 'personal pique' in deciding that for them at least 'one such
fun, it was enough!' ÆSOP is dead, but his frog is still extant;
and if we were not at the end of our tether, we could 'illustrate
this position' to the satisfaction of every body save Mr. MATHEWS
himself. As it is, we take our leave of him, with no fear that he
will write less creditably, and no hope that he will print less
frequently, than heretofore; for such is his _cacoëthes scribendi_,
that we verily believe he would be an author, if he were the only
reader in the world. Indeed, we even hear of _another_ edition of
his writings, 'at the risk of the owner,' to be sent forth from
his stereotype-plates, by our friends the HARPERS! We had intended
a word or two touching Mr. MATHEWS'S position in the 'Copy-right
Club'--for we hear there are two sides to _that_ matter--but we wish
well to a cause of which this Magazine was the earliest, and has
been a constant advocate, and to Mr. MATHEWS'S efforts in it; and if
he _is_ to prepare an address to the public, we earnestly hope that
it may be clear, simple, and direct, as becomes the plain truths it
should present; and that 'giants, elephants, '_tiger-mothers_,' and
curricles, angels, frigates, baronial castles, and fish-ponds,' will
be carefully excluded from its arguments and its expostulations.
By the by: this reminds us that we have an error to correct, alike
unintentional and immaterial. It was at the Society Library, _not_
the Tabernacle, that Mr. MATHEWS'S great lecture on copy-right was
delivered. On this point, the following passage from an editorial
paragraph in the 'New World' may be deemed pertinent by many
readers, and _impertinent_, perhaps, by one or two: 'The 'Tribune'
accuses the KNICKERBOCKER of mistaking the Tabernacle for the
Society Library, as the place where Mr. MATHEWS delivered his
lecture on copy-right to a beggarly account of empty benches, last
winter, after placarding the town with the fact that 'the author
of '_Puffer Hopkins_' was to be heard and seen at that place. But
is the _fact_ altered by this trifling error? Was there not a
'capacious edifice' almost empty, and tickets numbered as high as
twelve hundred, and not fifty persons in the room?--and half of
those 'dead heads?'--as dead as the lecturer's? If _this_ is denied,
it can easily be _proved_.' * * * WE are obliged for the kind wishes
and intentions of our friend and correspondent 'F.;' but he must
allow us to say, that his '_Sketch of Dr. Samuel L. Mitchell_'
embodies many anecdotes of that learned and eccentric person, which
are already familiar to the public. The story of the semi-black
man is 'as old as the hills.' The following, however, which we
segregate, is quite new, at least to us: 'JARVIS, celebrated no less
as an artist than as a pleasant social companion, walking one sultry
summer morning with a friend down Murray-street, encountered the
Doctor, with a pound of fresh butter upon a cabbage-leaf. 'I'll lay
you a small wager,' said he to his companion, 'that I'll cross over
on the sunny side, and engage the doctor in conversation, until his
butter has melted completely away!' No sooner said than done. JARVIS
entertained him with _inquiries_ upon abstruse themes, which Dr.
MITCHELL took great delight in answering in detail, as well as the
objections which JARVIS occasionally urged against the correctness
of his conclusions. Meanwhile, the butter dripped slowly away upon
the walk, until it was utterly wasted. The waggish painter then
took leave of the Doctor, who now for the first time glanced at his
cabbage-leaf, exclaiming: 'You've almost made me forget my errand,
JARVIS; I started to get some fresh butter from WASHINGTON-market!'
* * * WE shall venture to hope that in declining the '_Stanzas to
my Boy in Heaven_' we shall give no pain to the bereaved author.
The _feeling_ of the lines is itself eloquent poetry; but their
_execution_ is in certain portions marked by deficiences in rythm
and melody. Will the writer permit another to express for her the
very emotions which she evidently depicts with her 'heart swelling
continually to her eyes?'
'THE nursery shows thy pictured wall.
Thy bat, thy bow,
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball;
But where art thou?
A corner holds thy empty chair.
Thy playthings idly scattered there
But speak to us of our despair.
'Even to the last thy every word,
To glad, to grieve,
Was sweet as sweetest song of bird
On summer's eve;
In outward beauty undecayed.
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade.
And like the rainbow thou didst fade.
'We mourn for thee, when blind blank night
The chamber fills;
We pine for thee, when morn's first light
Reddens the hills:
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea,
All, to the wall-flower and wild pea,
Are changed--we saw the world through thee!
'And though, perchance, a smile may gleam
Of casual mirth,
It doth not own, whate'er may seem.
An inward birth;
We miss thy small step on the stair;
We miss thee at thine evening prayer;
All day we miss thee, every where.
'Yet 'tis sweet balm to our despair.
Fond, fairest boy!
That heaven is GOD'S, and thou art there.
With Him in joy;
There past are death and all its woes;
There beauty's stream for ever flows;
And pleasure's day no sunset knows.
'Farewell, then--for a while farewell--
Pride of my heart!
It cannot be that long we dwell,
Thus torn apart;
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee;
And, dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee.'
THE '_Lines to Niagara Falls_' are very far from being worth
double-postage from Buffalo. They are termed '_descriptive_;'
but they afford about as much of an idea of the Great Cataract
as the 'magnificent model' of the Falls which was 'got up at an
enormous expense' at the American Museum last winter. _That_ was
a sublime spectacle! We saw it, it is true, under very favorable
circumstances. The whole hogshead of water had just been 'let
on,' and the wheezing machine that represented the 'sound of many
waters' was in excellent wind. Indeed, so abundant was the supply
of cataract, (as we were afterward informed,) that a portion of the
American fall, to the amount of several quarts, leaked down into the
barber's-shop below. A lisping young lady present was quite carried
away with the exhibition. Some one inquired if she had ever seen
'the _real_ falls, the great original?' She had not, she said, 'but
she _had heard them very highly thpoken of_!' They _are_ clever,
certainly; and if their real friends would occasionally 'say a good
word for them,' they would doubtless soon become very 'popular!'
* * * WE were struck (and so we recorded it at the time) with the
felicitous remarks of Mr. Consul GRATTAN, on 'Saint PATRICK'S Day in
the' evening. He said he could not help wondering sometimes how the
dear old country looked in her new temperance dress; remembering as
he did how becoming to her was the flush of conviviality and good
fellowship. 'When I picture to myself,' said he, 'the Irishman of
the present day seeking for his inspiration at the handle of a pump,
I cannot help thinking of the Irishman I once knew, who couldn't
bear cold water at all, unless the half of it was whisky; without
which they considered it as a very depreciated currency; a sort of
liquid _skin-plaster_, in comparison with the healthful circulating
medium of grog and punch.' This is both lively and witty; and we do
not wish to derogate from either quality; but if the reader will
permit us, we will ask him to glance at the following passage from
CHARLES LAMB'S '_Confessions of a Drunkard_:'
'THE waters have gone over me. But out of the black depths,
could I be heard, I would cry out to all those who have but set
a foot in the perilous flood. Could the youth to whom the flavor
of his first wine is delicious as the opening scenes of life,
or the entering upon some newly-discovered paradise, look into
my desolation, and be made to understand what a dreary thing it
is when a man shall feel himself going down a precipice with
open eyes and a passive will; to see his destruction, and have
no power to stop it, and yet to feel it all the way emanating
from himself; to perceive all goodness emptied out of him, and
yet not be able to forget a time when it was otherwise; to bear
about the piteous spectacle of his own self-ruin; could he
see my fevered eye, feverish with last night's drinking, and
feverishly looking for this night's repetition of the folly;
could he feel the body of the death out of which I cry hourly
with feebler and feebler outcry to be delivered; it were enough
to make him dash the sparkling beverage to the earth in all the
pride of its mantling temptation; to make him clasp his teeth,
----'and not undo 'em
To suffer WET DAMNATION to run through 'em.'
'Oh! if a wish could transport me back to those days of youth,
when a draught from the next clear spring could slake the heats
which summer suns and youthful exercise had power to stir up in
the blood, how gladly would I return to thee, pure element, the
drink of children, and of child-like holy hermit! In my dreams I
can sometimes fancy thy cool refreshment purling over my burning
tongue. But my waking stomach rejects it. That which refreshes
innocence, only makes me sick and faint.'
How many thousands in Great Britain, whose experience is here
described as with a pencil of light, has FATHER MATTHEW rescued from
'slippery places,' and placed once more within the charmed circle
of sobriety and virtue! * * * THE grammatical blunder recorded by
'S. T.,' and 'suggested by the sixth _claw_ of the constitution,'
reminds us of a clever anecdote which we derive from Mr. ROBERT
TYLER. The old negro who receives and ushers visitors at the
President's mansion is always very precise in his announcements. On
one occasion a gentleman named FOOT, with a daughter on each arm,
was shown into the drawing-room with this introduction: 'Mr. FOOT
and _the two Miss Feet_!" * * * 'CRY you mercy!' gentlemen of the
long robe and of the bar; we have neither 'abused the law' nor yet
'the lawyers,' though by your wincing you would seem to say so; at
least some score of law-students would, if we may judge from the
communications which have thickened upon us since our last. Saving
the sordid and obscure tricksters of abused law; such, for example,
as may be seen any day in the week, holding their sanhedrim of
babble around or within the miscalled 'Halls of Justice;' and the
undignified personal bickerings of the members of the bar; nothing
of a _local_ character, in a legal point of view, deserves the
whip and the branding-iron. The latter matter, too, is generally
understood, we believe, by the public. A pair of lawyers, like a
pair of legs, may thoroughly bespatter each other, and yet remain
the best of friends and brothers. Our allusion to courts implied no
reflection upon _Judges_. We hold in proper respect and reverence
these sacred depositories of the people's rights. 'The criminal, and
the judge who is to award his punishment, form a solemn sight. They
are both men; both the 'children of an Universal FATHER, and sons
of immortality;' the one so sunken in his state as to be disowned
by man; the other as far removed by excellence from the majority of
mankind.' _No_ function can be more honorable, more sacred, or more
beneficial, than that of an upright judge. With his own passions
and prejudices subdued; attentive to the principles of justice by
which alone the happiness of the world can be promoted, and by
the rectitude of his decisions affording precedent and example to
future generations; he presents a character that must command the
reverence and love of the human race. * * * THE 'London Charivarri,'
or 'Punch,' maintains its repute--for which it is partly indebted
to the high indorsement of the 'Quarterly Review,' 'Examiner,'
'Spectator,' etc.,--undiminished. It really _overflows_ with genuine
humor, not unmixed, certainly, with many failures. We condense from
it a few items of metropolitan intelligence, commencing with an
office-seeker's 'begging letter' to Lord LYNDHURST: 'MY LORD: I am
an Irishman, in the direst distress. To say that I am an Irishman,
is I know a passport to the innermost recesses of your soul. I
want something of about three hundred pounds per annum; I will
not refuse four hundred. At present, however, I am destitute, and
terribly out of sorts. You will have some idea of my condition,
when I tell you that I have not tasted food these six weeks, and
that I am so disastrously off for clothing, that the elbows of my
shirt are hanging out of the knees of my breeches! P. S. Don't mind
the hole in the bearer's trowsers; he is trustworthy.' To this
missive the 'noble lord' replied: 'SIR: That you are an Irishman,
is a sufficient passport to my fire-side, my purse, my heart. Come;
never mind the shirt. With or without that conventional ornament,
you will be equally well received by your devoted LYNDHURST.' The
writer 'went very often to the house of his lordship, but as often
as he went, just so often was his lordship not at home!' Curious,
wasn't it? The plan of the '_Joke Loan Society_' reminds us of
SANDERSON'S joke-company for the _Opera-Comique_ in Paris, several
members of which, with due economy, managed to live for an entire
quarter upon the 'eighth of a joke' which they had furnished to the
management! 'The object of the institution is, to supply those with
jokes who may be temporarily distressed for the want of them. The
directors invite the attention of barristers to a very extensive
stock of legal jokes, applicable to every occasion. The society
has also purchased the entire stock of a retired punster, at a
rate so low that the jokes--among which are a few that have never
been used--can be let out on very moderate terms. Damaged jokes
repaired, and old ones taken in exchange. Dramatic authors supplied
on easy terms, and a liberal allowance on taking a quantity. Puns
prepared at an hour's notice for large or small parties!' Under the
'Infantry Intelligence' head we find the following: 'The Twelfth
Light Pop-guns acquitted themselves very creditably, and discharged
several rounds of pellets with great effect and precision. The First
Life Squirts also highly distinguished themselves, and kept up a
smart fire of ditch-water for upward of a quarter of an hour; and
the Hop-Scotch Grays went through their evolutions in admirable
order.' A 'commercial problem' must close our excerpts: 'How can a
junior partner be taken into a house over the senior partner's head?
By the senior partner sitting in the shop, and the junior partner
being taken in at the first-floor window!' * * * THE eulogy entitled
'_Mr. Webster's Noble Speech at Rochester_' is from the pen of an
Englishman, or we have for the first time in our life mistaken the
'hand-write' of JOHN BULL, Esq. The _spirit_ of the paper is not in
the main unjust to this country; yet it touches with severity upon
those culprit States of our Republic, that abroad are considered
remarkable for their 'swaggering beginnings that could not be
carried through; grand enterprises begun dashingly, and ending in
shabby compromises or downright ruin;' and for their treasuries,
filled with evidences of 'futile expectations, fatal deficit, wind,
and debts.' Cruel words, certes; but are they wholly groundless?
'Guess not!' But Sir Englishman, pr'ithee, don't despond--don't be
scared! Look at the progress of our western States, as evinced in
the growth of their towns. Louisville, in three years, has gained
eight thousand additional inhabitants; Saint Louis twelve thousand;
Pittsburgh nearly the same amount; Cincinnati has erected within
that period nearly three thousand houses, and gained seventeen
thousand inhabitants. Four western cities have added to them nearly
fifty thousand inhabitants in three years; and the adjacent country
has kept pace with the towns. And the like progress is visible
elsewhere. Truly, this _is_ 'a great country!'