No. 1.
“Of all the several ways of beginning a book which, are now in
practice throughout the known world, I am confident my own way of
doing it is the best;--I’m sure it is the most religious--for I begin
with writing the first sentence, and trust to Almighty God for the
second.”--_Tristram Shandy._
Reader,
Should you, on any one of these gloomy spring evenings, chance to
traverse the college yard, between the hours of nine and ten, among
the many glowing windows, with which the sombre buildings are then
radiant, you may notice two, shining with transcendent brilliancy. Of
the situation of these windows, and the occasion of so intense a glow,
as to distinguish them from the dull light diffused by the solitary
study-lamp, it suits not with our purpose to tell thee more than this:
1st, that they occupy a central position in that building, which, in
college mythos, holds the rank of the third heaven; (to south middle
we can assign no gentler appellative than _purgatory_;) 2nd, that,
in the day-time, they admit the light _to_, and in the night season
emit it _from_, one of the most literary, best furnished, and withall
best peopled rooms, which our well stocked University can boast; and
3d, that at the hour above specified, within this room are assembled
four as merry, yet thoughtful fellows, as your eye (especially if
you be a little cynical) would desire to look upon. But to speak of
them in the high terms which they deserve, would expose me to the
charge of base flattery in the case of three, and arrant egotism for
the fourth. Further than this, curious reader, except so far as may
serve to elucidate the characters of these Dii superi, we shall never
communicate.
But, stop--my better judgment whispers me, that ’twould be safer to
satiate thy curiosity, at once, than have thee continually peering
about and asking troublesome questions. Enter, then, this mysterious
room--erect thy crest--quicken thy memory, for it must serve thee in
good stead. Thou hast free permission,
‘Each corner to search, and each nook to scan.’
Well, you have made your bow with such a trigonometrical flourish,
as proves indisputably your claim to a rectilineal descent from the
_Angles_--if I intended a pun, may I eat a dinner of cabbage and
quicksilver, and then, with my heels higher than my head, take a
siesta beneath a Nubian sun on “Damien’s bed of steel;” (Dante would
have chuckled over so original a punishment, for the embellishment
of his Inferno.) Now you are in the room don’t open your mouth with
such a convulsive gape. Did you never see a classical studio before?
Drop your arms by your sides with perpendicular propriety, and, if
you wish to note the aspect of the room, and its occupants, do it
by quiet, occasional glances, and not by an Hibernian stare. Take a
seat--you have done it indeed, and with a most rheumatic grace; one
would think you had been studying the ‘Poetry of motion’ all your
days. If you wish to take an inventory of the novelties you see,
“_Accipe jam tabulas_”--pull out your memorandum book,--“_detur nobis
locus, hora, custodes_”--sit down, and take your time about it, but
be careful,--“_videamus, uter plus scribere possit_”--see how fast
you can write; that’s what my old _paedotribe_ used to call a _free
translation_.
But we must hasten to a description of the room, and its contents.
Item. Your infernal extremities are sublevated by a carpet, somewhat
homely, but thick and warm, while from an open stove a blazing pile of
‘divina Hickoria’ (as Virgil would call it) diffuses a salutary warmth.
Item. Abutting upon either window, stand two tall and open book-cases,
“filled to the brim of contentment.” Beside the dull and thumb-worn
volumes of the ‘college course,’ which constitute but a small portion
of their burden, you will find a choice selection from the infinity of
books, which the wit of man has perpetrated. The stolidity of wisdom,
and the levity of wit, equally find there a place.
Item. In the centre of the room rests a substantial table, around whose
broad circumference an astral lamp sheds its fluent splendors upon a
literary chaos, where taste and fancy have collected their aliment,
‘In embryon atoms
Light-armed, or heavy, sharp, smooth, swift, or slow’--
The meditations of Hervey, and the sparkling humor of Butler,--the
regal Virgil,
‘With the sounding line--
The long, majestic march, and energy divine,’--
the smart antithesis of Martial--the luscious flow of Ovid, and
the delicate indelicacy of Terence, and the ‘curiosa felicitas’
of Catullus--(the phrase was first applied to Horace.) But we are
exhausting our critical knowledge, and thy patience--suffice it to say,
that, strown in elegant confusion, lie a motley assemblage--Milton
and the Comic Almanac--Coleridge and the President’s Message--Kent’s
Commentaries between the two volumes of Rienzi--Shakspeare and John
Bunyan--the Yale Literary Magazine and Tristram Shandy, open at the
page whence we extracted our motto.
Item. Stretching along the back side of the room, is a sofa, of most
dyspeptic virtues--hard by, is an arm-chair, expansive enough for an
alderman--and next, beneath a mirror, stands a dressing table, which,
besides the appliances of adscititious beauty, _eau de cologne_, and
“thine incomparable oil, Macassar,” supports a load of cups and spoons,
and other paraphernalia for the fruition of that rich beverage,
‘Which Jove now drinks, since Hebe spilt his nectar,
And Juno swears most bravely does affect her.’
At the same time, on the coals, is sweating and snoring a huge pot,
(the _conica tridentata_ of naturalists,) like an uneasy slumberer,
‘_flagrantis atroce horâ caniculæ_’--that is, about fly-time. Pray,
reader, remark my classic taste, which I have thus thrice developed for
your amusement.
We have thus slightly touched upon some of the most striking phenomena
which meet your eye. The living appurtenances of the room demand a more
careful and individual notice.
Close to one side of the stove, with his feet on the fender, and
his body ‘squat like a toad,’ in the easy embrace of an arm chair,
sits a singular personage, known to thee, at least, reader, by the
fanciful cognomen of Apple-Dumpling. He bears upon his plump visage and
stout frame, the impress of sensuality, struggling with, and almost
triumphing over, a good natural portion of intellect and refinement.
As you see him now, with a cigar in his mouth, and a volume of Lamb’s
in his hand--equally relishing the beauties of both--gazing now
and then, with pleasant anticipation gleaming in his eye, upon the
bubbling, hissing fountain, at his feet--and again with intellectual
delight, joining in the keen raillery of his companions--from this
short sketch, we say, you may divine his character. His personal
appearance is no less queer than his mental organization. He is
beneath the middle height, but owing to an odd habit, which he has,
of bobbing his head up and down, like a startled bullfrog, his height
is incessantly vibrating, between five feet, and five feet six. His
hair seems constantly electrified, and points in all directions, like
glory in the primer. A low forehead, thick lips, and a dull face,
redeemed only by the brightness of his eye, are the only peculiarities,
which deserve our notice. The worst thing about Apple is, that he
is an inveterate punster, and plumes himself on his proficiency in
this execrable art. You can always tell when to expect his artillery
of wit. He gives utterance to a sudden, energetic whiff, and knocks
the ashes fiercely from his cigar, whilst from his kindling eye
there darts a quick premonitory flash. He is frequently placed under
our satirical dissecting knife, and is, certainly, at times very
ridiculous--yet, with all his oddities and failings, we love Apple,
‘even as the apple of our eye,’ and should as soon think of throwing
away our coffee-pot, as of excluding him from our Quartette. Note with
careful eye the individual next him. He is an exquisite in personal
appearance and mental conformation. What ‘Poor Yorick’ said of Dr.
Slop and his pony, ‘that he never saw a better fit in his life,’
might with equal propriety be predicated of this gentleman’s mind and
body. ‘Il Pulito’--for such is his appellative, drawn from his own
favorite Italian--possesses all the accomplishments of person and
intellect, which are essential to the perfection of a fine gentleman
in this most fastidious age. He has a _very general_ knowledge of
ancient literature, and can _talk_ fluently about French, Spanish,
Italian, and what not; but should one descend to _particulars_, he is
most wofully ignorant, or, as he calls it, _forgetful_. Dante, and
Tasso, and Schiller, and Richter, are names ever on his lips; but
of any just conception of their character, and their works, he is
totally innocent. In truth, his high pretensions will hardly bear a
strict examination, except in one particular. His knowledge of English
literature is thorough and extensive. He has drunk deep of those
well-springs of beauty and truth, the ‘Old English prose writers,’
lingered long about the haunts of our vernacular Castalia, and plunged
over head and ears in the muddy pool of ‘transient literature.’ He is
at no loss for an opinion--most commonly a correct one, too, upon Lord
Bolingbroke, or Captain Marryatt--gentle Philip Sydney, or Porcupine
Cobbett--the cacophonous Chaucer, or the sweetly sentimental ‘L. E. L.’
With such attainments, and a certain seductive grace in language and
manners, Il Pulito is a most agreeable _collaborateur_ in our nocturnal
toils. Were we to omit altogether a passing notice of his _external_
recommendations, and a sly hint at some of his ‘labors of love,’ he
would never forgive us! for on these he prides himself incontinently. I
would not hint that all his self-complacency is absorbed in dress--yet
he certainly _peacocks himself_, as the Italians say, when he throws
back the collar of his coat, displaying thereby a fair round chest,
from the middle of whose glossy, _dipectoral_ envelope glitters the
golden symbol of _craniossal_ love. Dancing, music, drawing, and all
the other _equivocal_ graces of ‘the gentleman,’ are as ‘familiar
things’ to him. He can give you a masterly criticism on a pretty foot,
or a well turned arm, and has caused alarming symptoms of a disease of
the heart in more than one of ‘Nature’s fair defects.’ I have often
known the fellow fling his dark locks around his brow in clustering
beauty, and saunter with _unstudied_ carelessness among some half dozen
of his fair acquaintance, while the graceful dignity of his carriage,
the significance of his tone, and the eloquence of his eye, sent to
the innocent young heart a disturbing thrill, and called to the cheek
a warm flush of unconscious pleasure. Then, too, how perfect he is at
turning a sonnet. Il Pulito is a fine tasteful fellow, with a slight
touch of the dandy. In our coterie, however, he keeps his coxcombry,
and his love affairs pretty much to himself; for we would be loth
to admit any feminine sentimentalism, to mar our hearty, masculine
hilarity.
On the opposite side of the stove sits the immortal Ego. Shall I
describe him--i. e. myself? I will, and that, too, in a manner equally
free from vanity and familiarity; for I have a respect for myself not
much inferior to that of the polite Spaniard, who took off his hat
whenever he spoke _of_ or _to_ himself. But to spare my feelings, which
are like the _sensitive Mimosa_--oh! simile most original and sweet!--I
must recur to the third person. His name is Nescio Quod. His face when
alone is grave and thoughtful; in company, it is jolly and careless,
yet crossed here and there by lines of serious reflection, which, on
the whole, form the general expression of his countenance. He, as well
as Il Pulito, has dipped into almost every thing, and gone deeply into
some--he has read extensively and foolishly, and is, very naturally,
infected with the itch of quoting. He is apt to mistake strangeness of
expression for originality of thought, and when he has revived some
obsolete phrase, or brought forth some new-coined word, to which there
are already a dozen synonymes, he hugs himself as fondly as if he had
struck out a brilliant witticism. He is vague and anomalous--every
thing except wise--sometimes misanthrope, sometimes pedant, sometimes
a musing poetico-philosopher, but always his own miscellaneous self.
He is fond of books, as much from their generic nature, as from any
specific merits they may possess, and has always some conclusive
reason for thinking the last book presented to his notice, the best
he ever saw in his life. Is the book an old one? ’Tis the voice of
antiquity--a message from the past. Is the work fresh from the
literary mint? It breathes of novelty--its odor is refreshing. He is a
very fluent writer, and for this reason, though by no means the most
elegant of the four, he has been selected to commit to paper the annals
of our doings.
The last of our coterie is called by mortals--no matter what; among
the Gods his name is Il Tristo. His soft hair hangs about his face
“unkempt” and tangled. His eye is faded, his cheek colorless. Across
his uneasy forehead flits momently, from dark to light, each shade of
passion.
“And o’er that fair, broad brow are wrought
The intersected lines of thought--
Those furrows which the burning share
Of sorrow plows untimely there.”
Now his face is dark with some bitter remembrance--now softened by
some tender thought--now lightened by some glorious purpose. Tristo
is pure and passionate. But his thin, light frame is too weak for the
agitations of his burning spirit. So far as I can learn, he has been
from boyhood the child of the feelings--“chewing the cud of sweet
and bitter fancies.” He has lived in an artificial world--a world
of poetry and romance. In spite of his good taste, his excitable
feelings and craving wishes lead him to dwell upon fictions of wild
and outrageous extravagance. This is not a world for the gentle or
wayward in heart, and Tristo’s plans and fancies are daily crossed and
crushed. Indeed, I sometimes think that his heart-strings have been
jarred by a terrible concussion, and will never vibrate more, save in
tones of mournful music. When in society, he usually represses his
moodiness, and his thoughts come forth with a fluent brightness, which
is purified and enhanced by their melancholy tinge. In our company
he is more frank and cheerful than elsewhere, and will, at times,
by his eloquence of feeling, call forth our sympathies and excite
our admiration. He never speaks heartlessly--his literary opinions,
his views of society, are all colored by his feelings--and he will
condemn a worthless publication, or espouse the cause of a favorite
author, with as much earnestness as if he were a party in the case. His
vehemence adds greatly to the life of our discussions, and his caustic,
yet good-natured wit, to the merriment of our lighter moods.
Thou hast by this time a clear idea of the room, _its_ occupants and
_their_ occupation. Now do the amanuensis.----
“A fine essay that,” said Dumpling, as he threw down a volume of Elia,
accompanying the movement with a prolonged emission of breath and
smoke. “A masterly essay, that upon Shakspeare. (Puff.) Lamb is, or
_was_, by far the best critic of the nineteenth century, not excepting
Kit North himself. Wilson rants too much. He leads us all over creation
for treasures which he might as well have given us at first. But the
deep, quiet Lamb--(Puff, puff, puff.) By the way, how advances the
coffee, Nescio?” Nescio roared, Pulito stroked his chin and laughed,
while a quick, bright smile beamed over the face of Tristo, at the
characteristic transition.
“Why,” said Nescio, “I think it has reached its maximum of excellence.”
“An excellent maxim that remark of yours,” said Apple, complacently,
thinking he saw a handle for a pun.
_Nescio._ “Oh! Dumpling, don’t be witty, at least in that line. Addison
used to say that punning was the lowest species of wit.”
_Apple._ “Addison was an ass. (Puff.) Infund some coffee _instanter_.
How beautifully clear! ’Tis pure as Heaven.”
_Nescio._ “Yes! I’ll wager my Kent’s Commentaries against Nat. Willis’s
poems, that not the _ordinaires_ of London, the _restaurateurs_ of
Paris, or the _cafès_ of Madrid, can furnish better.”
_Pulito._ “Ha! ha! One would think from that long array of ‘instances,’
that you were really a ‘man of travel,’ and were perfectly at home in
St. James’ Square or the Rue de St. Honorie.”
_Nescio._ “I have heard of them, which is just as well.”
_Apple._ “Do you know, friend Quod, that we do wrong in drinking coffee
so transparent?”
_Nescio._ “No! how, I pray? Instruct us.”
_Apple._ “Why, we ought always to see the _grounds_ of what we imbibe.”
_Pulito._ “Oh! spare us, incorrigible wretch. ‘Wilt never cease?’”
_Nescio._ “How long were you loading that gun, Apple?”
_Apple._ “Rest you content, _fair_ sir. ’Twas an _improvisation_--a
direct inspiration from Mercury.”
_Nescio._ “The _mercury_ must have been some degrees below zero, I
should guess.”
_Apple._ “Oh! most miserable! (Puff.) Physician, heal thyself. You are
like the man that preached against dishonesty with a stolen shilling in
his pocket.”
_Pulito._ “Cease this ‘childish treble’--take another cup of coffee,
and then tell me what you think of ‘Tristram Shandy,’ which I have
found lying here on the sofa, ‘dejected and alone.’”
_Apple._ “Think of it? (Puff.) What should I think of it, but that it’s
the finest book in the world? I prefer it to both Swift and Smollett.”
_Nescio._ “Well, now, in candor, I do not like it very much, nor did I
ever. I have sometimes stared at his strange conceits, and laughed at
his queer conjunctions, and been, in a few instances, actually ravished
by his beauty and his _naturalness_. But, then, look at the astounding
proofs of his thievish propensities--at his plagiarisms from Rabelais,
which were traced out by his English bloodhound; and, whether original
or borrowed, look at his tedious and fruitless wanderings, enlivened,
it is true, by conceptions as beautiful as they are new, yet putting
one out of patience and out of breath.”
_Apple._ (Puff.)
“‘Cease: no more.
You smell this business with a sense as cold
As is a dead man’s nose.’
I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Quod. You and I must part if you say any
thing prejudicial to my beloved Laurence. Shakspeare, Fielding and
Sterne are my favorites _par eminence_, and ‘let my tongue cleave,’
(puff)--‘let my right hand forget,’ (puff)--if I do not defend them
till--my last cigar--that is, in a quiet way, by swearing to my belief,
which is as firm as the laws of the Medes, or the determination of
a pig. As for logic, hang your silly syllogisms--hem!--I would not
_argue_ the point, if Sterne were my grandfather.”
_Nescio._ “Well, if you will not defend him, perhaps Tristo will. What
say you?”
_Tristo._ “Oh! There are parts and passages of glorious beauty! The
episodes of the Monk, Maria, and the dead Ass--I confess it--draw tears
at the bare remembrance.”
_Nescio._ “Yes--but those are in the Sentimental Journey.”
_Tristo._ “Right. It is some years since I read it. I have of late been
absorbed in poetry, wild fiction, and idle thinkings. Friend Pulito,
however, if you can waken him from his trance, will, doubtless, be glad
to enter the list with you--lance in rest.”
_Nescio._ “He must speak for himself. Come, Pulito, what think you of
the proposal?”
_Pulito._ (Musing.) “Why, I have hardly thought, yet, of _proposing_,
though she’s a deucedly pretty girl--Phoebus! what a face, and what a
dewy lip!”
_Apple._ (Chuckling.) “You and she then might play a fine _dew-wet_
together.”
_Pulito._ (Still gazing in his coffee-cup.) “True--she does sing
well--and then, such glossy hair, and that eye of jet.”
_Apple._ “From that eye, then, we might expect to see a fine _jet
d’eau_.” [At this last discharge, Pulito was thoroughly awakened, while
the others wished they had been asleep.]
_Nescio._ “Now you’re awake, Pulito, you will, perhaps, answer my
challenge.”
_Pulito._ “Your challenge, my dear fellow? I heard none. But, if
it related, as Paley says, ‘either remotely or immediately’ to the
drinking of coffee, I’m ready for you ‘when and where thou wilt, lad.’”
_Tristo._ “Pulito is either strangely forgetful, or ridiculously
perverse to-night. Let us enlighten the fellow. While your eyes were
in ‘dim suffusion veiled,’ and you were _reverising_ upon ‘sweet
seventeen,’ Nescio has offered Apple and myself, pitched battle
over Sterne’s ‘Tristram Shandy.’ Apple refuses to fight, being like
Knickerbocker’s fumigating warriors, more valorous with the pipe, than
the sword, while I retire, inglorious, knowing nothing of this ‘bone
of contention.’ Quod, who is determined to have ‘war of words,’ next
offers you the challenge.”
_Pulito._ “Your pardon, Quod, for my inattention, and thanks to you,
Tristo, for your kind mediation. By the dark-eyed houries of Mahomet’s
heaven--by the beauty congregated in the harem of the Sultan, (Pooh,
interjected Dumpling,)--I never--what was I going to say?--Oh! I never
felt better disposed in my life to do literary battle--for I have
read the book through, within the last month, and, faith, I believe I
introduced the subject myself. I’ll uphold the _old_ novelists against
all gainsayers and Bulwerites.”
_Nescio._ “I do defy thee, stripling. As I myself once said, (rather
foolishly though,)
‘I wouldn’t give the peeling of an onion
For all they wrote, from Fielding back to Bunyan.’
The _old_ novelists against Bulwer! Why, man, Bulwer is a genius--the
_soul_ of Wit, Philosophy, and Poetry.”
“Bulwer a poet,” said Tristo--“have you read the Siamese Twins?”
“Bulwer a wit,” said Apple--“in all his novels, he has no more than
ten puns to a volume, on the average.” “Bulwer a philosopher,” said
Pulito--“Oh! shade of Locke!”
What further open maledictions or sly hits, the ‘favorite of the
periodical press’ and circulating libraries, might have received
is uncertain.--Just then a shout of _Fire_, which rung through the
reechoing halls of the building, roused our sympathies, and joining in
the cry, we rushed from the room.
Ego.