VISITORS AT THE 'HOME DEPARTMENT.'--'I cannot make a speech
myself,' said a wag, when suddenly called upon to address a political
assemblage, 'but if any body else wants to speak, I'll hold his
hat!' This was an obliging person; and we here ask leave in some
sort to imitate his example. While we are making out the Index to
the twenty-second volume of the KNICKERBOCKER, our readers
will permit us to introduce to their acquaintance our thoughtful
friend 'HANS VON SPIEGEL,' and our imaginative and mercurial
correspondent 'JULIAN,' whose '_Top of New York_' in our last
number, by the by, we placed to the credit of a new contributor to this
Magazine, whose hand-writing greatly resembles his own. These gentlemen
came too late to sit at the regular board; so an' please you, reader,
make them welcome, as we do, to our round-table. We have 'taken their
hats;' and while the one addresses you, upon a theme _seasonable_
at this present, and fraught with reminiscences of golden days, and
the other enlightens unwedded people on the subject of 'matrimonial
gettings-up of a morning,' permit us to accomplish our ungrateful
task of composing a 'curtailed abbreviation compressing all the
particulars' of the various matters contained in the last six numbers
of the KNICKERBOCKER. Ladies and gentlemen, 'HERR VON
SPIEGEL,' in an 'Epistleized Reverie:'
'While I mused, the fire burned.'
'THE gorgeous autumnal sun had just sunk behind the line of
the Jersey shore as HANS, an hour since, turned homeward.
He had it in his thoughts, dear EDITOR, to give thee a
desultory train of reflections which the quiet loveliness of the scene
suggested: the hills of Long Island stretching away to the eastward,
with their wooded sides yet mantled with the many-colored foliage,
that brightened in the evening glory of the sun; the radiant surface
of the Narrows, dotted here and there with sails, their swelling
bosoms spread to the land breeze; the white gulls returning in many a
gyration to find their resting-places among the rocks on the beach;
as they had done ages before; when the red man, who harmed them not,
alone and happy, paddled his canoe around the head-lands which now
are crowned with the tasteful dwellings of civilization; the gray
sky bending over all, and arching in the landscape. He thought to
discourse with thee of these; but now, seated before a coal-grate,
all a-blaze and cheerful, he has changed his mind. Through the
window-blinds of his chamber he can see the cold twinklings of the
Northern Bear; and, if he would, the star that looks so brightly down
on the Arctic Sea. There, now he _does_ gaze upon it--sadly though,
and tearful. Thou mayest not know _why_ that star makes him sad. Again
his eyes are turned away from his window, and his heart from sad
thoughts. He pusheth the table a hair's breadth farther from the fire;
presseth the cushion of a comfortable chair with a pair of curious
slippers, in which his feet are encased; adjusteth himself at an easy
angle; droppeth his head upon his breast, and wooeth the enchantress
FANCY, lustrous-eyed and beautiful.* * * Hast thou never
felt, gentle reader, while enjoying the first cold evening of the
season, beside thy glowing hearth, a sudden influx of fresh life; a
flow of quiet joyousness, as mysterious as pleasant; the melancholy
gloominess with which thou beheldest the approach of winter, all
at once disappearing to trouble thee no more for a whole year?--the
dread of snow-tempests, and keen winds, and hurrying, gray clouds, on
the instant giving place to a longing love for merry sleigh-bells,
jingling in the frosty air? Well! HANS _thought_ he was not
the only one who experienceth the like.
Give us thy hand, Old WINTER! Thou art welcome! Thou
awakenest visions of other days, when HANS, in the simplicity
of his childhood, believed that 'Thanksgiving' and 'Christmas,'
some how or other, came into town in an old-fashioned double-seated
sleigh, with racing gray horses and cracking whip, wielded by an
invisible Jehu. How the idea got into his head, is more than he can
tell. Exquisitely happy were those days of uncareful childhood; when
the winter school called scores of rosy-cheeked urchins, hallooing on
the morning air, through the snow to the old red school-house in the
village of HANS'S nativity. The larger boys all with their
sleds, on which sat their sisters, with the 'dinner-basket' in their
laps; and their smaller brothers floundering through the drifts which
they sought, contrary to the last injunctions of their mothers, along
the fences. The huge box-stove roared a 'good morning' to them, as the
boys stamped off the ice from their shoes, and the girls untied the
strings which kept down their pantalettes. As there were no unlucky
flies to inter and imprison in transparent quills, nor coke-berries
wherewith to paint the sides of their noses farthest from the master's
eye, the boys, perforce, studied their tasks; and the girls, as
_girls_ always are, were equally the objects of pedagogical favor.
Was the day 'thawy,' the noon-time witnessed magic castles erected;
and the numberless streaks of bare turf showed where the huge balls
of snow of which they were constructed had been rolled into unwieldy
masses; and the wet mittens under the stove in the afternoon amply
compensated for the want of water in the iron basin on the top of it.
Shouting when four o'clock released them, they hurried home, only to
prepare for the evening's sport of 'riding down hill.' HANS
would give worlds to be a boy again, and for one single moonlight
evening slide down 'Furnace-hill,' as of yore! * * * When a few
winters had passed over your boyish head, beloved reader, and you
first knew that magnetic feeling which told you what gave the charm
to rosy lips, and you _guessed_ what kissing was, did you not feel
all ecstasy while the bell-bedizzened horses and the belle-enlivened
sleigh scoured with half a score of you over hill and through dale;
the thick hood of the maiden next you being excuse unquestionable for
telling her pretty lips what her ear could not so well apprehend? You
needn't be ashamed to confess it; for those were, let HANS
tell you, the golden days of your life. Before the wide fire-place
of thy father's kitchen, thou hast, days long gone by, arranged the
pippins just outside the andirons, and placed the gallon-pitcher of
good brisk October on the coals, and cracked hickory nuts, (yes, and
the more _accessible_ butternut,) for thy semi-circle of smiling,
grown-up sisters and sweet blooming cousins, until the apples were
roasted and the cider warmed. Then, when nine o'clock came, and thy
spectacled and pious grandmother had read a chapter in the Holy Book,
and thy father had knelt in prayer, didst thou not, as HANS
does now, while thou laidst thy head upon thy pillow, and heard the
whistling wind shaking thy window, bless Old Winter for making you so
happy? * * * Courteous reader, HANS, while he draweth up the
bed-clothes, biddeth thee 'Good Night!'
IT is not possible that the foregoing can be read by any
one who has enjoyed the blessed privilege of passing his early years
in the country, without 'kindling the flame of memory,' and placing
before him, as in a backward-moving panorama, the hallowed associations
of childhood and youth. Listen now to 'JULIAN.' He keeps a
late appointment with a friend, with whom he is once more to look
down upon 'the top of New-York.' He is certainly highly colloquial,
and very familiar; but you'll find _thought_ enough in him, expressed
and suggestive, albeit at the first glance he may seem rambling and
desultory:
'MY dear Sir, how are you now? Hope you haven't been waiting.
Possible? Been here all the morning under an umbrella! You must
have breakfasted very badly. I should have been up sooner, but my
wife----Ugh! how the wind blows! Won't you have part of my cloak?
There goes your umbrella inside out. Ah, well; it's better than a
collapse. This 'falling inward,' as the women call it, is frightful.
This, then, is December. Chimney-tops pirouetting, tiles on the wing,
and clouds pouring out of the North, legion upon legion, as though
all the winds of Heaven had been gathering them for the last month,
and were now bound to the tropics with the momentum of the world's
motion. The top of New-York, Sir, is very well of a warm day; but
allow me to say that there is air below, now--plenty of it. Suppose
we step down and look out of the window? * * * Well, Sir, how have
you been? Down in the mouth again! Ah, Sir, you have been looking at
something too long. Never should do that. In a world that's whirling a
thousand miles an hour, every thing should be taken at a glance. Get
the wit of a thing, and have done with it. I give you five minutes
every day to look at the stars, but don't particularize; for some
in those far-off places send their light down long after they have
been knocked out of existence, and you may be looking at a blank.
Look out for such delusions, and _act_, remembering that the poetry
of the hour, like the cream of your coffee, should be fresh every
morning. Oh, Sir! in a world that never halts for a single moment
in its everlasting round of changing amusement, your small agony is
unpardonable. Why, the clouds and darkness are part of the play.
Certainly--part of the play. Rain and snow, and chilling winds, pain,
trouble, and torment--these are the variations for which you may thank
GOD. If there were not plainer faces and worse figures, your
little wife would soon be a fright to you--a perfect fright. Find
your bubble and blow, but never stop to look at the colors. Let them
burst; no matter for that, while your wind lasts. Blow away; there's
nothing like it. If you are tired, like myself, and would like to
look on, I can only say that the moralities of such speculation are
hazardous; and if you have any wind left, it's better to die with a
round cheek than a hollow one. A man without a bubble is flatulent;
and a woman without one--but that's impossible. Take my advice, Sir,
and let the world wag. If it choose to run off the track, _let it_,
and if any comet is amind to take us _en route_ to the sun, why, blaze
away! There are thousands of better dots in creation than this old
concern; and whether we go up, down, or sideways--rocket, earthquake,
or thirty-two pounder--we shall land somewhere; can't get lost. In
short, Sir, you have no right to grumble, unless you are----But that's
my secret. Shall I confess it? Mind, a _secret_; for if my wife should
hear of it, she would tease me to death. Of course you will dine with
me to-day; beg you wouldn't hint this in the remotest manner; not a
whisper. * * * Sir, I am _nervous_--a solemn truth. Been examined by
a double-combined microscope, and found to have two sets of nerves. I
can see double, hear double, think double, and sleep double; and yet
with such nerves, I have this very day been outwitted by a woman with
only a common set. 'Nothing remarkable about that,' you say. Perhaps
not; we shall see. * * * Speaking of nerves; now a day like this is
endurable. People, you observe, are in earnest. There is what the new
school would call a 'oneness' in the public mind to get out of the
rain; and cloaks, handkerchiefs, umbrellas and skirts are used for the
temporary shelter, because one can't stop to be nice. But of a warm
day, when people can afford to dally and act their part, my nerves are
troublesome, and I mount to the top of New-York. Did you ever look
at a crowd of faces, when, under some dull lecture or sermon, the
mind is comparatively at rest, and the character stands out upon the
countenance? the smile, and all the other acted poetry of the face,
gone for the moment, leaving only the impress of the slow march of
years, the crows'-feet, the hieroglyphic, the line upon line of the
devil's own hand-writing? If you could forget that you have looked
at such things for a life-time; say for instance, you were a modest
individual, just dropped from the moon, or any star that may be a part
of Heaven; what would be your first impression? Why, Sir, you can't
make your own dog look you in the face. There are different ways of
viewing things, and in this light, one would be disposed to say that
if the sun _is_ the bad place that some people think, why, the farther
planets may not, after all, be such outside barbarians as we generally
imagine. There may be a reason, a very convenient reason, why _we_ are
not farther off.
'But, Sir, I was speaking of my wife. As you are a man of family, and
I am only experimenting a little, _nervously_ so to speak, return the
compliment by giving me a little advice upon a matter of my own. How
is it, Sir, about getting up first? We can't agree. She insists (my
wife) that the man should rise first, as the sun before the moon,
the useful before the ornamental, etc. Now, if I am gifted in any
one thing, it is the half-hour dream after the first rouse in the
morning; but my wife, Sir, in that particular is a perfect genius.
Talk about sympathies! Let me tell you that people must not count upon
married happiness from unanimous likenesses. The likes may be _too_
like, and they may like _too well_. They may. I have decided that
point. Well; this morning I was roused from the half-hour dream by the
breakfast-call, and was provoked to find my wife still asleep; that
is, she pretended to sleep; and I must confess that she had studied
her attitude, so far as longitudinal position would admit, with no
little skill. Having this important engagement with you, I gave her a
little shake. 'Fanny! Fanny!' said I; but she didn't move a dimple.
So I gave another shake. 'Eh?' said she; 'what's that? mercy! how
you frightened me!' and then dropped away again. 'I say, _Fanny_,'
accenting it a little. 'Ah, _don't_, dear, you are so rude!' She
opened her eyes the merest trifle, and then lapsed away again into
perfect oblivion as any one would suppose, who didn't know all about
it. Putting on another emphasis, I sung out again, '_Are_ you going to
get up?' She raised her eye-brows a trifle: 'Why, my dear child, you
know it's your turn this morning.' _My_ turn! and 'my dear child!' I
knew from the manner of her saying that, that she would lie there all
day before getting up first; but as I was determined to give her a
trial, and am always easy at a nap, I thought of my interrupted dream,
and sliding gently into the continuation, was soon fast asleep. When
I woke again, it was twelve o'clock, but there was Fanny, just as
before, the arm perhaps a little more _à la Grecque_, and a tinge on
her cheek that looked a little _saucy_; but that might be the thought
of her dream; the fit of a cap, or a new bonnet, any of those innocent
little things that make up the burden of women's night-thoughts in
the way of dreams. Any one would have sworn it was sleep, deep and
profound; a child asleep after a day's frolic would not have been more
perfect in the 'doing' of it. By this time, people were beginning
their morning visits; but of course, Mrs. Julian was 'not at home.'
People came and went for an hour; and I was about despairing of my
breakfast, when the sleeping wife sprang suddenly from the bed and ran
out of the room.
'What now?' said I; but I didn't get up, for I knew there was some
mischief a-foot; and sure enough, back she came in a jiffy, and got
straight into bed, _munching a large piece of ginger-bread_!
'Now, Sir, what is the _law_ in such a case?