From gray-beard father Time’s oblivious halls,
The modes and maxims of my early day,
Long in those dark recesses stow’d away:
Drags once more to the cheerful realms of light
Those buckram fashions, long since lost in night,
And makes, like Endor’s witch, once more to rise
My grogram grandames to my raptured eyes!
Shades of my fathers! in your pasteboard skirts,
Your broidered waistcoats and your plaited shirts,
Your formal bag-wigs—wide-extended cuffs,
Your five-inch chitterlings and nine-inch ruffs
Gods! how ye strut, at times, in all your state,
Amid the visions of my thoughtful pate!
I see ye move the solemn minuet o’er,
The modest foot scarce rising from the floor;
No thundering rigadoon with boisterous prance,
No pigeon-wing disturb your _contre-danse_.
But silent as the gentle Lethe’s tide,
Adown the festive maze ye peaceful glide!
Still in my mental eye each name appears—
Each modest beauty of departed years;
Close by mamma I see her stately march,
Or sit, in all the majesty of starch;—
When for the dance a stranger seeks her hand.
I see her doubting, hesitating stand;
Yield to his claim with most fastidious grace,
And sigh for her intended in his place!
Ah! golden days; when every gentle fair
On sacred Sabbath conn’d with pious care
Her Holy Bible, or her prayer-book o’er,
Or studied honest Bunyan’s drowsy lore;
Travell’d with him the “Pilgrim’s Progress” through,
And storm’d the famous town of Man-soul too:—
Beat Eye and Ear-gate up with thundering jar,
And fought triumphant through the “Holy War;”
Or if, perchance, to lighter works inclined,
They sought with novels to relax the mind,
’Twas “Grandison’s politely” formal page,
Or “Clelia” or “Pamela” were the rage.
No plays were then—theatrics were unknown—
A learned pig, a dancing monkey shown,
The feats of Punch, a cunning juggler’s sleight,
Were sure to fill each bosom with delight.
An honest, simple, humdrum race we were,
Undazzled yet by fashion’s wildering glare;
Our manners unreserved, devoid of guile,
We knew not then the modern monster, Style:
Style, that with pride each empty bosom swells,
Puffs boys to manhood, little girls to belles.
Scarce from the nursery freed, our gentle fair
Are yielded to the dancing-master’s care;
And, ere the head one mite of sense can gain,
Are introduced ‘mid folly’s frippery train.
A stranger’s grasp no longer gives alarms,
Our fair surrender to their very arms.
And in the insidious waltz[56] will swim and twine,
And whirl and languish tenderly divine!
O, how I hate this loving, hugging dance;
This imp of Germany brought up in France:
Nor can I see a niece its windings trace,
But all the honest blood glows in my face.
“Sad, sad refinement this,” I often say;
’Tis modesty indeed refined away!
Let France its whim, its sparkling wit supply,
The easy grace that captivates the eye;
But curse their waltz—their loose, lascivious arts,
“That smooth our manners, to corrupt our hearts!”[57]
Where now those books, from which in days of yore
Our mothers gained their literary store?
Alas! stiff-skirted Grandison gives place
To novels of a new and rakish race;
And honest Bunyan’s pious dreaming lore,
To the lascivious rhapsodies of Moore.
And, last of all, behold the mimic stage,
Its morals lend to polish off the age;
With flimsy farce, a comedy miscall’d,
Garnished with vulgar cant, and proverbs bald,
With puns most puny, and a plenteous store
Of smutty jokes, to catch a gallery roar.
Or see, more fatal, graced with every art
To charm and captivate the female heart,
The false, “the gallant, gay Lothario” smiles.[58]
And loudly boasts his base seductive wiles—
In glowing colors paint Calista’s wrongs,
And with voluptuous scenes the tale prolongs.
When Cooper lends his fascinating powers,
Decks vice itself in bright alluring flowers,
Pleased with his manly grace, his youthful fire,
Our fair are lured the villain to admire;
While humbler virtue, like a stalking horse,
Struts clumsily and croaks in honest Morse.
Ah, hapless days! when trials thus combined.
In pleasing garb assail the female mind;
When every smooth, insidious snare is spread
To sap the morals and delude the head!
Not Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego,
To prove their faith and virtue here below,
Could more an angel’s helping hand require
To guide their steps uninjured through the fire,
Where had but heaven its guardian aid denied,
The holy trio in the proof had died.
If, then, their manly vigor sought supplies
From the bright stranger in celestial guise,
Alas! can we from feebler natures claim,
To brave seduction’s ordeal, free from blame;
To pass through fire unhurt like golden ore,
Though ANGEL MISSIONS bless the earth no more!
NOTES, BY WILLIAM WIZARD, ESQ.
Footnote 56:
_Waltz._] As many of the retired matrons of this city, unskilled in
“gestic lore” are doubtless ignorant of the movements and figures of
this modest exhibition, I will endeavor to give some account of it, in
order that they may learn what odd capers their daughters sometimes
cut when from under their guardian wings.
On a signal being given by the music, the gentleman seizes the lady
round her waist; the lady scorning to be outdone in courtesy, very
politely takes the gentleman round the neck, with one arm resting
against his shoulder to prevent encroachments. Away then they go,
about, and about, and about—“About what, sir?”—about the room, madam,
to be sure. The whole economy of this dance consists in turning round
and round the room in a certain measured step: and it is truly
astonishing that this continued revolution does not set all their
heads swimming like a top; but I have been positively assured that it
only occasions a gentle sensation which is marvelously agreeable. In
the course of this circumnavigation, the dancers, in order to give the
charm of variety, are continually changing their relative
situations;—now the gentleman, meaning no harm in the world, I assure
you, madam, carelessly flings his arm about the lady’s neck, with an
air of celestial impudence, and anon, the lady, meaning as little harm
as the gentleman, takes him round the waist with most ingenuous modest
languishment, to the great delight of numerous spectators and
amateurs, who generally form a ring, as the mob do about a pair of
amazons pulling caps, or a couple of fighting mastiffs.
After continuing this divine interchange of hands, arms, et cætera,
for half an hour or so, the lady begins to tire, and with “eyes
upraised,” in most bewitching languor, petitions her partner for a
little more support. This is always given without hesitation. The lady
leans gently on his shoulder, their arms entwine in a thousand
seducing, mischievous curves—don’t be alarmed, madam—closer and closer
they approach each other, and in conclusion, the parties being
overcome with ecstatic fatigue, the lady seems almost sinking into the
gentleman’s arms, and then—“Well, sir! and what then?”—Lord, madam,
how should I know?
Footnote 57:
\.] My friend Pindar, and in fact our whole junto, has been accused of
an unreasonable hostility to the French nation; and I am informed by a
Parisian correspondent, that our first number played the very devil in
the court of St. Cloud. His imperial majesty got into a most
outrageous passion, and being withal a waspish little gentleman, had
nearly kicked his bosom friend, Talleyrand, out of the cabinet, in
paroxysms of his wrath. He insisted upon it that the nation was
assailed in its most vital part, being, like Achilles, extremely
sensitive to any attacks upon the heel. When my correspondent sent off
his dispatches, it was still in doubt what measures would be adopted;
but it was strongly suspected that vehement representations would be
made to our government. Willing, therefore, to save our Executive from
any embarrassment on the subject, and above all, from the disagreeable
alternative of sending an apology by the “Hornet,” we do assure Mr.
Jefferson that there is nothing further from our thoughts than the
subversion of the Gallic empire, or any attack on the interests,
tranquillity, or reputation of the nation at large, which we seriously
declare possesses the highest rank in our estimation. Nothing less
than the national welfare could have induced us to trouble ourselves
with this explanation; and in the name of the junto, I once more
declare, that when we toast a Frenchman, we merely mean one of these
inconnus, who swarmed to this country from the kitchens and barbers’
shops of Nantz, Bordeaux, and Marseilles—played game of leap-frog at
all our balls and assemblies—set this unhappy town hopping mad, and
passed themselves off on our tender-hearted damsels for unfortunate
noblemen, ruined in the revolution! Such only can wince at the lash,
and accuse us of severity; and we should be mortified in the extreme
if they did not feel our well-intended castigation.
Footnote 58:
_Fair Penitent._] The story of this play, if told in its native
language, would exhibit a scene of guilt and shame which no modest ear
could listen to without shrinking with disgust; but, arrayed as it is,
in all the splendor of harmonious, rich, and polished verse, it steals
into the heart like some gay, luxurious, smooth-faced villain, and
betrays it insensibly to immorality and vice; our very sympathy is
enlisted on the side of guilt; and the piety of Altamont, and the
gentleness of Lavinia, are lost in the splendid debaucheries of the
“gallant, gay Lothario,” and the blustering, hollow repentance of the
fair Calista, whose sorrow reminds us of that of Pope’s Heloise—“I
mourn the lover, not lament the fault.” Nothing is more easy than to
banish such plays from our stage. Were our ladies, instead of crowding
to see them again and again repeated, to discourage their exhibition
by absence, the stage would soon be indeed the school of morality, and
the number of “Fair Penitents,” in all probability, diminish.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
NO. VIII.—SATURDAY, APRIL 18, 1807.
BY ANTHONY EVERGREEN, GENT.
“In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow,
Thou’rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow;
Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee,
There is no living with thee—nor without thee.”
“Never, in the memory of the oldest inhabitant, has there been known a
more backward spring.” This is the universal remark among the almanac
quidnuncs, and weather-wiseacres of the day; and I have heard it at
least fifty-five times from old Mrs. Cockloft, who, poor woman, is one
of those walking almanacs that foretell every snow, rain, or frost, by
the shooting of corns, a pain in the bones, or an “ugly stitch in the
side.” I do not recollect, in the whole course of my life, to have seen
the month of March indulge in such untoward capers, caprices, and
coquetries, as it has done this year; I might have forgiven these
vagaries, had they not completely knocked up my friend Langstaff; whose
feelings are ever at the mercy of a weathercock, whose spirits sink and
rise with the mercury of a barometer, and to whom an east wind is as
obnoxious as a Sicilian _sirocco_. He was tempted some time since, by
the fineness of the weather, to dress himself with more than ordinary
care, and take his morning stroll, but before he had half finished his
peregrination, he was utterly discomfited, and driven home by a
tremendous squall of wind, hail, rain, and snow, or, as he testily
termed it, “a most villainous congregation of vapors.”
This was too much for the patience of friend Launcelot; he declared he
would humor the weather no longer in its whimwhams; and, according to
his immemorial custom on these occasions, retreated in high dudgeon to
his elbow-chair to lie in of the spleen and rail at nature for being so
fantastical: “Confound the jade,” he frequently exclaims, “what a pity
Nature had not been of the masculine instead of the feminine gender; the
almanac-makers might then have calculated with some degree of
certainty.”
When Langstaff invests himself with the spleen, and gives audience to
the blue devils from his elbow-chair, I would not advise any of his
friends to come within gun-shot of his citadel with the benevolent
purpose of administering consolation or amusement; for he is then as
crusty and crabbed as that famous coiner of false money, Diogenes
himself. Indeed his room is at such times inaccessible; and old Pompey
is the only soul that can gain admission, or ask a question with
impunity; the truth is, that on these occasions there is not a straw’s
difference between them, for Pompey is as grum and grim and cynical as
his master.
Launcelot has now been above three weeks in this desolate situation, and
has, therefore, had but little to do in our last number. As he could not
be prevailed on to give any account of himself in our introduction, I
will take the opportunity of his confinement, while his back is turned,
to give a slight sketch of his character—fertile in whimwhams and
bachelorisms, but rich in many of the sterling qualities of our nature.
Annexed to this article, our readers will perceive a striking likeness
of my friend which was taken by that cunning rogue, Will Wizard, who
peeped through the keyhole and sketched it off, as honest Launcelot sat
by the fire, wrapped up in his flannel _robe de chambre_, and indulging
in a mortal fit of the _hyp_. Now take my word for it, gentle reader,
this is the most auspicious moment in which to touch off the phiz of a
genuine humorist.
Of the antiquity of the Langstaff family I can say but little; except
that I have no doubt it is equal to that of most families who have the
privilege of making their own pedigree, without the impertinent
interposition of a college of heralds. My friend Launcelot is not a man
to blazon anything; but I have heard him talk with great complacency of
his ancestor, Sir Rowland, who was a dashing buck in the days of
Hardiknute, and broke the head of a gigantic Dane, at a game of
quarter-staff, in presence of the whole court. In memory of this gallant
exploit, Sir Rowland was permitted to take the name of Langstoffe, and
to assume as a crest to his arms a hand grasping a cudgel. It is,
however, a foible so ridiculously common in this country for people to
claim consanguinity with all the great personages of their own name in
Europe, that I should put but little faith in this family boast of
friend Langstaff, did I not know him to be a man of most unquestionable
veracity.
The whole world knows already that my friend is a bachelor; for he is,
or pretends to be, exceedingly proud of his personal independence, and
takes care to make it known in all companies where strangers are
present. He is forever vaunting the precious state of “single
blessedness,” and was, not long ago, considerably startled at a
proposition of one of his great favorites, Miss Sophy Sparkle, “that old
bachelors should be taxed as luxuries.” Launcelot immediately hied him
home, and wrote a tremendous long representation in their behalf, which
I am resolved to publish if it is ever attempted to carry the measure
into operation. Whether he is sincere in these professions, or whether
his present situation is owing to choice or disappointment, he only can
tell; but if he ever does tell, I will suffer myself to be shot by the
first lady’s eye that can twang an arrow. In his youth he was forever in
love; but it was his misfortune to be continually crossed and rivaled by
his bosom friend and contemporary beau, Pindar Cockloft, Esq., for as
Langstaff never made a confidant on these occasions, his friends never
knew which way his affections pointed; and so, between them both, the
lady generally slipped through their fingers.
It has ever been the misfortune of Launcelot, that he could not for the
soul of him restrain a good thing; and this fatality has drawn upon him
the ill-will of many whom he would not have offended for the world. With
the kindest heart under heaven, and the most benevolent disposition
under heaven toward every being around him, he has been continually
betrayed by the mischievous vivacity of his fancy, and the good-humored
waggery of his feelings, into satirical sallies which have been
treasured up by the invidious, and retailed out with the bitter sneer of
malevolence, instead of the playful hilarity of countenance which
originally sweetened and tempered and disarmed them of their sting.
These misrepresentations have gained him many reproaches and lost him
many a friend.
This unlucky characteristic played the mischief with him in one of his
love affairs. He was, as I have before observed, often opposed in his
gallantries by that formidable rival, Pindar Cockloft, Esq., and a most
formidable rival he was; for he had Apollo, the nine muses, together
with all the joint tenants of Olympus, to back him; and everybody knows
what important confederates they are to a lover. Poor Launcelot stood no
chance; the lady was cooped up in the poet’s corner of every weekly
paper; and at length Pindar attacked her with a sonnet, that took up a
whole column, in which he enumerated at least a dozen cardinal virtues,
together with innumerable others of inferior consideration. Launcelot
saw his case was desperate, and that unless he sat down forthwith,
be-cherubimed and be-angeled her to the skies, and put every virtue
under the sun in requisition, he might as well go hang himself, and so
make an end of the business. At it, therefore, he went; and was going on
very swimmingly, for in the space of a dozen lines he had enlisted under
her command at least three-score and ten substantial housekeeping
virtues, when unluckily for Launcelot’s reputation as a poet and the
lady’s as a saint, one of those confounded good thoughts struck his
laughter-loving brain—it was irresistible; away he went, full sweep
before the wind, cutting and slashing, and tickled to death with his own
fun; the consequence was, that by the time he had finished, never was
poor lady so most ludicrously lampooned since lampooning came into
fashion. But this was not half; so hugely was Launcelot pleased with
this frolic of his wits, that nothing would do but he must show it to
the lady, who, as well she might, was mortally offended, and forbid him
her presence. My friend was in despair, but, through the interference of
his generous rival, was permitted to make his apology, which, however,
most unluckily happened to be rather worse than the original offense;
for though he had studied an eloquent compliment, yet, as ill luck would
have it, a most preposterous whimwham knocked at his pericranium, and
inspired him to say some consummate good things, which, all put
together, amounted to a downright hoax, and provoked the lady’s wrath to
such a degree, that sentence of eternal banishment was awarded against
him.
Launcelot was inconsolable, and determined in the true style of novel
heroics to make the tour of Europe, and endeavor to lose the
recollection of this misfortune amongst the gayeties of France and the
classic charms of Italy; he accordingly took passage in a vessel, and
pursued his voyage prosperously as far as Sandy Hook, where he was
seized with a violent fit of sea-sickness; at which he was so affronted
that he put his portmanteau into the first pilot-boat, and returned to
town completely cured of his love and his rage for travelling.
I pass over the subsequent amours of my friend Langstaff, being but
little acquainted with them; for, as I have already mentioned, he never
was known to make a confidant of anybody. He always affirmed that a man
must be a fool to fall in love, but an idiot to boast of it; ever
denominated it the villainous passion; lamented that it could not be
cudgeled out of the human heart; and yet could no more live without
being in love with somebody or other than he could without whimwhams.
My friend Launcelot is a man of excessive irritability of nerve, and I
am acquainted with no one so susceptible of the petty “miseries of human
life;” yet its keener evils and misfortunes he bears without shrinking,
and however they may prey in secret on his happiness, he never
complains. This was strikingly evinced in an affair where his heart was
deeply and irrevocably concerned, and in which his success was ruined by
one for whom he had long cherished a warm friendship. The circumstance
cut poor Langstaff to the very soul; he was not seen in company for
months afterward, and for a long time he seemed to retire within
himself, and battle with the poignancy of his feelings; but not a murmur
or a reproach was heard to fall from his lips, though, at the mention of
his friend’s name, a shade of melancholy might be observed stealing
across his face, and his voice assumed a touching tone, that seemed to
say he remembered his treachery “more in sorrow than in anger.” This
affair has given a slight tinge of sadness to his disposition, which,
however, does not prevent his entering into the amusements of the world;
the only effect it occasions is, that you may occasionally observe him,
at the end of a lively conversation, sink for a few minutes into an
apparent forgetfulness of surrounding objects, during which time he
seems to be indulging in some melancholy retrospection.
Langstaff inherited from his father a love of literature, a disposition
for castle-building, a mortal enmity to noise, a sovereign antipathy to
cold weather and brooms, and a plentiful stock of whimwhams. From the
delicacy of his nerves he is peculiarly sensible to discordant sounds;
the rattling of a wheelbarrow is “horrible;” the noise of children
“drives him distracted;” and he once left excellent lodgings merely
because the lady of the house wore high-heeled shoes, in which she
clattered up and down stairs, till, to use his own emphatic expression,
“they made life loathsome” to him. He suffers annual martyrdom from the
razor-edged zephyrs of our “balmy spring,” and solemnly declares that
the boasted month of May has become a perfect “vagabond.” As some people
have a great antipathy to cats, and can tell when one is locked up in a
closet, so Launcelot declares his feelings always announce to him the
neighborhood of a broom—a household implement which he abominates above
all others. Nor is there any living animal in the world that he holds in
more utter abhorrence than what is usually termed a notable housewife; a
pestilent being, who, he protests, is the bane of goodfellowship, and
has a heavy charge to answer for the many offenses committed against the
ease, comfort, and social enjoyments of sovereign man. He told me, not
long ago, “that he had rather see one of the weird sisters flourish
through his keyhole on a broomstick, than one of the servant-maids enter
the door with a besom.”
My friend Launcelot is ardent and sincere in his attachments, which are
confined to a chosen few, in whose society he loves to give free scope
to his whimsical imagination; he, however, mingles freely with the
world, though more as a spectator than an actor; and without an anxiety,
or hardly a care to please, is generally received with welcome and
listened to with complacency. When he extends his hand, it is in a free,
open, liberal style; and when you shake it, you feel his honest heart
throb in its pulsations. Though rather fond of gay exhibitions, he does
not appear so frequently at balls and assemblies since the introduction
of the drum, trumpet, and tambourine; all of which he abhors on account
of the rude attack they make on his organs of hearing: in short, such is
his antipathy to noise, that though exceedingly patriotic, yet he
retreats every Fourth of July to Cockloft Hall, in order to get out of
the way of the hubbub and confusion which make so considerable a part of
the pleasure of that splendid anniversary.
I intend this article as a mere sketch of Langstaff’s multifarious
character; his innumerable whimwhams will be exhibited by himself, in
the course of this work, in all their strange varieties and the
machinery of his mind, more intricate than the most subtile piece of
clock-work, be fully explained. And trust me, gentle folk, his are the
whimwhams of a courteous gentleman, full of most excellent qualities;
honorable in his disposition, independent in his sentiments, and of
unbounded good nature, as may be seen through all his works.
ON STYLE.
BY WILLIAM WIZARD, ESQ.
STYLE, a manner of writing; title; pin of a dial; the pistil of
plants.—_Johnson._
STYLE, is ... style.—_Linkum Fidelius._
Now I would not give a straw for either of the above definitions, though
I think the latter is by far the most satisfactory; and I do wish
sincerely every modern numskull, who takes hold of a subject he knows
nothing about, would adopt honest Linkum’s mode of explanation. Blair’s
Lectures on this article have not thrown a whit more light on the
subject of my inquiries; they puzzled me just as much as did the learned
and laborious expositions and illustrations of the worthy professor of
our college, in the middle of which I generally had the ill luck to fall
asleep.
This same word Style, though but a diminutive word, assumes to itself
more contradictions, and significations, and eccentricities, than any
monosyllable in the language is legitimately entitled to. It is an
arrant little humorist of a word, and full of whimwhams, which occasions
me to like it hugely; but it puzzled me most wickedly on my first return
from a long residence abroad, having crept into fashionable use during
my absence; and had it not been for friend Evergreen, and that thrifty
sprig of knowledge, Jeremy Cockloft the younger, I should have remained
to this day ignorant of its meaning.
Though it would seem that the people of all countries are equally
vehement in the pursuit of this phantom, style, yet in almost all of
them there is a strange diversity in opinion as to what constitutes its
essence; and every different class, like the pagan nations, adore it
under a different form. In England, for instance, an honest cit packs up
himself, his family and his style, in a buggy or tim-whisky, and rattles
away on Sunday with his fair partner blooming beside him, like an
eastern bride, and two chubby children, squatting like Chinese images at
his feet. A baronet requires a chariot and pair; a lord must needs have
a barouche and four; but a duke—O! a duke cannot possibly lumber his
style along under a coach and six, and half a score of footmen into the
bargain. In China a puissant Mandarin loads at least three elephants
with style; and an overgrown sheep at the Cape of Good Hope, trails
along his tail and his style on a wheelbarrow. In Egypt, or at
Constantinople, style consists in the quantity of fur and fine clothes a
lady can put on without danger of suffocation; here it is otherwise, and
consists in the quantity she can put off without the risk of freezing. A
Chinese lady is thought prodigal of her charms if she expose the tip of
her nose, or the ends of her fingers, to the ardent gaze of bystanders;
and I recollect that all Canton was in a buzz in consequence of the
great belle, Miss Nangfous, peeping out of the window with her face
uncovered! Here the style is to show not only the face, but the neck,
shoulders, etc.; and a lady never presumes to hide them except when she
is not “at home,” and not sufficiently undressed to see company.
This style has ruined the peace and harmony of many a worthy household;
for no sooner do they set up for style, but instantly all the honest old
comfortable _sans cérémonie_ furniture is discarded; and you stalk
cautiously about, amongst the uncomfortable splendor of Grecian chairs,
Egyptian tables, Turkey carpets, and Etruscan vases. This vast
improvement in furniture demands an increase in the domestic
establishment; and a family that once required two or three servants for
convenience, now employs half a dozen for style.
Bell Brazen, late favorite of my unfortunate friend Dessalines, was one
of these patterns of style; and whatever freak she was seized with,
however preposterous, was implicitly followed by all who would be
considered as admitted in the stylish arcana. She was once seized with a
whimwham that tickled the whole court. She could not lay down to take an
afternoon’s loll, but she must have one servant to scratch her head, two
to tickle her feet, and a fourth to fan her delectable person while she
slumbered. The thing took—it became the rage, and not a sable belle in
all Hayti but what insisted upon being fanned, and scratched, and
tickled in the true imperial style. Sneer not at this picture, my most
excellent townswomen, for who among you but are daily following fashions
equally absurd?
Style, accordingly to Evergreen’s account, consists in certain fashions,
or certain eccentricities, or certain manners of certain people, in
certain situations, and possessed of a certain share of fashion or
importance. A red cloak, for instance, on the shoulders of an old
market-woman is regarded with contempt; it is vulgar, it is odious:
fling, however, its usurping rival, a red shawl, over the fine figure of
a fashionable belle, and let her flame away with it in Broadway, or in a
ball-room, and it is immediately declared to be the style.
The modes of attaining this certain situation, which entitle its holder
to style, are various and opposite: the most ostensible is the
attainment of wealth, the possession of which changes at once the pert
airs of vulgar ignorance into fashionable ease and elegant vivacity. It
is highly amusing to observe the gradation of a family aspiring to
style, and the devious windings they pursue in order to attain it. While
beating up against wind and tide, they are the most complaisant beings
in the world; they keep “booing and booing,” as M’Sycophant says, until
you would suppose them incapable of standing upright; they kiss their
hands to everybody who has the least claim to style; their familiarity
is intolerable, and they absolutely overwhelm you with their friendship
and loving kindness. But having once gained the envied preeminence,
never were beings in the world more changed. They assume the most
intolerable caprices: at one time, address you with importunate
sociability; at another, pass you by with silent indifference; sometimes
sit up in their chairs in all the majesty of dignified silence; and at
another time bounce about with all the obstreperous ill-bred noise of a
little hoyden just broke loose from a boarding-school.
Another feature which distinguishes these new-made fashionables, is the
inveteracy with which they look down upon the honest people who are
struggling to climb up to the same envied height. They never fail to
salute them with the most sarcastic reflections; and like so many worthy
hodmen, clambering a ladder, each one looks down upon his next neighbor
below, and makes no scruple of shaking the dust off his shoes into his
eyes. Thus by dint of perseverance, merely, they come to be considered
as established denizens of the great world; as in some barbarous nations
an oyster shell is of sterling value, and a copper washed counter will
pass current for genuine gold.
In no instance have I seen this grasping after style more whimsically
exhibited, than in the family of my old acquaintance, Timothy Giblet. I
recollect old Giblet when I was a boy, and he was the most surly
curmudgeon I ever knew. He was a perfect scarecrow to the small-fry of
the day, and inherited the hatred of all these unlucky little shavers:
for never could we assemble about his door of an evening to play, and
make a little hubbub, but out he sallied from his nest like a spider,
flourished his formidable horsewhip, and dispersed the whole crew in the
twinkling of a lamp. I perfectly remember a bill he sent in to my father
for a pane of glass I had accidentally broken, which came well-nigh
getting me a sound flogging; and I remember as perfectly that the next
night I revenged myself by breaking half a dozen.
Giblet was as arrant a grubworm as ever crawled; and the only rules of
right and wrong he cared a button for, were the rules of multiplication
and addition, which he practiced much more successfully than he did any
of the rules of religion or morality. He used to declare they were the
true golden rules; and he took special care to put Cocker’s arithmetic
in the hands of his children, before they had read ten pages in the
Bible or the Prayer-book. The practice of these favorite maxims was at
length crowned with the harvest of success; and after a life of
self-denial and starvation, and after enduring all the pounds,
shillings, and pence miseries of a miser, he had the satisfaction of
seeing himself worth a plum, and of dying just as he had determined to
enjoy the remainder of his days in contemplating his great wealth and
accumulating mortgages.
His children inherited his money; but they buried the disposition, and
every other memorial of their father, in his grave. Fired with a noble
thirst for style, they instantly emerged from the retired lane in which
themselves and their accomplishments had hitherto been buried; and they
blazed, and they whizzed, and they cracked about town, like a nest of
squibs and devils in a fire-work. I can liken their sudden eclat to
nothing but that of the locust, which is hatched in the dust, where it
increases and swells up to maturity, and after feeling for a moment the
vivifying rays of the sun, bursts forth a mighty insect, and flutters,
and rattles, and buzzes from every tree. The little warblers who have
long cheered the woodlands with their dulcet notes, are stunned by the
discordant racket of these upstart intruders, and contemplate, in
contemptuous silence, their tinsel and their noise.
Having once started, the Giblets were determined that nothing should
stop them in their career, until they had run their full course, and
arrived at the very tip top of style. Every tailor, every shoemaker,
every coachmaker, every milliner, every mantuamaker, every paperhanger,
every piano teacher, and every dancing-master in the city, were enlisted
in their service; and the willing wights most courteously answered their
call; and fell to work to build up the fame of the Giblets, as they had
done that of many an aspiring family before them. In a little time the
young ladies could dance the waltz, thunder Lodoiska, murder French,
kill time, and commit violence on the face of nature in a landscape in
water-colors, equal to the best lady in the land; and the young
gentlemen were seen lounging at corners of streets, and driving tandem;
heard talking loud at the theatre, and laughing in church, with as much
ease, and grace, and modesty, as if they had been gentlemen all the days
of their lives.
And the Giblets arrayed themselves in scarlet, and in fine linen, and
seated themselves in high places; but nobody noticed them except to
honor them with a little contempt. The Giblets made a prodigious splash
in their own opinion; but nobody extolled them except the tailors, and
the milliners who had been employed in manufacturing their
paraphernalia. The Giblets thereupon being, like Caleb Quotem,
determined to have “a place at the review,” fell to work more fiercely
than ever; they gave dinners, and they gave balls, they hired cooks,
they hired fiddlers, they hired confectioners; and they would have kept
a newspaper in pay, had they not all been bought up at that time for the
election. They invited the dancing-men and the dancing-women, and the
gormandizers, and the epicures of the city, to come and make merry at
their expense; and the dancing-men and the dancing-women, and the
epicures, and the gormandizers did come; and they did make merry at
their expense; and they eat, and they drank, and they capered, and they
danced, and they—laughed at their entertainers.
Then commenced the hurry and the bustle, and the mighty nothingness of
fashionable life; such rattling in coaches! such flaunting in the
streets! such slamming of box doors at the theatre! such a tempest of
bustle and unmeaning noise wherever they appeared! The Giblets were seen
here and there and everywhere; they visited everybody they knew, and
everybody they did not know; and there was no getting along for the
Giblets. Their plan at length succeeded. By dint of dinners, of feeding
and frolicking the town, the Giblet family worked themselves into
notice, and enjoyed the ineffable pleasure of being forever pestered by
visitors who cared nothing about them; of being squeezed, and smothered,
and parboiled at nightly balls and evening tea-parties; they were
allowed the privilege of forgetting the very few old friends they once
possessed; they turned their noses up in the wind at everything that was
not genteel; and their superb manners and sublime affectation at length
left it no longer a matter of doubt that the Giblets were perfectly in
style.
——“Being, as it were, a small contentmente in a never contenting
subjecte; a bitter pleasaunte taste of a sweete seasoned sower; and,
all in all, a more than ordinarie rejoycing, in an extraordinarie
sorrow of delyghts.”—
_Link. Fidelius._
We have been considerably edified of late by several letters of advice
from a number of sage correspondents, who really seem to know more about
our work than we do ourselves. One warns us against saying anything more
about ’Sbidlikens, who is a very particular friend of the writer, and
who has a singular disinclination to be laughed at. This correspondent
in particular inveighs against personalities, and accuses us of
ill-nature in bringing forward old Fungus and Billy Dimple, as figures
of fun to amuse the public. Another gentleman, who states that he is a
near relation of the Cocklofts, proses away most soporifically on the
impropriety of ridiculing a respectable old family; and declares that if
we make them and their whimwhams the subject of any more essays, he
shall be under the necessity of applying to our theatrical champions for
satisfaction. A third, who, by the crabbedness of the handwriting, and a
few careless inaccuracies in the spelling, appears to be a lady, assures
us that the Miss Cocklofts, and Miss Diana Wearwell, and Miss Dashaway,
and Mrs. ——, Will Wizard’s quondam flame, are so much obliged to us for
our notice, that they intend in future to take no notice of us at all,
but leave us out of all their tea-parties, for which we make them one of
our best bows, and say, “thank you, ladies.”
We wish to heaven these good people would attend to their own affairs,
if they have any to attend to, and let us alone. It is one of the most
provoking things in the world that we cannot tickle the public a little,
merely for our own private amusement, but we must be crossed and jostled
by these meddling incendiaries, and, in fact, have the whole town about
our ears. We are much in the same situation with an unlucky blade of a
cockney, who, having mounted his bit of blood to enjoy a little innocent
recreation, and display his horsemanship along Broadway, is worried by
all those little yelping curs that infest our city, and who never fail
to sally out and growl, and bark, and snarl, to the great annoyance of
the Birmingham equestrian.
Wisely was it said by the sage Linkum Fidelius, “howbeit, moreover,
nevertheless, this thrice-wicked towne is charged up to the muzzle with
all manner of ill-natures and uncharitablenesses, and is, moreover,
exceedinglie naughte.” This passage of the erudite Linkum was applied to
the city of Gotham, of which he was once Lord Mayor, as appears by his
picture hung up in the hall of that ancient city; but his observation
fits this best of all possible cities “to a hair.” It is a melancholy
truth that this same New York, though the most charming, pleasant,
polished, and praiseworthy city under the sun, and in a word the _bonne
bouche_ of the universe, is most shockingly ill-natured and sarcastic,
and wickedly given to all manner of backslidings; for which we are very
sorry, indeed. In truth, for it must come out like murder, one time or
other, the inhabitants are not only ill-natured, but manifestly unjust;
no sooner do they get one of our random sketches in their hands, but
instantly they apply it most unjustifiably to some “dear friend,” and
then accuse us vociferously of the personality which originated in their
own officious friendship! Truly it is an ill-natured town, and most
earnestly do we hope it may not meet with the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah
of old.
As, however, it may be thought incumbent upon us to make some apology
for these mistakes of the town; and as our good-nature is truly
exemplary, we would certainly answer this expectation, were it not that
we have an invincible antipathy to making apologies. We have a most
profound contempt for any man who cannot give three good reasons for an
unreasonable thing; and will therefore condescend, as usual, to give the
public three special reasons for never apologizing: first, an apology
implies that we are accountable to somebody or another for our conduct;
now, as we do not care a fiddle-stick, as authors, for either public
opinion or private ill-will, it would be implying a falsehood to
apologize; second, an apology would indicate that we had been doing what
we ought not to have done. Now, as we never did and never intend to do
anything wrong, it would be ridiculous to make an apology; third, we
labor under the same incapacity in the art of apologizing that lost
Langstaff his mistress; we never yet undertook to make an apology
without committing a new offense, and making matters ten times worse
than they were before; and we are, therefore, determined to avoid such
predicaments in future.
But though we have resolved never to apologize, yet we have no
particular objection to explain; and if this is all that’s wanted, we
will go about it directly:—_allons_, gentlemen!—before, however, we
enter upon this serious affair, we take this opportunity to express our
surprise and indignation at the incredulity of some people. Have we not,
over and over, assured the town that we are three of the best-natured
fellows living? And is it not astonishing, that having already given
seven convincing proofs of the truth of this assurance, they should
still have any doubts on the subject? But as it is one of the impossible
things to make a knave believe in honesty, so, perhaps, it may be
another to make this most sarcastic, satirical, and tea-drinking city
believe in the existence of good-nature. But to our explanation. Gentle
reader!—for we are convinced that none but gentle or genteel readers can
relish our excellent productions—if thou art in expectation of being
perfectly satisfied with what we are about to say, thou mayest as well
“whistle lillebullero,” and skip quite over what follows; for never
wight was more disappointed than thou wilt be, most assuredly. But to
the explanation: We care just as much about the public and its wise
conjectures, as we do about the man in the moon and his whimwhams; or
the criticisms of the lady who sits majestically in her elbow-chair in
the lobster; and who, belying her sex, as we are credibly informed,
never says anything worth listening to. We have launched our bark, and
we will steer to our destined port with undeviating perseverance,
fearless of being shipwrecked by the way. Good-nature is our steersman,
reason our ballast, whim the breeze that wafts us along, and MORALITY
our leading star.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
NO. IX.—SATURDAY, APRIL 25, 1807.
FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR.
It in some measure jumps with my humor to be “melancholy and
gentlemanlike” this stormy night, and I see no reason why I should not
indulge myself for once. Away, then, with joke, with fun, and laughter,
for a while; let my soul look back in mournful retrospect, and sadden
with the memory of my good aunt Charity—who died of a Frenchman!
Stare not, O, most dubious reader, at the mention of a complaint so
uncommon; grievously hath it afflicted the ancient family of the
Cocklofts, who carry their absurd antipathy to the French so far, that
they will not suffer a clove of garlic in the house; and my good old
friend Christopher was once on the point of abandoning his paternal
country mansion of Cockloft Hall, merely because a colony of frogs had
settled in a neighboring swamp. I verily believe he would have carried
his whimwham into effect, had not a fortunate drought obliged the enemy
to strike their tents, and, like a troop of wandering Arabs, to march
off towards a moister part of the country.
My aunt Charity departed this life in the fifty-ninth year of her age,
though she never grew older after twenty-five. In her teens she was,
according to her own account, a celebrated beauty, though I never could
meet with anybody that remembered when she was handsome; on the
contrary, Evergreen’s father, who used to gallant her in his youth, says
she was as knotty a little piece of humanity as he ever saw; and that,
if she had been possessed of the least sensibility, she would, like poor
old _Acco_, have most certainly run mad at her own figure and face the
first time she contemplated herself in a looking-glass. In the good old
times that saw my aunt in the heyday of youth, a fine lady was a most
formidable animal, and required to be approached with the same awe and
devotion that a Tartar feels in the presence of his Grand Lama. If a
gentleman offered to take her hand, except to help her into a carriage,
or lead her into a drawing-room, such frowns! such a rustling of brocade
and taffeta! her very paste shoe-buckles sparkled with indignation, and
for a moment assumed the brilliancy of diamonds: in those days the
person of a belle was sacred; it was unprofaned by the sacrilegious
grasp of a stranger: simple souls!—they had not the waltz among them
yet!
My good aunt prided herself on keeping up this buckram delicacy; and if
she happened to be playing at the old-fashioned game of forfeits, and
was fined a kiss, it was always more trouble to get it than it was
worth; for she made a most gallant defense, and never surrendered until
she saw her adversary inclined to give over his attack. Evergreen’s
father says he remembers once to have been on a sleighing party with
her, and when they came to Kissing-bridge, it fell to his lot to levy
contributions on Miss Charity Cockloft, who, after squalling at a
hideous rate, at length jumped out of the sleigh plump into a snow-bank,
where she stuck fast like an icicle, until he came to her rescue. This
Latonian feat cost her a rheumatism, from which she never thoroughly
recovered.
It is rather singular that my aunt, though a great beauty, and an
heiress withal, never got married. The reason she alleged was, that she
never met with a lover who resembled Sir Charles Grandison, the hero of
her nightly dreams and waking fancy; but I am privately of opinion that
it was owing to her never having had an offer. This much is certain,
that for many years previous to her decease, she declined all attentions
from the gentlemen, and contented herself with watching over the welfare
of her fellow creatures. She was, indeed, observed to take a
considerable lean toward Methodism, was frequent in her attendance at
love feasts, read Whitefield and Wesley, and even went so far as once to
travel the distance of five-and-twenty miles to be present at a
camp-meeting. This gave great offense to my cousin Christopher, and his
good lady, who, as I have already mentioned, are rigidly orthodox, and
had not my aunt Charity been of a most pacific disposition, her
religious whimwham would have occasioned many a family altercation. She
was, indeed, as good a soul as the Cockloft family ever boasted; a lady
of unbounded loving-kindness, which extended to man, woman, and child;
many of whom she almost killed with good-nature. Was any acquaintance
sick? In vain did the wind whistle and the storm beat; my aunt would
waddle through mud and mire, over the whole town, but what she would
visit them. She would sit by them for hours together with the most
persevering patience, and tell a thousand melancholy stories of human
misery, to keep up their spirits. The whole catalogue of _yerb_ teas was
at her fingers’ ends, from formidable wormwood down to gentle balm; and
she would descant by the hour on the healing qualities of hoarhound,
catnip, and pennyroyal. Woe be to the patient that came under the
benevolent hand of my aunt Charity; he was sure, willy-nilly, to be
drenched with a deluge of decoctions; and full many a time has my cousin
Christopher borne a twinge of pain in silence, through fear of being
condemned to suffer the martyrdom of her materia-medica. My good aunt
had moreover, considerable skill in astronomy, for she could tell when
the sun rose and set every day in the year; and no woman was able to
pronounce with more certainty, at what precise minute the moon changed.
She held the story of the moon’s being made of green cheese, as an
abominable slander on her favorite planet; and she had made several
valuable discoveries in solar eclipses, by means of a bit of burnt
glass, which entitled her at least to an honorary admission in the
American Philosophical Society. Hutching’s Improved was her favorite
book; and I shrewdly suspect that it was from this valuable work she
drew most of her sovereign remedies for colds, coughs, corns, and
consumptions.
But the truth must be told. With all her good qualities my aunt Charity
was afflicted with one fault, extremely rare among her gentle sex—it was
curiosity. How she came by it, I am at a loss to imagine, but it played
the very vengeance with her and destroyed the comfort of her life.
Having an invincible desire to know everybody’s character, business, and
mode of living, she was forever prying into the affairs of her
neighbors; and got a great deal of ill-will from people toward whom she
had the kindest disposition possible. If any family on the opposite side
of the street gave a dinner, my aunt would mount her spectacles, and sit
at the window until the company were all housed, merely that she might
know who they were. If she heard a story about any of her acquaintances,
she would forthwith set off full sail, and never rest until, to use her
usual expression, she had got “to the bottom of it;” which meant nothing
more than telling it to everybody she knew.
I remember one night my aunt Charity happened to hear a most precious
story about one of her good friends, but unfortunately too late to give
it immediate circulation. It made her absolutely miserable; and she
hardly slept a wink all night, for fear her bosom friend, Mrs. Sipkins,
should get the start of her in the morning and blow the whole affair.
You must know there was always a contest between these two ladies, who
should first give currency to the good-natured things said about
everybody; and this unfortunate rivalship at length proved fatal to
their long and ardent friendship. My aunt got up full two hours that
morning before her usual time; put on her pompadour taffeta gown, and
sallied forth to lament the misfortune of her dear friend. Would you
believe it!—wherever she went, Mrs. Sipkins had anticipated her; and,
instead of being listened to with uplifted hands and open-mouthed
wonder, my unhappy aunt was obliged to sit down quietly and listen to
the whole affair, with numerous additions, alterations, and amendments!
Now, this was too bad; it would have almost provoked Patience Grizzle or
a saint. It was too much for my aunt, who kept her bed for three days
afterward, with a cold, as she pretended; but I have no doubt it was
owing to this affair of Mrs. Sipkins, to whom she never would be
reconciled.
But I pass over the rest of my aunt Charity’s life, checkered with the
various calamities, and misfortunes, and mortifications, incident to
those worthy old gentlewomen who have the domestic cares of the whole
community upon their minds; and I hasten to relate the melancholy
incident that hurried her out of existence in the full bloom of
antiquated virginity.
In their frolicsome malice, the fates had ordained that a French
boarding-house, or _Pension Française_, as it was called, should be
established directly opposite my aunt’s residence. Cruel event! Unhappy
Aunt Charity! It threw her into that alarming disorder denominated the
fidgets; she did nothing but watch at the window day after day, but
without becoming one whit the wiser at the end of a fortnight than she
was at the beginning; she thought that neighbor Pension had a monstrous
large family, and somehow or other they were all men! she could not
imagine what business neighbor Pension followed to support so numerous a
household; and wondered why there was always such a scraping of fiddles
in the parlor, and such a smell of onions from neighbor Pension’s
kitchen; in short, neighbor Pension was continually uppermost in her
thoughts, and incessantly on the outer edge of her tongue. This was, I
believe, the very first time she had ever failed “to get at the bottom
of a thing;” and the disappointment cost her many a sleepless night, I
warrant you. I have little doubt, however, that my aunt would have
ferreted neighbor Pension out, could she have spoken or understood
French; but in those times people in general could make themselves
understood in plain English; and it was always a standing rule in the
Cockloft family, which exists to this day, that not one of the females
should learn French.
My aunt Charity had lived at her window for some time in vain; when one
day, as she was keeping her usual look-out and suffering all the pangs
of unsatisfied curiosity, she beheld a little meagre, weazel faced
Frenchman, of the most forlorn, diminutive, and pitiful proportions,
arrive at neighbor Pension’s door. He was dressed in white, with a
little pinched-up cocked hat; he seemed to shake in the wind, and every
blast that went over him whistled through his bones and threatened
instant annihilation. This embodied spirit of famine was followed by
three carts, lumbered with crazy trunks, chests, bandboxes, bidets,
medicine-chests, parrots, and monkeys; and at his heels ran a yelping
pack of little black-nosed pug-dogs. This was the one thing wanting to
fill up the measure of my aunt Charity’s afflictions; she could not
conceive, for the soul of her, who this mysterious little apparition
could be that made so great a display; what he could possibly do with so
much baggage, and particularly with his parrots and monkeys; or how so
small a carcass could have occasion for so many trunks of clothes.
Honest soul! she had never had a peep into a Frenchman’s wardrobe—that
_dépôt_ of old coats, hats, and breeches, of the growth of every fashion
he has followed in his life.
From the time of this fatal arrival, my poor aunt was in a quandary;—all
her inquiries were fruitless; no one could expound the history of this
mysterious stranger: she never held up her head afterward—drooped daily,
took to her bed in a fortnight, and in “one little month” I saw her
quietly deposited in the family vault—being the seventh Cockloft that
has died of a whimwham!
Take warning, my fair countrywomen! and you, O ye excellent ladies,
whether married or single, who pry into other people’s affairs and
neglect those of your own household—who are so busily employed in
observing the faults of others that you have no time to correct your
own—remember the fate of my dear aunt Charity, and eschew the evil
spirit of curiosity.
FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR.
I find, by perusal of our last number, that Will Wizard and Evergreen,
taking advantage of my confinement, have been playing some of their
gambols. I suspected these rogues of some malpractices, in consequence
of their queer looks and knowing winks whenever I came down to dinner;
and of their not showing their faces at old Cockloft’s for several days,
after the appearance of their precious effusions. Whenever these two
waggish fellows lay their heads together, there is always sure to be
hatched some notable piece of mischief; which, if it tickles nobody
else, is sure to make its authors merry. The public will take notice
that, for the purpose of teaching these my associates better manners,
and punishing them for their high misdemeanors, I have, by virtue of my
authority, suspended them from all interference in Salmagundi, until
they show a proper degree of repentance; or I get tired of supporting
the burden of the work myself. I am sorry for Will, who is already
sufficiently mortified in not daring to come to the old house, and tell
his long stories and smoke his cigar; but Evergreen, being an old beau,
may solace himself in his disgrace by trimming up all his old finery and
making love to the little girls.
At present, my right-hand man is Cousin Pindar, whom I have taken into
high favor. He came home the other night all in a blaze like a
sky-rocket—whisked up to his room in a paroxysm of poetic inspiration,
nor did we see anything of him until late the next morning, when he
bounced upon us at breakfast,
“Fire in each eye—and paper in each hand.”
This is just the way with Pindar, he is like a volcano; will remain for
a long time silent without emitting a single spark, and then, all at
once, burst out in a tremendous explosion of rhyme and rhapsody.
As the letters of my friend, Mustapha, seem to excite considerable
curiosity, I have subjoined another. I do not vouch for the justice of
his remarks, or the correctness of his conclusions; they are full of the
blunders and errors in which strangers continually indulge, who pretend
to give an account of this country before they well know the geography
of the street in which they live. The copies of my friend’s papers being
confused and without date, I cannot pretend to give them in systematic
order; in fact, they seem now and then to treat of matters which have
occurred since his departure: whether these are sly interpolations of
the meddlesome wight Will Wizard, or whether honest Mustapha was gifted
with the spirit of prophecy or second sight, I neither know, nor in
fact, do I care. The following seems to have been written when the
Tripolitan prisoners were so much annoyed by the ragged state of their
wardrobe. Mustapha feelingly depicts the embarrassments of his
situation, traveller-like; makes an easy transition from his breeches to
the seat of government, and incontinently abuses the whole
administration; like a sapient traveller I once knew, who damned the
French nation in toto—because they eat sugar with green peas.
LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB KELI KHAN,
CAPTAIN OF A KETCH, TO ASEM HACCHEM, PRINCIPAL SLAVE-DRIVER TO HIS
HIGHNESS THE BASHAW OF TRIPOLI.
Sweet, O Asem! is the memory of distant friends! like the mellow ray of
a departing sun it falls tenderly yet sadly on the heart. Every hour of
absence from my native land rolls heavily by, like the sandy wave of the
desert; and the fair shores of my country rise blooming to my
imagination, clothed in the soft illusive charms of distance. I sigh,
yet no one listens to the sigh of the captive; I shed the bitter tear of
recollection, but no one sympathizes in the tear of the turbaned
stranger! Think not, however, thou brother of my soul, that I complain
of the horrors of my situation; think not that my captivity is attended
with the labors, the chains, the scourges, the insults, that render
slavery, with us, more dreadful than the pangs of hesitating, lingering
death. Light indeed are the restraints on the personal freedom of thy
kinsman; but who can enter into the afflictions of the mind?—who can
describe the agonies of the heart? They are mutable as the clouds of the
air—they are countless as the waves that divide me from my native
country.
I have, of late, my dear Asem, labored under an inconvenience singularly
unfortunate, and am reduced to a dilemma most ridiculously embarrassing.
Why should I hide it from the companion of my thoughts, the partner of
my sorrows and my joys? Alas, Asem! thy friend Mustapha, the invincible
captain of a ketch, is sadly in want of a pair of breeches! Thou wilt
doubtless smile, O, most grave Mussulman, to hear me indulge in ardent
lamentations about a circumstance so trivial, and a want apparently so
easy to be satisfied; but little canst thou know of the mortifications
attending my necessities, and the astonishing difficulty of supplying
them. Honored by the smiles and attentions of the beautiful ladies of
this city, who have fallen in love with my whiskers and my turban;
courted by the bashaws and the great men, who delight to have me at
their feasts; the honor of my company eagerly solicited by every fiddler
who gives a concert; think of my chagrin at being obliged to decline the
host of invitations that daily overwhelm me, merely for want of a pair
of breeches! O, Allah! Allah! that thy disciples could come into the
world all befeathered like a bantam, or with a pair of leather breeches
like the wild deer of the forest! Surely, my friend, it is the destiny
of man to be forever subjected to petty evils, which, however trifling
in appearance, prey in silence on his little pittance of enjoyment, and
poison those moments of sunshine, which might otherwise be consecrated
to happiness.
The want of a garment, thou wilt say, is easily supplied; and thou
mayest suppose need only be mentioned to be remedied at once by any
tailor of the land; little canst thou conceive the impediments which
stand in the way of my comfort; and still less art thou acquainted with
the prodigious great scale on which everything is transacted in this
country. The nation moves most majestically slow and clumsy in the most
trivial affairs, like the unwieldy elephant which makes a formidable
difficulty of picking up a straw! When I hinted my necessities to the
officer who has charge of myself and my companions, I expected to have
them forthwith relieved; but he made an amazing long face, told me that
we were prisoners of state, that we must therefore be clothed at the
expense of government; that as no provision had been made by Congress
for any emergency of the kind, it was impossible to furnish me with a
pair of breeches, until all the sages of the nation had been convened to
talk over the matter, and debate upon the expediency of granting my
request. Sword of the immortal Khaled, thought I, but this is great!
this is truly sublime! All the sages of an immense logocracy assembled
together to talk about my breeches! Vain mortal that I am! I cannot but
own that I was somewhat reconciled to the delay, which must necessarily
attend this method of clothing me, by the consideration that if they
made the affair a national act, my “name must of course be embodied in
history,” and myself and my breeches flourish to immortality in the
annals of this mighty empire!
“But pray,” said I, “how does it happen that a matter so insignificant
should be erected into an object of such importance, as to employ the
representative wisdom of the nation; and what is the cause of their
talking so much about a trifle?” “O,” replied the officer, who acts as
our slave-driver, “it all proceeds from economy. If the government did
not spend ten times as much money in debating whether it was proper to
supply you with breeches, as the breeches themselves would cost, the
people who govern the bashaw and his divan would straightway begin to
complain of their liberties being infringed; the national finances
squandered! Not a hostile slang-whanger throughout the logocracy, but
would burst forth like a barrel of combustion; and ten chances to one
but the bashaw and the sages of his divan would all be turned out of
office together. My good Mussulman,” continued he, “the administration
have the good of the people too much at heart to trifle with their
pockets; and they would sooner assemble and talk away ten thousand
dollars, than expend fifty silently out of the treasury; such is the
wonderful spirit of economy that pervades every branch of this
government.” “But,” said I, “how is it possible they can spend money in
talking? surely words cannot be the current coin of this country?”
“Truly,” cried he, smiling, “your question is pertinent enough, for
words indeed often supply the place of cash among us, and many an honest
debt is paid in promises; but the fact is, the grand bashaw and the
members of Congress, or grand talkers of the nation, either receive a
yearly salary, or are paid by the day.” “By the nine hundred tongues of
the great beast of Mahomet’s vision, but the murder is out—it is no
wonder these honest men talk so much about nothing, when they are paid
for talking, like day-laborers.” “You are mistaken,” said my driver; “it
is nothing but economy!”
I remained silent for some minutes, for this inexplicable word, economy,
always discomfits me; and when I flatter myself I have grasped it, it
slips through my fingers like a jack-o’-lantern. I have not, nor perhaps
ever shall acquire, sufficient of the philosophic policy of this
government to draw a proper distinction between an individual and a
nation. If a man was to throw away a pound in order to save a beggarly
penny, and boast at the same time of his economy, I should think him on
a par with the fool in the fable of Alfangi, who, in skinning a flint
worth a farthing, spoiled a knife worth fifty times the sum, and thought
he had acted wisely. The shrewd fellow would doubtless have valued
himself much more highly on his economy, could he have known that his
example would one day be followed by the bashaw of America and the sages
of his divan.
This economic disposition, my friend, occasions much fighting of the
spirit, and innumerable contests of the tongue in this talking assembly.
Wouldst thou believe it? they were actually employed for a whole week in
a most strenuous and eloquent debate about patching up a hole in the
wall of the room appropriated to their meetings! A vast profusion of
nervous argument and pompous declamation was expended on the occasion.
Some of the orators, I am told, being rather waggishly inclined, were
most stupidly jocular on the occasion; but their waggery gave great
offense, and was highly reprobated by the more weighty part of the
assembly, who held all wit and humor in abomination, and thought the
business in hand much too solemn and serious to be treated lightly. It
is supposed by some that affair would have occupied a whole winter, as
it was a subject upon which several gentlemen spoke who had never been
known to open their lips in that place, except to say yes and no. These
silent members are, by way of distinction, denominated orator mums, and
are highly valued in this country on account of their great talent for
silence—a qualification extremely rare in a logocracy.
Fortunately for the public tranquillity, in the hottest part of the
debate, when two rampant Virginians, brimful of logic and philosophy,
were measuring tongues, and syllogistically edgeling each other out of
their unreasonable notions, the president of the divan, a knowing old
gentleman, one night slily sent a mason, with a hod of mortar, who, in
the course of a few minutes, closed up the hole, and put a final end to
the argument. Thus did this wise old gentleman, by hitting on a most
simple expedient, in all probability, save his country as much money as
would build a gunboat, or pay a hireling slang-whanger for a whole
volume of words. As it happened, only a few thousand dollars were
expended in paying these men, who are denominated, I suppose in
derision, legislators.
Another instance of their economy, I relate with pleasure, for I really
begin to feel a regard for these poor barbarians. They talked away the
best part of a whole winter before they could determine not to expend a
few dollars in purchasing a sword to bestow on an illustrious warrior;
yes, Asem, on that very hero who frightened all our poor old women and
young children at Derne,[59] and fully proved himself a greater man than
the mother that bore him. Thus, my friend, is the whole collective
wisdom of this mighty logocracy employed in somniferous debates about
the most trivial affairs; like I have sometimes seen a herculean
mountebank exerting all his energies in balancing a straw upon his nose.
Their sages behold the minutest object with the microscopic eyes of a
pismire; mole-hills swell into mountains, and a grain of mustard seed
will set the whole ant-hill in a hubbub. Whether this indicates a
capacious vision or a diminutive mind, I leave thee to decide; for my
part, I consider it as another proof of the great scale on which
everything is transacted in this country.
I have before told thee that nothing can be done without consulting the
sages of the nation, who compose the assembly called the Congress. This
prolific body may not improperly be termed the “mother of inventions;”
and a most fruitful mother it is, let me tell thee, though its children
are generally abortions. It has lately labored with what was deemed the
conception of a mighty navy. All the old women and the good wives that
assist the bashaw in his emergencies, hurried to head-quarters to be
busy, like midwives, at the delivery. All was anxiety, fidgeting, and
consultation; when, after a deal of groaning and struggling, instead of
formidable first-rates and gallant frigates, out crept a litter of sorry
little gun-boats! These are most pitiful little vessels, partaking
vastly of the character of the grand bashaw, who has the credit of
begetting them—being flat, shallow vessels that can only sail before the
wind—must always keep in with the land—are continually foundering or
running ashore—and, in short, are only fit for smooth water. Though
intended for the defense of the maritime cities, yet the cities are
obliged to defend them; and they require as much nursing as so many
rickety little bantlings. They are, however, the darling pets of the
grand bashaw, being the children of his dotage, and, perhaps, from their
diminutive size and palpable weakness, are called the “infant navy of
America.” The act that brought them into existence was almost deified by
the majority of the people as a grand stroke of economy. By the beard of
Mahomet, but this word is truly inexplicable.
To this economic body, therefore, was I advised to address my petition,
and humbly to pray that the august assembly of sages would, in the
plentitude of their wisdom and the magnitude of their powers,
munificently bestow on an unfortunate captive, a pair of cotton
breeches! “Head of the immortal Amrou,” cried I, “but this would be
presumptuous to a degree; what! after these worthies have thought proper
to leave their country naked and defenseless, and exposed to all the
political storms that rattle without, can I expect that they will lend a
helping hand to comfort the extremities of a solitary captive?” My
exclamation was only answered by a smile, and I was consoled by the
assurance that, so far from being neglected, it was every way probable
my breeches might occupy a whole session of the divan, and set several
of the longest heads together by the ears. Flattering as was the idea of
a whole nation being agitated about my breeches, yet I own I was
somewhat dismayed at the idea of remaining _in querpo_, until all the
national gray-beards should have made a speech on the occasion, and
given their consent to the measure. The embarrassment and distress of
mind which I experienced was visible in my countenance, and my guard,
who is a man of infinite good-nature, immediately suggested, as a more
expeditious plan of supplying my wants, a benefit at the theatre. Though
profoundly ignorant of his meaning, I agreed to his proposition, the
result of which I shall disclose to thee in another letter.
Fare thee well, dear Asem; in thy pious prayers to our great prophet,
never forget to solicit thy friend’s return; and when thou numberest up
the many blessings bestowed on thee by all-bountiful Allah, pour forth
thy gratitude that he has cast thy nativity in a land where there is no
assembly of legislative chatterers; no great bashaw, who bestrides a
gunboat for a hobby-horse; where the word economy is unknown, and where
an unfortunate captive is not obliged to call upon the whole nation to
cut him out a pair of breeches.
Ever thine,
MUSTAPHA.
FROM THE MILL OF PINDAR COCKLOFT, ESQ.
Though entered on that sober age,
When men withdraw from fashion’s stage,
And leave the follies of the day,
To shape their course a graver way;
Still those gay scenes I loiter round,
In which my youth sweet transport found:
And though I feel their joys decay,
And languish every hour away—
Yet like an exile doom’d to part
From the dear country of his heart,
From the fair spot in which he sprung,
Where his first notes of love were sung,
Will often turn to wave the hand,
And sigh his blessings on the land;
Just so my lingering watch I keep—
Thus oft I take my farewell peep.
And, like that pilgrim, who retreats,
Thus lagging from his parent seats,
When the sad thought pervades his mind,
That the fair land he leaves behind
Is ravaged by a foreign foe,
Its cities waste, its temples low,
And ruined all those haunts of joy
That gave him rapture when a boy;
Turns from it with averted eye,
And while he heaves the anguish’d sigh,
Scarce feels regret that the loved shore
Shall beam upon his sight no more;
Just so it grieves my soul to view,
While breathing forth a fond adieu,
The innovations pride has made,
The fustian, frippery, and parade,
That now usurp with mawkish grace
Pure tranquil pleasure’s wonted place!
’Twas joy we looked for in my prime,
That idol of the olden time;
When all our pastimes had the art
To please and not mislead the heart.
Style curs’d us not—that modern flash,
That love of racket and of trash,
Which scares at once all feeling joys,
And drowns delight in empty noise;
Which barters friendship, mirth, and truth.
The artless air, the bloom of youth,
And all those gentle sweets that swarm
Round nature in her simplest form,
For cold display, for hollow state,
The trappings of the would-be great.
O! once again those days recall,
When heart met heart in fashion’s hall,
When every honest guest would flock
To add his pleasure to the stock,
More fond his transports to express,
Than show the tinsel of his dress!—
These were the times that clasp’d the soul
In gentle friendship’s soft control;
Our fair ones, unprofan’d by art,
Content to gain one honest heart,
No train of sighing swains desired,
Sought to be loved and not admired.
But now ’tis form, not love unites;
’Tis show, not pleasure that invites.
Each seeks the ball to play the queen,
To flirt, to conquer, to be seen:
Each grasps at universal sway,
And reigns the idol of the day;
Exults amid a thousand sighs,
And triumphs when a lover dies.
Each belle a rival belle surveys,
Like deadly foe, with hostile gaze;
Nor can her “dearest friend” caress,
Till she has slily scann’d her dress;
Ten conquests in one year will make,
And six eternal friendships break!
How oft I breathe the inward sigh,
And feel the dew-drop in my eye,
When I behold some beauteous frame,
Divine in everything but name,
Just venturing, in the tender age,
On fashion’s late newfangled stage!
Where soon the guiltless heart shall cease
To beat in artlessness and peace;
Where all the flowers of gay delight
With which youth decks its prospects bright
Shall wither ‘mid the cares, the strife,
The cold realities of life!
Thus lately, in my careless mood,
As I the world of fashion view’d,
While celebrating, great and small,
That great solemnity—a ball,
My roving vision chanced to light
On two sweet forms divinely bright;
Two sister nymphs, alike in face,
In mien, in loveliness, and grace;
Twin rosebuds, bursting into bloom,
In all their brilliance and perfume:
Like those fair forms that often beam
Upon the eastern poet’s dream!
For Eden had each lovely maid
In native innocence arrayed—
And heaven itself had almost shed
Its sacred halo round each head!
They seem’d just entering, hand-in-hand,
To cautious tread this fairy land:
To take a timid, hasty view,
Enchanted with a scene so new.
The modest blush, untaught by art,
Bespoke their purity of heart;
And every timorous act unfurl’d
Two souls unspotted by the world.
O, how these strangers joy’d my sight,
And thrilled my bosom with delight!
They brought the visions of my youth
Back to my soul in all their truth;
Recall’d fair spirits into day,
That time’s rough hand had swept away!
Thus the bright natives from above,
Who come on messages of love,
Will bless, at rare and distant whiles,
Our sinful dwelling by their smiles!
O! my romance of youth is past,
Dear airy dreams, too bright to last!
Yet when such forms as these appear,
I feel your soft remembrance here;
For, ah! the simple poet’s heart,
On which fond love once play’d its part,
Still feels the soft pulsations beat,
As loath to quit their former seat.
Just like the harp’s melodious wire,
Swept by a bard with heavenly fire,
Though ceased the loudly-swelling strain,
Yet sweet vibrations long remain.
Full soon I found the lovely pair
Had sprung beneath a mother’s care,
Hard by a neighboring streamlet’s side,
At once its ornament and pride.
The beauteous parent’s tender heart
Had well fulfilled its pious part;
And, like the holy man of old,
As we’re by sacred writings told,
Who, when he from his pupil sped,
Pour’d two-fold blessings on his head—
So this fond mother had imprest
Her early virtues in each breast,
And as she found her stock enlarge,
Had stampt new graces on her charge.
The fair resign’d the calm retreat,
Where first their souls in concert beat,
And flew on expectation’s wing,
To sip the joys of life’s gay spring;
To sport in fashion’s splendid maze,
Where friendship fades, and love decays
So two sweet wild flowers, near the side
Of some fair river’s silver tide,
Pure as the gentle stream that laves
The green banks with its lucid waves,
Bloom beauteous in their native ground,
Diffusing heavenly fragrance round.
But should a venturous hand transfer
These blossoms to the gay parterre,
Where, spite of artificial aid,
The fairest plants of nature fade,
Though they may shine supreme awhile,
’Mid pale ones of the stranger soil,
The tender beauties soon decay,
And their sweet fragrance dies away.
Blest spirits! who, enthroned in air,
Watch o’er the virtues of the fair,
And with angelic ken survey
Their windings through life’s checker’d way;
Who hover round them as they glide
Down fashion’s smooth, deceitful tide,
And guide them o’er that stormy deep
Where dissipation’s tempests sweep:
O make this inexperienced pair
The objects of your tenderest care.
Preserve them from the languid eye,
The faded cheek, the long-drawn sigh;
And let it be your constant aim
To keep the fair ones still the same:
Two sister hearts, unsullied, bright
As the first beam of lucid light,
That sparkles from the youthful sun,
When first his jocund race begun.
So when these hearts shall burst their shrine,
To wing their flight to realms divine,
They may to radiant mansions rise,
Pure as when first they left the skies.
[Illustration]
NO. X.—SATURDAY, MAY 16, 1807.
FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR.
The long interval which has elapsed since the publication of our last
number, like many other remarkable events, has given rise to much
conjecture and excited considerable solicitude. It is but a day or two
since I heard a knowing young gentleman observe, that he suspected
Salmagundi would be a nine days wonder, and had even prophesied that the
ninth would be our last effort. But the age of prophecy, as well as that
of chivalry, is past; and no reasonable man should now venture to
foretell aught but what he is determined to bring about himself. He may
then, if he please, monopolize prediction, and be honored as a prophet
even in his own country.
Though I hold whether we write, or not write, to be none of the public’s
business, yet as I have just heard of the loss of three thousand votes
at least to the Clintonians, I feel in a remarkably dulcet humor
thereupon, and will give some account of the reasons which induced us to
resume our useful labors, or rather our amusement; for if writing cost
either of us a moment’s labor, there is not a man but what would hang up
his pen, to the great detriment of the world at large, and of our
publisher in particular; who has actually bought himself a pair of trunk
breeches, with the profits of our writings!!
He informs me that several persons having called last Saturday for No.
X, took the disappointment so much to heart that he really apprehended
some terrible catastrophe; and one good-looking man, in particular,
declared his intention of quitting the country if the work was not
continued. Add to this, the town has grown quite melancholy in the last
fortnight; and several young ladies have declared, in my hearing, that
if another number did not make its appearance soon, they would be
obliged to amuse themselves with teasing their beaux and making them
miserable. Now I assure my readers there was no flattery in this, for
they no more suspected me of being Launcelot Langstaff than they
suspected me of being the emperor of China, or the man in the moon.
I have also received several letters complaining of our indolent
procrastination; and one of my correspondents assures me, that a number
of young gentlemen, who had not read a book through since they left
school, but who have taken a wonderful liking to our paper, will
certainly relapse into their old habits unless we go on.
For the sake, therefore, of all these good people, and most especially
for the satisfaction of the ladies, every one of whom we would love, if
we possibly could, I have again wielded my pen with a most hearty
determination to set the whole world to rights; to make cherubims and
seraphs of all the fair ones of this enchanting town, and raise the
spirits of the poor Federalists, who, in truth, seem to be in a sad
taking, ever since the American-Ticket met with the accident of being so
unhappily thrown out.
TO LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ.
Sir:—I felt myself hurt and offended by Mr. Evergreen’s terrible
philippic against modern music, in No. II. of your work, and was under
serious apprehension that his strictures might bring the art, which I
have the honor to profess, into contempt. The opinion of yourself and
fraternity appears indeed to have a wonderful effect upon the town. I am
told the ladies are all employed in reading Bunyan and “Pamela,” and the
waltz has been entirely forsaken ever since the winter balls have
closed. Under these apprehensions I should have addressed you before,
had I not been sedulously employed, while the theatre continued open, in
supporting the astonishing variety of the orchestra, and in composing a
new chime of Bob-Major for Trinity Church, to be rung during the summer,
beginning with ding-dong di-do, instead of di-do ding-dong. The
citizens, especially those who live in the neighborhood of that
harmonious quarter, will, no doubt, be infinitely delighted with this
novelty.
But to the object of this communication. So far, sir, from agreeing with
Mr. Evergreen in thinking that all modern music is but the mere dregs
and drainings of the ancient, I trust, before this letter is concluded,
I shall convince you and him that some of the late professors of this
enchanting art have completely distanced the paltry efforts of the
ancients; and that I, in particular, have at length brought it almost to
absolute perfection.
The Greeks, simple souls! were astonished at the powers of Orpheus, who
made the woods and rocks dance to his lyre;—of Amphion, who converted
crotchets into bricks, and quavers into mortar; and of Arion, who won
upon the compassion of the fishes. In the fervency of admiration, their
poets fabled that Apollo had lent them his lyre, and inspired them with
his own spirit of harmony. What then would they have said had they
witnessed the wonderful effects of my skill? had they heard me in the
compass of a single piece, describe in glowing notes one of the most
sublime operations of nature; and not only make inanimate objects dance,
but even speak; and not only speak, but speak in strains of exquisite
harmony?
Let me not, however, be understood to say that I am the sole author of
this extraordinary improvement in the art, for I confess I took the hint
of many of my discoveries from some of those meritorious productions
that have lately come abroad and made so much noise under the title of
overtures. From some of these, as, for instance, Lodoiska, and the
battle of Marengo, a gentleman, or a captain in the city militia, or an
amazonian young lady may indeed acquire a tolerable idea of military
tactics, and become very well experienced in the firing of musketry, the
roaring of cannon, the rattling of drums, the whistling of fifes,
braying of trumpets, groans of the dying, the trampling of cavalry,
without ever going to the wars; but it is more especially in the art of
imitating inimitable things, and giving the language of every passion
and sentiment of the human mind, so as entirely to do away the necessity
of speech, that I particularly excel the most celebrated musicians of
ancient and modern times.
I think, sir, I may venture to say there is not a sound in the whole
compass of nature which I cannot imitate, and even improve upon—nay,
what I consider the perfection of my art, I have discovered a method of
expressing, in the most striking manner, that undefinable, indescribable
silence which accompanies the falling of snow.
In order to prove to you that I do not arrogate to myself what I am
unable to perform, I will detail to you the different movements of a
grand piece, which I pride myself upon exceedingly, called the “Breaking
up of the Ice in the North River.”
The piece opens with a gentle _andante affetuoso_, which ushers you into
the Assembly-room in the State House at Albany, where the speaker
addresses the farewell speech, informing the members that the ice is
about breaking up, and thanking them for their great services and good
behavior in a manner so pathetic as to bring tears into their
eyes.—Flourish of Jack-a-donkeys.—Ice cracks; Albany in a hubbub—air,
“Three children sliding on the ice, all on a summer’s day.”—Citizens
quarreling in Dutch;—chorus of a tin trumpet, a cracked fiddle, and a
handsaw!—_allegro moderato_.—Hard frost—this, if given with proper
spirit, has a charming effect, and sets everybody’s teeth
chattering.—Symptoms of snow—consultation of old women who complain of
pains in the bones and _rheumatics_;—air, “There was an old woman tossed
up in a blanket,” etc.—_allegro staccato_; wagon breaks into the
ice—people all run to see what is the matter; air, _siciliano_—“Can you
row the boat ashore, Billy boy, Billy boy?”—_andante_—frost fish froze
up in the ice—air, “Ho, why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray, and
why does thy nose look so blue?”—Flourish of twopenny trumpets and
rattles—consultation of the North River Society—determine to set the
North River on fire, as soon as it will burn—air, “O, what a fine kettle
of fish.”
PART II.—_Great Thaw._—This consists of the most melting strains,
flowing so smoothly as to occasion a great overflowing of scientific
rapture; air, “One misty moisty morning.” The House of Assembly breaks
up—air, “The owls came out and flew about.”—Assemblymen embark on their
way to New York—air, “The ducks and geese they all swim over, fal de
ral,” etc.—Vessel sets sail—chorus of mariners—“Steer her up, and let
her gang.” After this a rapid movement conducts you to New York—the
North River Society hold a meeting at the corner of Wall Street, and
determine to delay burning till all the Assemblymen are safe at home,
for fear of consuming some of their own members, who belong to that
respectable body.—Return again to the capital.—Ice floats down the
river—lamentation of skaters; air, _affetuoso_—“I sigh and lament me in
vain,” etc.—Albanians cutting up sturgeon; air, “O the roast beef of
Albany.”—Ice runs against Polopoy’s Island with a terrible crash. This
is represented by a fierce fellow travelling with his fiddle-stick over
a huge bass viol, at the rate of one hundred and fifty bars per minute,
and tearing the music to rags; this being what is called execution. The
great body of ice passes West Point, and is saluted by three or four
dismounted cannon from Fort Putnam—“Jefferson’s March,” by a full
band—air, “Yankee Doodle,” with seventy-six variations, never before
attempted, except by the celebrated eagle which flutters his wings over
the copper-bottomed angel at Messrs. Paff’s in Broadway. Ice passes New
York—conch-shell sounds at a distance—ferrymen call o-v-e-r—people run
down Courtlandt Street—ferry-boat sets sail—air, accompanied by the
conch-shell, We’ll all go over the ferry—Rondeau—giving a particular
account of Brom, the Powles Hook admiral, who is supposed to be closely
connected with the North River Society.—The Society make a grand attempt
to fire the stream, but are utterly defeated by a remarkable high tide,
which brings the plot to light, drowns upward of a thousand rats, and
occasions twenty robins to break their necks.[60] Society, not being
discouraged, apply to “Common Sense” for his lantern—air, “Nose, nose,
jolly red nose.” Flock of wild geese fly over the city—old wives chatter
in the fog—cocks crow at Communipaw—drums beat on Governor’s Island.—The
whole to conclude with the blowing up of Sand’s powder-house.
Thus, sir, you perceive what wonderful powers of expression have been
hitherto locked up in this enchanting art; a whole history is here told
without the aid of speech or writing; and provided the hearer is in the
least acquainted with music, he cannot mistake a single note. As to the
blowing up of the powder-house, I look upon it as a _chef d’œuvre_,
which I am confident will delight all modern amateurs, who very properly
estimate music in proportion to the noise it makes, and delight in
thundering cannon and earthquakes.
I must confess, however, it is a very difficult part to manage, and I
have already broken six pianos in giving it the proper force and effect.
But I do not despair, and am quite certain that by the time I have
broken eight or ten more, I shall have brought it to such perfection as
to be able to teach any young lady of tolerable ear to thunder it away,
to the infinite delight of papa and mamma, and the great annoyance of
those vandals who are so barbarous as to prefer the simple melody of a
Scots air to the sublime effusions of modern musical doctors.
In my warm anticipations of future improvement I have sometimes almost
convinced myself that music will, in time, be brought to such a climax
of perfection as to supersede the necessity of speech and writing; and
every kind of social intercourse be conducted by the flute and fiddle.
The immense benefits that will result from this improvement must be
plain to every man of the least consideration. In the present unhappy
situation of mortals, a man has but one way of making himself perfectly
understood; if he loses his speech, he must inevitably be dumb all the
rest of his life; but having once learned this new musical language, the
loss of speech will be a mere trifle, not worth a moment’s uneasiness.
Not only this, Mr. L., but it will add much to the harmony of domestic
intercourse; for it is certainly much more agreeable to hear a lady give
lectures on the piano than _viva voce_, in the usual discordant measure.
This manner of discoursing may also, I think, be introduced with great
effect into our national assemblies, where every man, instead of wagging
his tongue, should be obliged to flourish a fiddle-stick, by which
means, if he said nothing to the purpose, he would, at all events,
“discourse most eloquent music,” which is more than can be said of most
of them present. They might also sound their own trumpets without being
obliged to a hireling scribbler, for an immortality of nine days, or
subjected to the censure of egotism.
But the most important result of this discovery is that it may be
applied to the establishment of that great desideratum, in the learned
world, a universal language. Wherever this science of music is
cultivated, nothing more will be necessary than a knowledge of its
alphabet; which, being almost the same everywhere, will amount to a
universal medium of communication. A man may thus, with his violin under
his arm, a piece of rosin, and a few bundles of catgut, fiddle his way
through the world, and never be at a loss to make himself understood.
I am, etc.,
DEMY SEMIQUAVER.
THE STRANGER IN PENNSYLVANIA.
BY JEREMY COCKLOFT, THE YOUNGER.
CHAPTER I.
Cross the Delaware—knew I was in Pennsylvania, because all the people
were fat and looked like the statue of William Penn—Bristol—very
remarkable for having nothing in it worth the attention of the
traveller—saw Burlington on the opposite side of the river—fine place
for pigeon-houses—and why?—Pennsylvania famous for barns—cattle in
general better lodged than the farmers—barns appear to be built, as
the old Roman peasant planted his trees, “for posterity and the
immortal gods.” Saw several fine bridges of two or three arches, built
over dry places—wondered what could be the use of them—reminded me of
the famous bridge at Madrid, built over no water—Chamouny—floating
bridge made of pine logs fastened together by ropes of walnut
bark—strange that the people who have such a taste for bridges should
not have taken advantage of this river to indulge in their favorite
kind of architecture!—expressed my surprise to a fellow passenger, who
observed to me with great gravity, “that nothing was more natural than
that people who build bridges over dry places should neglect them
where they are really necessary”—could not, for the head of me, see to
the bottom of the man’s reasoning—about half an hour after it struck
me that he had been quizzing me a little—didn’t care much about
that—revenge myself by mentioning him in my book. Village of
Washington—very pleasant, and remarkable for being built on each side
of the road—houses all cast in the same mould—have a very Quakerish
appearance, being built of stone, plastered and white-washed, and
green doors, ornamented with brass knockers, kept very bright—saw
several genteel young ladies scouring them—which was no doubt the
reason of their brightness. Breakfasted at the Fox Chase—recommend
this house to all gentlemen travelling for information, as the
landlady makes the best buckwheat cakes in the whole world; and
because it bears the same name with a play, written by a young
gentleman of Philadelphia, which, notwithstanding its very
considerable merit, was received at that city with indifference and
neglect, because it had no puns in it. Frankfort _in the mud_—very
picturesque town, situated on the edge of a pleasant swamp—or meadow,
as they call it—houses all built of turf, cut in imitation of
stone—poor substitute—took in a couple of Princeton students, who were
going on to the southward, to tell their papas (or rather their
mammas) what fine manly little boys they were, and how nobly they
resisted the authority of the trustees—both pupils of Godwin and Tom
Paine—talked about the rights of man, the social compact, and the
perfectibility of boys—hope their parents will whip them when they get
home, and send them back to the college without any spending money.
Turnpike gates—direction to keep to the right as the law directs—very
good advice, in my opinion; but one of the students swore he had no
idea of submitting to this kind of oppression, and insisted on the
driver’s taking the left passage, in order to show the world we were
not to be imposed upon by such arbitrary rules—driver, who I believe,
had been a student at Princeton himself, shook his head like a
professor, and said it would not do. Entered Philadelphia through the
suburbs—four little markets in a herd—one turned into a school for
young ladies—mem. young ladies early in the market here—pun—good.
CHAPTER II.
Very ill—confined to my bed with a violent fit of the _pun_
mania—strangers always experience an attack of the kind on their first
arrival, and undergo a _seasoning_ as Europeans do in the West Indies.
In my way from the stage-office to Renshaw’s I was accosted by a
good-looking young gentleman from New Jersey, who had caught the
infection—he took me by the button and informed me of a contest that had
lately taken place between a tailor and shoemaker about I forget
what;—Snip was pronounced a fellow of great _capability_, a man of
gentlemanly _habits_, who would doubtless _suit_ everybody. The
shoemaker _bristled_ up at this, and _waxed_ exceeding wroth—swore the
tailor was but a _half-souled_ fellow, and that it was to _shew_ he was
never _cut-out_ for a gentleman. The _choler_ of the tailor was up in an
instant, he swore by his thimble that he would never _pocket_ such an
insult, but would _baste_ any man who dared to repeat it.—Honest Crispin
was now worked up to his proper _pitch_, and was determined to yield the
tailor no _quarters_;—he vowed he would lose his _all_ but what he would
gain his _ends_. He resolutely held on to the _last_, and on his
threating to _backstrap_ his adversary, the tailor was obliged to
_sheer_ off, declaring at the same time, that he would have him _bound
over_. The young gentleman, having finished his detail, gave a most
obstreperous laugh, and hurried off to tell his story to somebody
else—_Licentia punica_, as Horace observes—it did my business—I went
home, took to my bed, and was two days confined with this singular
complaint.
Having, however, looked about me with the Argus eyes of a traveller, I
have picked up enough in the course of my walk from the stage-office to
the hotel, to give a full and impartial account of this remarkable city.
According to the good old rule, I shall begin with the etymology of its
name, which, according to Linkum Fidelius, Tom. LV., is clearly derived,
either from the name of its first founder, viz. Philo Dripping-pan, or
the singular taste of the aborigines, who flourished there on his
arrival. Linkum, who is as shrewd a fellow as any theorist or F. S. A.
for peeping with a dark lantern into the lumber garret of antiquity, and
lugging out all the trash which was left there for oblivion by our wiser
ancestors, supports his opinion by a prodigious number of ingenious and
inapplicable arguments; but particularly rests his position on the known
fact, that Philo Dripping-pan was remarkable for his predilection to
eating, and his love of what the learned Dutch call _doup_. Our erudite
author likewise observes that the citizens are to this day noted for
their love of “a sop in the pan,” and their portly appearance, “except,
indeed,” continues he, “the young ladies, who are perfectly genteel in
their dimensions”—this, however, he ill-naturedly enough attributes to
their eating pickles, and drinking vinegar.
The Philadelphians boast much of the situation and plan of their city,
and well may they, since it is, undoubtedly, as fair and square, and
regular and right-angled, as any mechanical genius could have possibly
made it. I am clearly of opinion that this humdrum regularity has a vast
effect on the character of its inhabitants and even on their looks, “for
you will observe,” writes Linkum, “that they are an honest, worthy,
square, good-looking, well-meaning, regular, uniform, straightforward,
clock-work, clear-headed, one-like-another, salubrious, upright, kind of
people, who always go to work methodically, never put the cart before
the horse, talk like a book, walk mathematically, never turn but in
right angles, think syllogistically, and pun theoretically, according to
the genuine rules of Cicero and Dean Swift;—whereas the people of New
York—God help them—tossed about over hills and dales, through lanes and
alleys, and crooked streets—continually mounting and descending, turning
and twisting—whisking off at tangents, and left-angle-triangles, just
like their own queer, odd, topsy-turvy, rantipole city, are the most
irregular, crazy-headed, quicksilver, eccentric, whimwhamsical set of
mortals that ever were jumbled together in this uneven, villainous,
revolving globe, and are the very antipodeans to the Philadelphians.”
The streets of Philadelphia are wide and straight, which is wisely
ordered, for the inhabitants having generally crooked noses, and most
commonly travelling hard after them, the good folks would undoubtedly
soon _go to the wall_, in the crooked streets of our city. This fact
of the crooked noses has not been hitherto remarked by any of our
American travellers, but must strike every stranger of the least
observation. There is, however, one place which I would recommend to
all my fellow-citizens, who may come after me, as a promenade—I mean
Dock street—the only street in Philadelphia that bears any resemblance
to New York—how tender, how exquisite are the feelings awakened in the
breast of a traveller, when his eye encounters some object which
reminds him of his far distant country! The pensive New Yorker, having
drank his glass of porter, and smoked his cigar after dinner (by the
way I would recommend Sheaff, as selling the best Philadelphia), may
here direct his solitary steps and indulge in that mellow tenderness
in which the sentimental Kotzebue erst delighted to wallow—he may
recall the romantic scenery and graceful windings of Maiden Lane and
Pearl street, trace the tumultuous gutter in its harmonious
meanderings, and almost fancy he beholds the moss-crowned roof of the
Bear Market, or the majestic steeple of St. Paul’s towering to the
clouds.—Perhaps, too, he may have left behind him some gentle fair
one, who, all the livelong evening, sits pensively at the window,
leaning on her elbows, and counting the lingering, lame, and
broken-winded moments that so tediously lengthen the hours which
separate her from the object of her contemplations!—delightful Lethe
of the soul—sunshine of existence—wife and children poking up the
cheerful evening fire—paper windows, mud walls, love in a
cottage—sweet sensibility—and all that.
Everybody has heard of the famous Bank of Pennsylvania, which, since the
destruction of the tomb of Mausolus, and the Colossus of Rhodes, may
fairly be estimated as one of the wonders of the world. My landlord
thinks it unquestionably the finest building upon earth. The honest man
has never seen the theatre in New York, or the new brick church at the
head of Rector street, which when finished, will beyond all doubt be
infinitely superior to the Pennsylvania barns I noted before.
Philadelphia is a place of great trade and commerce—not but that it
would have been much more so, that is, had it been built on the site of
New York: but as New York has engrossed its present situation, I think
Philadelphia must be content to stand where it does at present—at any
rate it is not Philadelphia’s fault, nor is it any concern of mine, so I
shall not make myself uneasy about the affair. Besides to use Trim’s
argument, were that city to stand where New York does, it might perhaps
have the misfortune to be called New York and not Philadelphia, which
would be quite another matter, and this portion of my travels had
undoubtedly been smothered before it was born—which would have been a
thousand pities indeed.
Of the manufactures of Philadelphia, I can say but little, except that
the people are famous for an excellent kind of confectionery, made from
the drainings of sugar. The process is simple as any in Mrs. Glass’s
excellent and useful work (which I hereby recommend to the fair hands of
all young ladies, who are not occupied in reading Moore’s poems)—you buy
a pot—put your molasses in your pot (if you can beg, borrow, or steal
your molasses it will come much cheaper than if you buy it)—boil your
molasses to a proper consistency; but if you boil it too much, it will
be none the better for it—then pour it off and let it cool, or draw it
out into little pieces about nine inches long, and put it by for use.
This manufacture is called by the Bostonians _lasses candy_, by the New
Yorkers, _cock-a-nee-nee_—but by the polite Philadelphians, by a name
utterly impossible to pronounce.
The Philadelphia ladies are some of them beautiful, some of them
tolerably good looking, and some of them, to say the truth, are not at
all handsome. They are, however, very agreeable in general, except those
who are reckoned witty, who, if I might be allowed to speak my mind, are
very disagreeable, particularly to young gentlemen, who are travelling
for information. Being fond of tea-parties, they are a little given to
criticism—but are in general remarkably discreet, and very industrious
as I have been assured by some of my friends. Take them all in all,
however, they are much inferior to the ladies of New York, as plainly
appears from several young gentlemen having fallen in love with some of
our belles, after resisting all the female attractions of Philadelphia.
From this inferiority, I except one, who is the most amiable, the most
accomplished, the most bewitching, and the most of everything that
constitutes the divinity of woman—mem.—_golden apple_!
The amusements of the Philadelphians are dancing, punning, tea-parties,
and theatrical exhibitions. In the first, they are far inferior to the
young people of New York, owing to the misfortune of their mostly
preferring to idle away time in the cultivation of the head instead of
the heels. It is a melancholy fact that an infinite number of young
ladies in Philadelphia, whose minds are elegantly accomplished in
literature, have sacrificed to the attainment of such trifling
acquisitions, the pigeon-wing, the waltz, the Cossack dance, and other
matters of equal importance. On the other hand, they excel the New
Yorkers in punning, and in the management of tea-parties. In New York
you never hear, except from some young gentleman just returned from a
visit to Philadelphia, a single attempt at punning, and at a tea-party,
the ladies in general are disposed close together, like a setting of
jewels, or pearls round a locket, in all the majesty of good
behavior—and if a gentleman wishes to have a conversation with one of
them, about the backwardness of the spring, the improvements in the
theatre, or the merits of his horse, he is obliged to march up in the
face of such volleys of eye-shot! such a formidable artillery of
glances! If he escapes annihilation, he should cry out a miracle! and
never encounter such dangers again. I remember to have once heard a very
valiant British officer, who had served with great credit for some years
in the train-bands, declare with a veteran oath, that sooner than
encounter such deadly peril, he would fight his way clear through a
London mob, though he were pelted with brick-bats all the time. Some
ladies who were present at this declaration of the gallant officer, were
inclined to consider it a great compliment, until one, more knowing than
the rest, declared, with a little piece of a sneer, “that they were very
much obliged to him for likening the company to a London mob, and their
glances to brick-bats.” The officer looked blue, turned on his heel,
made a fine retreat, and went home with a determination to quiz the
American ladies as soon as he got to London.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
NO. XI.—TUESDAY, JUNE 2, 1807.
LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB KELI KHAN,
CAPTAIN OF A KETCH, TO ASEM HACCHEM, PRINCIPAL SLAVE-DRIVER TO HIS
HIGHNESS THE BASHAW OF TRIPOLI.
The deep shadows of midnight gather around me; the footsteps of the
passengers have ceased in the streets, and nothing disturbs the holy
silence of the hour save the sound of the distant drums, mingled with
the shouts, the bawlings, and the discordant revelry of his majesty, the
Sovereign Mob. Let the hour be sacred to friendship, and consecrated to
thee, O thou brother of my inmost soul!
O Asem! I almost shrink at the recollection of the scenes of confusion,
of licentious disorganization which I have witnessed during the last
three days. I have beheld this whole city, nay, this whole State, given
up to the tongue and the pen; to the puffers, the bawlers, the babblers,
and the slang-whangers. I have beheld the community convulsed with a
civil war, or civil talk; individuals verbally massacred, families
annihilated by whole sheets full, and slang-whangers coolly bathing
their pens in ink and rioting in the slaughter of their thousands. T
have seen, in short, that awful despot, the People, in the moment of
unlimited power, wielding newspapers in one hand, and with the other
scattering mud and filth about, like some desperate lunatic relieved
from the restraints of his strait waistcoat. I have seen beggars on
horseback, ragamuffins riding in coaches, and swine seated in places of
honor; I have seen liberty; I have seen equality; I have seen
fraternity. I have seen that great political puppet-show—an Election.
A few days ago the friend, whom I have mentioned in some of my former
letters, called upon me to accompany him to witness this grand ceremony;
and we forthwith sallied out to the polls, as he called them. Though for
several weeks before this splendid exhibition nothing else had been
talked of, yet I do assure thee I was entirely ignorant of its nature;
and when, on coming up to a church, my companion informed me we were at
the polls, I supposed that an election was some great religious
ceremony, like the fast of Ramazan, or the great festival of Haraphat,
so celebrated in the East.
My friend, however, undeceived me at once, and entered into a long
dissertation on the nature and object of an election, the substance of
which was nearly to this effect:—
“You know,” said he, “that this country is engaged in a violent internal
warfare, and suffers a variety of evils from civil dissensions. An
election is the grand trial of strength, the decisive battle when the
belligerents draw out their forces in martial array; when every leader,
burning with warlike ardor, and encouraged by the shouts and
acclamations of tatterdemalions, buffoons, dependents, parasites,
toad-eaters, scrubs, vagrants, mumpers, ragamuffins, bravos, and beggars
in his rear; and puffed up by his bellowsblowing slang-whangers, waves
gallantly the banners of faction, and presses forward _to office and
immortality_!
“For a month or two previous to the critical period which is to decide
this important affair, the whole community is in a ferment. Every man,
of whatever rank or degree—such is the wonderful patriotism of the
people—disinterestedly neglects his business to devote himself to his
country; and not an insignificant fellow but feels himself inspired, on
this occasion, with as much warmth in favor of the cause he has
espoused, as if all the comfort of his life, or even his life itself,
was dependent on the issue. Grand councils of war are, in the first
place, called by the different powers, which are dubbed general
meetings, where all the head workmen of the party collect, and arrange
the order of battle—appoint their different commanders, and their
subordinate instruments, and furnish the funds indispensable for
supplying the expenses of the war. Inferior councils are next called in
the different classes or wards, consisting of young cadets, who are
candidates for offices; idlers who come there for mere curiosity; and
orators who appear for the purpose of detailing all the crimes, the
faults, or the weaknesses of their opponents, and _speaking the sense of
the meeting_, as it is called; for as the meeting generally consists of
men whose quota of sense, taken individually, would make but a poor
figure, these orators are appointed to collect it all in a lump; when, I
assure you, it makes a very formidable appearance, and furnishes
sufficient matter to spin an oration of two or three hours.
“The orators who declaim at these meetings are, with a few exceptions,
men of most profound and perplexed eloquence; who are the oracles of
barbers’ shops, market-places, and porter-houses; and whom you may see
every day at the corners of the streets, taking honest men prisoners by
the button, and talking their ribs quite bare without mercy and without
end. These orators, in addressing an audience, generally mount a chair,
a table, or an empty beer barrel, which last is supposed to afford
considerable inspiration, and thunder away their combustible sentiments
at the heads of the audience, who are generally so busily employed in
smoking, drinking, and hearing themselves talk, that they seldom hear a
word of the matter. This, however, is of little moment: for as they come
there to agree, at all events, to a certain set of resolutions, or
articles of war, it is not at all necessary to hear the speech; more
especially as few would understand it if they did. Do not suppose,
however, that the minor persons of the meeting are entirely idle.
Besides smoking and drinking, which are generally practiced, there are
few who do not come with as great a desire to talk as the orator
himself; each has his little circle of listeners, in the midst of whom
he sets his hat on one side of his head, and deals out matter-of-fact
information, and draws self-evident conclusions with the pertinacity of
a pedant, and to the great edification of his gaping auditors. Nay, the
very urchins from the nursery, who are scarcely emancipated from the
dominion of birch, on these occasions strut pigmy great men, bellow for
the instruction of gray-bearded ignorance, and, like the frog in the
fable, endeavor to puff themselves up to the size of the great object of
their emulation—the principal orator.
“But is it not preposterous to a degree,” cried I, “for those puny
whipsters to attempt to lecture age and experience? They should be sent
to school to learn better.”
“Not at all,” replied my friend; “for as an election is nothing more
than a war of words, the man that can wag his tongue with the greatest
elasticity, whether he speaks to the purpose or not, is entitled to
lecture at ward meetings and polls, and instruct all who are inclined to
listen to him; you may have remarked a ward meeting of politic dogs,
where, although the great dog is, ostensibly, the leader, and makes the
most noise, yet every little scoundrel of a cur has something to say;
and in proportion to his insignificance, fidgets, and worries, and puffs
about mightily, in order to obtain the notice and approbation of his
betters. Thus it is with these little, beardless, bread-and-butter
politicians, who on this occasion escape from the jurisdiction of their
mammas to attend to the affairs of the nation. You will see them engaged
in dreadful wordy contest with old cartmen, cobblers, and tailors, and
plume themselves not a little if they should chance to gain a victory.
Aspiring spirits! how interesting are the first dawnings of political
greatness! An election, my friend, is a nursery or hot-bed of genius in
a logocracy; and I look with enthusiasm on a troop of these Lilliputian
partisans, as so many chatterers, and orators and puffers, and
slang-whangers in embryo, who will one day take an important part in the
quarrels and wordy wars of their country.
“As the time for fighting the decisive battle approaches, appearances
become more and more alarming; committees are appointed, who hold little
encampments from whence they send out small detachments of tattlers, to
reconnoitre, harass, and skirmish with the enemy, and, if possible,
ascertain their numbers; everybody seems big with the mighty event that
is impending; the orators, they gradually swell up beyond their usual
size; the little orators, they grow greater and greater; the secretaries
of the ward committees strut about, looking like wooden oracles; the
puffers put on the airs of mighty consequence; the slang-whangers deal
out direful innuendoes, and threats of doughty import, and all is buzz,
murmur, suspense, and sublimity!
“At length the day arrives. The storm that has been so long gathering
and threatening in distant thunders, bursts forth in terrible explosion;
all business is at an end; the whole city is in a tumult; the people are
running helter-skelter, they know not whither, and they know not why;
the hackney coaches rattle through the streets with thundering
vehemence, loaded with recruiting sergeants who have been prowling in
cellars and caves, to unearth some miserable minion of poverty and
ignorance, who will barter his vote for a glass of beer, or a ride in a
coach with such _fine gentlemen_! the buzzards of the party scamper from
poll to poll, on foot or on horseback; and they worry from committee to
committee, and buzz, and fume, and talk big, and—_do nothing_; like the
vagabond drone, who wastes his time in the laborious idleness of
_see-saw-song_ and busy nothingness.”
I know not how long my friend would have continued his detail, had he
not been interrupted by a squabble which took place between two _old
continentals_, as they were called. It seems they had entered into an
argument on the respective merits of their cause, and not being able to
make each other clearly understood, resorted to what is called
knock-down arguments, which form the superlative degree of _argumentum
ad hominem_; but are, in my opinion, extremely inconsistent with the
true spirit of a genuine logocracy. After they had beaten each other
soundly, and set the whole mob together by the ears, they came to a full
explanation; when it was discovered that they were both of the same way
of thinking; whereupon they shook each other heartily by the hand, and
laughed with great glee at their humorous misunderstanding.
I could not help being struck with the exceeding great number of ragged,
dirty-looking persons that swaggered about the place, and seemed to
think themselves the bashaws of the land. I inquired of my friend if
these people were employed to drive away the hogs, dogs, and other
intruders that might thrust themselves in and interrupt the ceremony?
“By no means,” replied he; “these are the representatives of the
sovereign people, who come here to make governors, senators, and members
of assembly, and are the source of all power and authority in this
nation.”
“Preposterous!” said I; “how is it possible that such men can be capable
of distinguishing between an honest man and a knave; or, even if they
were, will it not always happen that they are led by the nose by some
intriguing demagogue, and made the mere tools of ambitious political
jugglers? Surely it would be better to trust to Providence, or even to
chance, for governors, than resort to the discriminating powers of an
ignorant mob. I plainly perceive the consequence. A man, who possesses
superior talents, and that honest pride which ever accompanies this
possession, will always be sacrificed by some creeping insect who will
prostitute himself to familiarity with the lowest of mankind; and, like
the idolatrous Egyptian, worship the wallowing tenants of filth and
mire.”
“All this is true enough,” replied my friend, “but after all, you cannot
say but that this is a free country, and that the people can get drunk
cheaper here, particularly at elections, than in the despotic countries
of the East.” I could not, with any degree of propriety or truth, deny
this last assertion; for just at that moment a patriotic brewer arrived
with a load of beer, which, for a moment, occasioned a cessation of
argument. The great crowd of buzzards, puffers, and “old continentals”
of all parties, who throng to the polls, to persuade, to cheat, or to
force the freeholders into the right way, and to maintain the freedom of
suffrage, seemed for a moment to forget their antipathies, and joined
heartily in a copious libation of this patriotic and argumentative
beverage.
These beer-barrels, indeed, seem to be most able logicians, well stored
with that kind of sound argument best suited to the comprehension, and
most relished by the mob, or sovereign people, who are never so
tractable as when operated upon by this convincing liquor, which, in
fact, seems to be imbued with the very spirit of a logocracy. No sooner
does it begin its operation, than the tongue waxes exceeding valorous,
and becomes impatient for some mighty conflict. The puffer puts himself
at the head of his body-guard of buzzards, and his legion of
ragamuffins, and woe then to every unhappy adversary who is uninspired
by the deity of the beer barrel—he is sure to be talked, and argued,
into complete insignificance.