The beasts began to 'shin it;'
As frightened at the lion's hide
As if himself were in it.
Nor sight alone contented him,
But try his voice he would;
And brayed as like a lion's roar
As ever a jackass could.
Just then upon the road he saw
His master, honest man;
Quoth would-be lion to himself,
'I'll scare him, if I can!'
An extra flourish then he flung,
Too lustily no doubt,
For, shaken from their hiding-place,
Lo! his long ears stuck out!
His master took the timely hint,
And ere the joke was done,
He curried off the lion-skin,
And laid the cow-skin on.
MORAL.
WITH empty heads in borrowed locks,
Thus Dandies throng Broadway,
And strut as if they were in truth
The Lions of the day.
And why the cow-skin follows not.
Would you the reason know?
Dame Nature has encased them all
In calf-skin long ago.
_Savannah, Georgia, 1843._ J. RHEYN PIKSOHN.
THE MAIL ROBBER
NUMBER THREE.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.
_Saratoga Springs, July 4, 1843._
SIR: Being now located at the Springs, amid all the gayety and
elegance and aristocracy of the land, I found last evening, among
the ladies in the drawing-room, the July number of your periodical.
Again was I shocked and overwhelmed at the gross impudence with
which you persist in the promulgation of my private affairs. That
you should have published my second personal epistle to yourself,
is a tremendous aggravation of your audacity. I shall take care to
frame this in a style which will preclude all possibility of your
printing it, and disclosing your own rascality.
I have heard moreover that well-known individuals in England have
been highly disgusted at the cool, hyena-like, editorial ferocity
with which you and your greedy subscribers feed upon this foul
dish of scandal. Such heartless conduct cannot fail to confirm
our neighbors across the 'great Atlantic privilege' in their
uncomplimentary opinion of American probity. _Repudiation_ was a
virtue compared with this infamous violation of the rights of man.
Even here, amid all the soothing magnificence of the surroundings;
in the solemn stillness of the woods, or by the stainless bosom of
Saratoga Lake, or by that salubrious fount of which half a dozen
tumblers are so invigorating to the spirits and beneficial to
the bowels, I am sick at soul when I realize the wickedness and
worldly-mindedness of Magazine Editors.
You have not hinted one syllable about _pecuniary compensation_; and
how, under such a load of ingratitude, can you expect that you will
be long permitted to pursue your fiendish career? A reasonable sum
would satisfy me; but I forbear to urge it, for I doubt if you are a
Christian. This is the last time I shall address you; nor should I
now write, except to charge you immediately to return the remaining
manuscripts, or to forward the customary fee for articles of equal
value. You will not dare to publish this letter, I am sure, unless
you are a fool as well as a fraudulent and evil-minded person.
Yours, by no means, ---- ----.'
* * * * *
AT the risk of our reputation, we have ventured to publish the above
severe remonstrance; and in reply, we take pleasure in soothing the
lacerated nerves of our financial friend by the following statement:
Some days ago, about sherry-cobbler time, a middle-aged individual,
between five and six feet high, not very stout, although far from
slim; of an open countenance; a nose Greco-Gothic, inclining to
the Roman, and eyes neither light nor dark, called at our sanctum,
and claimed to be the author of the poetical epistles in question.
Before we had time to apologize for our part in this curious affair,
the stranger, so far from producing a horse-whip, assured us, with
a benignant smile, that he forgave the liberty we had assumed, and
moreover, that he wished to extend his pardon to the gentleman whose
late indiscretion had put us in possession of the papers. Far be
it from himself, the stranger said, to remain behind the age; he
supposed it was the custom of the country; and this apology, as in
the aforementioned case of Repudiation, must content his friends
in London. It was true, he added, that some offence had been taken
abroad by this truly American proceeding; but on the whole, as he
found the KNICKERBOCKER a conveyance considerably safer than the
steamboat-mail, and as it was beside an immense saving in the matter
of postage, he would permit us to continue the correspondence.
As for those letters which we still retained in our keeping, he
assured us that we were perfectly free to enlighten with them our
'Principes' or the public. Beside all this, he placed in our hands
a fresh epistle, which he had intended to have sent by the next
packet, but which, by his generous permission, we are happy to
insert in the present number.
We trust that this will quiet the sensibilities of our Saratoga
friend, and that he will return to the city with an invigorated
conscience, a healthful moral sense, and a stomach improved by the
waters.
ED. KNICKERBOCKER.
LETTER THIRD.
TO EDWARD MOXON, PUBLISHER, LONDON.
THE fiery bark that brought your missives o'er,
Brought the sad news that MURRAY was no more.
From still Hoboken, where I chanced to stray,
I marked the monster belching up the bay,
And guessed (already have I learned to _guess_,)
From her black look, she told of some distress.
Tidings of gloom her sable streamer spoke,
And the long train of her funereal smoke;
And soon the bulletins revealed the grief:
'JOHN MURRAY'S dead! of book-sellers the chief!'
In all the strange events that Rumor sends,
By flood and flame, to earth's remotest ends;
War, famine, wreck, and all the varying fates
Of rising cottons or of falling states;
Revolts at home, and troubles o'er the seas,
Among the Affghans, Chartists, and Chinese;
In all the recent millions that have gone
To the dark realm, and still are hastening on,
That one small tradesman should have joined the throng
Seems a mean theme to babble of in song.
Yet such is Fame! and such the pow'r of books,
To make small names as deathless as the Duke's:[B]
Yes, the same volume that recordeth you,
Ye mighty chiefs! embalms the printer's too;
And wheresoe'er the poet's fame hath flown,
There too the poet's publisher is known;
So shall our friend enjoy, to endless ages,
An immortality of title-pages.
[B] In England there is but one Duke who is universally and
deservedly known as 'THE Duke.'
Ev'n here, in Scythia, where the slighted Muse
Gets but cold greeting from the rude Yahoos;
Ev'n here is faintly heard a public sigh,
Ah, that Childe Harold's accoucheur should die!
That he who made such elegant editions
Should be past help from parsons or physicians;
Dead as the most defunct of all the verse
For which erewhile he tapped his liberal purse;
No more a bargainer for true sublime,
Himself a subject for a scrap of rhyme.
Methinks I see his melancholy ghost
Near his old threshold, at his ancient post;
Watching with eager and obsequious grin,
The pensive customers that enter in.
With curious eye selecting from the throng,
Each who has dabbled in the realm of song;
And offering, as of yore, for something nice
In way of Epitaph, the market price.
And now his bones the sculptured slab lie under,
What generous bard will _give_ him one, I wonder?
For all the golden promises he made;
For all the golden guineas that he paid;
For all the fame his counter could afford
The rev'rend pamphleteer and author-lord;
For all the tricks he taught the friendless muse;
For all his purchased papers in Reviews;
For all the pleasant stories he retailed;
For all the turtle when the stories failed;
For all the praises, all the punch he spent,
What grateful hand will deck his monument?
CAMPBELL'S too proud the compliment to grant:
SOUTHEY, for sundry weighty reasons, can't.
Should MOORE attempt it, he'd be sure to damn
John's many virtues in an epigram.
ROGERS' blank verse so very blank has grown,
'T would scarce be legible on Parian stone;
WORDSWORTH would mar it by inscribing on it
A little sermon--what he calls a sonnet.
Alas! for all the guineas that he paid,
For all the immortalities he made,
For all his venison, all his right old wine,
Will none contribute one sepulchral line?
In truth I'm sad, although I seem to laugh,
To think that John should need an epitaph.
The greatest blows bring not the truest tear,
These minor losses touch the heart more near;
As fewer drops gush over from the eyes
When heroes fall than when your valet dies;
They, of another, an immortal race,
Ne'er seemed on earth well suited with their place,
And though they yield their transitory breath,
We know their being but begins with death:
So winter ushers in the new-born year,
So the flowers perish ere the fruits appear.
When common men, when men like MURRAY, thus
Are snatched away, 't is taking one of us;
And more in his we feel our own decay
Than if a WELLINGTON were snatched away.
'T is not lost genius we lament the most,
No; but the man, the old companion lost:
Who'd not give more to bring back GILBERT GURNEY,
Or SMITH or MATTHEWS from their nether journey,
Than all your MILTONS or your BACONS dead,
Or all the BONAPARTES that ever bled?
So, were the blue rotundity of heaven
By some muck-running, outlawed comet riven,
Should any orb, say yonder blazing Mars,
Be blotted from the muster-roll of stars,
HERSCHEL might groan, or SOMERVILLE might sigh,
But what would London care?--or you, or I?
Far more we vulgar mortals might lament,
Should some starved earthquake gulp a slice of Kent.
Now let no pigmy poet, in his pride,
The humble mem'ry of our friend deride:
More than he dreams, his little species owe
Those good allies, the Patrons of the Row:
They, only they, of all the friends who praise,
All who forgive, and all who love your lays,
Of all that flatter, all that wish you well,
Sincerely care to have your volume sell.
How oft, when Quarterlies are most severe,
And every critic aims a ready sneer,
And young Ambition just begins to cool,
And Genius half suspects himself a fool,
The placid publisher, the more they rail,
Forebodes the triumph of a speedy sale,
And gently lays the soul sustaining balm
Of twenty sovereigns in your trembling palm;
While more than speech his manner seems to say,
As bland he whispers, 'Dine with me to-day.'
Or when some doubtful bantling of your brain,
Conceived in pleasure but achieved with pain,
A bit of satire, or a play perchance,
A fresh, warm epic, or new-laid romance,
Receives from all to whom your work you show
Civil endurance, or a faint 'so so;'
When men of taste, men always made of ice,
Cool your gay fancies with _a friend's advice_,
And prudent fathers, yawning as you read,
Knit the sage lips, and wag the pregnant head,
And bid you stick to your molasses tierces,
And leave sweet ladies to concoct sweet verses:
How oft your MURRAY, with a keener eye,
Detects the gems that mid your rubbish lie;
Instructs you where to alter, where to blot,
And how to darn and patch your faulty plot;
Then bravely buys, and gives you to the town
In duodecimo, for half a crown.
And oh! how oft when some dyspeptic swain
Pours forth his agonies in sickly strain,
Mistaking, in the pangs that through him dart,
A wretched liver for a breaking heart;
And prates of passions that he never felt,
And sweats away in vain attempts to melt;
Or takes to brandy, and converts his verse,
From sad to savage, nay, begins to curse,
And raves of Nemesis and hate and hell,
And smothered woes that in his bosom swell;
When Newstead is the name his fancy gives
The snug dominion where he cheaply lives,
And aping still th' aristocratic bard,
With 'Crede Jenkins' graved upon his card,
When with his trash he hurries to the press,
Crying 'O print me! print me!' in distress,
Some bookseller, perhaps, most kindly cruel,
Uses the dainty manuscript for fuel.
Ah! Ned, hadst thou, when once with rhyme opprest,
Found such a friend, (pray pardon me the jest,)
Hadst thou but been as friendly to thyself,
Thy Poems never had adorned thy shelf.
But all is ended now! John's work is o'er;
He praises, pays, and publishes no more.
Henceforth no volume, save the Book of fate,
Shall bear for him an interest small or great:
And if in heaven his literary soul
Walk the pure pavement where the planets roll,
Few old acquaintances will greet him there,
Amid the radiant light and balmy air;
Since few of all who wrote or sang for him
Shall join the anthem of the seraphim.
Yet there might Fancy, in a mood profane,
Behold him listening each celestial strain,
Catching the cadences that sweetly fall,
Wond'ring if such would sell, below, at all,
And _calculating_, as they say on earth,
How much those heavenly hymns would there be worth.
Or if in Proserpine's more sultry sky
For his misdeeds the Publisher must sigh,
Though much good company about him stand,
And many an author take him by the hand,
And swarms of novelists around him press,
And many a bard return his warm caress,
Though there on all the sinners he shall gaze
Who ever wrote, or planned, or acted plays;
On all the wits, from Anna's time to ours,
Who strewed perdition's pleasant way with flowers;
On BURNS, consumed with more substantial fire
Than ever love or whisky could inspire;
On SHELLEY, seething in a lake of lead,
And BYRON stretched upon a lava bed;
Little shall he, or they, or any there,
Of magazines or morning journals care;
Little shall there be whispered or be thought,
About the last new book and what it brought;
Little of copyright and Yankee thieves,
Or any wrong that CHARLIE'S bosom grieves;
But side by side reviewer and reviewed,
Critic and criticised must all be--stewed;
Alas! they groan--alas! compared with this,
Ev'n BLACKWOOD'S drunken surgery was bliss.
How less than little were the direst blows
Dealt by brute GIFFORD on his baby foes!
How light, compared with hell's eternal pain,
The small damnation was of Drury Lane!
Down! down! thou impious, dark Imagination,
Forbear the foul, the blasphemous creation;
Whate'er John's doom, in whatsoever sphere,
Wretched or blest, 't is not for us to hear.
Not many such have dignified his trade,
So boldly bargained and so nobly paid.
Oh may his own Divine Paymaster prove
As kind and righteous in the realms above!
THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.
Harry Harson.
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
AT about eleven o'clock, on a fine day, a tall elderly man, habited
in a long-skirted blue overcoat, with a broad-brimmed hat on his
head, his neck enveloped in the ample folds of a white cravat, the
ends of which toyed pleasantly with the morning air; and having in
his hand a cane, whose top was carved in a miniature likeness of a
dog with a distressing countenance, slowly descended the precipitous
flight of stone steps which form the rear mode of egress from the
City Hall. Having safely landed himself, the elderly gentleman
paused, rubbed one hand gently over the other, as if congratulating
himself that one of the perils of the day was over, and then walked
out into the Park, and deliberately set his watch by the town-clock.
Being a cautious man, however, and a man of experience, and one who
piqued himself on doing every thing better than any one else, and
upon being always right when all the rest of the world was wrong,
and on being in general in all respects somewhat--but not too much,
merely a trifle--superior to the ordinary run of mankind; and being
aware that the town-clock had four faces, which always differed
in opinion as to the hour; and being too knowing to be taken in
by any small trick of that kind, he winked to himself, and took
the pains to make the circuit of the building, and successively to
inspect each face of the aforesaid public time-keeper; and having
ascertained that the majority was with the one which he had first
consulted, he pulled his waistcoat very high up in front and dropped
his watch into a small pocket in the waistband of his trowsers.
After which, he buttoned his coat and set about his day's work with
no little complacency and good humor.
The direction which he took led to one of the poorer parts of the
town; and although he walked slowly, it was not long before he was
in the thick of those narrow, ill-ventilated streets, hemmed in by
decaying houses and reeking cellars, which proclaim, plainer than
words, that vice and want, and a thousand other ills which canker
the heart, and eat up all that is noble in human nature, are lurking
in their dark recesses.
Mr. Chicken, for he it was, paused in front of one of the dim holes,
where a dozen wretched beings, ill clad and ill fed, were herding
together, and wondered why they _would_ live in such places; and
why they did not pay more attention to their dress; really, it was
exceedingly shocking; some of them were half naked. 'It's quite
indelicate, quite!' said he, mentally: 'Mrs. Chicken would die if
she saw it. I declare, I won't be positive--no, yes--no; yet I do
think one of them is a woman; I really _do_ think that rug is meant
for a petticoat. It _must_ be a woman,' said he, continuing his
investigations in a cautious manner. 'It _is_ a woman. Ah! it's agin
natur.'
There was no doubt of the truth of his suspicion; half of them were
females. Squatting and crouching there, they raised their blear eyes
toward him in sullen indifference; too miserably wretched to heed or
resent the look of disgust and surprise which met theirs, other than
by a heartless laugh or a ribald jest; too callous to feel, and too
broken down in body and soul to taunt. The deputy-sheriff shook his
head, for although he had often been amid scenes where the strong
heart was wrung; where the debtor, ground down by creditors with
hearts of flint, and eyes greedy of gold, was struggling beneath
the fangs of the law, and crying for indulgence and mercy: although
he had seen the calm, pale look of despair; the silent but resolute
face of the man who had parted with his all, and finally yielded
his body for the gold which he could not pay; and the wife clasping
his neck, and his children clinging to him; ay, actually showing
marks of affection to a man who was penniless; yet he had rarely
encountered a den like this. He had only witnessed suffering and
despair in their first stages. Had he desired to see the human soul
when hope had darkened into desperation; when friends had fallen
off, or less painful than that, had died; when the body had been
wasted, and the blood dried up, and yet had yielded no gold; when
even that untiring thing, a creditor, had grown weary of his prey,
and had flung his victim adrift, to find none to sympathize, no path
open, no home left, and even hope dead; he should have lingered
a little longer; and in common with the born thief, the hardened
courtezan, the reeling drunkard, and the savage brawler, he would
have found those whom the sun of prosperity had once warmed, and who
once had little dreamed in what foul haunts they would linger out
the remnant of life which was yet in store for them.
Mr. Chicken, however, having already expressed his opinion, merely
shook his head disapprovingly, on concluding his investigation, and
said nothing, but kept on, now turning into one narrow street to
the right, then striking into another to the left; now stumbling
along broken pavements, and dilapidated steps; at one time half
stifled with exhalations which steamed up from reeking kennels and
under-ground dwellings, until he finally emerged into a broader
street; but still the dwellings were of a meaner cast. Stopping in
front of one of these, he stealthily drew out his pocket-book, took
from it a small slip of paper, looked at it, then at the house;
coughed several times; cleared his throat emphatically and fixed his
hat firmly on his head; buttoned his coat to the chin, placed his
cane under his left arm, and grasping the small paper firmly in his
right hand, like one preparing for a mortal struggle, precipitated
himself headlong into a dark alley. Stumbling over a broken pail,
a log of wood, and a few minor articles of a domestic description,
which usually beset benighted alleys and dim stairways, the
sheriff's deputy finally caught sight of daylight in a small yard,
with which the passage communicated, and found himself at the door
of a dilapidated house, built in the rear of one fronting on the
street.
It was a small faded building, two stories high, sinking and
crumbling away, like a person weak in the side. Narrow windows,
cracked and dust-covered, looked out into the dark yard. A broken
flower-pot stood on a window sill with a stunted bush in it, bearing
a single yellow leaf; and in another, was a half-starved shrub
endeavoring to keep the life in a drooping flower. On the roof,
which abutted on other roofs, and was overlooked by tall buildings,
a lean cat was dozing in the sun, as if endeavoring to forget hunger
in sleep. Every thing bore the stamp of starvation. The windows too
were patched with rags, or pieces of paper; the bricks from ruined
chimneys had toppled down, and were lying in masses on the roof;
there were great, gaping seams between the boards, showing the
plaster within; the door had sagged away, and the shutters of more
than one window hung by a single hinge. On the door-steps a child
was sleeping, and from a narrow window a thin face peeped cautiously
out, wondering what a stranger could want in that dreary quarter.
The sheriff's deputy, however, was familiar with the ground. He was
in the habit of fishing in troubled waters; and it was not the first
time that he had drawn from this very place food for the gaol.
Without asking a question, he quietly stepped over the sleeping
child, and stooping as he entered, to prevent his hat coming in
contact with the top of the low door-way, he ascended a crooked
staircase, carefully picking his way; grumbling at its inconvenient
formation, and indulging a few mental anathemas against old houses
in general. At the head of the stairs a door was ajar; and without
knocking, he pushed it open, entered, and shut it; standing ready
to place his back against it, in case he should observe any
indication of an attempt on the part of the occupant to escape. This
precaution, however, was unnecessary; for the only person there was
a man of about forty, with a stern, resolute face, a sharp, gray
eye, and strongly built, who was writing at a table, which, with
the exception of a bed in a corner, and two chairs, constituted the
entire furniture of the room; who merely looked up as his visitor
entered, and without removing his eyes from him, said:
'Methinks that common courtesy entitles a man to a knock at his door
before his room is entered. Though perhaps,' he added, bitterly,
'the owner of such quarters as these is only entitled to courtesy
according to his means.'
To neither of these remarks did Mr. Chicken make any reply; but
gradually sidling up to the speaker, until he came within arm's
length, he tapped him on the shoulder, and said:
'I arrest you, Sir. It's a very onpleasant duty; but it _is_ a duty,
and must be did. Here's the writ.'
The man eyed him for a moment; apparently meditating what course to
pursue; while Mr. Chicken grasped the head of the dog on his cane,
and assumed an air of desperate determination. At last the man took
the paper from his hand, and read it through, without moving or
speaking, although his face became somewhat flushed, as he read.
Then he merely uttered the words, 'Michael Rust!'
'He's the plaintiff,' said Mr. Chicken, 'and you are the defendant,
Enoch Grosket. It's onpleasant, Sir, quite onpleasant; but I'm a
deputy-sheriff, Sir; and you're a defendant; and here's the writ;
and duty must be did. That's the long and short of it.'