Is our destined end or way,
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
'In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb driven cattle,
Be a hero in the strife.
'Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant,
Let the dead Past, bury its dead;
Act, act in the glorious Present,
Heart within and GOD o'er head.''
'You give the poet a great advantage,' I said, 'in quoting his very finest
production, and picking out the choicest stanzas. Beside, his theme here
is one of so general a nature, and so familiar to philosophy, that it
would be hard for any one to moralize upon it in verse without
accidentally hitting upon some sublimity. The commonest intellect has
lofty and awful thoughts whenever it gives way to serious meditation upon
our mortality.'
SEATSFIELD: 'That is partly true; but LONGFELLOW is not only great upon
that ground. His realm is very extensive. No man has the power (had he
only the will) of depicting the simplicity of every-day life and objects
with more grace or comprehensiveness. There are some touches in his
'Village Blacksmith' inexpressibly beautiful, and worthy of BURNS'
'Cotter's Saturday Night:'
'His hair is crisp and black and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,' etc.
And then again:
'He goes on Sunday to the Church,
And sits among the boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the gallery,
And it makes his heart rejoice.'
SEATSFIELD repeated these verses with much emotion; and I observed that a
tear stood upon his lids. I therefore turned the conversation upon
hydropathy, and introduced a quotation from PINDAR: [Greek: ariston men
hydor], _etc._
SEATSFIELD: 'PINDAR, Sir, has expressed a great truth; but I think that
PIERPONT has expressed it better. In his exquisite 'Ode on the Opening of
the Marlborough Temperance-House' how beautifully he says, after speaking
in regard to the virtues of cold water:
'Oh! had EVE'S hair
Been dressed in gin,
Would she have been
Reflected fair?'
'And then, after describing the beauty of Eden, with its rills and
pellucid brooks bubbling through the fresh meads, he goes on:
'Are not pure springs
And chrystal wells
The very things
For our Hotels?'
'That, Sir, is excellent, and the somewhat homely imagery only enhances in
my mind the truth of the sentiment. PIERPONT, Sir, is a very great man.'
'As great as LONGFELLOW?'
SEATSFIELD: 'No, Sir, perhaps not; there is a considerable difference of
calibre between them. I should say now that LONGFELLOW was a first-rate
artist with a second-rate imagination, and that PIERPONT was only a
second-rate artist with a first-rate fancy. There is no mistake in
PIERPONT.'
I smiled at SEATSFIELD'S affectation of Americanisms, as if out of
compliment to myself, or in honor of the day; and I rejoined: 'There may
be no mistake in PIERPONT, but there is one or two in LONGFELLOW.'
SEATSFIELD: 'Grammatical or prosodiacal?'
'Neither; but in the beginning of his 'Psalm of Life,' he says:
'Tell me not in mournful numbers
Life is but an empty dream;
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.'
'Here he evidently meant things _are_ what they seem; for in the next
stanza he goes on to say:
'Life is real, life is earnest,
And the grave is not its goal;
'Dust thou art, to dust returnest,'
Was not written of the soul.'
Consequently, if life _is_ real and earnest, and the soul is incapable of
mortality, things _must be_ what they seem, and the soul _cannot_ be dead
that slumbers. And if the soul _is_ dead that slumbers, and things are
_not_ really what they seem to be, life _is_ indeed an empty dream.'
SEATSFIELD looked puzzled at this.
SEATSFIELD: 'You are somewhat hypercritical. Great thoughts must not be
trimmed to the exact dialect of business-men. LONGFELLOW reveals important
truths; he utters what is pent within him from the impulse of utterance:
he tells us that 'Art is long and Time is fleeting;' now some arts are not
long, and time often drags heavily. It will not do to be too precise in
poetry.'
'But is that sentiment original? Does not one of the ancients say, '_Ars
longa, vita brevis_?' and does not that come pretty near to LONGFELLOW'S
idea?'
SEATSFIELD: 'Yes, Sir, but that is a little criticism which picks out
words. LONGFELLOW, or yourself, or any other man, would have arrived at
the same conclusion, even had the ancient author never written it.'
* * * * *
'We were here interrupted by a call to luncheon; and I take advantage of
the break in my journal, to bring this article to a close. More of the
SEATSFIELDIANA I reserve for another number, provided the public are not
already glutted.'
MAGAZINE WRITING.--We know not how we can better evince our appreciation
of the kind and flattering comments of a Southern correspondent, who will
at once recognize our allusion, than by citing the somewhat kindred
remarks of an old and favorite contributor, now passed away from earth. It
was a pleasing matter, he said, to sit down with the proper afflatus
stirring within him, to write an article for a Magazine. 'If the work has
a general prevalence; if its fame is rife on good men's tongues, the
inspiration is the stronger. One says to himself, how many friends of mine
will overlook these very lucubrations, perceive my initials, and recognize
my name? How many pleasing associations will thus be awakened, and
peradventure commendatory remarks expressed, concerning my powers? What a
_quid pro quo_ for wakeful nights, emendations of phrases, the choosing of
words, and toilsome revision! The other day,' he continues, 'while reading
the proof-sheet of my article in the last KNICKERBOCKER, I fell into a
train of reflection upon the large amount of care and labor which must be
entailed upon the publisher and editor of an original Magazine. Some one
has observed, that when we listen to an exquisite opera, or any elaborate
and intricate piece of music, we think not how vast were the pains and
attention bestowed upon every note and cadence; what efforts for
perfection in a solo, what panting for a warble, what travail for a trill!
Taken separately, and at rehearsals, in disjointed fragments of sound, how
different are they from that volume of sweet concords which is produced
when they are all breathed forth in order, to the accompaniment of flutes
and recorders, in one full gush of melody! This is just like a Magazine.
How many minds does it engage! Cherished thoughts and cherished feelings,
polished or sublimated, there find utterance, and demand that honor and
deference to which they are entitled. In his beautiful Introduction to the
Harleian Miscellany, JOHNSON sets forth the necessity and benefit of
similar writings, with reasons as conclusive as the language in which they
are expressed is chaste and strong. In a country like ours, where the vast
population move by common impulse; think promptly, are enlightened with
ease, and turn to the best account that knowledge which is received with
the greatest facility; are inspired with sacred and patriotic feelings
from the bar, the senate, the pulpit, and the press; it is important and
just that the readiest methods and means of instructive moral amusement
should be the most esteemed and the best supported. I confess I never look
into a Magazine, that I do not liken it to a large and pure reservoir of
refreshing waters; derived from many streams, and prankt around its
borders with the flowers and garniture of poesy; possessing qualities
agreeable to every taste--the grave, the solid, the scientific, the light,
the gay. It is a map of the higher moods of life. It conveys a sustenance
with the relish of pleasure. All who favor it with their productions have
different tastes and faculties of mind. Each one endeavors to do the best
with his theme. He ornaments it in diction, or tasks his fancy, or
explores the secrets of science, or illustrates the events and scenes of
his country: he excites broad-mouthed laughter, by salutary jest and pun;
he expatiates in pathetic sentences, or murmurs in the mellow cadence of
song; or arouses interest by the embellishments wherewith history is
refined, and which shed a light over the dim annals of the past, making
them to smile,
----'even as the radiant glow,
Kindling rich woods, whereon the etherial bow
Sleeps lovingly awhile.'
'Now what I thought beside, while looking over my proof, was this: that a
'circulating medium,' through which so many minds communicated their
thoughts, produced and clothed with befitting language in solitary labor;
smoothed, strengthened, or harmonized by revision, and rendered impressive
by those helps and researches of which every _readable_ writer must avail
himself; such a medium, I say, merits the esteem and respect of all. It
deserves not to be taken up for judgment, at a momentary glance, by the
undiscerning eye of careless inquiry. It should be read impartially, and
spoken of, in all worthy points, with praise; in faulty ones, with
tenderness. Our literature, I take it, is not yet a sufficiently flowery
pursuit, to enable any of its votaries to sow its walks with brambles. By
its influence, _the country_ is to be mentally illustrated; the clanking
shackles of transatlantic humbug are to be thrown off; and the
establishment of wholesome feelings, and reliance upon our own
intellectual resources, firmly effected. I love to see the general press
engaged now and then in cheering onward the laborers in the more
unfrequented and toilsome avenues of our literary vineyard. It sends a
GOD-speed to the bosoms of those whose travails are more for their country
than themselves; and who are content, in anonymous pride, to believe, that
it heralds that bright day of mental refinement which will ere long, among
the freest and noblest confederacy of nations on earth, irradiate the
utmost borders of that holy circumference,
'Our Native Land!'
A THRUST WITH A TWO-EDGED WEAPON.--We rather incline to the opinion that
the 'complainant below' is infringing the law which forbids the use of
concealed weapons; that are not the less to be guarded against, certainly,
when as in the present case they cut both ways. But our readers shall
judge: DEAR EDITOR: The country, strange as it may appear, has peculiar
and permanent inhabitants; neither dressing in skins, nor wearing their
own feathers, but habited after the glimpses of fashion which reach them
through their trees. As we have never yet met with a man who was so
fortunate as to have no relations, we take it for granted that all
city-zens, yourself among the rest, have country-cousins. Think of the
countless multitudes that turn their longing eyes in the direction of a
metropolis like this, yearning for a visit, and sending off by frequent
_Opportunities_, never by mail, those remarkable epistolary compounds of
hopes and wants which no other race of beings can compose in perfection:
'Hope JOHN is well, and BETSEY will come and see us next summer; and
want'--LAWSON and STEWART! what do they _not_ want? Every thing; from
twenty yards of silk down to a penny's-worth of tape. The letters run
somewhat in this guise, though less poetically:
'Cousin John, please to send down to-morrow,
At eight, by the Scarborough mail,
'Claudine, or the Victim of Sorrow,'
Don Juan, two mops and a pail;
Six ounces of Bohea from TWINING'S,
A peg-top, a Parmesan cheese,
Some rose-colored sarcenet, for linings,
A stew-pan, and STEVENSON'S Glees;
A song ending 'Hey-noni-noni,'
A chair with a cover of chintz,
A mummy dug up by BELZONI,
A skein of white worsted from FLINT'S.'
Half the things that are sent for, they might buy at their own doors.
Again and again we have known them put in commission and procure from an
oppressed relative the identical productions of a manufactory within a
mile of them. A singular virtue seems to abide in all that comes from the
sunny side of Broadway.
'You perhaps may not know what an OPPORTUNITY is. In love affairs you have
undoubtedly experienced that it is every thing; but in rural affairs it is
more. It is the common-carrier of a village. So soon as an inhabitant has
expressed his intention of going to town, he becomes an Opportunity, and
like a Chinese, liable to pains and penalties for leaving his native
place. From every quarter pour in letters, bundles, and packages, which
are to be carried with care and delivered with despatch. No thanks for his
trouble, if they should reach their destination, and a general liability
for the uncertain value of their contents if they should chance to be
lost. So that an Opportunity's advent in town ought to be announced in
this way: 'Arrived, HIRAM DOOLITTLE, from Connecticut, with m'dze to
LEGION AND COMPANY.' The Opportunity not only transports, but acts as
General Agent. Commissions are given him for a return freight. Hats,
coats, dresses, are much wanted, which he is expected to select with
taste, and to purchase cheap. Even the labyrinth of houses does not
protect him from the Argus eyes of his consignees. They seek him out and
insist upon his turning himself into a United States' mail and a HARNDEN'S
express. It is not a week since we heard a consignee's friend's friend
request an Opportunity to carry home a loaf of sugar to his country
correspondent.
'Perhaps, Friend KNICK., we are wounding your feelings all this time,
tender by reason of many cousins and commissions; but we can assure you
that we have an infinite respect for all relationship, and are rather
blessed than bored by the requisitions of our own rural branches. We
trust, however, that your rustic kith and kin do not come upon your house
in the spring, in shoals like the shad. Unhappy editor, if it be so; for
until the day predicted by ALPHONSE KARR, when connexions shall be cooked
and _cotelettes d'oncle a la Bechamel_ and _tetes de cousin en tortue_
shall smoke lovingly upon the table, there is nothing for you but to
submit to your Fates, or to give up your house-keeping. But with country
cozens, those provincials who are not bone of your bone, and who
nevertheless at every visit to town call upon you with an eager look and
covetous smile, as if to say, 'Ask us to dinner, we once invited you to
tea,' there is but one method to pursue; the cut--the firm, unwavering,
direct cut. Do not pretend not to see them, or to look fixedly in another
direction, but give them the vacant, absent stare, as if you saw around
them, and through them, and the image before you excited neither attention
nor recollection. There are no terms to be kept with them. Their
Shibboleth is not yours.
'In the 'Absentee,' a London fashionable lady, Mrs. DAZEVILLE, goes to
Ireland, and is hospitably received by Lady CLONBRONY, stays a month at
her country-house, and is as intimate with Lady CLONBRONY and her niece
Miss NUGENT, as possible; and yet when Lady CLONBRONY comes to London,
never takes the least notice of her. At length, meeting at the house of a
common friend, Mrs. DAZEVILLE cannot avoid recognizing her, but does it in
the least civil manner possible: 'Ah, Lady CLONBRONY! Did not know you
were in England! How long shall you stay in town? Hope before you leave
England you will give us a day.' Lady CLONBRONY is so astonished at this
ingratitude, that she remains silent; but Miss NUGENT answers quite
coolly, and with a smile: 'A day? certainly, to you who gave us a month.'
Miss EDGEWORTH evidently considers this a capital story; and we have no
doubt that many stupid people who have read it consider it an excellent
hit; but we can assure them that they know nothing of the woods and
fields. It is a great favor to make people in the country a visit. It
relieves them from the tiresome monotony of their rose-bushes and
chickens; and by the active exertions in planning breakfasts and dinners,
and making the one ride through the valley last for three afternoons,
infuses if possible a certain degree of mental activity into their lives,
which must be far from disagreeable to them. A cit too is in a certain
degree a lion. The oldest town-jokes are as new in the country as last
year's ribbons; and the neighbors gather together to view with delight a
face that they have not seen every Sunday for the last fifty-two weeks,
and are only too happy to engage the Novelty at a 'Tea.' But when they
come to town, what can you do with them? Who the devil wants to see them?
Your friends care little enough for you, still less for your agricultural
acquaintances. You cannot bring yourself to go to PEALE'S Museum, or to
see the talking-machine; and tickets at the opera are dear, unless you
stand up. As we said before, you must cut them, or
'If you are a little man,
Not big enough for that,'
you must try to have them arrested as soon as they arrive, as disturbers
of domestic peace, and confined in the Tombs during the whole of their
intended stay. If the Legislature sat in New-York instead of in a _country
city_, they would pass some law similar to the South Carolina free-black
law, confining all rural visitors, or at least making those liable to an
indictment for false pretences, who claim acquaintance with the 'people of
the whirlpool.'
'If it were only for once, one might ask all his _rats des champs_ to meet
one another at a Tea. This might be amusing, if the jest did not grow
painful by repetition. There is no reciprocity in your dealings with such
invitees. You will probably never again reach their Siberian settlement,
whereas they come to town three times a year! It is not fair. It is a base
cheat. How can they be so ungenerous and illiberal as to accuse you of
neglect and ingratitude for not cultivating them when in the city? They
might as well abuse you for not having a green-house! This doctrine of
ours is so clearly reasonable, that all people of any breeding admit its
truth, and act accordingly. You may stay a week at a country-seat, and
need make no acknowledgments of any kind to the owner thereof in his
town-house; whereas a dinner in the city is a debt of honor, which must be
paid. This is a well settled law. Not that your obligation is by any means
cancelled. It is not dead, but dormant. Next summer you will feel deep
gratitude for the kindness you received during the last; but no such
indebtedness is payable in urbanity. GEORGE SELWYN met in St.
James-street, London, a man whom he had known very well in Bath, and
passed steadily by him without a look of recognition. His acquaintance
followed him, and said: 'Sir, you knew me very well in Bath.' 'Well, Sir,'
replied SELWYN, 'in Bath I may possibly know you again.' Farewell.
ANOTHER 'PELLET' FROM JULIAN.--Not a word is necessary by way of
introduction to the ensuing passages from an epistle lately received from
our esteemed friend and correspondent JULIAN. Happy husband of a happy
wife and happier mother! Happy father! may his joy never be less: 'We are
in the country! When you write this way, say 'To the care of ---- ----,
Esq.', for we are designedly three miles from post-offices and newsboys. I
have given warning that if any of the latter come within my grounds with
his French things, I will souse him in the river, and hold him there till
he shall be thoroughly chilled into a dislike of these parts. You will
readily imagine why we are here. The excitements and distractions of city
life for the last few months were too much for us, and there are some
things that can only be enjoyed apart from the world. Here, we subside
gradually and gracefully from that high and tense delirium from which I at
least made my aerials, always coming back, however, to young JULIAN; who,
by the way, is another occasion for country life, as I have great faith in
first impressions, and I wish his to be bright and beautiful. Heaven
preserve him from all darker colors; from the doubts, the glooms, the
moral mistiness of your city atmosphere! Let no fog come between him and
the bright sky, till he has well discovered that there is a heaven beyond,
where there is neither cloud nor shadow, and up to which not one grain of
all this dust and filth of the earth's whirling shall ever reach. It is
quite enough that we are in sight and hearing of your great Babels; the
jarring of their daily strife and the smoke of their torments. A lively
and dashing river rolls between us, going off at a hand-gallop among rocky
islands, over which we see their spires pointing up like electric-rods to
avert the wrath that might otherwise descend upon them; and mingling with
the dash of waters, we hear now and then their petty alarms, their
steamers and fire-bells, and the dozen other occasions upon which they see
fit to make a great noise in the world; but the travelled sound has a
courtliness that is rather pleasant than otherwise; and as a key-note to
our mocking-birds, it is quite worthy of the sweet south that brings it
up. Whenever there is any sudden ebullition that cannot be pared down to
the common air, we are made aware of it by a cannonading that is doubtless
very considerable down there, but for any thing so ambitiously meant, it
sounds here very miserable; a wretched attempt at notoriety, of which the
most noticeable is the smoke of their powder. And so with all their
sky-flourishing and rocketing, which we look at as at a falling star;
pretty, no doubt, but not in our way. Every morning a railroad train
starts out, and approaching within a mile, disappears among the hills with
a slight buzzing and squibbing, like the fly on the window; and then after
it has gone, as we suppose, there is another squib, very smart and
snappish, and we hear nothing more of it till the train comes down, frets
a little again as it passes by, and goes on to discharge its contents in
the great city. To all these things we say, 'Pass on!' the world is
various, and must be amused; but for us, we respectfully withdraw. We have
had enough of the intense; we now welcome the trifling, appropriating
however as much of the serious as we care to admit in our still life. When
the Sabbath comes round, there are seven bells that reach us, each with
its separate voice; and these, with falling waters, and the morning
incense going up from the hill-sides, are as much of 'mass' as we care to
have in our worship. But we have a ready ear for all sweet sounds, and
need no glasses to appreciate the beautiful. Sunrise and sunset; the
grouping of clouds; the blue haze that now and then lies on the landscape,
all one with my cigar-smoke; and the storms and lightnings of the young
summer, so spitefully beautiful; all these, with whatever of glory there
may be in the still watches of the night, find their place in our
picture-gallery; but we leave them as GOD made them, and add no tint to
their coloring.