TWENTY-FOURTH volume of the KNICKERBOCKER, for the advertisement of which,
please note the second and third pages of the cover of the present number.
We have nothing farther to add, than that 'what _has been_, is that which
_shall be_,' in our onward progress. This Magazine, much the oldest in the
United States, has been established, by the ever-unabated favor of the
public, upon a basis of unshaken permanence. Its subscription-list
fluctuates only in advance; it has the _affection_ of its readers, and all
concerned in its production and promulgation, to a degree wholly
unexampled; and it is designed not only to maintain, but continually to
enhance, its just claims upon the liberal patronage of American readers.
The arrangements for the next volume, if they do not 'preclude
competition,' will be found, it is confidently believed, to preclude any
thing like successful rivalry, on the part of any of our contemporaries.
On this point, however, we choose as heretofore to be judged by the
public. . . . WE gave in a recent issue two or three extracts from a
lecture on '_The Inner Life of Man_' delivered by Mr. CHARLES HOOVER, at
Newark, New-Jersey. This admirable performance has since been repeated to
a highly gratified audience in this city; and from it we derive the
following beautiful passage, which we commend to the heart of every lover
of his kind: 'It is a maxim of patriotism never to despair of the
republic. Let it be the motto of our philanthropy never to despair of our
sinning, sorrowing brother, till his last lingering look upon life has
been taken, and all avenues by which angels approach the stricken heart
are closed and silent forever. And in such a crisis, let no counsel be
taken of narrow, niggard sentiment. When in a sea-storm some human being
is seen in the distant surf, clinging to a plank, that is sometimes driven
nearer to the shore, and sometimes carried farther off; sometimes buried
in the surge, and then rising again, as if itself struggling like the
almost hopeless sufferer it supports, who looks sadly to the shore as he
rises from every wave, and battling with the billow, mingles his cry for
help with the wild, mournful scream of the sea-bird; nature in every bosom
on the shore is instinct with anxious pity for his fate, and darts her
sympathies to him over the laboring waters. The child drops his
play-things, and old age grasps its crutch and hurries to the spot; and
the hand that cannot fling a rope is lifted to heaven for help. What
though the sufferer be a stranger, a foreigner, an enemy even? Nature in
trouble, in consternation, shrieks '_He is a man!_' and every heart and
hand is prompt to the rescue.' 'To a high office and ministry, to a life
of beneficence, pity and love, each man should deem himself called by a
divine vocation, by the appointment of nature; and otherwise living,
should judge himself to be an abortion, a mistake, without signification
or use in a world like ours. And the beauty, the glory of such a life, is
not to be reckoned among ideal things heard out of heaven but never
encountered by the eye. This world has had its CHRIST, its FENELONS, its
HOWARDS, as well as its CALIGULAS and NEROS. Love hath been at times a
manifestation as well as a principle; and the train of its glory swept far
below the stars, and its brightness has fallen in mitigated and mellowed
rays from the faces of men. As the ambiguous stranger-star of Bethlehem
had its interpreting angel-song to the herdsmen of the plains, so loving
men in all ages have given glimpses and interpretations of the love of
GOD, and of the pity that is felt for the miserable and the guilty in the
palace and presence-chamber of JEHOVAH. What glory within the scope of
human imitation and attainment is comparable to that of the beneficent,
the sympathising lover of his race? What more elevated, pure, and
beautiful is possible among the achievements of an endless progression in
heaven itself? MILTON represents the profoundest emotions of joy and
wonder among the celestial hosts as occasioned by the first anticipative
disclosures of divine pity toward sinning man; and a greater than MILTON
assures us that the transport and festival of angelic joy occurs when Pity
lifts the penitent from his prostration and forgives his folly.' . . .
EMBELLISHMENT would seem to be the literary order of the day, in more ways
than one. It has come to be the mode to express the most simple thought in
the most magniloquent phrase. This propensity to lingual _Euphuism_ has
given rise to sundry illustrations, in embellished maxims, which are
particularly amusing. They are of the sort so finely satirized by
'OLLAPOD,' on one occasion, two or three examples of which we annex. The
common phrase of ''Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good' was
transformed into 'That gale is truly diseased which puffeth benefactions
to nonentity;' 'Let well enough alone,' into 'Suffer a healthy sufficiency
to remain in solitude;' and 'What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the
gander,' into 'The culinary adornments which suffice for the female of the
race _Anser_, maybe relished also with the masculine adult of the same
species.' Some London wag, in a kindred spirit, has illustrated the
cockney song, 'If I had a donkey as vouldn't go, do you think I'd wallop
him?' etc., as follows: 'The herbaceous boon and the bland recommendation
to advance, are more operative on the ansinine quadruped than the stern
imprecation and the oaken cudgel:
'Had I an ass averse to speed,
I ne'er would strike him; no indeed!
I'd give him hay, and cry 'Proceed,'
And 'Go on EDWARD!''
The same species of satire is now and then visited upon the 'Troubadour
Songs,' which have become so afflictingly common of late years. Some of
these we have already given; and we find them on the increase in England.
We have before us, from the London press of TILT AND BOGUE, 'Sir
WHYSTLETON MUGGES, a Metrical Romaunte, in three Fyttes,' with copious
notes. A stanza or two will suffice as a specimen. The knightly hero, it
needs only to premise, has been jilted by his fair 'ladye-love,' who
retires to her boudoir, while the knight walks off in despair:
'Hys herte beat high and quycke;
Forth to his tygere he did call,
'Bring me my palfrey from his stall,
For I moste cotte my stycke!'
'Ye stede was brought, ye knyghte jomped up,
He woulde not even stay to sup,
But swyft he rode away;
Still groanynge as he went along,
And vowing yet to come out stronge,
Upon some future day.
'Alack for poore Syr WHYSTLETON,
In love and warre so bold!
Ye Ladye BLANCHE hym browne hath done,
He is completely solde!
'Completely solde alack he is,
Alack and wel-a-day;
Mort DIEU! a bitterre fate is hys
Whose trewe love sayth him nay!'
Thus endeth 'Fytte ye First.' We learn from the preface that the 'Rhime of
the Manne whose Mothre did not Know he was Out,' and 'Ye Lodgemente of
Maistre FERGISOUN,' are also in the editor's possession, but owing to the
imperfect state of the MSS., it is doubtful whether they will ever be
published. They have however been submitted to the inspection of 'The
PERCY Society!' . . . WE are well pleased to learn that Sir EDWARD LYTTON
BULWER, the distinguished author, is soon to visit the United States. That
he will be warmly welcomed and cordially received, we cannot doubt; but we
have good reason to believe that in the present instance at least our
admiration of true genius will be tempered by all proper self-respect. Mr.
BULWER has for many years entertained a desire to visit America. In one of
his letters to the late WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, now lying before us, he
writes: 'I have long felt a peculiar admiration for your great and rising
country; and it gives me a pleasure far beyond that arising from a vulgar
notoriety, to think that I am not unknown to its inhabitants. Some time or
other I hope to visit you, and suffer my present prepossessions to be
confirmed by actual experience.' . . . WE have received and perused with
gratification the last report of the '_New-York Asylum for Deaf Mutes_.'
The institution is in the most flourishing condition, and its usefulness
greatly increased. We are sorry to perceive, by the following 'specimen of
composition' of a pupil in the eighth class, that the 'Orphic Sayings' of
Mr. A. BRONSON ALCOTT are taken as literary models by the deaf and dumb
students. The ensuing is certainly much better, internally, than anything
from the transcendental 'seer;' but the manner too nearly resembles his,
for both to be original. There is the same didactic condensation, the same
Orphic 'oneness,' which distinguishes all _Alcottism_ proper. It is
entitled 'Story of Hog:'
'I walked on the road. I stood near the water. I undressed my
feet. I went in the water. I stood under the bridge. I sat on the
log. I washed my feet with hands. I looked at large water came. I
ran in the water. I ran out the water. The large water floated
fast. I afraid. I wiped feet with stockings. I dressed my feet
with stockings and shoes. I went on the ground. I stood on the
ground. I seen at the hog ate grass. The hog seen at me. I went on
the ground. I ran. The hog heard. The hog looked at me. It ran and
jumped. The hog ran under the fence and got his head under the
fence and want to ran out the fence! I caught ears its hog. The
hog shout. I pulled the hog out the fence. I struck a hog with
hand. I rided on the hog ran and jumped fast. The hog ran fell on
near the water. I rided off a hog. I stood. I held one ear its
hog. The hog slept lies on near the water. I waited. I leaved. I
went from the hog. The hog awoke. It rose. It saw not me. It ran
and jumped. The hog went from the water. The hog went in the mud
and water. The hog wallowed in the mud and water became very
dirty. It slept. I went. I went into the house.'
* * * * *
THE EKKALAEOBION is the name given to an establishment opposite the
Washington Hotel, in Broadway, where the formation of chickens, _ab
initio_, is 'practised to a great extent.' And really, it is in some
respects an awful exhibition, to a reflecting mind. It is as it were a
visible exposition of the source of life. You see the pulse of existence
throbbing in the yet unformed mass, which assumes, day after day, the
image of its kind; until at length the little creature knocks for
admittance into this breathing world; steps forth from the shell in which
it had been so long 'cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in;' and straitway
walks abroad, 'regenerated, disenthralled,' and ready for its 'grub.' By
all means, reader, go and see this interesting and instructive exhibition.
It is provocative of much reflection, aside from the mere contemplation of
it as a matter of curiosity. . . . THE correspondent who sends us the
following, writes upon the envelope containing it: 'I have endeavored to
preserve the measure of the original, and at the same time to present a
literal translation.' It will be conceded, we think, that he has been
successful in his endeavor. Perhaps in some lines (as in '_Pertransivit
gladius_') the translation is a little _too_ literal:
STABAT MATER.
I. I.
Stabat mater dolorosa, Near the cross the Mother weeping
Juxta crucem lacrymosa, Stood, her watch in sorrow keeping
Dum pendebat filius: While was hanging there her SON:
Cujus animam gementem, Through her soul in anguish groaning,
Contristantem et dolentem, O most sad, HIS fate bemoaning,
Pertransivit gladius. Through and through that sword was run.
II. II.
O quam tristis et afflicta Oh how sad with woe oppressed,
Fuit illa benedicta, Was she then, the Mother blessed,
Mater unigeniti: Who the sole-begotten bore:
Quae moerebat, et dolebat, As she saw his pain and anguish,
Et tremebat, cum videbat She did tremble, she did languish,
Nati poenas inclyti. Weep her holy Son before.
III. III.
Quis est homo qui non fleret, Who is he his tears concealing,
Christi matrem si videret Could have seen such anguish stealing
In tanto supplicio? Through the Saviour-mother's breast?
Quis posset non contristari, Who his deepest groans could smother,
Piam matrem contemplari, Had he seen the holy Mother
Dolentem cum filio? By her Son with grief oppressed!
IV. IV.
Pro peccatis suae gentis Christ for Israel's transgression
Vidit Jesum in tormentis, Saw she suffer thus oppression,
Et flagellis subditum; Torment, and the cruel blow:
Vidit suum dulcem natum Saw Him desolate and dying;
Morientem, desolatum, Him she loved, beheld Him sighing
Dum emisit spiritum. Forth His soul in deepest woe.
V. V.
Eja mater, fons amoris, Source of love, thy grief, O Mother,
Me sentire vim doloris Grant with thee to share another--
Fac, ut tecum lugeam. Grant that I with thee may weep:
Fac ut ardeat cor meum, May my heart with love be glowing,
In amando Christum Deum, All on Christ my God bestowing,
Ut sibi complaceam. In His favor ever keep.
VI. VI.
Saneta mater, istud agas, This, oh holy Mother! granting,
Crucifixi fige plagas In my heart the wounds implanting
Cordi meo valide: Of His cross, oh let me bear:
Tui nati vulnerati, Pangs with which thy Son when wounded
Jam dignati pro me pati, Deigned for me to be surrounded,
Poenas mecum divide. [] Grant, oh grant that I may share.
VII. VII.
Fac me vere tecum flere, Be my eyes with tears o'erflowing,
Crucifixo condolere, For the crucified bestowing,
Donec ego vixero: Till my eyes shall close in death:
Juxta crucem tecum stare, Ever by that cross be standing,
Te libenter sociare Willingly with thee demanding
In planctu desidero. But to share each mournful breath.
VIII. VIII.
Virgo virginum praeclara, Thou of virgins blest forever,
Mihi jam non sis amara Oh deny I pray thee never
Fac me tecum plangere; That I may lament with thee:
Fadut portem Christi mortem, Be my soul His death enduring,
Passionis ejus sortem, And His passion--thus securing
Et plagas recolere. Of His pains the memory.
IX. XI.
Fac me plagis vulnerari, With those blows may I be smitten,
Cruce hac inebriari, In my heart that cross be written,
Ob amorem filii: For thy Son's dear love alway:
Inflammatus et accensus Glowing, burning with affection,
Per te, virgo, sim defensus Grant me, Virgin! thy protection,
In die judicii. In the dreaded judgment-day.
X. X.
Fac me cruce custodiri, May that cross its aid extend me,
Morte Christi praemuniri, May the death of Christ defend me,
Confoveri gratia: With its saving grace surround;
Quando corpus morietur, And when life's last link is riven,
Fac ut animae donetur To my soul be glory given,
Paradisi gloria. That in Paradise is found.
_St. Paul's College._ G. H. H.
* * * * *
'_A Story of Sorrow and Crime_' is an affecting monitory sketch, devoid of
that mawkishness which is sometimes the characteristic of kindred
performances. The writer's reflections upon the career of his hero, remind
us of that beautiful passage in one of BLAIR'S essays: 'Life is short: the
poor pittance of seventy years is worth being a villain for. What matters
it if your neighbor lies in a splendid tomb? Sleep you with innocence!
Look behind you through the track of time; a vast desert lies open in the
retrospect; through this desert have your fathers journeyed on, until
wearied with years and sorrows, they sunk from the walks of men. You must
leave them where they fell, and you are to go a little farther, where you
will find eternal rest. Whatever you may have to encounter between the
cradle and the grave, every moment is big with innumerable events, which
come not in slow succession, but bursting forcibly from a revolving and
unknown cause, fly over this orb with diversified influence.' . . . 'F.
P.'s '_Western Adventures_' have good _points_ about them, but if
published entire, would we think disappoint himself perhaps as much as his
readers. Here is an anecdote, however, which is worth 'jotting down' in
types: 'I met not long after in New-York a man who had just been induced
to rent the very hotel in Kentucky which was the scene of the reverses I
have been describing. Aware that I had at one time kept the establishment,
he was anxious to know my opinion of its pecuniary promise. 'I don't
expect to make much the first year,' said he; 'I shall be satisfied if I
'realize' all expenses. But do you think I shall clear myself the first
year?' 'I haven't the slightest doubt of it,' I replied; '_I cleared
myself_ before the first six months were up, and was d--d _glad_ to get
off so; and I rather guess that _you'll_ be too, in about half that time.'
And he was!' . . . Could there be a more affecting picture than that of a
fond mother learning for the first time from the tell-tale prattle of her
little ones that she is 'given over to darkness and the worm' by her
friends, who had disguised from her the fatal truth? Such is the scene
depicted in these pathetic lines:
'He speaketh now: 'Oh, mother dear!'
Murmurs the little child:
And there is trouble in his eyes,
Those large blue eyes so mild:
'Oh, mother dear! they say that soon,
When here I seek for thee
I shall not find thee--nor out there,
Under the old oak-tree;
'Nor up stairs in the nursery,
Nor any where, they say:
Where wilt thou go to, mother dear?
Oh, do not go away!'
There was long silence, a deep hush,
And then the child's low sob:
_Her_ quivering eyelids close: one hand
Keeps down the heart's quick throb.
And the lips move, though sound is none,
That inward voice is prayer.
And hark! 'THY will, O LORD, be done!'
And tears are trickling there--
Down that pale cheek, on that young head;
And round her neck he clings;
And child and mother murmur out
Unutterable things.
_He_ half unconscious, _she_ deep-struck
With sudden, solemn truth,
That number'd are her days on earth--
Her shroud prepared in youth:
That all in life her heart holds dear
GOD calls her to resign:
She hears, feels, trembles--but looks up,
And sighs 'THY will be mine!''
* * * * *
'I came down from Albany the other evening,' writes a correspondent, 'in
that floating palace, the KNICKERBOCKER steamer; I slept in your
KNICKERBOCKER state-room; arrived in town, I took after dinner a
KNICKERBOCKER omnibus, and rode up to the 'Westminster Abbey Bowling
Saloon,' named of KNICKERBOCKER; I called on you with my article for the
KNICKERBOCKER Magazine; and on my way down, enjoyed a delightful ablution
at the KNICKERBOCKER Bath; stepped into the KNICKERBOCKER Theatre, and
'laughed consumedly' over an amusing play; and finally, closed with a cup
of delicious tea, green and black, and anchovy-toast, at KNICKERBOCKER
Hall. Every thing, I was glad to see, was KNICKERBOCKER.' Very flattering;
yet we dare say our friend was not aware that this Magazine was the
_pioneer_ in the use of this popular name in Gotham, and that its example
has suggested, one after another, the namesakes to which he has alluded.
Such, howbeit, is the undeniable fact. . . . We remarked the example of
_catachresis_ to which 'L.' alludes, and laughed at it, we venture to say,
as heartily as himself. It was not quite so glaring however as the
confused images of a celebrated Irish advocate: 'I smell a rat; I see it
brewing in the storm; and I will crush it in the bud!' . . . We find
several things to admire in our Detroit friend's '_Tale of Border
Warfare_;' but he can't 'talk Indian'--that is very clear. The 'abrogynes'
are not in the habit of making interminable speeches: they leave that to
white members of Congress, who pump up a feeling in a day's speech 'for
Buncombe.' Do you remember what HALLECK says of RED-JACKET?
'The spell of eloquence is thine, that reaches
The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport;
And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches,
The secret of their mastery--_they are short_.'