orthography, but seldom of any benefit accruing therefrom to the
orthoöpist. But a friend mentioned to us a little circumstance the other
day, which would seem to prove that it does a man good sometimes to spell
somewhat at variance with old JOHNSON. In a village not far hence lived a
man known by the name of BROKEN JONES. He had dissipated a large fortune
in various law-suits; had become poor and crazy; and at last, like another
PEEBLES, his sole occupation consisted in haunting the courts, lawyers'
offices, and other scenes of his misfortunes. To judge and attorneys he
was a most incorrigible bore; to the latter especially, from whom he was
continually soliciting opinions on cases which had long been 'settled,'
and carried to the law-ledgers, where they were only occasionally hunted
up as precedents in the suit of perhaps some other destined victims. As
JONES hadn't a cent of money left, it was of course impossible for him to
obtain any more 'opinions;' but this didn't cure him of his law-mania. One
morning he entered the office of lawyer D----, in a more excited state
than he had exhibited for a long time, and seating himself _vis-a-vis_
with _his_ victim, requested his 'opinion' on one of the 'foregone
conclusions' already mentioned. D---- happening at the moment to be very
busy, endeavored to get rid of his visiter, and contrived various
expedients for that purpose. But JONES was not in a mood to be trifled
with. 'I came, 'Squire,' said he, 'to get your opinion in writing on this
case, and I will have it before I leave the room, if I sit here till the
day of judgment!' The lawyer looked upon his visiter, while a thought of
forcible ejectment passed through his brain; but the glaring eye and stout
athletic frame which met his gaze, told him that such a course would be
extremely hazardous. At length the dinner-bell rang. A bright thought
struck him; and putting on his coat and hat, he took JONES gently by the
arm: 'Come,' said he, 'go and dine with me.' 'No!' said the latter,
fiercely; 'I'll never dine again until I get what I came for.' The lawyer
was in a quandary, and at length, in very despair, he consented to forego
his dinner and give his annoyer the desired opinion. 'Well, well, JONES,'
said he, soothingly, 'you shall have it;' and gathering pens, ink and
paper, he was soon seated at the table, while JONES, creeping on tiptoe
across the room, stood peeping over his shoulder. The lawyer commenced:
'My oppinion in the case----' 'Humph!' said the lunatic, suddenly seizing
his hat, and turning on his heel, '_I wouldn't give a d--n for your
opinion with two p's!_' · · · MANY of our public as well as private
correspondents seem to have been not a little interested in the articles
on _Mind and Instinct_, in late numbers of this Magazine. A valued friend
writing from Maryland, observes: 'The collection of facts by your
contributor is very industrious, their array quite skilful, and the
argument very strong. I think, however, that if I had time I could pick
several flaws in the reasoning, or rather erect a very good
counter-argument, founded principally upon the fact that the intelligence
of animals is generally as great in early youth as it is in the prime of
their beasthood. The author might have added to his list of facts, an
account which I read when a boy, of the practice of the baboons in
Caffraria, near the orange-orchards. They arrange themselves in a row from
their dens to the orange-trees. One then ascends the tree, plucks the
oranges, and throws them to the next baboon, and he to the next, and so on
throughout the whole file; they standing some fifty yards apart. In this
manner they quickly strip a tree, and at the same time are safe from being
all surprised at once. The early French missionaries in Canada, also
asserted that the squirrels of that region, having denuded the country on
one side of the big lake, of nuts, used to take pieces of birch bark, and
hoisting their tails for canvass, float to the other side for their
supply.' We have been struck with a passage in a powerful article upon
'_The Hope that is within Us_,' in a late foreign periodical, wherein the
fruitful theme of our correspondent is touched upon. 'If matter,' says the
writer, 'be incapable of consciousness, as JOHNSON so powerfully argues in
_Rasselas_, then the _animus_ of brutes must be an _anima_, and
immaterial; for the dog and the elephant not merely exhibit
'consciousness,' but a 'half-reasoning' power. And if it be true, as
JOHNSON maintains, that immateriality of necessity produces immortality,
then the poor Indian's conclusion is the most logical,
'Who thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.'
The truth is, that we must depend upon _revelation_ for an assurance of
immortality; which promises, however, the resurrection of the body, as
philosophy is unequal to its demonstration, and modern researches into
animal life have rendered the proof more difficult than heretofore.' By
the by, 'speaking of animals:' there is a letter from LEMUEL GULLIVER in
the last number of BLACKWOOD, describing a meeting of 'delegates from the
different classes of consumers of _oats_, held at the Nag's-Head inn at
Horsham.' The business of the meeting was opened by a young RACER, who
expressed his desire to promote the interests of the horse-community, and
to promote any measure which might contribute to the increase of the
consumption of oats, and improve the condition of his fellow quadrupeds.
He considered the horse-interest greatly promoted by the practice of
sowing wild oats, which he warmly commended. A HACKNEY-COACH HORSE
declared himself in favor of the _sliding-scale_, which he understood to
mean the wooden pavement. Things went much more smoothly wherever it was
established. He contended for the abolition of nose-bags, which he
designated as an intolerable nuisance; urged the prohibition of chaff with
oats, as unfit for the use of able-bodied horses; and indeed evinced the
truth of his professions, that he 'yielded to no horse in an anxious
desire to promote the true interests of the horse-community.' An OLD
ENGLISH HUNTER impressed upon the young delegates the good old adage of
'Look before you leap,' and urged them to go for 'measures, not men.' A
STAGE HORSE 'congratulated the community upon the abolition of
bearing-reins, those grievous burdens upon the necks of all free-going
horses; and he trusted the time would soon arrive when the blinkers would
also be taken off, every corn-bin thrown open, and every horse his own
leader.' Several other steeds, in the various ranks of horse-society,
addressed the meeting. 'Resolutions, drawn by two DRAY-HORSES, embodying
the supposed grievances of the community, were finally agreed upon, and a
petition, under the hoof of the president, founded upon them, having been
prepared and ordered to be presented to the House of Commons by the
members for Horsham, the meeting separated, and the delegates returned to
their respective stables.' · · · WHAT habitual theatre or opera-goer has
not been tempted a thousand times to laugh outright, and quite in the
wrong place, at the incongruities, the inconsistencies, the mental and
physical _catachreses_ of the stage, which defy illusion and destroy all
vraisemblance? A London sufferer in this kind has hit off some of the
salient points of these absurdities in a few 'Recollections of the Opera:'
'I'VE known a god on clouds of gauze
With patience hear a people's prayer,
And bending to the pit's applause,
Wait while the priest repeats the air.
I've seen a black-wig'd Jove hurl down
A thunder-bolt along a wire,
To burn some distant canvass town,
Which--how vexatious!--won't catch fire.
I've known a tyrant doom a maid
(With trills and _roulades_ many a score)
To instant death! She, sore afraid,
Sings: and the audience cries 'Encore!'
I've seen two warriors in a rage
Draw glist'ning swords and, awful sight!
Meet face to face upon the stage
To sing a song, but not to fight!
I've heard a king exclaim 'To arms!'
Some twenty times, yet still remain;
I've known his army 'midst alarms,
Help by a bass their monarch's strain.
I've known a hero wounded sore,
With well-tuned voice his foes defy;
And warbling stoutly on the floor,
With the last flourish fall and die.
I've seen a mermaid dress'd in blue;
I've seen a cupid burn a wing;
I've known a Neptune lose a shoe;
I've heard a guilty spectre sing.
I've seen, spectators of a dance,
Two Brahmins, Mahomet, the Cid,
Four Pagan kings, four knights of France,
Jove and the Muses--scene Madrid!'
* * * * *
The leading paper in the present number will not escape the attention nor
fail to win the admiration of the reader. The description of the _Ascent
of Mount Ætna_ by our eminent artist, is forcible and graphic in the
extreme. It will derive additional interest at this moment from the recent
eruption of this renowned volcano, which still continued at the last
advices, and by which already seventy persons had lost their lives. If our
metropolitan readers would desire a _due_ impression of the magnificent
scene which our correspondent has described, let them drop in at the rooms
of the National Academy of Design, where they will find the Burning
Mountain, as seen from Taormina, depicted in all its vastness and
grandeur; and not only this, but the noble series of allegorical pictures,
heretofore noticed at large in this Magazine, called '_The Voyage of
Life_,' representing Childhood, Youth, Manhood, and Old Age; '_Angels
ministering to Christ in the Wilderness_,' a picture that has an horizon,
and an aërial gradation toward the zenith, which alone, to say nothing of
the figures, and the composition itself as a study, would richly repay a
visit; '_The Past and the Present_,' two most effective scenes, especially
the second, which is overflowing with the mingled graces of poetry and
art; a glorious composition, '_An Italian Scene_,' of which we shall speak
hereafter; as well as of the view of '_Ruined Aqueducts in the Campagna di
Roma_,' fading into dimness toward the imperial city, and of '_The Notch
in the White Mountains_' of New-Hampshire. _Apropos_: we perceive by a
letter from an American at Rome, in one of the public journals, that
THORWALDSEN, the great sculptor, was an enthusiastic admirer of Mr. COLE'S
pictures, particularly of his 'Voyage of Life,' which he pronounced
'original, and new in art.' 'He could talk of nothing else,' says the
writer, 'for a long time; and every time he speaks of him, he adds: '_Ma
che artista, che grand' artista, quel vostro compatriota! Che fantasia!
quanto studio della natura!_' 'But what an artist, what a great artist, is
this countryman of yours! What fancy, what study of nature!' · · · WE are
aware of a pair of 'bonny blue een' swimming in light, that will 'come the
married woman's eye' over a kind but most antiquarian husband, when the
following is read, some two weeks from now, in their 'little parlor' in a
town of the far west. It reaches us in the MS. of a Boston friend: 'Old
Colonel W----, formerly a well-known character in one of our eastern
cities, was remarkable for but one passion out of the ordinary range of
humanity, and that was for buying at auction any little lot of trumpery
which came under the head of 'miscellaneous,' for the reason that it
couldn't be classified. Though close-fisted in general, he was continually
throwing away his money by fives and tens upon such trash. In this way he
had filled all the odd corners in his dwelling and out-houses with a
collection of nondescript articles, that would have puzzled a philosopher
to tell what they were made for, or to what use they could ever be put.
This however, was but a secondary consideration with the Colonel; for he
seldom troubled his head about such articles after they were once fairly
housed. Not so with his wife however, who was continually remonstrating
against these purchases, which served only to clutter up the house, and as
food for the mirth of the domestics. But the Colonel, though he often
submitted to these remonstrances of his better-half, couldn't resist his
passion; and so he went on adding from week to week to his heap of
miscellanies. One day while sauntering down the street, he heard the full,
rich tones of his friend C----, the well-known auctioneer, and as a matter
of course stepped in to see what was being sold. On the floor he observed
a collection that looked as if it might have been purloined from the garret
of some museum, and around which a motley group was assembled; while on the
counter stood the portly auctioneer, in the very height of a mock-indignant
remonstrance with his audience. 'Nine dollars and ninety cents!' cried the
auctioneer. 'Gentlemen, it is a shame, it is barbarous, to stand by and
permit such a sacrifice of property! Nine dol-_lars_ and ninety---- Good
morning, Colonel! A magnificent lot of--of--_antiques_--and all going for
nine dollars and ninety cents. Gentlemen, you'll never see another such
lot; and all going--going--for nine dollars and ninety cents. Colonel
W----, can _you_ permit such a sacrifice?' The Colonel glanced his eye over
the lot, and then with a nod and a wink assured him he could not. The next
instant the hammer came down, and the purchase was the Colonel's, at ten
dollars. As the articles were to be paid for and removed immediately, the
Colonel lost no time in getting a cart, and having seen every thing packed
up and on their way to his house, he proceeded to his own store, chuckling
within himself that _now_ at least he had made a bargain at which even his
wife couldn't grumble. In due time he was seated at the dinner-table, when
lifting his eyes, he observed a cloud upon his wife's brow. 'Well, my
dear?' said he, inquiringly. 'Well?' repeated his wife; 'it is _not_ well,
Mr. W.; I am vexed beyond endurance. You know C----, the auctioneer?'
'Certainly,' replied the Colonel; 'and a very gentlemanly person he is
_too_.' '_You_ may think so,' rejoined the wife, 'but I _don't_, and I'll
tell you why. A few days ago I gathered together all the trumpery with
which you have been cluttering up the house for the last twelve-month, and
sent it to Mr. C----, with orders to sell the lot immediately to the
highest bidder for cash. He assured me he would do so in all this week, at
farthest, and pay over the proceeds to my order. And here I've been
congratulating myself on two things: first, on having got rid of a most
intolerable nuisance; and secondly, on receiving money enough therefor to
purchase that new velvet hat you promised me so long ago. And now what do
you think? This morning, about an hour ago, _the whole load came back
again, without a word of explanation_!' The Colonel looked blank for a
moment, and then proceeded to clear up the mystery. But the good VROUW was
pacified only by the promise of a ten-dollar note beside that in the hands
of the auctioneer; on condition, however, that she should never mention
it.' Of course she kept her word! · · · HOW seldom it is that one
encounters a good sonnet! Most sonnetteers of our day are like
feeble-framed men walking in heavy armor; 'the massy weight on't galls
their laden limbs.' We remember two or three charming sonnets of
LONGFELLOW'S; PARK BENJAMIN has been unwontedly felicitous in some of his
examples; and H. T. TUCKERMAN has excelled in the same poetical rôle. Here
is a late specimen of his, from the 'Democratic Review,' which we regard
as very beautiful:
DESOLATION.
THINK ye the desolate must live apart,
By solemn vows to convent walls confined?
Ah! no; with men may dwell the cloistered heart,
And in a crowd the isolated mind:
Tearless behind the prison-bars of fate
The world sees not how sorrowful they stand,
Gazing so fondly through the iron grate
Upon the promised, yet forbidden land;
Patience, the shrine to which their bleeding feet,
Day after day, in voiceless penance turn;
Silence the holy cell and calm retreat
In which unseen their meek devotions burn;
Life is to them a vigil that none share,
Their hopes a sacrifice, their love a prayer.
* * * * *
'OUR Ancient,' the editor of the handsome 'Lady's and Gentleman's
Magazine' hight '_The Columbian_,' (which is to run a brisk competition,
as we learn, with the other 'pictorials,' GODEY'S, GRAHAM'S, and
SNOWDEN'S,) should have enabled us to speak of it from an examination of
_our own copy_, instead of being obliged to filch an idea of its merits
from the counter of those most obliging gentlemen, Messrs. BURGESS AND
STRINGER. The work is a gay one externally, and spirited internally;
having several good articles from good writers, male and female. One of
the best things in it, however, is the paper on '_Magazine Literature_,'
by the Editor. How many writers, now well known both at home and abroad,
who began and continue their literary career in the KNICKERBOCKER, can
bear testimony to the truth of the following remarks:
'WE have said that this is the age of magazines; adverting not
merely to their number, but even more especially to their
excellence. They are the field, chiefly, in which literary
reputation is won. Who ever thinks of JOHN WILSON as the learned
professor, or as the author of bound volumes? Who does not, when
WILSON'S name is mentioned, instantly call to mind the splendid
article-writer, the CHRISTOPHER NORTH of Blackwood? CHARLES LAMB
was long known only as the ELIA of the New Monthly. Most of the
modern French celebrities; SUE, JANIN, and half a hundred others,
have made their fame in the _feuilletons_ of the Parisian
journals; a more decided graft, by the way, than is elsewhere
seen, of the magazine upon the newspaper. In our own country, how
many there are whose names are known from the St. Lawrence to the
Gulf of Mexico, that are as yet innocent of books, but have
nevertheless contributed largely and well to the growing stock of
American literature. How many more who are bringing themselves
into notice by their monthly efforts in the pages of some popular
magazine. In fact, the magazine is the true channel into which
talent should direct itself for the acquisition of literary fame.
The newspaper is too ephemeral; the book is not of sufficiently
rapid and frequent production. The monthly magazine just hits the
happy medium, enabling the writer to present himself twelve times
a year before a host of readers, in whose memories he is thus kept
fresh, yet allowing him space enough to develope his thought, and
time enough to do his talent justice in each article. Then, too,
on the score of emolument, justly recognised now as a very
essential matter, and legitimately entitled to grave
consideration, the magazine offers advantages not within the reach
of either book or newspaper. · · · BUT after all, the great point
is, that magazines are more read than any other kind of
publications. They just adapt themselves to the leisure of the
business man, and the taste of the idler; to the spare half hours
of the notable housewife and the languid inertia of the
fashionable lady. They can be dropped into a valise or a
carpet-bag as a welcome provision for the wants of a journey by
steam-boat or rail-road, when the country through which the
traveller passes offers nothing attractive to be seen, or the eyes
are weary of seeing; they while away delightfully the tedious
hours of a rainy day in summer, and afford the most pleasant
occupation through the long evenings of winter.'
Touching the matter of payment for magazine articles: Mr. WILLIS informs
us that many of the American magazines pay to their more eminent
contributors nearly three times the amount for a printed page that is paid
by English magazines to the best writers in Great-Britain; and he
instances GODEY and GRAHAM as paying often twelve dollars a page to their
principal contributors. This refers to _a few_ 'principal' writers only,
as we have good reason to know, having been instrumental in sending
several acceptable correspondents to those publications, who have received
scarcely one-fourth of the sum mentioned. Mr. WILLIS adds, however, that
many good writers write for nothing, and that 'the number of clever
writers has increased so much that there are thousands who can get no
article accepted.' All this is quite true. There is no magazine in America
that has paid so large sums to distinguished native writers as the
KNICKERBOCKER. Indeed, our _most_ distinguished American writer was never
a contributor to any other of our Monthlys than this. The books of this
Magazine show, that independent of the Editor's division of its profits as
joint proprietor, or his salary as editor, (a matter which its publishers
have always kept distinct from, and in all respects unconnected with, the
payments to contributors,) annual sums have heretofore been paid for
literary _matériel_ greater than the most liberal estimate we have seen of
any annual literary payment by our widely-circulated contemporaries. To
the first poet in America, (not to say in the world, at this moment,) we
have repeatedly paid fifty dollars for a single poem, not exceeding, in
any instance, two pages in length; and the cost of prose papers from
sources of kindred eminence has in many numbers exceeded fifteen dollars a
page. Again: we have in several instances paid twice as much for the MS.
of a continuous novel in these pages as the writer could obtain of any
metropolitan book-publisher; and after appearing in volumes, it has been
found that the wide publicity given to the work by the KNICKERBOCKER has
been of greatest service to its popularity, in more than one subsequent
edition. We should add, however, that we have had no lack, at any period,
of excellent articles for our work at moderate prices; while many of our
more popular papers have been entirely gratuitous, unless indeed the
writers consider the honorable reputation which they have established in
these pages as _some_ reward for intellectual exertion. But 'something too
much of this.' We close with a word touching the pictorial features of the
'_Columbian_.' It has four 'plates' proper, with an engraving of the
fashions; is neatly executed by Messrs. HOPKINS AND JENNINGS, and
published by ISRAEL POST, Number Three, Astor-House. · · · SAINT
VALENTINE'S DAY is just at hand; and a pleasant correspondent, in
enclosing us the following lines, begs us to mention the fact, and to
refer to the festivities of the day. We know of _one_ 'festivity' that
will be a very _recherché_ and brilliant affair, on the evening of that
day; namely, '_The Bachelors' Ball_,' to be given with unwonted splendor
at the Astor-House, under the supervision of accomplished managers, whose
taste and liberality have already been abundantly tested. 'Take it as a
matter granted,' says our friend, 'that very many of your lady-readers
will commit matrimony before the year is done; and tell them so plainly;
for it will gratify their palpitating hearts; and even should it not be
true in every individual case, the disappointed ones will never complain
of you for the pleasing delusion; for it was their own fault, of course,
not yours. It behooves you, moreover, as a conservator of the general
weal, to give the young wives that are to be some goodly counsel; and to
aid you in the laudable office of advice-giver, I send you some
appropriate verses, which some fifteen years ago went the rounds of the
press, and met with 'acceptance bounteous.' The moral of the stanzas, I
take it, is unexceptionable, whatever may be said of their execution:'
EPISTLE
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY JUST MARRIED.
On matrimony's fickle sea
I hear thou'rt ventured fairly;
Though young in years, it may not be
Thy bark is launched too early.
Each wish of mine to heaven is sent,
That on the stormy water
Thou'lt prove a wife obedient,
As thou hast been a daughter.
If every wish of mine were bliss,
If every hope were pleasure,
Thou wouldst with him find happiness,
And he in thee a treasure:
For every wish and hope of mine,
And every thought and feeling,
Is for the weal of thee and thine,
As true as my revealing.
To please thy husband in all things,
Forever be thou zealous;
And bear in mind that Love has wings,
Then never make him jealous:
For if Love from his perch once flies,
How weak are Beauty's jesses!
In vain might plead thy streaming eyes,
And thy dishevelled tresses.
Be prudent in thy thoughts of dress,
Be sparing of thy parties;
Where fashion riots in excess,
O! nothing there of heart is!
And can its palling sweets compare
With love of faithful bosom?
Then of the fatal tree beware,
There's poison in its blossom!
Each thought and wish in him confide,
No secret from him cherish;
Whenever thou hast aught to hide,
The better feelings perish.
In whatsoe'er ye do or say,
O never with him palter;
Remember too, thou saidst 'obey'
Before the holy altar.
Bear and forbear, for much thou'lt find
In married life to tease ye,
And should thy husband seem unkind,
Averse to smile, or please ye,
Think that amid the cares of life
His troubles fret and fear him;
Then smile as it becomes a wife,
And labor well to cheer him.
Aye answer him with loving word,
Be each tone kindly spoken,
For sometimes is the holy cord
By angry jarring broken.
Then curb thy temper in its rage,
And fretful be thou never;
For broken once, a fearful change
Frowns over both forever.