EDITOR? I say Sir, I was an ass--do you hear?--an _ass_, premature, wise
before my time, a brute, a blockhead! Did I talk of dust and ashes? Oh!
Sir, I lied multitudinously. Every nerve, every muscle that didn't try to
strangle me in that utterance, _lied_. No, Sir; let me tell you it's a
great world; glorious--magnificent; a world that can't be beat! Talk of
the stars and a better world, but don't invite me there yet. Make my
regrets, my apology to Death, but say that I can't come; 'positive
engagement; happy some other time, but not now.' Oh, no; this morning is
quite too beautiful to leave; and beside, I would rather stay, if only to
thank GOD a little longer for this glorious light, this pure air that can
echo back my loudest hurrah. And then, my boy----But haven't I told you?
Why Sir, I've got a boy!--_a boy_--ha, ha! I shout it out to you--A BOY;
fourteen pounds, and the mother a great deal _better_ than could be
expected! And I say, Mr. EDITOR, it's _mine!_ hurrah and hallelujah
forever! Oh, Sir! such legs, and such arms, and such a head!--and Oh my
GOD! _he has his mother's lips!_ I can kiss them forever! And then, Sir,
look at his feet, his hands, his chin, his eyes, his every thing, in
fact--so '_perfectly O. K.!_' Give me joy, Sir; no you needn't either. I
am full now; I run over; and they say that I ran over a number of old
women, half killed the mother, pulled the doctor by the nose, and upset a
'pothecary-shop in the corner; and then didn't I ring the tea-bell? Didn't
I blow the horn? Didn't I dance, shout, laugh, and cry altogether? The
women say they had to tie me up. I don't believe _that_; but who is going
to shut his mouth when he has a live baby? You should have heard his
lungs, Sir, at the first mouthful of fresh air--such a burst! A little
tone in his voice, but not pain; excess of joy, Sir, from too great
sensation. The air-bath was so sudden, you know. Think of all his
beautiful machinery starting off at once in full motion; all his thousand
outside feelers answering to the touch of the cool air; the flutter and
crash at the ear; and that curious contrivance the eye, looking out
wonderingly and bewildered upon the great world, so glorious and dazzling
to his unworn perceptions; his net-work of nerves, his wheels and pulleys,
his air-pumps and valves, his engines and reservoirs; and within all, that
beautiful fountain, with its jets and running streams dashing and coursing
through the whole length and breadth, without stint, or pause--making
altogether, Sir, exactly fourteen pounds!
'Did I ever talk brown to you, Sir, or blue, or any other of the devil's
colors? You say I have. Beg your pardon, Sir, but you--are mistaken in the
individual. I am this day, Sir, multiplied by two. I am duplicate. I am
number one of an indefinite series, and there's my continuation. And you
observe, it is not a block, nor a block-head, nor a painting, nor a bust,
nor a fragment of any thing, however beautiful; but a combination of _all_
the arts and sciences in one; painting, sculpture, music (hear him cry,)
mineralogy, chemistry, mechanics (see him kick,) geography, and the use of
the globes (see him nurse;) and withal, he is a perpetual motion--a
time-piece that will never run down! And who wound it up? But words, Sir,
are but a mouthing and a mockery. . . . WHEN a man is nearly crushed under
obligations, it is presumed that he is unable to speak; but he may bend
over very carefully, for fear of falling, nod in a small way, and say
nothing; and then, if he have sufficient presence of mind to lay a hand
upon his heart, and look down at an angle of forty-five degrees, with a
motion of the lips--unuttered poetry--showing the wish and inability, it
will be (well done) very gracefully expressive. With my boy in his first
integuments, I assume that position, make the small nod aforesaid, and
leave you the poetry unuttered.'
'ODD-ZOUNDS!' thought we, on glancing at the subject of the ensuing
piscatory epistle, 'what can all this outcry mean?' But that exclamatory
query we shall permit JULIAN himself to answer, in his own peculiar way:
'GAMMON!' said HARRY. 'Wait a moment,' said I; 'I shall throw sixes;' and
to be sure down came the sixes, striking him on the 'seize' point, and
then rebounding to my own, swept every man from the table. The board was
put up, and after a little closing chat with Mrs. H----, I was taking
leave, when HARRY called me back. 'JULIAN,' said he, 'Come and breakfast
to-morrow upon 'Zounds and Sounds.'' 'Zounds and Sounds!' said I, 'I shall
be delighted! What a charming dish! I remember of----' 'And JULE,' said
HARRY, interrupting me, 'perhaps FANNY would come?' 'Oh, impossible! you
know she is delicate yet, and the mornings are quite chilly.' 'Well, good
night; and don't forget that we breakfast _early_.' 'My dear Sir,' said I,
'I could rise at cock-crow for Zounds and Sounds.' . . . Now, I had never
even heard the words before; but I pique myself on knowing strange and
choice dishes; not the far-fetched things of the French, but things good
_per se_, and without a sea of condiments; the delicate, the rare
subtleties which our own women know so well to compound. Of course, I
_ought_ to know Zounds and Sounds, and of course, I should not hurry to
disclaim that knowledge. HARRY might have known, and then again he might
_not_; but he remembered, as I have since ascertained, of having eaten
something of the kind some thirty years since; something he had perhaps
cloyed of, and so forgotten, but something very delectable; something that
would perhaps touch his palate again like the maple-sugar and other
dainties of his boyhood. Having found the article that day, he had secured
a large quantity without asking what they were, and had them taken
privately to his house, with a view of making up the dish himself. I came
home, rolling the magic words 'as a sweet morsel under my tongue,' and
immediately sought out a curious dictionary, in which various strange
things are expounded; and failing in that, looked into CRABBE'S Synonymes,
(by the rule of contraries, I suppose, for there certainly could be
nothing _like_ Zounds and Sounds,) but as LONGFELLOW says, 'All in vain!'
FANNY having retired, I got into my slippers and sat down by the fire to
ruminate a little. 'Zounds and Sounds!' said I. 'What an incomparable
phrase! What a sweet suffusion of the z! What vibratory tingling upon the
tympanum! How pleasantly percussive to the brain; and how even the teeth
partake of the sensation! I declare! I must write a song upon Zounds and
Sounds! I will. I will write an invitatory song to the EDITOR. Let me see.
Zounds, rounds, bounds and hounds. Exactly! Now then:
ARE you weary Sir, of the ups and downs
The fame, the fun, the blues the browns,
The heat, the haste, the sights the sounds
Of your never-ending monthly rounds?
Oh! come and dine on Zounds and Sounds!
Zounds and Sounds!
Glorious sounds!
The music, alone,
With only a bone,
Is a dinner, Sir, with Zounds and Sounds.
Don't ask me, Sir, upon what grounds
I promise that these rare compounds
Exactly as the song propounds,
(The music alone,
With only a bone,)
Shall drive your troubles past all bounds,
Or mad thoughts chasing you like hounds;
Don't ask me _how_ it drives and drowns,
But come and dine on Zounds and Sounds.
Finishing the song, I looked about for my flute to find a tune for it, but
reflecting that I should wake the house, put it by again for another time.
'After all,' said I, 'a flute couldn't touch that _z_ sound. Indeed what
can? What is there like it? Has a church-bell any tone approximating it
even? Has a violin? Has a hautboy? Has a French horn? Has a jew's-harp?
Ay, that's the thing! A Jew's-harp has something like it; and so--so has a
bumble-bee. A thought strikes me! It is possible that Zounds and Sounds
are--Yes,' said I, rising and shouting with the excitement, 'Zounds and
Sounds are _bumble-bees_!--bumble-bees curiously prepared; gathered in
some warm climate where they abound, and pickled! Henceforth let no man
call that bee 'humble;' he is _bumble_, most decidedly!' And with this
thought I hurried off to bed. . . . It may have been an hour afterward,
while I was in the maze between sleeping and waking, that the words
'Zounds and Sounds' escaped me, unawares. 'What's that?' said FANNY,
starting up. 'Are you sure that I spoke?' said I. 'Indeed, I am; you said
something about going down town.' 'Did I? Well, I forgot to tell you. I
_am_ going down town; so you must not be surprised at my rising early
to-morrow. I think of breakfasting out.' 'You think! I should think you
did; thinking aloud, and asleep too! Don't think so again, dear; you woke
me out of a sound sleep.' . . . AT an early hour the next morning, I was
at my friend's house. _How_ I got there, I do not now remember; but I have
a distinct recollection of a ringing sensation in my head, and of not
being quite sure that I was awake, till the romping of a dozen children,
and a buzzing sound every where of Zounds and Sounds aroused me to a full
sense of the great treat that was coming. Then it was that I sang the last
night's song, and it took immensely, especially with the children. HARRY
was not there to hear it, and lost that pleasure, (as I have never
repeated it,) unless he heard it in the kitchen, where he was
superintending the burden of the song. Shortly after, came the call of
'breakfast,' and we all walked in, at least fifteen of us, and took seats
at the table before the Zounds and Sounds were brought in. HARRY was
already seated at the head. Presently the Zounds came in, piping hot; but
before they had reached the table, HARRY turned to me and asked if I had
any preference. 'Have you taken the stingers out?' said I, thinking of
bumble-bees. 'Stingers!' said HARRY. 'Oh, I beg your pardon,' said I;
'only a joke;' and making a bold guess at some white things that now
appeared on the table, added, 'A little of the breast.' HARRY smiled, but
said nothing. Plates were now served all around. Breakfast went on, and
Zounds and Sounds went down, and every body appeared to be perfectly
charmed with the dish. One might say, to be sure, that they were a little
saltish, and then again, with that exception, there was no remarkable
flavor; but that might be the rarity, _not to have any flavor_. No one,
however, thought _aloud_ in this manner. On the contrary, there was a
manifest inclination to detect resemblances of taste and flavor to those
of very many rare and delicate cookeries; but after awhile _there came a
pause_. It was during this pause, that my friend turned to his wife and
inquired if she was quite sure they were seasoned properly. 'I think they
are a little salt,' said Mrs. H----; but, my dear, you know you prepared
them yourself.' HARRY looked thunder-clouds, and called one of the
servants. 'Mary,' said he, 'take the key and bring me a _raw Zound_. You
will find two buckets-full in the wine-cellar.' Wondering at this, we
wondered still more at finding our coffee-cups all empty at the same time.
Each one was waiting for _drink_. The raw Zound was now brought, and
HARRY, plunging his fork into it, while all eyes were fixed upon him,
turned it over and over, examining it on all sides, and then, with his arm
at a right angle, raised it deliberately to his nose. Almost
instantaneously, and while still some distance off, there came a very wise
expression about his nostrils, which, as the Zound came nearer, dilated
still more and more, deepening the expression to a frightful extent, till,
all doubts removed, he shouted out: '_Codfish! by thunder!_'
We had actually taken within us, and bepraised, the unfreshened _tongues
and bladders_ of codfish!
It is now more than a week, O EDITOR! since this breakfast came off, or
rather since it went down, for it isn't _off_ yet; even now, that
taste----Do you know what it is, Sir, to have your jaws hang?--to be
always on the eve of a gape?--to be afraid of the tongs or the snuffers,
or a tall man, especially in tights, lest the next yawn may wholly tear up
your spinous process, your spheroid cartilage?--hang the doctors!--do you
understand? Well; _I am in that way_; and it's all from those confounded
Zounds and Sounds!
GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--Coming home lateish to-night from
the opera, we found the following, written in what Mrs. MALAPROP would
term 'rather ineligible characters,' as if hastily reduced to paper.
Howbeit, we knew it at once for the 'hand-write' of our favorite, facile
and felicitous historian of Tinnecum. He is one of your persons now who
thinks, and not a member of that hum-drum class who only _think_ they
think; moreover, he knows 'how to observe' better even than Miss
MARTINEAU. It was an every-day thing which struck him, in the aspect of
our winter-sleighs, as he rode up in one of them a day or two ago; but
this sketch of '_The Snow-Omnibus_' is not so common: 'PAST midnight! The
embers are dying. The thunder of the city becomes a dull roar, the roar a
murmur: then comes a dead pause, interrupted sometimes by the watchman's
club as it rings on the pavement, or the shrill, solitary whistler
executing the threadbare airs of the opera, or 'Life on the Ocean Wave.'
The door opens without noise. I lift up my nodding head and see Dr.
BARTOLO, his hat like a miller's, and his whiskers fringed with white.
With tread soft as a mouse or an apparition, he illumes his candle, turns
on his heel, and says in a whisper very appropriate to the time, the
place, and the fact conveyed: 'It snows!' Such is the only intimation to
break the magic and the mystery of the early morning, unless it be the
small tinkling of bells like frogs in a brook; a complete shifting or
rather change of scene noiselessly wrought; a foul city purified,
whitened, sparkling, and glorious, like a Scarlet Lady who emerges with
her meretricious charms in chaste robes, chaste as Diana. She taketh the
veil. The virgin-snow is unsullied upon her bosom, just as it dropped
softly out of heaven, undefiled by footsteps, dazzling only to conceal.
'Tis but the momentary semblance of purity. The sun is up. Hark! the
tumult and excitement is begun. The crowds throng and jostle through the
pure element; the horses prance to the gay and perpetual chimes, and
Broadway is the paradise of belles. Underneath all is the obscenity of
filth! What attracts our attention, however, is your snow-omnibus, very
different in looks, spirit and animation from the same lumbering carriage
upon wheels. What do you see in the latter? A set of cross, hungry-looking
men, going up town to dinner, packed together in a magnetizing attitude,
with knees jammed against knees, and eyes wherever they can find a place
to put them; women crushed between stout fellows, and indecently nudged at
every apology of a jolt; in short, a penthouse of ill-humour; twelve '_all
full_' people; whiskerandi, gentle maidens, wives, and 'live widders,'
ranged with solemn regularity like coffins in a vault. All fix their eyes
where their minds are, on vacuity, and try to _be_ for the time present,
what they _seem_ to be, as stupid as the devil, as if they dreaded some
sympathetic contact, revealing bank-frauds and transactions in stocks. Who
ever saw a smile in an omnibus, even when court-plasters have changed
places? You might as well look into a slow-driven hearse for something
sunshiny! Your broker dares not even chuckle. Your exquisite cannot resort
for consolation to the suction of his cane, but all look grim and virtuous
as Seneca, until they pull the leather, pass up six-pence through the
port-hole, and as they open the door, their faces begin to expand, but
only with the animal anticipation of dinner. Compare this with the
_grouping_ and animation of the Sleigh-omnibus; heads piled upon heads, as
in a picture; black hats, feathers, plumage, barrel-caps, etc., bobbing
about in a lively manner to the music of bells. Down they go into the
gullies, through thick and thin, with a ludicrous contrast and
juxtaposition of faces; all forced in spite of themselves to give
expression to their several humors, mirth, deviltry, or spleen. Cheeks
glow, eyes shine, spectacles sparkle, glances fly impudently to the
windows where the face of beauty presses against the cold pane. The runner
sinks into a 'rut,' and that makes the company bow to each other, and
gives that old rascal of a sexegenarian an excuse to bring his gray
whiskers very near to the blooming visage of a girl whose charming modesty
is shrined in colors more delicate than the blush on the cheek of a
magnum-bonum plum. Sixty must not aspire after such fruitage; but in an
_omnibus_, where's the harm? But we have a remark to make on _nosology_,
or the noses of the group. So spicy a variety of folk cheek-by-jowl
(Parthians and Elamites, Medes, Jews and Persians,) begets contrast.
Nose-bridges of all styles show their peculiar architecture, Roman or
Grecian; while straight, crooked, bottle, snub, pug; some flat and with no
bridge at all, others very much _abridged_; are brought together in an
amicable jostling, 'comparing themselves by themselves,' and setting off
one another as a rose sets off a geranium. While I point out these
peculiarities to my friend PHIZ, a coral shriek rends the air, and by
heavens! the whole load is upset!' . . . WE hear from all quarters 'good
exclamation' on the _Directions for Sonnet-Making_, from the popular pen
of our friend 'T. W. P.' in our last number. An eastern correspondent,
however, questions the correctness of one assumption of the writer: 'It
would be well to avoid coupling such words as moon and spoon; breeze and
cheese and sneeze; Jove and stove; hope and soap; all of which it might be
difficult to bring together harmoniously.' Our correspondent thinks that
this decree was issued without due reflection; and he proceeds to
substantiate his position by 'the ocular proof:'
SONNET.
THROUGH hazy clouds, scarce ruffled by the breeze,
Methought, last night, I saw _the man i' th' moon_;
As in the hollow bowl of silver spoon
A broad reflected face the gazer sees;
(Who trifling, dinner done, with bread and cheese,
Abstractly lifts the spoon aforesaid up;)
Or the same thing beholds in polished cup,
Or concave snuff-box, whence the vocal sneeze!
Sight of _the man_ suggested HOTSPUR'S boast;
But the night froze; and to express such hope
Sounded far softer than the softest soap
To me, who rather chose my heels to toast
In the warm vicinage of glowing stove,
Than pluck the moon's-man's nose, beneath the frigid JOVE![5]
[5] _Sub dio._--HOR.
* * * * *
IF there be not a fruitful lesson in the subjoined, which we venture to
separate from its context in a recent letter from an esteemed friend and
contributor, then we--are mistaken: 'APROPOS of 'American Ptyalism,' in
your March number: a friend was telling me the other day of the agonies he
had suffered from dispensing with the use of tobacco. He had used it in
various ways for thirty years, but finding that he was breaking _down_
under it, he broke _off_ abruptly, about a year ago. 'Let a
tobacco-chewer,' said he, 'who wishes to know what _nerves_ are, abstain
for only one day, and if he has a wife who is delicate and nervous, he
will forever after look upon her with a sympathy that he never felt
before. Why, Sir, for months after I had forsworn tobacco, my mouth and
jaws were any thing but flesh and bone. They were fire, ice, and
prussic-acid, alternately. The roof of my mouth would at one moment have
the feeling of blistering, and the next of freezing; and in addition to
that, needles would occasionally pierce my face in every imaginable way.
My head, for the most part, was a large hogshead with a bumble-bee in it,
and the bung stopped up. You know that I am not imaginative; but my teeth,
Sir, would suddenly grow to the length of a mastodon's, and perhaps five
minutes after, (if at the table,) a narcotic deadness would take the place
of the previous excitement, and I would seem to be mumbling my food like
people whose teeth are gone. But in the street, I always seemed to be
grinning at every body, like some horrible beast who couldn't get his
mouth shut. If you have ever stayed _agape_ for an hour or so, while the
doctor was on his way to reset your jaws, you can imagine how
distressingly _public_ that feeling is. One bitter cold night I woke on
the cellar-stairs, having got that far in search of tobacco, in my
night-dress. Did you ever do so? You may think it trifling; but whenever
from any cause you have become nervous, the first night that you wake on
the cellar-stairs in the dark will be something to remember. At another
time I dreamed of dying. I had been long sick and had wasted to a mere
nothing; but having had abundant time to prepare for death, I flattered
myself that I was quite ready to go; and indeed, my hold upon life was so
feeble, (a slight change in the weather would have snapped it, so it
seemed,) my very breath was so fluttering and unsatisfactory, that I
thought it would be as well perhaps to have done with it. The faces of
friends, and the out-door world, with all its many goings-on, were
pleasant to behold, but _faintly_ so--indistinctly; my pulsations had gone
down to such extreme tenuity, that the effort of getting at a pleasure
killed it. But I was mistaken; for just before dying, the thought of my
cigars came to me like a blessing; and although my physician told me I had
but a few moments to live, I would not be refused. A cigar was brought; I
seized it in my bony fingers, held it up to the light, smelt of it, and
fondled it till the light was brought; and then, with what little grace my
strength would allow, I inhaled that divine tobacco! How complacently, as
far as I was able, did I then look around upon my surviving friends! My
eyes, however, closed very soon from languor, and my breath now coming
only at rather long intervals, the puffs were far between; notwithstanding
which, I lived it through to the last inspiration; but in the closing
draught, the fire from the cigar burnt my mouth so badly that I--awoke,
and found I had actually bitten my lip in a most shocking manner! Well,
Sir, you may think it was pleasant _not_ to be dying, and so it was; but
as I then felt, I think I would sooner have gone, if I could have taken
with me the fragrance of that incomparable regalia.'' . . . OUR new
friend, the writer of the '_Lines to an Early Robin_,' who desires us to
send him six numbers of the KNICKERBOCKER containing his article, inquires
'which kind of his writing we should prefer, prose or poetry?' We hardly
know what to say, in answer to this categorical query. It will not perhaps
be amiss, however, to adopt the _in medio tutissimus ibis_ style of the
traveller, who, upon calling for a cup of tea at breakfast, handed it back
to the servant, after tasting it, with the remark: 'If this is tea, bring
me coffee--if it is coffee, bring me tea; _I want a change_.' If what 'M.'
sends us is poetry, let him send us prose; if it is prose, (and it
certainly 'has that look,') let him send us poetry, by all means. . . .
JUDGES and other legal functionaries, though ostensibly 'sage, grave men,'
are oftentimes sad wags, and fond of fun and frolic. From one of this
class we derive the annexed: 'A few months since, in a neighboring town, a
knight of the yard-stick was paying his addresses to a Miss INCHES, who,
beside some personal attraction, was reputed to be mistress of a snug
fortune. At first, the lady encouraged his addresses, but afterward jilted
him. Rendered desperate by his double loss, the young man went home and
deliberately shot himself; and the coroner's jury next morning brought in
a verdict of '_Died by Inches_!'' . . . HOW very beautiful are these lines
upon the death of a young and lovely girl, the bloom of whose fair cheek
refused to wither at the blighting touch of the Destroyer:
'HER eye-lids as in sleep were closed,
Her brow was white like snow;
A smile still lingered on her cheek,
As if 'twas loth to go!
'And it may be a smile so sweet,
So quiet and serene,
Was never on the healthy brow
Of living maiden seen.
'Perchance the wondrous bliss which burst
Upon her raptured mind,
When first she woke in glory's courts,
Now left its trace behind.
'Her end was peace. I thought that they
Who loved her, should not grieve;
For these last words they heard her say,
'My spirit, LORD, receive!'
'And when they laid her in the earth,
Her cheek still held the bloom;
That smile so sweet, the gentle maid
Bore with her to the tomb.
'Think it not strange that brighter tints
Upon the blossoms crept,
Which grew above the sacred spot
Where that meek maiden slept.'
* * * * *