A bachelor-man and a girl of eighteen,
And a moment beside for her womanish airs,
We find him ascending the sleep-walker's stairs.
With gentlest tread, as if ever before
He had practised his steps on a sick-chamber floor,
His handkerchief-parcel, conveniently small,
He laid on a chair, with the knots tow'rd the wall.
The maiden insisting on taking his hat,
He enter'd the room where the sleep-walker sat:
A neat-looking woman, and fair to behold,
And (climax of qualities) not at all old.
Her accents and manner were wondrously sweet,
As she kindly invited his taking a seat,
And sweetly she said what she had to say
Of the weather and wind, in a diffident way.
And then he presented himself by his name,
And hinted the matter about which he came;
He harp'd upon science, and physic, and food,
Incidentally hoping he did not intrude,
And then, (what all orators well understand,)
Digress'd to the subject directly in hand.
What was it the sister spoke low in her ear,
It was plain she alone was intended to hear.
But little the medical gentleman cared,
Commencing a speech he had ready prepar'd.
'This _aura-magnetica_-making,' said he
Is a process as simple as A B C,
And very agreeable, certainly, where
The patient is female, and passably fair:
You hold her hand gently, and look in her eye,
Succeeding the better, the harder you try;[5]
Then paw her all over, it comes to you pat,
Precisely like stroking the back of a cat.[6]
And now it is holiday-time with the mind,
It hastens to leave the poor body behind;
As mischievous urchins escape to the street,
The pedagogue slumb'ring unmov'd in his seat.
Hereafter, no 'wishing-cap' ever can be
Invented to rival the _bonnet de nuit_.
But though I account myself fully _au fait_
At dismissing the soul in a technical way,
(Being funnily call'd by a patient of mine,
A forwarding agent for Charon's old line,)
I own that it never came into my head
To try to converse with it after it fled;
It might be unpleasant; particular folks
Object to all species of practical jokes;
And one might, with reason, resent being made,
From a person of substance, an unreal shade.
However, I think we had better prepare
For one live spirit-walking--another affair.
The patient appears well inclin'd to repose,
Or rather, already beginning to doze.'
He sat himself opposite, look'd in her eye,
Put his hand in his pocket, and stifled a sigh.
A striking resemblance there was in the face,
To one that occasion'd his first-love case.
Ah, doctor! that love thou wert better forget,
With symptoms recurring, comes over thee yet.
'Be still!' said he, boldly! 'nay madam, don't start,
The caution was private--address'd to my heart.'
He went through the process; ten minutes expir'd,
The process was tedious, the doctor was tir'd;
He hinted that opium, one or two grains,
Had been quite as speedy, and saved him his pains.
The patient, at this, to the doctor's surprise,
Look'd sweetly upon him, and--sleep seal'd her eyes.
'I'll take the arm-chair, to be more at my ease,
And then let us travel, as fast as you please;
Can you tell me what lies at the head of your stairs?'
(He thought he should take her thus unawares;)
She said, without any demurrage at all,
'A handkerchief-parcel, the knots tow'rd the wall;
Beside it, a beaver; it's brim is wide,
And an old piece of paper is stuck inside.'
A very round oath the physician swore,
''Twas the self-same hat that he always wore:
No mortal could see through a six-inch wall--
An angel undoubtedly whisper'd it all.'
'You flatter,' the sister said, with a sigh,
'I never _did_ tell her, I'm sure--not I!'
'The bundle contains,' said the spirit, 'a shirt;
Your name and a number are mark'd on the skirt.'
The doctor said nothing; it came to his mind
That he _had_ such an one, but had left it behind:
He marvel'd a woman could tell to a hair,
Not only what was, but what should have been there!
'If you've no objections,' ('I have not,' said she,)
'We'll go to my house, and see, what we can see;
I hope you'll go too, Miss--it is not too far;
Beside, you have only to set where you are.
The spirit, (how pleasant soever the road,)
Will find 'the more music, the lighter the load!'
But the sister assured him that no one, except
Himself, could affect her, so long as she slept;[7]
'She could not distinguish a word that I said,
Though loud as the trumpet that summons the dead.'
'That's true,' said the spirit, 'for talk as she may,
I'm not a whit wiser for all she can say;[8]
But I'm at your door, and have given a knock,
And some one is turning the key in the lock.'
'That's odd:' said the doctor; 'I can't recollect
When turning the key would have any effect;
The lock is a _patent_ one, made with such skill,
It never yet work'd, and I fear never will.
But why should we wait till they open the door?
Let's fly to my study, it's on the first floor!'
'How nice!' said the spirit; 'you get all the sun,
With two pretty windows----' 'There is but one.'
'But one?' said the walker--'ah, that's very true;
A somnambulist sees _twice_ as plainly as you;
But truly I'm certain, your fortunate wife
Must lead a most exquisite sort of a life.'
'But then I am single;' 'I know it,' said she;
'I mean, if you _had_ one, how happy she'd be!'
So sweetly she said it, he look'd at her long,
The likeness was striking--each moment more strong.
Alas! poor practitioner, look to thy heart;
A treacherous weapon is Love's little dart!
END OF PART TWO.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] 'Half-drawing down.' From the control of the sleeper's mind
over his muscles, this most expressive gesture of the Æsculapian
fraternity was but an 'opus infectum.'
[5] The stronger the exercise of the will, the more perfect is the
effect produced.
[6] This experiment every urchin has repeatedly made, to his own
edification and the annoyance of his family.
[7] Those in a somnambulistic state communicate with, and can receive
impressions from, the operator alone.
[8] No better confirmation could be had of the fact, than the
patient's own asseveration.
OUR BIRTH-DAYS.
THE anniversary of our birth-days is always an interesting period,
and should be noticed accordingly. Each of such days is a mile-stone
on the road of life, reminding us of the rapid rate at which we have
been advancing on its journey, and approaching its close. It is true
that in life's _morning_, these mile-stones appear to be farther
apart than they do in later years; still, they are days of hope and
promise. Thousands are then rejoicing that they are one year nearer
to the boasting age of twenty-one, when a young man feels himself
lord of his own actions, and glories in his liberty. To thousands
of the fairer part of creation, these annual monitors are welcome,
as harbingers of the day when they shall shine in the ball-room or
circles of fashion; attract all eyes, and command all attention; or
perhaps fasten some silken chain around the heart of an individual
admirer, and lead him in delightful captivity. To other thousands
of the same sex, the anniversary will tell a tale of sadness; of
departed hours and departed charms; of withered roses and withered
hopes; when the looking-glass has lost its magic power, and speaks
nothing save in the plain language of unwelcome truth and soberness.
Thousands are reminded that many of the intervals, between one
mile-stone and another were distinguished by lovely landscapes and
countless beauties; by health and enjoyment--by joy and gladness of
heart. To thousands of others, such intervals have been gloomy and
cheerless; without the consolations of friendship, the comforts of
society, or the flattering promises of hope. Surrounding prospects
have only increased the gloom of the mind, and made the heart sick.
Yet in all these recollections, we may find instruction and
nourishment for our better feelings. If our course has been checkered
with good and evil, we may profit by tracing consequences to their
proper causes; and thus learn how many miscalled misfortunes are the
offspring of folly, or imprudence, or wrong; the natural results
of our own wanderings from the path of innocence and duty; or else
have been so fortunate as to have discovered by experience, that our
happiness and duty are intimately connected, and that wisdom's ways
are always ways of pleasantness and peace. In both cases, this annual
review of the days and years that have taken their farewell of us,
will be salutary in its effect, and teach us the value of virtuous
resolutions of amendment, when we have gone astray, and the peaceful
feelings and sweet anticipations of those whose desire it is to
preserve their moral health in the bowers of innocence and purity,
and amid the green pastures and still waters of life.
This very day, I have arrived at the _seventy-third_ mile-stone
on the journey to another country, where we all hope to enjoy
happiness unending. And here I must avail myself of the old man's
privilege; that of speaking of himself, and the incidents of exciting
or soothing interest which have marked his onward course. I have
abundant occasion to indulge in the pleasing retrospect. Through
the smiles of heaven, I may truly say, that in the long vista I can
scarcely discover an unpleasant object, to mar the beauty of the
scene. It still appears margined with foliage and flowers, almost
as green and bright as ever. The surface of the way still seems
smooth, and the sky is clear and summer-like, as in the days of my
youth and early manhood. Surely, these are distinguished blessings
to me, and as such I fondly cherish them. Heaven has given me a
firm constitution, and long-continued health. These are precious
foundations to build upon; and I have improved them for that purpose.
But much has been effected by the formation of certain _habits_, and
by an attention to certain _rules_; and I feel their tendency and
effects as valuable medicines. It is not vanity in an old man to
recommend them to others. I am influenced by better motives. In the
first place, when a child,
----'I knew a mother's tender care,
And heard th' instructions of a father's tongue;'
and I hope I have never forgotten them, or in any situation
disregarded their benign influence, but reverenced them as important
safe-guards. The rules I have adopted have never, to any extent,
deceived me.
1. I have always found, that if I had injured any one, especially if
intentionally, I could enjoy no peace of mind, until I had _asked_
and _obtained_ his forgiveness. When forgiven, all was calm and
sunshine in my bosom. I never solicited in vain.
2. Knowing by experience the value of this blessed sunshine, I have
always endeavored so to be on my guard, as not to offend by indulged
passion, suspicion, or want of respect and courtesy. This has always
insured courtesy and kindness in return, from all others.
3. If on a sudden I have for a few moments been guilty of indulging
in passion, the sun never went down on my wrath. I never _did_ and
never _could_ retain resentment against any one, and cherish a
desire of revenge; for such a desire would have been painful and
distressing. A word from him who had excited my momentary anger,
spoken to me in kindness, never failed to disarm every disturbed
feeling. I have always found a peaceful disposition a source of
comfort, and to produce the same calm within, as is caused by gentle
breezes on a summer day, refreshing an invalid who is walking abroad
to inhale them.
4. By the aid of the foregoing rules, I have thus far through life
been habitually cheerful; and cheerfulness is easily diffused, and
cheerful feelings multiplied. It is a sort of letter of introduction,
and insures a welcome, when duly exhibited. It adds to the charms of
society, while at the same time it gives a youthful movement to the
pulsations of the heart.
5. In order to preserve this youthful feeling of our nature, while
advancing in years, I have steadily maintained the custom of
associating freely with the _young_ as well as the _old_; of joining
in the social or fashionable circle, and breathing the atmosphere
of the library or the drawing-room, with ladies and gentlemen, more
especially with those whom I am in the habit of meeting, on other
occasions, upon terms of easy intercourse. By this practice, my
social feelings have remained almost unchanged. Though I am an old
tree, my leaves remain nearly as green as ever. The scenes I have
just described, I enjoy now as well and as pleasantly as I did forty
or fifty years ago. Are not these blessings? Men and women may grow
old, if they please, and lose all relish for social intercourse, even
among those of their own age; and if they please, they may retain
most of the better feelings of their early years, in the particulars
before mentioned; and the honest, frank, and cheerful expression
of them will generally be reciprocated, even in the circles of the
young and gay. These interchanges of thoughts and feelings, in
hours of easy and virtuous relaxation, are mutually beneficial, in
producing kinder dispositions toward each, and bringing the distant
periods of life nearer together, and forming a _temperate zone_,
where the climate becomes more mild, uniform, serene, and salutary.
Are not my rules and my practice, then, worthy of imitation, as
having an evident tendency to preserve a green old age, and protract
the 'Indian summer of the soul,' and keep the heart warm amid the
gathering frosts of the December of life?
We cannot open a newspaper, without seeing advertisements of those
who have compounded numberless medicines for curing almost all
the pains and diseases 'which flesh is heir to;' and are desirous
of diffusing them, for the relief of all classes of sufferers,
for a moderate pecuniary compensation. And surely there can be no
impropriety in my publishing this article for the benefit of all
concerned, and giving them, _gratis_, my friendly advice, on so
interesting a subject. My object is as commendable as theirs; and I
presume my prescriptions, if duly observed, would promote the moral
health of thousands, and save them from the penalty of 'low spirits;'
quicken the healthful circulation of the 'social blood,' and add to
the life of multitudes years of comfort, ending in a golden sunset.
_Portland, (Maine,) Nov., 1837._ SENEX.
LAY OF THE MADMAN.[9]
'THIS is the foul fiend! He begins at curfew, and walks till
the first cock; he gives the web and the pin, squints the eye,
and makes the hare-lip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the
poor creature of earth. Beware of the foul fiend!'
SHAKSPEARE.
MANY a year hath passed away,
Many a dark and dismal year,
Since last I roam'd in the light of day,
Or mingled my own with another's tear;
Wo to the daughters and sons of men--
Wo to them all, when I roam again!
Here have I watch'd, in this dungeon cell,
Longer than Memory's tongue can tell;
Here have I shriek'd, in my wild despair,
When the damnéd fiends from their prison came,
Sported and gambol'd, and mock'd me here,
With their eyes of fire, and their tongues of flame;
Shouting for ever and aye my name!
And I strove in vain
To burst my chain,
And longed to be free as the winds, again,
That I might spring
In the wizard ring,
And scatter them back to their hellish den!
Wo to the daughters and sons of men--
Wo to them all, when I roam again!
How long I have been in this dungeon here,
Little I know, and nothing I care;
What to me is the day or night,
Summer's heat or autumn sere,
Spring-tide flowers, or winter's blight,
Pleasure's smile, or sorrow's tear?
Time! what care I for thy flight,
Joy! I spurn thee with disdain;
Nothing love I but this clanking chain;
Once I broke from its iron hold,
Nothing I said, but silent and bold,
Like the shepherd that watches his gentle fold,
Like the tiger that crouches in mountain lair,
Hours upon hours, so watch'd I here;
Till one of the fiends that had come to bring
Herbs from the valley and drink from the spring,
Stalk'd through my dungeon entrance in!
Ha! how he shriek'd to see me free--
Ho! how he trembled and knelt to me,
He who had mock'd me many a day,
And barred me out from its cheerful ray,
Gods! how I shouted to see him pray!
I wreath'd my hand in the demon's hair,
And chok'd his breath in its mutter'd prayer,
And danc'd I then, in wild delight,
To see the trembling wretch's fright.
Gods! how I crush'd his hated bones!
'Gainst the jagged wall and the dungeon-stones;
And plung'd my arm adown his throat,
And dragg'd to life his beating heart,
And held it up, that I might gloat,
To see its quivering fibres start!
Ho! how I drank of the purple flood,
Quaff'd and quaff'd again of blood,
Till my brain grew dark, and I knew no more,
Till I found myself on this dungeon floor,
Fetter'd and held by this iron chain;
Ho! when I break its links again,
Ha! when I break its links again,
Wo to the daughters and sons of men!
My frame is shrunk, and my soul is sad,
And devils mock, and call me mad;
Many a dark and fearful sight
Haunts me here, in the gloom of night;
Mortal smile or human tear
Never cheers or soothes me here;
The spider shrinks from my grasp away,
Though he's known my form for many a day;
The slimy toad, with his diamond eye,
Watches afar, but comes not nigh;
The craven rat, with her filthy brood,
Pilfers and gnaws my scanty food:
But when I strive to make her play,
Snaps at my hands, and flees away;
Light of day or ray of sun,
Friend or hope, I've none--I've none!
Yet 'tis not always thus; sweet slumber steals
Across my haggard mind, my weary sight;
No more my brain the iron pressure feels,
Nor damnéd devils howl the live-long night;
Visions of hope and beauty seem
To mingle with my darker dream;
They bear me back to a long-lost day,
To the hours and joys of my boyhood's play,
To the merry green,
And the sportive scene,
And the valley the verdant hills between;
And a lovely form with a bright blue eye,
Flutters my dazzled vision by;
A tear starts up to my wither'd eye,
Gods! how I love to feel that tear
Trickle my haggard visage o'er!
The fountain of hope is not yet dry;
I feel as I felt in days of yore,
When I roam'd at large in my native glen,
Honor'd and lov'd by the sons of men,
Till, madden'd to find my home defil'd,
I grasp'd the knife, in my frenzy wild,
And plunged the blade in my sleeping child!
They called me mad--they left me here,
To my burning thoughts, and the fiend's despair,
Never, ah! never to see again
Earth or sky, or sea or plain;
Never to hear soft Pity's sigh--
Never to gaze on mortal eye;
Doom'd through life, if life it be,
To helpless, hopeless misery;
Oh, if a single ray of light
Had pierced the gloom of this endless night;
If the cheerful tones of a single voice
Had made the depths of my heart rejoice;
If a single thing had loved me here,
I ne'er had crouch'd to these fiends' despair!
They come again!
They tear my brain!
They tremble and dart through my every vein!
Ho! could I burst this clanking chain,
Then might I spring
In the hellish ring,
And scatter them back to their den again!
* * * * *
They seize my heart!--they choke my breath!
Death?--death! ah, welcome death!
_Savannah, (Geo.,) 1837._ R. M. C.
FOOTNOTE:
[9] ALL who have ever visited the 'ward of the incurables,' in any of
the insane asylums of our Atlantic cities, will be forcibly struck
with the graphic picture presented in this spirited sketch.
EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.
OLLAPODIANA.
NUMBER XXII.
----AS I was saying last month, beloved reader, that 'I am thine
in promise,' or to that purport, I have anchored myself in my
_fauteuil_, to the end that I may be thine in fulfilment. In our
conversation about the Catskills, I omitted sundry pertinent matters,
with the which, however, malgré the postponement, I shall not here
afflict. Since that period, I have for the most part been pent i' the
populous city, amid the wakeful noises by day thereof, and by night
the calm security of the streets thereof. I affect the supernatural
bawl of the watchman, as it rings up to my pillow; I love the
serenade which the neighboring lover sings to his fair, and of which
I get the good as well as herself; I like to see the straggling cloud
go floating over the slumbering town at midnight, with the moon
silvering its edge; or mayhap to note the sheen of a star greeting
the vision over a chimney-pot. All these have charms for my eye and
ear; I seem to see holy sights and shapes in the firmament; the winds
come and go on their circuits, unknowing how many brows they fan; and
at times they hush a whole metropolis to silence, insomuch that its
wide boundary scarce produces so much noise 'as doth a chestnut in a
farmer's fire.'
* * * * *
BY-THE-BY, when the sun begins to set at right descensions, and
make his winter arches, I always think of the roaring fires in the
domicil of the rural husbandman, with feelings akin to envy. Ye who
toast your heels by anthracite; who survey the meagre 'blue blazes'
of Liverpool coal, and whose nostrils take in the dry odor thereof,
being reminded thereby of those ever-burning brimstone beds, where
Apollyon keeps his court, and Judas has his residence; ye, I say,
who have a life-long intimacy with these sorts of fuel, can have but
small conception of a winter's fire in the country. Far round doth
it illumine the apartment where it rages; intolerable is proximity
thereunto; and its 'circle of admirers' is always large, because
they cannot come a-nigh. A pleasant disdain is felt for the snow
which whirls on whistling winds against the pane; the herds are
huddled in their cotes secure; and the storm has permission to mumble
its belly full, and spit snow at its pleasure. Hugeous reminiscences
of delight come over my spirit, in this connexion; post-school hours;
the steaming bowl of flip, or those orthographical convocations,
where buxom maidens exulted in their secret heart, as tall words
were vociferously mounted, in correct emission, by greenhorn swain.
Sleigh-rides likewise; amatory pressures, under skin of buffalo
or bison; long processions through wintry villages, whose tall
smokes rose from every chimney; pillars of blue, standing upright
in the air, like columns of sapphire. Cider, with its acidity of
remembrance; apples, that melted on the tongue, as they descended
toward the diaphragm; landscapes of snow; and slides down hill!--not
forgetting those skating achievements, which for the time being fill
the mind with such pride, that one scarcely wishes to reach heaven at
last, if that amusement be interdicted among the just made perfect!
All these circumstances and events, with curious confusion, hang in
a nucleus about my memories of a rural hearth; 'but these I passen
by, with nameless numbers moe.' Shakspeare had a good notion of the
comforts to which I refer. He puts a lovely sentiment into the mouth
of King Richard II., when he causes him to utter to the royal lady
this tender language:
'Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France:
Think I am dead; and that from me thou tak'st,
As from my death-bed, my last living leave.
In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire
With good old folks; and let them tell thee tales
Of woful ages, long ago betid;
And ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me!'
* * * * *
I HAVE not, howbeit, reader, as might be inferred from what has
been herein before written, spent all the mean season spoken of, in
the busy capital. I have made, with household appurtenances, and
delights, and responsibilities, an autumnal tour or 'excrescence'
into the country, round about the Empire Town. Quotidian columns
have borne the register thereof; hence Benevolence prompt to crucify
farther infliction. The landscapes surveyed were beautiful; though it
may be said of the eminences, as Mr. William Lackaday observes in the
play, of his boy-seen uplands: 'Them there hills wasn't clothed with
much werder.'
* * * * *