is a congressional enactment, 'That a District of Territory, not
exceeding ten miles square, to be located, as hereafter directed, on
the river _Potomack_, at some place between the mouths of the Eastern
branch and _Conogocheque_, be, and the same is hereby accepted for
the Permanent Seat of the Government of the United States.' What
a thriving town the 'City of Washington' must have been at this
period! Here is an important postscript. It contains intelligence
received at Boston from Philadelphia, in the short space of _seven
days_--(they travel the distance now in eighteen hours!)--that a
French frigate had arrived in the Delaware, supposed to have been
despatched by the National Convention. Close beside this paragraph,
is a very reasonable complaint, that those Americans who, despising
to be copyists, call for 'Yankee-Doodle' at the play-house, can't
be accommodated with their old favorite, because of the uproarious
opposition of a tory faction. ''Most Horrid!' What is that under your
thumb?' 'A son of Mr. Cox, the celebrated architect, in viewing a
wild _Panther_, which a shew-man had in his possession, in _Medford_,
was suddenly seized by the voracious animal, and his head and face
torn in so shocking a manner, that his death would be a consolation
to his desponding relatives. The strength of the animal was so great,
that five persons could hardly disengage its teeth and claws from the
unhappy victim of its rage. It is hoped the Legislature will provide
by law for the security of the lives of people, that if persons will
endeavor to obtain money, by the shew of wild beasts, that they be
properly confined in cages.' '_Shew!_' This corruption is still
extant in New-England. 'He _shew_ me a book he had purchased,' etc.
'We find a great deal said about 'Mr. PRIESTLY' here. He has fled to
the United States 'for freedom from the rod of lawless power, and the
arm of violence.' He is every where received with marked honor, his
whereabout regularly recorded, and eminent individuals and public
institutions are emulous to make their attentions acceptable to
him. In juxtaposition with this, is one of the bloody ROBESPIERRE's
plausible reports, just promulgated. We will not pause to read that.
'Stay! Let us see what all this theatrical display is about, before
you turn the leaf.' The manager is going to give a 'Benefit' for the
suffering Americans in the prisons of Algiers. Good! 'I wonder if
that JEFFERSON, who is to be one of the attractions, was the father
of our Philadelphia favorite, whylear?' This interrogation lights
up Memory, with the suddenness of a 'loco-foco' match. The image is
evoked; and that prince of comedians is before us. A very clever
theatrical performance is now going on in the 'Dome of Thought.'
Ah, 'Old Jefferson!' When shall we look upon _his_ like again? For
years, we could never meet him, in ever so retired a lane of the
city, without being presently seated in the play-house, devouring,
with lively gusto, his inimitable comicalities. We had spirited
performance going on, with nothing to pay. 'Where he walked, sate, or
stood still, there was the theatre. He carried about with him pit,
boxes, and galleries, and set up his portable play-house at corners
of streets, and in the market-places. Upon flintiest pavement, he
trod the boards still.' ''Well, vot of it?' Turn over.'
That long original poem is by PETER PINDAR. He is ridiculing the
monarchical notions of the opposition, and the folly of paying court
to mere outward form and show. His illustration is homely, but
forcible. 'Who,' says he,
'Who would not laugh to see a TAYLOR bow
Submissive to a pair of satin breeches?
Saying, 'O Breeches, all men must allow
There's something in your aspect that betwitches!
'Let me admire you, Breeches, crown'd with glory;
And though _I made_ you, let me still _adore_ ye;'
Who would not quick exclaim, 'The TAYLOR's mad?'
Yet Tyrant-adoration is as bad.'
In reading Pindar, as has been observed of some other obsolete
author, you may find fault with the antique setting, but
intellectual jewels of truth are there, which can never grow out of
date.
'Melancholy Event!' Skip that. A laugh is worth a hundred groans, in
any state of the market. Read the 'Anecdote,' if it be good, under
the song, 'GOD save great WASHINGTON,' at your right hand, third
column: 'ANECDOTE--RECENT.--A certain newly-created Justice of the
Peace, rather too much elated with the dignity of his office, riding
out one day with his attendant, met a clergyman, finely mounted on
a handsome gelding, richly caparisoned. When he first saw him, he
desired his attendant to take notice how he would smoak the Parson.
He accordingly rode up to him, and accosted him as follows: 'Sir your
servant: I think, Sir, you are mounted on a very handsome horse.'
'Yes, Sir, I thank you, tolerably fleshy.' 'But what is the reason,'
says the Justice, 'you do not follow the example of your worthy
Master, who was humble enough to ride to Jerusalem on an Ass?' 'Why,
to tell you the truth,' says the Clergyman, 'Government have made so
many Asses Justices, lately, that an honest Clergyman can't find one
to ride on.'
'Well said of the Dominie! There must have been more of Sterne than
Sternhold about him. He evidently loved a joke, as well as old Pater
Abraham à Sancta Clara.'
''Blanchard's Balloon.' An ascension, I suppose.' No; it is a
political squib. Mr. Blanchard has given out, that his gas, owing to
an unfortunate accident, has _also_ 'given out,' and that on account
of the great expense, he is compelled to forego a second ascension.
A wag advises him, as a cheap and expeditious method of obtaining an
ample supply of gas, to place his balloon over the chimney of a house
in which the 'Democratic Society' are to meet, in the evening, the
members of which are expected to be highly inflated with a kind of
light, combustible air, which will escape into his vessel, and answer
his purpose admirably!
In these days of 'wars and rumors of wars' between the whites and
Florida Indians, these twin poetical epistles will be apropos. The
writer says, under date of Pittsburgh, 10th June,
'Since Friday last the news we've had,
Has been, dear Sir, extremely bad:
An Indian of the Senecas,
A white who swears to all he says,
Have brought a most alarming story,
The substance I shall set before ye:
Six nations of the Indians, set on
By Satan and the imps of Britain,
Have join'd the Indians to the westward,
By which we soon shall be quite prest hard;
They now are crossing o'er the lake,
Fort Franklin to surprise and take;
That Fort will certainly be taken,
And scarce a settler save his bacon.'
Two days after, he adds the following, by way of postscript:
'The news I wrote three days ago,
This day I learn is all untrue;
The British have not gain'd their ends,
The Senecas are still our friends:
Fort Franklin is in statu quo,
Nor dreads a white or yellow foe;
For Capt. DENNY finds he can go,
And I suppose is at Venango.
'Although t' extract the naked truth,
We put these traders on their oath;
Yet while they swear to what they say,
We find we're humm'd from day to day;
Hence, when I write to you again,
A second letter shall the first explain.'
In Animal Magnetism parlance, we 'will' the reader from off our
shoulder, and close the book. It is matter-full, however, and
peradventure we may open it yet again, anon.
MUSIC--MR. RUSSELL.--Our theatrical reporters have left us but
brief space wherein to reply to a correspondent of the Philadelphia
'_National Gazette_,' who, in a long communication bearing the
signature of 'HONESTUS,' censures the tone of our remarks in relation
to Mr. HENRY RUSSELL, the popular vocalist, and the peculiar style
of his performances. Both the writer alluded to, and the editor who
publishes and endorses his strictures, 'trust that the KNICKERBOCKER
will not maintain a dignified silence' under their remarks, since,
originating in a work supposed to be influential in leading public
opinion, the observations complained of 'have inflicted deep
injury on the profession of music, taking away incentive to honest
professional toil, close study, and real science,' by elevating a
false standard of musical excellence. The writer denies, in so many
words, that Mr. RUSSELL ever received the honors in Italy, to which
he lays claim; doubts his having been 'a pupil for three years under
ROSSINI,' or that he studied under GENERALI, MAYERBEER, and other
masters; affirms that 'The Brave Old Oak' is transposed, without
acknowledgment, from LODER, save a few trifling alterations for the
worse; that 'Some Love to Roam' does not bear the real composer's
name; and that five-sixths of the 'Treatise on Singing,' recently
issued, with Mr. RUSSELL's name as author, are plagiarized from a
work on singing by Rodolph, who has been dead these thirty years.
We depart for once from our uniform practice of silence, in
relation to newspaper comments upon articles which appear in the
KNICKERBOCKER, to correct one or two errors of the correspondent
in question. In regard to the honors received, and the studies
pursued by Mr. RUSSELL, 'Honestus' will perceive, by reference to
the article in our last number, that the entire paragraph touching
his personal and musical history, is quoted from an article in the
'New-York Mirror,' far more laudatory and elaborate than the one
which embodied it, as an extract. The _onus_, therefore, in so
far as these statements and the remarks which they elicited are
concerned, rests not with this Magazine. As to the remaining charges
of 'Honestus,' _if established_, we shall be found not less ready
than himself to counsel one capable of such deception, to lose no
time in bringing down his pretensions to the level of his talents;
and farther, commend him to a serious reflex upon the folly of a
course so unworthy of his reputation. In the mean time, however, let
it not be forgotten, that there are _two sides_ to this matter, and
that Mr. RUSSELL is extant, to reply for himself to these anonymous
accusations.[17]
The opinions we expressed of Mr. RUSSELL's singing, are entertained
by the great majority of those who have heard him; and our remarks
in regard to the musical _affectations_ of the day were not lightly
hazarded, nor did they fail, as we have good reason to know, to
strike an answering chord in the hearts of our readers. Italian
effeminacy, elaborate ornament, (often known in musical parlance
by the term 'difficult execution,') interpolated upon the simplest
airs, demanded reprehension. It was ridiculous _imitation_, pressed
by Fashion into the service, and was lamentably infectious, from the
_prima donna_, down to the tawdry damsels who flirt at the tail of a
chorus, and the piano-strumming miss, redolent of bread-and-butter.
It would have irked even Aristophanes, the quintessential, to have
heard, as we have heard, some such melody as 'John Anderson my Joe'
garnished with attenuated and circumfused skeletons or shades of
notes, in endless progression and recurrence, by your 'difficult
execution'-er, bent on wreaking all the tones of his voice upon a
single word. Bells jangled out of tune, and harsh, or 'the spheres
touched by a raw angel,' would have the advantage, in comparative
execrability, over such refined tinkerings of simple melody. It was
this misplaced ornament, (rendered for a period _fashionable_, by the
affected ecstasies of 'genteel' young men without brains, and small
travelled amateurs, who voted it 'the thing,') that we condemned, and
_not_ music, cultivated and improved by the great masters of the art.
LETTERS AND LIFE OF CHARLES LAMB.--There is at the 'Merchants'
Exchange' in this city, the model of a machine for re-pressing
cotton-bales. Would that some ingenious person would invent a similar
process, by which much of the matter of such a work as TALFOURD's
'Letters of CHARLES LAMB, with a Sketch of his Life'--now lying
damp before us, in all the luxury of London typography--could be
re-pressed into these pages, for the gratification of our readers! In
the absence, howbeit, of so desirable a power, we may present such
condensed portions as can be subdued 'by hand,' withal. The letters
in these volumes are connected by a 'thread of narrative,' which
evinces a kindred spirit between Lamb and his biographer. The author
of 'Ion' was an old and familiar friend of 'Elia's; hence he every
where exhibits a thorough knowledge of his character, not less than a
perfect appreciation of his originality of thought, the delicacy and
refinement of his taste, and the fascination of his language. These
familiar epistles set before us _the man_, as he lived, moved, and
acted. We have here, too, the first germs of those delicate children
of his brain, which have rarely been equalled, and never surpassed.
We see the sources whence sprang the dainty thought, the charming
image; and we may mark the daily creation and circumfusion of those
felicitous conceits with which the name of 'Elia' is inseparably
associated. What a reader was he; and how the ferreted beauties of
the old worthies 'slid into his soul!' Upon the fertile suggestions
of a creative, observant spirit, were inoculated and grafted the
rich treasures of the elder intellects. But as our associate, in
'Brotherly Love,' (in a double sense,) has, since the above was
penned, spoken elsewhere in this Magazine of these distinctive
endowments and graces, we forbear farther comment. '_Revenons à
Mouton._' Return we to LAMB:
As the volumes will hereafter be issued from the press of the
Brothers HARPER, we shall postpone a 'prepared report' upon them,
until another number; contenting ourselves, in the mean time, with a
few selections, in the perusal of which we have had especial delight.
The annexed--to plunge at once, _in medias res_, into the work--was
addressed to a friend who was about to depart for the East, being
haunted with the idea of oriental adventure:
"My dear friend, think what a sad pity it would be to bury
such _parts_ in heathen countries, among nasty, unconversable,
horse-belching, Tartar people! Some say, they are Cannibals;
and then, conceive a Tartar-fellow _eating_ my friend, and
adding the _cool malignity_ of mustard and vinegar! * * * The
Tartars, really, are a cold, insipid, smouchey set. You'll be
sadly moped (if you are not eaten) among them. Pray _try_, and
cure yourself. Take hellebore (the counsel is Horace's, 'twas
none of my thought _originally_.) Shave yourself oftener. Eat
no saffron, for saffron-eaters contract a terrible Tartar-like
yellow. Pray, to avoid the fiend. Eat nothing that gives the
heart-burn. _Shave the upper lip._ Go about like an European.
Read no books of voyages (they are nothing but lies,) only
now and then a romance, to keep the fancy under. Above all,
don't go to any sights of _wild beasts_. _That has been your
ruin._ Accustom yourself to write familiar letters, on common
subjects, to your friends in England, such as are of a moderate
understanding. And think about common things more. I supped
last night with Rickman, and met a merry _natural_ captain, who
pleases himself vastly with once having made a pun at Otaheite
in the O. language. 'Tis the same man who said Shakspeare he
liked, because he was _so much of the gentleman_. Rickman is a
man 'absolute in all numbers.' I think I may one day bring you
acquainted, if you do not go to Tartary first; for you'll never
come back. Have a care, my dear friend, of Anthropophagi! their
stomachs are always craving. 'Tis terrible to be weighed out at
five-pence a-pound. To sit at table (the reverse of fishes in
Holland,) not as a guest, but as a meat."
The attractions which a New-York 'May Day' would have had for one
whose horror of 'moving' is thus naturally accounted for, may be
readily conceived:
"What a dislocation of comfort is comprised in that word
moving! Such a heap of little nasty things, after you think all
is got into the cart; old dredging-boxes, worn-out brushes,
gallipots, vials, things that it is impossible the most
necessitous person can ever want, but which the women, who
preside on these occasions, will not leave behind, if it was
to save your soul; they'd keep the cart ten minutes to stow in
dirty pipes and broken matches, to show their economy. Then
you can find nothing you want for many days after you get into
your new lodgings. You must comb your hair with your fingers,
wash your hands without soap, go about in dirty gaiters. Was I
Diogenes, I would not move out of a kilderkin into a hogshead,
though the first had nothing but small beer in it, and the
second reeked claret. Our place of final destination--I don't
mean the grave, but No. 4, Inner Temple-lane--looks out upon a
gloomy church yard-like court, called Hare-court, with three
trees and a pump in it. Do you know it? I was born near it, and
used to drink at that pump when I was a Rechabite of six years
old."
A clever artist might readily transfer the following picture to
the canvass, though his imagination were naught. It describes the
misfortune of a 'cisled' fellow-clerk in the East India House, akin
to one whom he elsewhere mentions, as 'pouring down goblet after
goblet, the second to see where the first is gone, the third to see
no harm happens to the second, a fourth to say there is another
coming, and a fifth to say he is not sure he is the last:'
"The E. I. H. has been thrown into a quandary by the strange
phenomenon of poor ---- ---- whom I have known man and
madman twenty-seven years, he being elder here than myself
by nine years and more. He was always a pleasant, gossiping,
half-headed, muzzy, dozing, dreaming, walk-about, inoffensive
chap; a little too fond of the creature; who isn't at times?
but ---- had not brains to work off an over-night's surfeit
by ten o'clock next morning, and, unfortunately, in he
wandered the other morning, drunk with last night, and with a
superfoetation of drink taken in since he set out from bed.
He came staggering under his double burthen, like trees in
Java, bearing at once blossom, fruit, and falling fruit, as
I have heard you or some other traveller tell, with his face
literally as blue as the bluest firmament; some wretched calico
that he had moped his poor oozy front with had rendered up its
native dye, and the devil a bit would he consent to wash it,
but swore it was characteristic, for he was going to the sale
of indigo, and set up a laugh which I did not think the lungs
of mortal man were competent to. It was like a thousand people
laughing, or the Goblin Page. He imagined afterward that the
whole office had been laughing at him, so strange did his own
sounds strike upon his _non_sensorium. But ---- has laugh'd his
last laugh, and awoke the next day to find himself reduced from
an abused income of £600 per annum to one-sixth of the sum,
after thirty-six years' tolerably good service. The quality of
mercy was not strained in his behalf; the gentle dews dropped
not on him from heaven."
Lamb was a creature of ardent sympathies. His social affections were
as fresh and tender as those of childhood; and in the subjoined
extract from a letter to Wordsworth, these characteristics are
admirably portrayed:
"Deaths overset one, and put one out long after the
recent grief. Two or three have died within this last two
twelvemonths, and so many parts of me have been numbed. One
sees a picture, reads an anecdote, starts a casual fancy, and
thinks to tell of it to this person in preference to every
other: the person is gone whom it would have peculiarly suited.
It won't do for another. Every departure destroys a class of
sympathies. There's Capt. Burney gone! What fun has whist
now?--what matters it what you lead, if you can not fancy him
looking over you? One never hears any thing, but the image of
the particular person occurs with whom alone almost you would
care to share the intelligence: thus one distributes oneself
about--and now for so many parts of me I have lost the market.
Common natures do not suffice me. Good people, as they are
called, won't serve. I want individuals. I am made up of queer
points, and I want so many answering needles. The going away of
friend does not make the remainder more precious. It takes so
much from them as there was a common link. A. B. and C. make
a party. A. dies. B. not only loses A., but all A.'s part in
C. C. loses A.'s part in B., and so the alphabet sickens by
subtraction of interchangeables."
But gentle-spirited as he was, Lamb knew how to use the polished
weapon of satire. Witness his 'Letter to Southey,' and the following
keen sonnet upon the editor of the Quarterly Review. It is a revenge
for the severely-expressed 'distaste of a small though acute mind,
for an original power which it could not appreciate, and which
disturbed the conventional associations of which it was master.'
GIFFORD was originally a shoe-maker. The sonnet is entitled, 'SAINT
CRISPIN to Mr. GIFFORD,' and dated 'Saint Crispin's Eve':
"All unadvised, and in an evil hour,
Lured by aspiring thoughts, my son, you daft
The lowly labors of the 'Gentle Craft'
For learned toils, which blood and spirit sour.
All things, dear pledge, are not in all men's power;
The wiser sort of shrub affects the ground:
And sweet content of mind is oftener found
In cobbler's parlor, than in critic's bower.
The sorest work is what doth cross the grain;
And better to this hour you had been plying
Tho obsequious awl, with well-waxed finger flying,
Than ceaseless thus to till a thankless vein:
Still teasing muses, which are still denying;
Making a stretching-leather of your brain."
The annexed ludicrous account of a temporary indisposition, was
addressed to Bernard Barton, the well-known Quaker poet. It breathes
the very spirit of 'Elia:'