{*1} Ignoble souls!—De L’Omelette perished of an ortolan.
_L’histoire en est brève_. Assist me, Spirit of Apicius!
A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting,
indolent, to the _Chaussée D’Antin_, from its home in far Peru.
From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De
L’Omelette, six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird.
That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau
he reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his
loyalty in outbidding his king—the notorious ottoman of Cadêt.
He buries his face in the pillow. The clock strikes! Unable to
restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this
moment the door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo!
the most delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men!
But what inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of
the Duc?—“_Horreur!—chien! Baptiste!—l’oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet
oiseau modeste que tu as déshabillé de ses plumes, et que tu as
servi sans papier!_” It is superfluous to say more:—the Duc
expired in a paroxysm of disgust.
“Ha! ha! ha!” said his Grace on the third day after his decease.
“He! he! he!” replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with
an air of _hauteur_.
“Why, surely you are not serious,” retorted De L’Omelette. “I
have sinned—c’est vrai—but, my good sir, consider!—you have no
actual intention of putting such—such barbarous threats into
execution.”
“No _what?_” said his majesty—“come, sir, strip!”
“Strip, indeed! very pretty i’ faith! no, sir, I shall _not_
strip. Who are you, pray, that I, Duc De L’Omelette, Prince de
Foie-Gras, just come of age, author of the ‘Mazurkiad,’ and
Member of the Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of
the sweetest pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest
_robe-de-chambre_ ever put together by Rombêrt—to say nothing of
the taking my hair out of paper—not to mention the trouble I
should have in drawing off my gloves?”
“Who am I?—ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took
thee, just now, from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou
wast curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent
thee,—my Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou
sayest were made by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen
drawers, and thy _robe-de-chambre_ is a shroud of no scanty
dimensions.”
“Sir!” replied the Duc, “I am not to be insulted with
impunity!—Sir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging
this insult!—Sir! you shall hear from me! in the meantime _au
revoir!_”—and the Duc was bowing himself out of the Satanic
presence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman
in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged
his shoulders, reflected. Having become satisfied of his
identity, he took a bird’s eye view of his whereabouts.
The apartment was superb. Even De L’Omelette pronounced it _bien
comme il faut_. It was not its length nor its breadth,—but its
height—ah, that was appalling!—There was no ceiling—certainly
none—but a dense whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His
Grace’s brain reeled as he glanced upward. From above, hung a
chain of an unknown blood-red metal—its upper end lost, like the
city of Boston, _parmi les nues_. From its nether extremity swung
a large cresset. The Duc knew it to be a ruby; but from it there
poured a light so intense, so still, so terrible, Persia never
worshipped such—Gheber never imagined such—Mussulman never
dreamed of such when, drugged with opium, he has tottered to a
bed of poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face to the God
Apollo. The Duc muttered a slight oath, decidedly approbatory.
The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these
were filled with statues of gigantic proportions. Their beauty
was Grecian, their deformity Egyptian, their _tout ensemble_
French. In the fourth niche the statue was veiled; it was _not_
colossal. But then there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De
L’Omelette pressed his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes,
raised them, and caught his Satanic Majesty—in a blush.
But the paintings!—Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth!—a thousand and the
same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here,
for did he not paint the—? and was he not consequently damned?
The paintings—the paintings! O luxury! O love!—who, gazing on
those forbidden beauties, shall have eyes for the dainty devices
of the golden frames that besprinkled, like stars, the hyacinth
and the porphyry walls?
But the Duc’s heart is fainting within him. He is not, however,
as you suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the
ecstatic breath of those innumerable censers. _C’est vrai que de
toutes ces choses il a pensé beaucoup—mais!_ The Duc De
L’Omelette is terror-stricken; for, through the lurid vista which
a single uncurtained window is affording, lo! gleams the most
ghastly of all fires!
_Le pauvre Duc!_ He could not help imagining that the glorious,
the voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that
hall, as they passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy
of the enchanted window-panes, were the wailings and the howlings
of the hopeless and the damned! And there, too!—there!—upon the
ottoman!—who could _he_ be?—he, the _petitmaître_—no, the
Deity—who sat as if carved in marble, _et qui sourit_, with his
pale countenance, _si amèrement?_
_Mais il faut agir_—that is to say, a Frenchman never faints
outright. Besides, his Grace hated a scene—De L’Omelette is
himself again. There were some foils upon a table—some points
also. The Duc had studied under B——; _il avait tué ses six
hommes._ Now, then, _il peut s’échapper_. He measures two points,
and, with a grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice.
_Horreur!_ his Majesty does not fence!
_Mais il joue!_—how happy a thought!—but his Grace had always an
excellent memory. He had dipped in the “_Diable_” of Abbé
Gualtier. Therein it is said “_que le Diable n’ose pas refuser un
jeu d’écarté._”
But the chances—the chances! True—desperate: but scarcely more
desperate than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the secret?—had he
not skimmed over Père Le Brun?—was he not a member of the Club
Vingt-un? “_Si je perds_,” said he, “_je serai deux fois perdu_—I
shall be doubly damned—_voilà tout!_ (Here his Grace shrugged his
shoulders.) _Si je gagne, je reviendrai a mes ortolans—que les
cartes soient préparées!_”
His Grace was all care, all attention—his Majesty all confidence.
A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace
thought of his game. His Majesty did not think; he shuffled. The
Duc cut.
The cards were dealt. The trump is turned—it is—it is—the king!
No—it was the queen. His Majesty cursed her masculine
habiliments. De L’Omelette placed his hand upon his heart.
They play. The Duc counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts
heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card.
“_C’est à vous à faire_,” said his Majesty, cutting. His Grace
bowed, dealt, and arose from the table _en presentant le Roi_.
His Majesty looked chagrined.
Had Alexander not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes;
and the Duc assured his antagonist in taking leave, “_que s’il
n’eût été De L’Omelette il n’aurait point d’objection d’être le
Diable._”
THE OBLONG BOX.
Some years ago, I engaged passage from Charleston, S. C., to the
city of New York, in the fine packet-ship “Independence,” Captain
Hardy. We were to sail on the fifteenth of the month (June),
weather permitting; and on the fourteenth, I went on board to
arrange some matters in my state-room.
I found that we were to have a great many passengers, including a
more than usual number of ladies. On the list were several of my
acquaintances, and among other names, I was rejoiced to see that
of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young artist, for whom I entertained
feelings of warm friendship. He had been with me a fellow-student
at C—— University, where we were very much together. He had the
ordinary temperament of genius, and was a compound of
misanthropy, sensibility, and enthusiasm. To these qualities he
united the warmest and truest heart which ever beat in a human
bosom.
I observed that his name was carded upon three state-rooms; and,
upon again referring to the list of passengers, I found that he
had engaged passage for himself, wife, and two sisters—his own.
The state-rooms were sufficiently roomy, and each had two berths,
one above the other. These berths, to be sure, were so
exceedingly narrow as to be insufficient for more than one
person; still, I could not comprehend why there were three
state-rooms for these four persons. I was, just at that epoch, in
one of those moody frames of mind which make a man abnormally
inquisitive about trifles: and I confess, with shame, that I
busied myself in a variety of ill-bred and preposterous
conjectures about this matter of the supernumerary state-room. It
was no business of mine, to be sure, but with none the less
pertinacity did I occupy myself in attempts to resolve the
enigma. At last I reached a conclusion which wrought in me great
wonder why I had not arrived at it before. “It is a servant of
course,” I said; “what a fool I am, not sooner to have thought of
so obvious a solution!” And then I again repaired to the list—but
here I saw distinctly that no servant was to come with the party,
although, in fact, it had been the original design to bring
one—for the words “and servant” had been first written and then
overscored. “Oh, extra baggage, to be sure,” I now said to
myself—“something he wishes not to be put in the hold—something
to be kept under his own eye—ah, I have it—a painting or so—and
this is what he has been bargaining about with Nicolino, the
Italian Jew.” This idea satisfied me, and I dismissed my
curiosity for the nonce.
Wyatt’s two sisters I knew very well, and most amiable and clever
girls they were. His wife he had newly married, and I had never
yet seen her. He had often talked about her in my presence,
however, and in his usual style of enthusiasm. He described her
as of surpassing beauty, wit, and accomplishment. I was,
therefore, quite anxious to make her acquaintance.
On the day in which I visited the ship (the fourteenth), Wyatt
and party were also to visit it—so the captain informed me—and I
waited on board an hour longer than I had designed, in hope of
being presented to the bride, but then an apology came. “Mrs. W.
was a little indisposed, and would decline coming on board until
to-morrow, at the hour of sailing.”
The morrow having arrived, I was going from my hotel to the
wharf, when Captain Hardy met me and said that, “owing to
circumstances” (a stupid but convenient phrase), “he rather
thought the ‘Independence’ would not sail for a day or two, and
that when all was ready, he would send up and let me know.” This
I thought strange, for there was a stiff southerly breeze; but as
“the circumstances” were not forthcoming, although I pumped for
them with much perseverance, I had nothing to do but to return
home and digest my impatience at leisure.
I did not receive the expected message from the captain for
nearly a week. It came at length, however, and I immediately went
on board. The ship was crowded with passengers, and every thing
was in the bustle attendant upon making sail. Wyatt’s party
arrived in about ten minutes after myself. There were the two
sisters, the bride, and the artist—the latter in one of his
customary fits of moody misanthropy. I was too well used to
these, however, to pay them any special attention. He did not
even introduce me to his wife—this courtesy devolving, per force,
upon his sister Marian—a very sweet and intelligent girl, who, in
a few hurried words, made us acquainted.
Mrs. Wyatt had been closely veiled; and when she raised her veil,
in acknowledging my bow, I confess that I was very profoundly
astonished. I should have been much more so, however, had not
long experience advised me not to trust, with too implicit a
reliance, the enthusiastic descriptions of my friend, the artist,
when indulging in comments upon the loveliness of woman. When
beauty was the theme, I well knew with what facility he soared
into the regions of the purely ideal.
The truth is, I could not help regarding Mrs. Wyatt as a
decidedly plain-looking woman. If not positively ugly, she was
not, I think, very far from it. She was dressed, however, in
exquisite taste—and then I had no doubt that she had captivated
my friend’s heart by the more enduring graces of the intellect
and soul. She said very few words, and passed at once into her
state-room with Mr. W.
My old inquisitiveness now returned. There was no servant—that
was a settled point. I looked, therefore, for the extra baggage.
After some delay, a cart arrived at the wharf, with an oblong
pine box, which was every thing that seemed to be expected.
Immediately upon its arrival we made sail, and in a short time
were safely over the bar and standing out to sea.
The box in question was, as I say, oblong. It was about six feet
in length by two and a half in breadth; I observed it
attentively, and like to be precise. Now this shape was peculiar;
and no sooner had I seen it, than I took credit to myself for the
accuracy of my guessing. I had reached the conclusion, it will be
remembered, that the extra baggage of my friend, the artist,
would prove to be pictures, or at least a picture; for I knew he
had been for several weeks in conference with Nicolino:—and now
here was a box, which, from its shape, could possibly contain
nothing in the world but a copy of Leonardo’s “Last Supper;” and
a copy of this very “Last Supper,” done by Rubini the younger, at
Florence, I had known, for some time, to be in the possession of
Nicolino. This point, therefore, I considered as sufficiently
settled. I chuckled excessively when I thought of my acumen. It
was the first time I had ever known Wyatt to keep from me any of
his artistical secrets; but here he evidently intended to steal a
march upon me, and smuggle a fine picture to New York, under my
very nose; expecting me to know nothing of the matter. I resolved
to quiz him well, now and hereafter.
One thing, however, annoyed me not a little. The box did not go
into the extra state-room. It was deposited in Wyatt’s own; and
there, too, it remained, occupying very nearly the whole of the
floor—no doubt to the exceeding discomfort of the artist and his
wife;—this the more especially as the tar or paint with which it
was lettered in sprawling capitals, emitted a strong,
disagreeable, and, to my fancy, a peculiarly disgusting odor. On
the lid were painted the words—“Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, Albany, New
York. Charge of Cornelius Wyatt, Esq. This side up. To be handled
with care.”
Now, I was aware that Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, of Albany, was the
artist’s wife’s mother,—but then I looked upon the whole address
as a mystification, intended especially for myself. I made up my
mind, of course, that the box and contents would never get
farther north than the studio of my misanthropic friend, in
Chambers Street, New York.
For the first three or four days we had fine weather, although
the wind was dead ahead; having chopped round to the northward,
immediately upon our losing sight of the coast. The passengers
were, consequently, in high spirits and disposed to be social. I
must except, however, Wyatt and his sisters, who behaved stiffly,
and, I could not help thinking, uncourteously to the rest of the
party. Wyatt’s conduct I did not so much regard. He was gloomy,
even beyond his usual habit—in fact he was morose—but in him I
was prepared for eccentricity. For the sisters, however, I could
make no excuse. They secluded themselves in their staterooms
during the greater part of the passage, and absolutely refused,
although I repeatedly urged them, to hold communication with any
person on board.
Mrs. Wyatt herself was far more agreeable. That is to say, she
was chatty; and to be chatty is no slight recommendation at sea.
She became excessively intimate with most of the ladies; and, to
my profound astonishment, evinced no equivocal disposition to
coquet with the men. She amused us all very much. I say
“amused”—and scarcely know how to explain myself. The truth is, I
soon found that Mrs. W. was far oftener laughed at than with. The
gentlemen said little about her; but the ladies, in a little
while, pronounced her “a good-hearted thing, rather indifferent
looking, totally uneducated, and decidedly vulgar.” The great
wonder was, how Wyatt had been entrapped into such a match.
Wealth was the general solution—but this I knew to be no solution
at all; for Wyatt had told me that she neither brought him a
dollar nor had any expectations from any source whatever. “He had
married,” he said, “for love, and for love only; and his bride
was far more than worthy of his love.” When I thought of these
expressions, on the part of my friend, I confess that I felt
indescribably puzzled. Could it be possible that he was taking
leave of his senses? What else could I think? He, so refined, so
intellectual, so fastidious, with so exquisite a perception of
the faulty, and so keen an appreciation of the beautiful! To be
sure, the lady seemed especially fond of him—particularly so in
his absence—when she made herself ridiculous by frequent
quotations of what had been said by her “beloved husband, Mr.
Wyatt.” The word “husband” seemed forever—to use one of her own
delicate expressions—forever “on the tip of her tongue.” In the
meantime, it was observed by all on board, that he avoided her in
the most pointed manner, and, for the most part, shut himself up
alone in his state-room, where, in fact, he might have been said
to live altogether, leaving his wife at full liberty to amuse
herself as she thought best, in the public society of the main
cabin.
My conclusion, from what I saw and heard, was, that, the artist,
by some unaccountable freak of fate, or perhaps in some fit of
enthusiastic and fanciful passion, had been induced to unite
himself with a person altogether beneath him, and that the
natural result, entire and speedy disgust, had ensued. I pitied
him from the bottom of my heart—but could not, for that reason,
quite forgive his incommunicativeness in the matter of the “Last
Supper.” For this I resolved to have my revenge.
One day he came upon deck, and, taking his arm as had been my
wont, I sauntered with him backward and forward. His gloom,
however (which I considered quite natural under the
circumstances), seemed entirely unabated. He said little, and
that moodily, and with evident effort. I ventured a jest or two,
and he made a sickening attempt at a smile. Poor fellow!—as I
thought of his wife, I wondered that he could have heart to put
on even the semblance of mirth. I determined to commence a series
of covert insinuations, or innuendoes, about the oblong box—just
to let him perceive, gradually, that I was not altogether the
butt, or victim, of his little bit of pleasant mystification. My
first observation was by way of opening a masked battery. I said
something about the “peculiar shape of _that_ box”; and, as I
spoke the words, I smiled knowingly, winked, and touched him
gently with my forefinger in the ribs.
The manner in which Wyatt received this harmless pleasantry
convinced me, at once, that he was mad. At first he stared at me
as if he found it impossible to comprehend the witticism of my
remark; but as its point seemed slowly to make its way into his
brain, his eyes, in the same proportion, seemed protruding from
their sockets. Then he grew very red—then hideously pale—then, as
if highly amused with what I had insinuated, he began a loud and
boisterous laugh, which, to my astonishment, he kept up, with
gradually increasing vigor, for ten minutes or more. In
conclusion, he fell flat and heavily upon the deck. When I ran to
uplift him, to all appearance he was dead.
I called assistance, and, with much difficulty, we brought him to
himself. Upon reviving he spoke incoherently for some time. At
length we bled him and put him to bed. The next morning he was
quite recovered, so far as regarded his mere bodily health. Of
his mind I say nothing, of course. I avoided him during the rest
of the passage, by advice of the captain, who seemed to coincide
with me altogether in my views of his insanity, but cautioned me
to say nothing on this head to any person on board.
Several circumstances occurred immediately after this fit of
Wyatt which contributed to heighten the curiosity with which I
was already possessed. Among other things, this: I had been
nervous—drank too much strong green tea, and slept ill at
night—in fact, for two nights I could not be properly said to
sleep at all. Now, my state-room opened into the main cabin, or
dining-room, as did those of all the single men on board. Wyatt’s
three rooms were in the after-cabin, which was separated from the
main one by a slight sliding door, never locked even at night. As
we were almost constantly on a wind, and the breeze was not a
little stiff, the ship heeled to leeward very considerably; and
whenever her starboard side was to leeward, the sliding door
between the cabins slid open, and so remained, nobody taking the
trouble to get up and shut it. But my berth was in such a
position, that when my own state-room door was open, as well as
the sliding door in question (and my own door was always open on
account of the heat,) I could see into the after-cabin quite
distinctly, and just at that portion of it, too, where were
situated the state-rooms of Mr. Wyatt. Well, during two nights
(not consecutive) while I lay awake, I clearly saw Mrs. W., about
eleven o’clock upon each night, steal cautiously from the
state-room of Mr. W., and enter the extra room, where she
remained until daybreak, when she was called by her husband and
went back. That they were virtually separated was clear. They had
separate apartments—no doubt in contemplation of a more permanent
divorce; and here, after all I thought was the mystery of the
extra state-room.
There was another circumstance, too, which interested me much.
During the two wakeful nights in question, and immediately after
the disappearance of Mrs. Wyatt into the extra state-room, I was
attracted by certain singular cautious, subdued noises in that of
her husband. After listening to them for some time, with
thoughtful attention, I at length succeeded perfectly in
translating their import. They were sounds occasioned by the
artist in prying open the oblong box, by means of a chisel and
mallet—the latter being apparently muffled, or deadened, by some
soft woollen or cotton substance in which its head was enveloped.
In this manner I fancied I could distinguish the precise moment
when he fairly disengaged the lid—also, that I could determine
when he removed it altogether, and when he deposited it upon the
lower berth in his room; this latter point I knew, for example,
by certain slight taps which the lid made in striking against the
wooden edges of the berth, as he endeavored to lay it down very
gently—there being no room for it on the floor. After this there
was a dead stillness, and I heard nothing more, upon either
occasion, until nearly daybreak; unless, perhaps, I may mention a
low sobbing, or murmuring sound, so very much suppressed as to be
nearly inaudible—if, indeed, the whole of this latter noise were
not rather produced by my own imagination. I say it seemed to
resemble sobbing or sighing—but, of course, it could not have
been either. I rather think it was a ringing in my own ears. Mr.
Wyatt, no doubt, according to custom, was merely giving the rein
to one of his hobbies—indulging in one of his fits of artistic
enthusiasm. He had opened his oblong box, in order to feast his
eyes on the pictorial treasure within. There was nothing in this,
however, to make him sob. I repeat, therefore, that it must have
been simply a freak of my own fancy, distempered by good Captain
Hardy’s green tea. Just before dawn, on each of the two nights of
which I speak, I distinctly heard Mr. Wyatt replace the lid upon
the oblong box, and force the nails into their old places by
means of the muffled mallet. Having done this, he issued from his
state-room, fully dressed, and proceeded to call Mrs. W. from
hers.
We had been at sea seven days, and were now off Cape Hatteras,
when there came a tremendously heavy blow from the southwest. We
were, in a measure, prepared for it, however, as the weather had
been holding out threats for some time. Every thing was made
snug, alow and aloft; and as the wind steadily freshened, we lay
to, at length, under spanker and foretopsail, both double-reefed.
In this trim we rode safely enough for forty-eight hours—the ship
proving herself an excellent sea-boat in many respects, and
shipping no water of any consequence. At the end of this period,
however, the gale had freshened into a hurricane, and our
after-sail split into ribbons, bringing us so much in the trough
of the water that we shipped several prodigious seas, one
immediately after the other. By this accident we lost three men
overboard with the caboose, and nearly the whole of the larboard
bulwarks. Scarcely had we recovered our senses, before the
foretopsail went into shreds, when we got up a storm stay-sail
and with this did pretty well for some hours, the ship heading
the sea much more steadily than before.
The gale still held on, however, and we saw no signs of its
abating. The rigging was found to be ill-fitted, and greatly
strained; and on the third day of the blow, about five in the
afternoon, our mizzen-mast, in a heavy lurch to windward, went by
the board. For an hour or more, we tried in vain to get rid of
it, on account of the prodigious rolling of the ship; and, before
we had succeeded, the carpenter came aft and announced four feet
of water in the hold. To add to our dilemma, we found the pumps
choked and nearly useless.
All was now confusion and despair—but an effort was made to
lighten the ship by throwing overboard as much of her cargo as
could be reached, and by cutting away the two masts that
remained. This we at last accomplished—but we were still unable
to do any thing at the pumps; and, in the meantime, the leak
gained on us very fast.
At sundown, the gale had sensibly diminished in violence, and as
the sea went down with it, we still entertained faint hopes of
saving ourselves in the boats. At eight P. M., the clouds broke
away to windward, and we had the advantage of a full moon—a piece
of good fortune which served wonderfully to cheer our drooping
spirits.
After incredible labor we succeeded, at length, in getting the
longboat over the side without material accident, and into this
we crowded the whole of the crew and most of the passengers. This
party made off immediately, and, after undergoing much suffering,
finally arrived, in safety, at Ocracoke Inlet, on the third day
after the wreck.
Fourteen passengers, with the captain, remained on board,
resolving to trust their fortunes to the jolly-boat at the stern.
We lowered it without difficulty, although it was only by a
miracle that we prevented it from swamping as it touched the
water. It contained, when afloat, the captain and his wife, Mr.
Wyatt and party, a Mexican officer, wife, four children, and
myself, with a negro valet.
We had no room, of course, for any thing except a few positively
necessary instruments, some provisions, and the clothes upon our
backs. No one had thought of even attempting to save any thing
more. What must have been the astonishment of all, then, when
having proceeded a few fathoms from the ship, Mr. Wyatt stood up
in the stern-sheets, and coolly demanded of Captain Hardy that
the boat should be put back for the purpose of taking in his
oblong box!
“Sit down, Mr. Wyatt,” replied the captain, somewhat sternly,
“you will capsize us if you do not sit quite still. Our gunwhale
is almost in the water now.”
“The box!” vociferated Mr. Wyatt, still standing—“the box, I say!
Captain Hardy, you cannot, you will not refuse me. Its weight
will be but a trifle—it is nothing—mere nothing. By the mother
who bore you—for the love of Heaven—by your hope of salvation, I
implore you to put back for the box!”
The captain, for a moment, seemed touched by the earnest appeal
of the artist, but he regained his stern composure, and merely
said:
“Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot listen to you. Sit down, I say,
or you will swamp the boat. Stay—hold him—seize him!—he is about
to spring overboard! There—I knew it—he is over!”
As the captain said this, Mr. Wyatt, in fact, sprang from the
boat, and, as we were yet in the lee of the wreck, succeeded, by
almost superhuman exertion, in getting hold of a rope which hung
from the fore-chains. In another moment he was on board, and
rushing frantically down into the cabin.
In the meantime, we had been swept astern of the ship, and being
quite out of her lee, were at the mercy of the tremendous sea
which was still running. We made a determined effort to put back,
but our little boat was like a feather in the breath of the
tempest. We saw at a glance that the doom of the unfortunate
artist was sealed.
As our distance from the wreck rapidly increased, the madman (for
as such only could we regard him) was seen to emerge from the
companion—way, up which by dint of strength that appeared
gigantic, he dragged, bodily, the oblong box. While we gazed in
the extremity of astonishment, he passed, rapidly, several turns
of a three-inch rope, first around the box and then around his
body. In another instant both body and box were in the
sea—disappearing suddenly, at once and forever.
We lingered awhile sadly upon our oars, with our eyes riveted
upon the spot. At length we pulled away. The silence remained
unbroken for an hour. Finally, I hazarded a remark.
“Did you observe, captain, how suddenly they sank? Was not that
an exceedingly singular thing? I confess that I entertained some
feeble hope of his final deliverance, when I saw him lash himself
to the box, and commit himself to the sea.”
“They sank as a matter of course,” replied the captain, “and that
like a shot. They will soon rise again, however—but not till the
salt melts.”
“The salt!” I ejaculated.
“Hush!” said the captain, pointing to the wife and sisters of the
deceased. “We must talk of these things at some more appropriate
time.”
We suffered much, and made a narrow escape; but fortune
befriended us, as well as our mates in the long-boat. We landed,
in fine, more dead than alive, after four days of intense
distress, upon the beach opposite Roanoke Island. We remained
here a week, were not ill-treated by the wreckers, and at length
obtained a passage to New York.
About a month after the loss of the “Independence,” I happened to
meet Captain Hardy in Broadway. Our conversation turned,
naturally, upon the disaster, and especially upon the sad fate of
poor Wyatt. I thus learned the following particulars.
The artist had engaged passage for himself, wife, two sisters and
a servant. His wife was, indeed, as she had been represented, a
most lovely, and most accomplished woman. On the morning of the
fourteenth of June (the day in which I first visited the ship),
the lady suddenly sickened and died. The young husband was
frantic with grief—but circumstances imperatively forbade the
deferring his voyage to New York. It was necessary to take to her
mother the corpse of his adored wife, and, on the other hand, the
universal prejudice which would prevent his doing so openly was
well known. Nine-tenths of the passengers would have abandoned
the ship rather than take passage with a dead body.
In this dilemma, Captain Hardy arranged that the corpse, being
first partially embalmed, and packed, with a large quantity of
salt, in a box of suitable dimensions, should be conveyed on
board as merchandise. Nothing was to be said of the lady’s
decease; and, as it was well understood that Mr. Wyatt had
engaged passage for his wife, it became necessary that some
person should personate her during the voyage. This the deceased
lady’s-maid was easily prevailed on to do. The extra state-room,
originally engaged for this girl during her mistress’ life, was
now merely retained. In this state-room the pseudo-wife, slept,
of course, every night. In the daytime she performed, to the best
of her ability, the part of her mistress—whose person, it had
been carefully ascertained, was unknown to any of the passengers
on board.
My own mistake arose, naturally enough, through too careless, too
inquisitive, and too impulsive a temperament. But of late, it is
a rare thing that I sleep soundly at night. There is a
countenance which haunts me, turn as I will. There is an
hysterical laugh which will forever ring within my ears.
LOSS OF BREATH
O breathe not, etc.
—Moore’s _Melodies_
The most notorious ill-fortune must in the end yield to the
untiring courage of philosophy—as the most stubborn city to the
ceaseless vigilance of an enemy. Shalmanezer, as we have it in
holy writings, lay three years before Samaria; yet it fell.
Sardanapalus—see Diodorus—maintained himself seven in Nineveh;
but to no purpose. Troy expired at the close of the second
lustrum; and Azoth, as Aristaeus declares upon his honour as a
gentleman, opened at last her gates to Psammetichus, after having
barred them for the fifth part of a century....
“Thou wretch!—thou vixen!—thou shrew!” said I to my wife on the
morning after our wedding; “thou witch!—thou hag!—thou
whippersnapper—thou sink of iniquity!—thou fiery-faced
quintessence of all that is abominable!—thou—thou—” here standing
upon tiptoe, seizing her by the throat, and placing my mouth
close to her ear, I was preparing to launch forth a new and more
decided epithet of opprobrium, which should not fail, if
ejaculated, to convince her of her insignificance, when to my
extreme horror and astonishment I discovered that I had lost my
breath.
The phrases “I am out of breath,” “I have lost my breath,” etc.,
are often enough repeated in common conversation; but it had
never occurred to me that the terrible accident of which I speak
could _bona fide_ and actually happen! Imagine—that is if you
have a fanciful turn—imagine, I say, my wonder—my
consternation—my despair!
There is a good genius, however, which has never entirely
deserted me. In my most ungovernable moods I still retain a sense
of propriety, _et le chemin des passions me conduit_—as Lord
Edouard in the “Julie” says it did him—_à la philosophie
véritable_.
Although I could not at first precisely ascertain to what degree
the occurrence had affected me, I determined at all events to
conceal the matter from my wife, until further experience should
discover to me the extent of this my unheard of calamity.
Altering my countenance, therefore, in a moment, from its
bepuffed and distorted appearance, to an expression of arch and
coquettish benignity, I gave my lady a pat on the one cheek, and
a kiss on the other, and without saying one syllable (Furies! I
could not), left her astonished at my drollery, as I pirouetted
out of the room in a _pas de zephyr_.
Behold me then safely ensconced in my private boudoir, a fearful
instance of the ill consequences attending upon
irascibility—alive, with the qualifications of the dead—dead,
with the propensities of the living—an anomaly on the face of the
earth—being very calm, yet breathless.
Yes! breathless. I am serious in asserting that my breath was
entirely gone. I could not have stirred with it a feather if my
life had been at issue, or sullied even the delicacy of a mirror.
Hard fate!—yet there was some alleviation to the first
overwhelming paroxysm of my sorrow. I found, upon trial, that the
powers of utterance which, upon my inability to proceed in the
conversation with my wife, I then concluded to be totally
destroyed, were in fact only partially impeded, and I discovered
that had I, at that interesting crisis, dropped my voice to a
singularly deep guttural, I might still have continued to her the
communication of my sentiments; this pitch of voice (the
guttural) depending, I find, not upon the current of the breath,
but upon a certain spasmodic action of the muscles of the throat.
Throwing myself upon a chair, I remained for some time absorbed
in meditation. My reflections, be sure, were of no consolatory
kind. A thousand vague and lachrymatory fancies took possession
of my soul—and even the idea of suicide flitted across my brain;
but it is a trait in the perversity of human nature to reject the
obvious and the ready, for the far-distant and equivocal. Thus I
shuddered at self-murder as the most decided of atrocities while
the tabby cat purred strenuously upon the rug, and the very
water-dog wheezed assiduously under the table, each taking to
itself much merit for the strength of its lungs, and all
obviously done in derision of my own pulmonary incapacity.
Oppressed with a tumult of vague hopes and fears, I at length
heard the footsteps of my wife descending the staircase. Being
now assured of her absence, I returned with a palpitating heart
to the scene of my disaster.
Carefully locking the door on the inside, I commenced a vigorous
search. It was possible, I thought, that, concealed in some
obscure corner, or lurking in some closet or drawer, might be
found the lost object of my inquiry. It might have a vapory—it
might even have a tangible form. Most philosophers, upon many
points of philosophy, are still very unphilosophical. William
Godwin, however, says in his “Mandeville,” that “invisible things
are the only realities,” and this, all will allow, is a case in
point. I would have the judicious reader pause before accusing
such asseverations of an undue quantum of absurdity. Anaxagoras,
it will be remembered, maintained that snow is black, and this I
have since found to be the case.
Long and earnestly did I continue the investigation: but the
contemptible reward of my industry and perseverance proved to be
only a set of false teeth, two pair of hips, an eye, and a bundle
of billets-doux from Mr. Windenough to my wife. I might as well
here observe that this confirmation of my lady’s partiality for
Mr. W. occasioned me little uneasiness. That Mrs. Lackobreath
should admire anything so dissimilar to myself was a natural and
necessary evil. I am, it is well known, of a robust and corpulent
appearance, and at the same time somewhat diminutive in stature.
What wonder, then, that the lath-like tenuity of my acquaintance,
and his altitude, which has grown into a proverb, should have met
with all due estimation in the eyes of Mrs. Lackobreath. But to
return.
My exertions, as I have before said, proved fruitless. Closet
after closet—drawer after drawer—corner after corner—were
scrutinized to no purpose. At one time, however, I thought myself
sure of my prize, having, in rummaging a dressing-case,
accidentally demolished a bottle of Grandjean’s Oil of
Archangels—which, as an agreeable perfume, I here take the
liberty of recommending.
With a heavy heart I returned to my boudoir—there to ponder upon
some method of eluding my wife’s penetration, until I could make
arrangements prior to my leaving the country, for to this I had
already made up my mind. In a foreign climate, being unknown, I
might, with some probability of success, endeavor to conceal my
unhappy calamity—a calamity calculated, even more than beggary,
to estrange the affections of the multitude, and to draw down
upon the wretch the well-merited indignation of the virtuous and
the happy. I was not long in hesitation. Being naturally quick, I
committed to memory the entire tragedy of “Metamora.” I had the
good fortune to recollect that in the accentuation of this drama,
or at least of such portion of it as is allotted to the hero, the
tones of voice in which I found myself deficient were altogether
unnecessary, and the deep guttural was expected to reign
monotonously throughout.
I practised for some time by the borders of a well frequented
marsh;—herein, however, having no reference to a similar
proceeding of Demosthenes, but from a design peculiarly and
conscientiously my own. Thus armed at all points, I determined to
make my wife believe that I was suddenly smitten with a passion
for the stage. In this, I succeeded to a miracle; and to every
question or suggestion found myself at liberty to reply in my
most frog-like and sepulchral tones with some passage from the
tragedy—any portion of which, as I soon took great pleasure in
observing, would apply equally well to any particular subject. It
is not to be supposed, however, that in the delivery of such
passages I was found at all deficient in the looking asquint—the
showing my teeth—the working my knees—the shuffling my feet—or in
any of those unmentionable graces which are now justly considered
the characteristics of a popular performer. To be sure they spoke
of confining me in a strait-jacket—but, good God! they never
suspected me of having lost my breath.
Having at length put my affairs in order, I took my seat very
early one morning in the mail stage for ——, giving it to be
understood, among my acquaintances, that business of the last
importance required my immediate personal attendance in that
city.
The coach was crammed to repletion; but in the uncertain twilight
the features of my companions could not be distinguished. Without
making any effectual resistance, I suffered myself to be placed
between two gentlemen of colossal dimensions; while a third, of a
size larger, requesting pardon for the liberty he was about to
take, threw himself upon my body at full length, and falling
asleep in an instant, drowned all my guttural ejaculations for
relief, in a snore which would have put to blush the roarings of
the bull of Phalaris. Happily the state of my respiratory
faculties rendered suffocation an accident entirely out of the
question.
As, however, the day broke more distinctly in our approach to the
outskirts of the city, my tormentor, arising and adjusting his
shirt-collar, thanked me in a very friendly manner for my
civility. Seeing that I remained motionless (all my limbs were
dislocated and my head twisted on one side), his apprehensions
began to be excited; and arousing the rest of the passengers, he
communicated, in a very decided manner, his opinion that a dead
man had been palmed upon them during the night for a living and
responsible fellow-traveller; here giving me a thump on the right
eye, by way of demonstrating the truth of his suggestion.
Hereupon all, one after another (there were nine in company),
believed it their duty to pull me by the ear. A young practising
physician, too, having applied a pocket-mirror to my mouth, and
found me without breath, the assertion of my persecutor was
pronounced a true bill; and the whole party expressed a
determination to endure tamely no such impositions for the
future, and to proceed no farther with any such carcasses for the
present.
I was here, accordingly, thrown out at the sign of the “Crow” (by
which tavern the coach happened to be passing), without meeting
with any farther accident than the breaking of both my arms,
under the left hind wheel of the vehicle. I must besides do the
driver the justice to state that he did not forget to throw after
me the largest of my trunks, which, unfortunately falling on my
head, fractured my skull in a manner at once interesting and
extraordinary.
The landlord of the “Crow,” who is a hospitable man, finding that
my trunk contained sufficient to indemnify him for any little
trouble he might take in my behalf, sent forthwith for a surgeon
of his acquaintance, and delivered me to his care with a bill and
receipt for ten dollars.
The purchaser took me to his apartments and commenced operations
immediately. Having cut off my ears, however, he discovered signs
of animation. He now rang the bell, and sent for a neighboring
apothecary with whom to consult in the emergency. In case of his
suspicions with regard to my existence proving ultimately
correct, he, in the meantime, made an incision in my stomach, and
removed several of my viscera for private dissection.
The apothecary had an idea that I was actually dead. This idea I
endeavored to confute, kicking and plunging with all my might,
and making the most furious contortions—for the operations of the
surgeon had, in a measure, restored me to the possession of my
faculties. All, however, was attributed to the effects of a new
galvanic battery, wherewith the apothecary, who is really a man
of information, performed several curious experiments, in which,
from my personal share in their fulfillment, I could not help
feeling deeply interested. It was a course of mortification to
me, nevertheless, that although I made several attempts at
conversation, my powers of speech were so entirely in abeyance,
that I could not even open my mouth; much less, then, make reply
to some ingenious but fanciful theories of which, under other
circumstances, my minute acquaintance with the Hippocratian
pathology would have afforded me a ready confutation.
Not being able to arrive at a conclusion, the practitioners
remanded me for farther examination. I was taken up into a
garret; and the surgeon’s lady having accommodated me with
drawers and stockings, the surgeon himself fastened my hands, and
tied up my jaws with a pocket-handkerchief—then bolted the door
on the outside as he hurried to his dinner, leaving me alone to
silence and to meditation.
I now discovered to my extreme delight that I could have spoken
had not my mouth been tied up with the pocket-handkerchief.
Consoling myself with this reflection, I was mentally repeating
some passages of the “Omnipresence of the Deity,” as is my custom
before resigning myself to sleep, when two cats, of a greedy and
vituperative turn, entering at a hole in the wall, leaped up with
a flourish a la Catalani, and alighting opposite one another on
my visage, betook themselves to indecorous contention for the
paltry consideration of my nose.
But, as the loss of his ears proved the means of elevating to the
throne of Cyrus, the Magian or Mige-Gush of Persia, and as the
cutting off his nose gave Zopyrus possession of Babylon, so the
loss of a few ounces of my countenance proved the salvation of my
body. Aroused by the pain, and burning with indignation, I burst,
at a single effort, the fastenings and the bandage. Stalking
across the room I cast a glance of contempt at the belligerents,
and throwing open the sash to their extreme horror and
disappointment, precipitated myself, very dexterously, from the
window.
The mail-robber W——, to whom I bore a singular resemblance, was
at this moment passing from the city jail to the scaffold erected
for his execution in the suburbs. His extreme infirmity and long
continued ill health had obtained him the privilege of remaining
unmanacled; and habited in his gallows costume—one very similar
to my own,—he lay at full length in the bottom of the hangman’s
cart (which happened to be under the windows of the surgeon at
the moment of my precipitation) without any other guard than the
driver, who was asleep, and two recruits of the sixth infantry,
who were drunk.
As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon my feet within the
vehicle. W——, who was an acute fellow, perceived his opportunity.
Leaping up immediately, he bolted out behind, and turning down an
alley, was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. The recruits,
aroused by the bustle, could not exactly comprehend the merits of
the transaction. Seeing, however, a man, the precise counterpart
of the felon, standing upright in the cart before their eyes,
they were of the opinion that the rascal (meaning W——) was after
making his escape, (so they expressed themselves), and, having
communicated this opinion to one another, they took each a dram,
and then knocked me down with the butt-ends of their muskets.
It was not long ere we arrived at the place of destination. Of
course nothing could be said in my defence. Hanging was my
inevitable fate. I resigned myself thereto with a feeling half
stupid, half acrimonious. Being little of a cynic, I had all the
sentiments of a dog. The hangman, however, adjusted the noose
about my neck. The drop fell.
I forbear to depict my sensations upon the gallows; although
here, undoubtedly, I could speak to the point, and it is a topic
upon which nothing has been well said. In fact, to write upon
such a theme it is necessary to have been hanged. Every author
should confine himself to matters of experience. Thus Mark Antony
composed a treatise upon getting drunk.
I may just mention, however, that die I did not. My body was, but
I had no breath to be, suspended; and but for the knot under my
left ear (which had the feel of a military stock) I dare say that
I should have experienced very little inconvenience. As for the
jerk given to my neck upon the falling of the drop, it merely
proved a corrective to the twist afforded me by the fat gentleman
in the coach.
For good reasons, however, I did my best to give the crowd the
worth of their trouble. My convulsions were said to be
extraordinary. My spasms it would have been difficult to beat.
The populace encored. Several gentlemen swooned; and a multitude
of ladies were carried home in hysterics. Pinxit availed himself
of the opportunity to retouch, from a sketch taken upon the spot,
his admirable painting of the “Marsyas flayed alive.”
When I had afforded sufficient amusement, it was thought proper
to remove my body from the gallows;—this the more especially as
the real culprit had in the meantime been retaken and recognized,
a fact which I was so unlucky as not to know.
Much sympathy was, of course, exercised in my behalf, and as no
one made claim to my corpse, it was ordered that I should be
interred in a public vault.
Here, after due interval, I was deposited. The sexton departed,
and I was left alone. A line of Marston’s “Malcontent”—
Death’s a good fellow and keeps open house—
struck me at that moment as a palpable lie.
I knocked off, however, the lid of my coffin, and stepped out.
The place was dreadfully dreary and damp, and I became troubled
with ennui. By way of amusement, I felt my way among the numerous
coffins ranged in order around. I lifted them down, one by one,
and breaking open their lids, busied myself in speculations about
the mortality within.
“This,” I soliloquized, tumbling over a carcass, puffy, bloated,
and rotund—“this has been, no doubt, in every sense of the word,
an unhappy—an unfortunate man. It has been his terrible lot not
to walk but to waddle—to pass through life not like a human
being, but like an elephant—not like a man, but like a
rhinoceros.
“His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions, and his
circumgyratory proceedings a palpable failure. Taking a step
forward, it has been his misfortune to take two toward the right,
and three toward the left. His studies have been confined to the
poetry of Crabbe. He can have no idea of the wonder of a
pirouette. To him a pas de papillon has been an abstract
conception. He has never ascended the summit of a hill. He has
never viewed from any steeple the glories of a metropolis. Heat
has been his mortal enemy. In the dog-days his days have been the
days of a dog. Therein, he has dreamed of flames and
suffocation—of mountains upon mountains—of Pelion upon Ossa. He
was short of breath—to say all in a word, he was short of breath.
He thought it extravagant to play upon wind instruments. He was
the inventor of self-moving fans, wind-sails, and ventilators. He
patronized Du Pont the bellows-maker, and he died miserably in
attempting to smoke a cigar. His was a case in which I feel a
deep interest—a lot in which I sincerely sympathize.
“But here,”—said I—“here”—and I dragged spitefully from its
receptacle a gaunt, tall and peculiar-looking form, whose
remarkable appearance struck me with a sense of unwelcome
familiarity—“here is a wretch entitled to no earthly
commiseration.” Thus saying, in order to obtain a more distinct
view of my subject, I applied my thumb and forefinger to its
nose, and causing it to assume a sitting position upon the
ground, held it thus, at the length of my arm, while I continued
my soliloquy.
“Entitled,” I repeated, “to no earthly commiseration. Who indeed
would think of compassioning a shadow? Besides, has he not had
his full share of the blessings of mortality? He was the
originator of tall monuments—shot-towers—lightning-rods—Lombardy
poplars. His treatise upon “Shades and Shadows” has immortalized
him. He edited with distinguished ability the last edition of
“South on the Bones.” He went early to college and studied
pneumatics. He then came home, talked eternally, and played upon
the French-horn. He patronized the bagpipes. Captain Barclay, who
walked against Time, would not walk against him. Windham and
Allbreath were his favorite writers,—his favorite artist, Phiz.
He died gloriously while inhaling gas—levique flatu corrupitur,
like the fama pudicitae in Hieronymus. {*1} He was indubitably
a—”
“How can you?—how—can—you?”—interrupted the object of my
animadversions, gasping for breath, and tearing off, with a desperate
exertion, the bandage around its jaws—“how can you, Mr. Lackobreath, be
so infernally cruel as to pinch me in that manner by the nose? Did you
not see how they had fastened up my mouth—and you must know—if you know
any thing—how vast a superfluity of breath I have to dispose of! If you
do not know, however, sit down and you shall see. In my situation it is
really a great relief to be able to open ones mouth—to be able to
expatiate—to be able to communicate with a person like yourself, who do
not think yourself called upon at every period to interrupt the thread
of a gentleman’s discourse. Interruptions are annoying and should
undoubtedly be abolished—don’t you think so?—no reply, I beg you,—one
person is enough to be speaking at a time.—I shall be done by and by,
and then you may begin.—How the devil sir, did you get into this
place?—not a word I beseech you—been here some time myself—terrible
accident!—heard of it, I suppose?—awful calamity!—walking under your
windows—some short while ago—about the time you were
stage-struck—horrible occurrence!—heard of “catching one’s breath,”
eh?—hold your tongue I tell you!—I caught somebody else’s!—had always
too much of my own—met Blab at the corner of the street—wouldn’t give
me a chance for a word—couldn’t get in a syllable edgeways—attacked,
consequently, with epilepsis—Blab made his escape—damn all fools!—they
took me up for dead, and put me in this place—pretty doings all of
them!—heard all you said about me—every word a
lie—horrible!—wonderful!—outrageous!—hideous!—incomprehensible!—et
cetera—et cetera—et cetera—et cetera—”
It is impossible to conceive my astonishment at so unexpected a
discourse, or the joy with which I became gradually convinced
that the breath so fortunately caught by the gentleman (whom I
soon recognized as my neighbor Windenough) was, in fact, the
identical expiration mislaid by myself in the conversation with
my wife. Time, place, and circumstances rendered it a matter
beyond question. I did not, however, immediately release my hold
upon Mr. W.’s proboscis—not at least during the long period in
which the inventor of Lombardy poplars continued to favor me with
his explanations.
In this respect I was actuated by that habitual prudence which
has ever been my predominating trait. I reflected that many
difficulties might still lie in the path of my preservation which
only extreme exertion on my part would be able to surmount. Many
persons, I considered, are prone to estimate commodities in their
possession—however valueless to the then proprietor—however
troublesome, or distressing—in direct ratio with the advantages
to be derived by others from their attainment, or by themselves
from their abandonment. Might not this be the case with Mr.
Windenough? In displaying anxiety for the breath of which he was
at present so willing to get rid, might I not lay myself open to
the exactions of his avarice? There are scoundrels in this world,
I remembered with a sigh, who will not scruple to take unfair
opportunities with even a next door neighbor, and (this remark is
from Epictetus) it is precisely at that time when men are most
anxious to throw off the burden of their own calamities that they
feel the least desirous of relieving them in others.
Upon considerations similar to these, and still retaining my
grasp upon the nose of Mr. W., I accordingly thought proper to
model my reply.
“Monster!” I began in a tone of the deepest indignation—“monster
and double-winded idiot!—dost thou, whom for thine iniquities it
has pleased heaven to accurse with a two-fold respimtion—dost
thou, I say, presume to address me in the familiar language of an
old acquaintance?—‘I lie,’ forsooth! and ‘hold my tongue,’ to be
sure!—pretty conversation indeed, to a gentleman with a single
breath!—all this, too, when I have it in my power to relieve the
calamity under which thou dost so justly suffer—to curtail the
superfluities of thine unhappy respiration.”
Like Brutus, I paused for a reply—with which, like a tornado, Mr.
Windenough immediately overwhelmed me. Protestation followed upon
protestation, and apology upon apology. There were no terms with
which he was unwilling to comply, and there were none of which I
failed to take the fullest advantage.
Preliminaries being at length arranged, my acquaintance delivered
me the respiration; for which (having carefully examined it) I
gave him afterward a receipt.
I am aware that by many I shall be held to blame for speaking in
a manner so cursory, of a transaction so impalpable. It will be
thought that I should have entered more minutely, into the
details of an occurrence by which—and this is very true—much new
light might be thrown upon a highly interesting branch of
physical philosophy.
To all this I am sorry that I cannot reply. A hint is the only
answer which I am permitted to make. There were circumstances—but
I think it much safer upon consideration to say as little as
possible about an affair so delicate—so delicate, I repeat, and
at the time involving the interests of a third party whose
sulphurous resentment I have not the least desire, at this
moment, of incurring.
We were not long after this necessary arrangement in effecting an
escape from the dungeons of the sepulchre. The united strength of
our resuscitated voices was soon sufficiently apparent. Scissors,
the Whig editor, republished a treatise upon “the nature and
origin of subterranean noises.” A reply—rejoinder—confutation—and
justification—followed in the columns of a Democratic gazette. It
was not until the opening of the vault to decide the controversy,
that the appearance of Mr. Windenough and myself proved both
parties to have been decidedly in the wrong.
I cannot conclude these details of some very singular passages in
a life at all times sufficiently eventful, without again
recalling to the attention of the reader the merits of that
indiscriminate philosophy which is a sure and ready shield
against those shafts of calamity which can neither be seen, felt
nor fully understood. It was in the spirit of this wisdom that,
among the ancient Hebrews, it was believed the gates of Heaven
would be inevitably opened to that sinner, or saint, who, with
good lungs and implicit confidence, should vociferate the word
“Amen!” It was in the spirit of this wisdom that, when a great
plague raged at Athens, and every means had been in vain
attempted for its removal, Epimenides, as Laërtius relates, in
his second book, of that philosopher, advised the erection of a
shrine and temple “to the proper God.”
LYTTLETON BARRY.
THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP
A TALE OF THE LATE BUGABOO AND KICKAPOO CAMPAIGN.
_Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez vous en eau!_
_La moitié de ma vie a mis l’ autre au tombeau._
—CORNEILLE.
I cannot just now remember when or where I first made the
acquaintance of that truly fine-looking fellow, Brevet Brigadier
General John A. B. C. Smith. Some one _did_ introduce me to the
gentleman, I am sure—at some public meeting, I know very
well—held about something of great importance, no doubt—at some
place or other, I feel convinced,—whose name I have unaccountably
forgotten. The truth is—that the introduction was attended, upon
my part, with a degree of anxious embarrassment which operated to
prevent any definite impressions of either time or place. I am
constitutionally nervous—this, with me, is a family failing, and
I can’t help it. In especial, the slightest appearance of
mystery—of any point I cannot exactly comprehend—puts me at once
into a pitiable state of agitation.
There was something, as it were, remarkable—yes, _remarkable_,
although this is but a feeble term to express my full
meaning—about the entire individuality of the personage in
question. He was, perhaps, six feet in height, and of a presence
singularly commanding. There was an _air distingué_ pervading the
whole man, which spoke of high breeding, and hinted at high
birth. Upon this topic—the topic of Smith’s personal appearance—I
have a kind of melancholy satisfaction in being minute. His head
of hair would have done honor to a Brutus; nothing could be more
richly flowing, or possess a brighter gloss. It was of a jetty
black;—which was also the color, or more properly the no color of
his unimaginable whiskers. You perceive I cannot speak of these
latter without enthusiasm; it is not too much to say that they
were the handsomest pair of whiskers under the sun. At all
events, they encircled, and at times partially overshadowed, a
mouth utterly unequalled. Here were the most entirely even, and
the most brilliantly white of all conceivable teeth. From between
them, upon every proper occasion, issued a voice of surpassing
clearness, melody, and strength. In the matter of eyes, also, my
acquaintance was pre-eminently endowed. Either one of such a pair
was worth a couple of the ordinary ocular organs. They were of a
deep hazel, exceedingly large and lustrous; and there was
perceptible about them, ever and anon, just that amount of
interesting obliquity which gives pregnancy to expression.
The bust of the General was unquestionably the finest bust I ever
saw. For your life you could not have found a fault with its
wonderful proportion. This rare peculiarity set off to great
advantage a pair of shoulders which would have called up a blush
of conscious inferiority into the countenance of the marble
Apollo. I have a passion for fine shoulders, and may say that I
never beheld them in perfection before. The arms altogether were
admirably modelled. Nor were the lower limbs less superb. These
were, indeed, the _ne plus ultra_ of good legs. Every connoisseur
in such matters admitted the legs to be good. There was neither
too much flesh, nor too little,—neither rudeness nor fragility. I
could not imagine a more graceful curve than that of the _os
femoris_, and there was just that due gentle prominence in the
rear of the _fibula_ which goes to the conformation of a properly
proportioned calf. I wish to God my young and talented friend
Chiponchipino, the sculptor, had but seen the legs of Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.
But although men so absolutely fine-looking are neither as plenty
as reasons or blackberries, still I could not bring myself to
believe that _the remarkable_ something to which I alluded just
now,—that the odd air of _je ne sais quoi_ which hung about my
new acquaintance,—lay altogether, or indeed at all, in the
supreme excellence of his bodily endowments. Perhaps it might be
traced to the _manner_;—yet here again I could not pretend to be
positive. There _was_ a primness, not to say stiffness, in his
carriage—a degree of measured, and, if I may so express it, of
rectangular precision, attending his every movement, which,
observed in a more diminutive figure, would have had the least
little savor in the world, of affectation, pomposity or
constraint, but which noticed in a gentleman of his undoubted
dimensions, was readily placed to the account of reserve,
_hauteur_—of a commendable sense, in short, of what is due to the
dignity of colossal proportion.
The kind friend who presented me to General Smith whispered in my
ear some few words of comment upon the man. He was a _remarkable_
man—a _very_ remarkable man—indeed one of the _most_ remarkable
men of the age. He was an especial favorite, too, with the
ladies—chiefly on account of his high reputation for courage.
“In _that_ point he is unrivalled—indeed he is a perfect
desperado—a down-right fire-eater, and no mistake,” said my
friend, here dropping his voice excessively low, and thrilling me
with the mystery of his tone.
“A downright fire-eater, and _no_ mistake. Showed _that_, I
should say, to some purpose, in the late tremendous swamp-fight
away down South, with the Bugaboo and Kickapoo Indians.” [Here my
friend opened his eyes to some extent.] “Bless my soul!—blood and
thunder, and all that!—_prodigies_ of valor!—heard of him of
course?—you know he’s the man—”
“Man alive, how _do_ you do? why, how _are_ ye? _very_ glad to
see ye, indeed!” here interrupted the General himself, seizing my
companion by the hand as he drew near, and bowing stiffly, but
profoundly, as I was presented. I then thought, (and I think so
still,) that I never heard a clearer nor a stronger voice, nor
beheld a finer set of teeth: but I _must_ say that I was sorry
for the interruption just at that moment, as, owing to the
whispers and insinuations aforesaid, my interest had been greatly
excited in the hero of the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign.
However, the delightfully luminous conversation of Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith soon completely dissipated
this chagrin. My friend leaving us immediately, we had quite a
long _tête-à-tête_, and I was not only pleased but
_really_—instructed. I never heard a more fluent talker, or a man
of greater general information. With becoming modesty, he
forebore, nevertheless, to touch upon the theme I had just then
most at heart—I mean the mysterious circumstances attending the
Bugaboo war—and, on my own part, what I conceive to be a proper
sense of delicacy forbade me to broach the subject; although, in
truth, I was exceedingly tempted to do so. I perceived, too, that
the gallant soldier preferred topics of philosophical interest,
and that he delighted, especially, in commenting upon the rapid
march of mechanical invention. Indeed, lead him where I would,
this was a point to which he invariably came back.
“There is nothing at all like it,” he would say; “we are a
wonderful people, and live in a wonderful age. Parachutes and
rail-roads—man-traps and spring-guns! Our steam-boats are upon
every sea, and the Nassau balloon packet is about to run regular
trips (fare either way only twenty pounds sterling) between
London and Timbuctoo. And who shall calculate the immense
influence upon social life—upon arts—upon commerce—upon
literature—which will be the immediate result of the great
principles of electro-magnetics! Nor, is this all, let me assure
you! There is really no end to the march of invention. The most
wonderful—the most ingenious—and let me add, Mr.—Mr.—Thompson, I
believe, is your name—let me add, I say, the most _useful_—the
most truly _useful_—mechanical contrivances, are daily springing
up like mushrooms, if I may so express myself, or, more
figuratively, like—ah—grasshoppers—like grasshoppers, Mr.
Thompson—about us and ah—ah—ah—around us!”
Thompson, to be sure, is not my name; but it is needless to say
that I left General Smith with a heightened interest in the man,
with an exalted opinion of his conversational powers, and a deep
sense of the valuable privileges we enjoy in living in this age
of mechanical invention. My curiosity, however, had not been
altogether satisfied, and I resolved to prosecute immediate
inquiry among my acquaintances touching the Brevet Brigadier
General himself, and particularly respecting the tremendous
events _quorum pars magna fuit_, during the Bugaboo and Kickapoo
campaign.
The first opportunity which presented itself, and which
(_horresco referens_) I did not in the least scruple to seize,
occurred at the Church of the Reverend Doctor Drummummupp, where
I found myself established, one Sunday, just at sermon time, not
only in the pew, but by the side, of that worthy and
communicative little friend of mine, Miss Tabitha T. Thus seated,
I congratulated myself, and with much reason, upon the very
flattering state of affairs. If any person knew anything about
Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith, that person, it was
clear to me, was Miss Tabitha T. We telegraphed a few signals,
and then commenced, _sotto voce_, a brisk _tête-à-tête_.
“Smith!” said she, in reply to my very earnest inquiry;
“Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Bless me, I thought you
_knew_ all about _him!_ This is a wonderfully inventive age!
Horrid affair that!—a bloody set of wretches, those
Kickapoos!—fought like a hero—prodigies of valor—immortal renown.
Smith!—Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.! why, you know he’s
the man—”
“Man,” here broke in Doctor Drummummupp, at the top of his voice,
and with a thump that came near knocking the pulpit about our
ears—“man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live;
he cometh up and is cut down like a flower!” I started to the
extremity of the pew, and perceived by the animated looks of the
divine, that the wrath which had nearly proved fatal to the
pulpit had been excited by the whispers of the lady and myself.
There was no help for it; so I submitted with a good grace, and
listened, in all the martyrdom of dignified silence, to the
balance of that very capital discourse.
Next evening found me a somewhat late visitor at the Rantipole
Theatre, where I felt sure of satisfying my curiosity at once, by
merely stepping into the box of those exquisite specimens of
affability and omniscience, the Misses Arabella and Miranda
Cognoscenti. That fine tragedian, Climax, was doing Iago to a
very crowded house, and I experienced some little difficulty in
making my wishes understood; especially, as our box was next the
slips, and completely overlooked the stage.
“Smith!” said Miss Arabella, as she at length comprehended the
purport of my query; “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.?”
“Smith!” inquired Miranda, musingly. “God bless me, did you ever
behold a finer figure?”
“Never, madam, but _do_ tell me—”
“Or so inimitable grace?”
“Never, upon my word!—But pray inform me—”
“Or so just an appreciation of stage effect?”
“Madam!”
“Or a more delicate sense of the true beauties of Shakespeare? Be
so good as to look at that leg!”
“The devil!” and I turned again to her sister.
“Smith!” said she, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid affair
that, wasn’t it?—great wretches, those Bugaboos—savage and so
on—but we live in a wonderfully inventive age!—Smith!—O yes!
great man!—perfect desperado!—immortal renown!—prodigies of
valor! _Never heard!_” [This was given in a scream.] “Bless my
soul! why, he’s the man—”
“——mandragora
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owd’st yesterday!”
here roared our Climax just in my ear, and shaking his fist in my
face all the time, in a way that I _couldn’t_ stand, and I
_wouldn’t_. I left the Misses Cognoscenti immediately, went
behind the scenes forthwith, and gave the beggarly scoundrel such
a thrashing as I trust he will remember to the day of his death.
At the _soirée_ of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen O’Trump, I was
confident that I should meet with no similar disappointment.
Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card-table, with my
pretty hostess for a _vis-à-vis_, than I propounded those
questions the solution of which had become a matter so essential
to my peace.
“Smith!” said my partner, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid
affair that, wasn’t it?—diamonds, did you say?—terrible wretches
those Kickapoos!—we are playing _whist_, if you please, Mr.
Tattle—however, this is the age of invention, most certainly
_the_ age, one may say—_the_ age _par excellence_—speak
French?—oh, quite a hero—perfect desperado!—_no hearts_, Mr.
Tattle? I don’t believe it.—immortal renown and all
that!—prodigies of valor! _Never heard!!_—why, bless me, he’s the
man—”
“Mann!—_Captain_ Mann?” here screamed some little feminine
interloper from the farthest corner of the room. “Are you talking
about Captain Mann and the duel?—oh, I _must_ hear—do tell—go on,
Mrs. O’Trump!—do now go on!” And go on Mrs. O’Trump did—all about
a certain Captain Mann, who was either shot or hung, or should
have been both shot and hung. Yes! Mrs. O’Trump, she went on, and
I—I went off. There was no chance of hearing anything farther
that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.
Smith.
Still I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill
luck would not run against me forever, and so determined to make
a bold push for information at the rout of that bewitching little
angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette.
“Smith!” said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a _pas de
zephyr_, “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Dreadful
business that of the Bugaboos, wasn’t it?—dreadful creatures,
those Indians!—_do_ turn out your toes! I really am ashamed of
you—man of great courage, poor fellow!—but this is a wonderful
age for invention—O dear me, I’m out of breath—quite a
desperado—prodigies of valor—_never heard!_—can’t believe it—I
shall have to sit down and enlighten you—Smith! why, he’s the
man—”
“Man-_Fred_, I tell you!” here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led
Mrs. Pirouette to a seat. “Did ever anybody hear the like? It’s
Man-_Fred_, I say, and not at all by any means Man-_Friday_.”
Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to me in a very peremptory manner;
and I was obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. P. for the
purpose of deciding a dispute touching the title of a certain
poetical drama of Lord Byron’s. Although I pronounced, with great
promptness, that the true title was Man-_Friday_, and not by any
means Man-_Fred_, yet when I returned to seek Mrs. Pirouette she
was not to be discovered, and I made my retreat from the house in
a very bitter spirit of animosity against the whole race of the
Bas-Bleus.
Matters had now assumed a really serious aspect, and I resolved
to call at once upon my particular friend, Mr. Theodore Sinivate;
for I knew that here at least I should get something like
definite information.
“Smith!” said he, in his well-known peculiar way of drawling out
his syllables; “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Savage
affair that with the Kickapo-o-o-os, wasn’t it? Say! don’t you
think so?—perfect despera-a-ado—great pity, ‘pon my
honor!—wonderfully inventive age!—pro-o-odigies of valor! By the
by, did you ever hear about Captain Ma-a-a-a-n?”
“Captain Mann be d—d!” said I; “please to go on with your story.”
“Hem!—oh well!—quite _la même cho-o-ose_, as we say in France.
Smith, eh? Brigadier-General John A.—B.—C.? I say”—[here Mr. S.
thought proper to put his finger to the side of his nose]—“I say,
you don’t mean to insinuate now, really and truly, and
conscientiously, that you don’t know all about that affair of
Smith’s, as well as I do, eh? Smith? John A—B—C.? Why, bless me,
he’s the ma-a-an—”
“_Mr_. Sinivate,” said I, imploringly, “_is_ he the man in the
mask?”
“No-o-o!” said he, looking wise, “nor the man in the mo-o-on.”
This reply I considered a pointed and positive insult, and so
left the house at once in high dudgeon, with a firm resolve to
call my friend, Mr. Sinivate, to a speedy account for his
ungentlemanly conduct and ill-breeding.
In the meantime, however, I had no notion of being thwarted
touching the information I desired. There was one resource left
me yet. I would go to the fountain-head. I would call forthwith
upon the General himself, and demand, in explicit terms, a
solution of this abominable piece of mystery. Here, at least,
there should be no chance for equivocation. I would be plain,
positive, peremptory—as short as pie-crust—as concise as Tacitus
or Montesquieu.
It was early when I called, and the General was dressing; but I
pleaded urgent business, and was shown at once into his bed-room
by an old negro valet, who remained in attendance during my
visit. As I entered the chamber, I looked about, of course, for
the occupant, but did not immediately perceive him. There was a
large and exceedingly odd-looking bundle of something which lay
close by my feet on the floor, and, as I was not in the best
humor in the world, I gave it a kick out of the way.
“Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!” said the bundle, in
one of the smallest, and altogether the funniest little voices,
between a squeak and a whistle, that I ever heard in all the days
of my existence.
“Ahem! rather civil that, I should observe.”
I fairly shouted with terror, and made off, at a tangent, into
the farthest extremity of the room.
“God bless me! my dear fellow,” here again whistled the bundle,
“what—what—what—why, what _is_ the matter? I really believe you
don’t know me at all.”
What _could_ I say to all this—what _could_ I? I staggered into
an arm-chair, and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the
solution of the wonder.
“Strange you shouldn’t know me though, isn’t it?” presently
re-squeaked the nondescript, which I now perceived was
performing, upon the floor, some inexplicable evolution, very
analogous to the drawing on of a stocking. There was only a
single leg, however, apparent.
“Strange you shouldn’t know me, though, isn’t it? Pompey, bring
me that leg!” Here Pompey handed the bundle, a very capital cork
leg, already dressed, which it screwed on in a trice; and then it
stood up before my eyes.
“And a bloody action it _was_,” continued the thing, as if in a
soliloquy; “but then one mustn’t fight with the Bugaboos and
Kickapoos, and think of coming off with a mere scratch. Pompey,
I’ll thank you now for that arm. Thomas” [turning to me] “is
decidedly the best hand at a cork leg; but if you should ever
want an arm, my dear fellow, you must really let me recommend you
to Bishop.” Here Pompey screwed on an arm.
“We had rather hot work of it, that you may say. Now, you dog,
slip on my shoulders and bosom! Pettitt makes the best shoulders,
but for a bosom you will have to go to Ducrow.”
“Bosom!” said I.
“Pompey, will you _never_ be ready with that wig? Scalping is a
rough process after all; but then you can procure such a capital
scratch at De L’Orme’s.”
“Scratch!”
“Now, you nigger, my teeth! For a _good_ set of these you had
better go to Parmly’s at once; high prices, but excellent work. I
swallowed some very capital articles, though, when the big
Bugaboo rammed me down with the butt end of his rifle.”
“Butt end! ram down!! my eye!!”
“O yes, by-the-by, my eye—here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in !
Those Kickapoos are not so very slow at a gouge; but he’s a
belied man, that Dr. Williams, after all; you can’t imagine how
well I see with the eyes of his make.”
I now began very clearly to perceive that the object before me
was nothing more nor less than my new acquaintance, Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. The manipulations of
Pompey had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in
the appearance of the personal man. The voice, however, still
puzzled me no little; but even this apparent mystery was speedily
cleared up.
“Pompey, you black rascal,” squeaked the General, “I really do
believe you would let me go out without my palate.”
Hereupon, the negro, grumbling out an apology, went up to his
master, opened his mouth with the knowing air of a horse-jockey,
and adjusted therein a somewhat singular-looking machine, in a
very dexterous manner, that I could not altogether comprehend.
The alteration, however, in the entire expression of the
General’s countenance was instantaneous and surprising. When he
again spoke, his voice had resumed all that rich melody and
strength which I had noticed upon our original introduction.
“D—n the vagabonds!” said he, in so clear a tone that I
positively started at the change, “D—n the vagabonds! they not
only knocked in the roof of my mouth, but took the trouble to cut
off at least seven-eighths of my tongue. There isn’t Bonfanti’s
equal, however, in America, for really good articles of this
description. I can recommend you to him with confidence,” [here
the General bowed,] “and assure you that I have the greatest
pleasure in so doing.”
I acknowledged his kindness in my best manner, and took leave of
him at once, with a perfect understanding of the true state of
affairs—with a full comprehension of the mystery which had
troubled me so long. It was evident. It was a clear case. Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith was the man—was _the man
that was used up_.
THE BUSINESS MAN
Method is the soul of business.—OLD SAYING.
I am a business man. I am a methodical man. Method is the thing,
after all. But there are no people I more heartily despise than
your eccentric fools who prate about method without understanding
it; attending strictly to its letter, and violating its spirit.
These fellows are always doing the most out-of-the-way things in
what they call an orderly manner. Now here, I conceive, is a
positive paradox. True method appertains to the ordinary and the
obvious alone, and cannot be applied to the _outré_. What
definite idea can a body attach to such expressions as
“methodical Jack o’ Dandy,” or “a systematical Will o’ the Wisp”?
My notions upon this head might not have been so clear as they
are, but for a fortunate accident which happened to me when I was
a very little boy. A good-hearted old Irish nurse (whom I shall
not forget in my will) took me up one day by the heels, when I
was making more noise than was necessary, and swinging me round
two or three times, d—d my eyes for “a skreeking little
spalpeen,” and then knocked my head into a cocked hat against the
bedpost. This, I say, decided my fate, and made my fortune. A
bump arose at once on my sinciput, and turned out to be as pretty
an organ of order as one shall see on a summer’s day. Hence that
positive appetite for system and regularity which has made me the
distinguished man of business that I am.
If there is any thing on earth I hate, it is a genius. Your
geniuses are all arrant asses—the greater the genius the greater
the ass—and to this rule there is no exception whatever.
Especially, you cannot make a man of business out of a genius,
any more than money out of a Jew, or the best nutmegs out of
pine-knots. The creatures are always going off at a tangent into
some fantastic employment, or ridiculous speculation, entirely at
variance with the “fitness of things,” and having no business
whatever to be considered as a business at all. Thus you may tell
these characters immediately by the nature of their occupations.
If you ever perceive a man setting up as a merchant or a
manufacturer, or going into the cotton or tobacco trade, or any
of those eccentric pursuits; or getting to be a drygoods dealer,
or soap-boiler, or something of that kind; or pretending to be a
lawyer, or a blacksmith, or a physician—any thing out of the
usual way—you may set him down at once as a genius, and then,
according to the rule-of-three, he’s an ass.
Now I am not in any respect a genius, but a regular business man.
My day-book and ledger will evince this in a minute. They are
well kept, though I say it myself; and, in my general habits of
accuracy and punctuality, I am not to be beat by a clock.
Moreover, my occupations have been always made to chime in with
the ordinary habitudes of my fellowmen. Not that I feel the least
indebted, upon this score, to my exceedingly weak-minded parents,
who, beyond doubt, would have made an arrant genius of me at
last, if my guardian angel had not come, in good time, to the
rescue. In biography the truth is every thing, and in
autobiography it is especially so—yet I scarcely hope to be
believed when I state, however solemnly, that my poor father put
me, when I was about fifteen years of age, into the
counting-house of what be termed “a respectable hardware and
commission merchant doing a capital bit of business!” A capital
bit of fiddlestick! However, the consequence of this folly was,
that in two or three days, I had to be sent home to my
button-headed family in a high state of fever, and with a most
violent and dangerous pain in the sinciput, all around about my
organ of order. It was nearly a gone case with me then—just
touch-and-go for six weeks—the physicians giving me up and all
that sort of thing. But, although I suffered much, I was a
thankful boy in the main. I was saved from being a “respectable
hardware and commission merchant, doing a capital bit of
business,” and I felt grateful to the protuberance which had been
the means of my salvation, as well as to the kindhearted female
who had originally put these means within my reach.
The most of boys run away from home at ten or twelve years of
age, but I waited till I was sixteen. I don’t know that I should
have gone even then, if I had not happened to hear my old mother
talk about setting me up on my own hook in the grocery way. The
grocery way!—only think of that! I resolved to be off forthwith,
and try and establish myself in some decent occupation, without
dancing attendance any longer upon the caprices of these
eccentric old people, and running the risk of being made a genius
of in the end. In this project I succeeded perfectly well at the
first effort, and by the time I was fairly eighteen, found myself
doing an extensive and profitable business in the Tailor’s
Walking-Advertisement line.
I was enabled to discharge the onerous duties of this profession,
only by that rigid adherence to system which formed the leading
feature of my mind. A scrupulous method characterized my actions
as well as my accounts. In my case it was method—not money—which
made the man: at least all of him that was not made by the tailor
whom I served. At nine, every morning, I called upon that
individual for the clothes of the day. Ten o’clock found me in
some fashionable promenade or other place of public amusement.
The precise regularity with which I turned my handsome person
about, so as to bring successively into view every portion of the
suit upon my back, was the admiration of all the knowing men in
the trade. Noon never passed without my bringing home a customer
to the house of my employers, Messrs. Cut & Comeagain. I say this
proudly, but with tears in my eyes—for the firm proved themselves
the basest of ingrates. The little account, about which we
quarreled and finally parted, cannot, in any item, be thought
overcharged, by gentlemen really conversant with the nature of
the business. Upon this point, however, I feel a degree of proud
satisfaction in permitting the reader to judge for himself. My
bill ran thus:
_Messrs. Cut & Comeagain, Merchant Tailors.
To Peter Proffit, Walking Advertiser,_ Drs.
July 10. to promenade, as usual and customer brought home $00 25
July 11. To do do do 25
July 12. To one lie, second class; damaged black cloth sold
for invisible green 25
July 13. To one lie, first class, extra quality and size;
recommended milled satinet as broadcloth, 75
July 20. To purchasing bran new paper shirt collar or dickey,
to set off gray Petersham 02
Aug. 15. To wearing double-padded bobtail frock, (thermometer
106 in the shade) 25
Aug. 16. Standing on one leg three hours, to show off
new-style strapped pants at 12 1/2 cents per leg per
hour 37½
Aug. 17. To promenade, as usual, and large customer brought
(fat man) 50
Aug. 18. To do do (medium size) 25
Aug. 19. To do do (small man and bad pay) 6
TOTAL $2 95½
The item chiefly disputed in this bill was the very moderate
charge of two pennies for the dickey. Upon my word of honor, this
was not an unreasonable price for that dickey. It was one of the
cleanest and prettiest little dickeys I ever saw; and I have good
reason to believe that it effected the sale of three Petershams.
The elder partner of the firm, however, would allow me only one
penny of the charge, and took it upon himself to show in what
manner four of the same sized conveniences could be got out of a
sheet of foolscap. But it is needless to say that I stood upon
the principle of the thing. Business is business, and should be
done in a business way. There was no system whatever in swindling
me out of a penny—a clear fraud of fifty per cent—no method in
any respect. I left at once the employment of Messrs. Cut &
Comeagain, and set up in the Eye-Sore line by myself—one of the
most lucrative, respectable, and independent of the ordinary
occupations.
My strict integrity, economy, and rigorous business habits, here
again came into play. I found myself driving a flourishing trade,
and soon became a marked man upon “Change.” The truth is, I never
dabbled in flashy matters, but jogged on in the good old sober
routine of the calling—a calling in which I should, no doubt,
have remained to the present hour, but for a little accident
which happened to me in the prosecution of one of the usual
business operations of the profession. Whenever a rich old hunks
or prodigal heir or bankrupt corporation gets into the notion of
putting up a palace, there is no such thing in the world as
stopping either of them, and this every intelligent person knows.
The fact in question is indeed the basis of the Eye-Sore trade.
As soon, therefore, as a building-project is fairly afoot by one
of these parties, we merchants secure a nice corner of the lot in
contemplation, or a prime little situation just adjoining, or
tight in front. This done, we wait until the palace is half-way
up, and then we pay some tasty architect to run us up an
ornamental mud hovel, right against it; or a Down-East or Dutch
Pagoda, or a pig-sty, or an ingenious little bit of fancy work,
either Esquimau, Kickapoo, or Hottentot. Of course we can’t
afford to take these structures down under a bonus of five
hundred per cent upon the prime cost of our lot and plaster. Can
we? I ask the question. I ask it of business men. It would be
irrational to suppose that we can. And yet there was a rascally
corporation which asked me to do this very thing—this very thing!
I did not reply to their absurd proposition, of course; but I
felt it a duty to go that same night, and lamp-black the whole of
their palace. For this the unreasonable villains clapped me into
jail; and the gentlemen of the Eye-Sore trade could not well
avoid cutting my connection when I came out.
The Assault-and-Battery business, into which I was now forced to
adventure for a livelihood, was somewhat ill-adapted to the
delicate nature of my constitution; but I went to work in it with
a good heart, and found my account here, as heretofore, in those
stern habits of methodical accuracy which had been thumped into
me by that delightful old nurse—I would indeed be the basest of
men not to remember her well in my will. By observing, as I say,
the strictest system in all my dealings, and keeping a
well-regulated set of books, I was enabled to get over many
serious difficulties, and, in the end, to establish myself very
decently in the profession. The truth is, that few individuals,
in any line, did a snugger little business than I. I will just
copy a page or so out of my Day-Book; and this will save me the
necessity of blowing my own trumpet—a contemptible practice of
which no high-minded man will be guilty. Now, the Day-Book is a
thing that don’t lie.
“Jan. 1.—New Year’s Day. Met Snap in the street, groggy.
Mem—he’ll do. Met Gruff shortly afterward, blind drunk. Mem—he’ll
answer, too. Entered both gentlemen in my Ledger, and opened a
running account with each.
“Jan. 2.—Saw Snap at the Exchange, and went up and trod on his
toe. Doubled his fist and knocked me down. Good!—got up again.
Some trifling difficulty with Bag, my attorney. I want the
damages at a thousand, but he says that for so simple a knock
down we can’t lay them at more than five hundred. Mem—must get
rid of Bag—no system at all.
“Jan. 3.—Went to the theatre, to look for Gruff. Saw him sitting
in a side box, in the second tier, between a fat lady and a lean
one. Quizzed the whole party through an opera-glass, till I saw
the fat lady blush and whisper to G. Went round, then, into the
box, and put my nose within reach of his hand. Wouldn’t pull
it—no go. Blew it, and tried again—no go. Sat down then, and
winked at the lean lady, when I had the high satisfaction of
finding him lift me up by the nape of the neck, and fling me over
into the pit. Neck dislocated, and right leg capitally
splintered. Went home in high glee, drank a bottle of champagne,
and booked the young man for five thousand. Bag says it’ll do.
“Feb. 15.—Compromised the case of Mr. Snap. Amount entered in
Journal—fifty cents—which see.
“Feb. 16.—Cast by that ruffian, Gruff, who made me a present of
five dollars. Costs of suit, four dollars and twenty-five cents.
Nett profit,—see Journal,—seventy-five cents.”
Now, here is a clear gain, in a very brief period, of no less
than one dollar and twenty-five cents—this is in the mere cases
of Snap and Gruff; and I solemnly assure the reader that these
extracts are taken at random from my Day-Book.
It’s an old saying, and a true one, however, that money is
nothing in comparison with health. I found the exactions of the
profession somewhat too much for my delicate state of body; and,
discovering, at last, that I was knocked all out of shape, so
that I didn’t know very well what to make of the matter, and so
that my friends, when they met me in the street, couldn’t tell
that I was Peter Proffit at all, it occurred to me that the best
expedient I could adopt was to alter my line of business. I
turned my attention, therefore, to Mud-Dabbling, and continued it
for some years.
The worst of this occupation is, that too many people take a
fancy to it, and the competition is in consequence excessive.
Every ignoramus of a fellow who finds that he hasn’t brains in
sufficient quantity to make his way as a walking advertiser, or
an eye-sore prig, or a salt-and-batter man, thinks, of course,
that he’ll answer very well as a dabbler of mud. But there never
was entertained a more erroneous idea than that it requires no
brains to mud-dabble. Especially, there is nothing to be made in
this way without method. I did only a retail business myself, but
my old habits of system carried me swimmingly along. I selected
my street-crossing, in the first place, with great deliberation,
and I never put down a broom in any part of the town but that. I
took care, too, to have a nice little puddle at hand, which I
could get at in a minute. By these means I got to be well known
as a man to be trusted; and this is one-half the battle, let me
tell you, in trade. Nobody ever failed to pitch me a copper, and
got over my crossing with a clean pair of pantaloons. And, as my
business habits, in this respect, were sufficiently understood, I
never met with any attempt at imposition. I wouldn’t have put up
with it, if I had. Never imposing upon any one myself, I suffered
no one to play the possum with me. The frauds of the banks of
course I couldn’t help. Their suspension put me to ruinous
inconvenience. These, however, are not individuals, but
corporations; and corporations, it is very well known, have
neither bodies to be kicked nor souls to be damned.
I was making money at this business when, in an evil moment, I
was induced to merge it in the Cur-Spattering—a somewhat
analogous, but, by no means, so respectable a profession. My
location, to be sure, was an excellent one, being central, and I
had capital blacking and brushes. My little dog, too, was quite
fat and up to all varieties of snuff. He had been in the trade a
long time, and, I may say, understood it. Our general routine was
this:—Pompey, having rolled himself well in the mud, sat upon end
at the shop door, until he observed a dandy approaching in bright
boots. He then proceeded to meet him, and gave the Wellingtons a
rub or two with his wool. Then the dandy swore very much, and
looked about for a boot-black. There I was, full in his view,
with blacking and brushes. It was only a minute’s work, and then
came a sixpence. This did moderately well for a time;—in fact, I
was not avaricious, but my dog was. I allowed him a third of the
profit, but he was advised to insist upon half. This I couldn’t
stand—so we quarrelled and parted.
I next tried my hand at the Organ-Grinding for a while, and may
say that I made out pretty well. It is a plain, straightforward
business, and requires no particular abilities. You can get a
music-mill for a mere song, and to put it in order, you have but
to open the works, and give them three or four smart raps with a
hammer. It improves the tone of the thing, for business purposes,
more than you can imagine. This done, you have only to stroll
along, with the mill on your back, until you see tanbark in the
street, and a knocker wrapped up in buckskin. Then you stop and
grind; looking as if you meant to stop and grind till doomsday.
Presently a window opens, and somebody pitches you a sixpence,
with a request to “Hush up and go on,” etc. I am aware that some
grinders have actually afforded to “go on” for this sum; but for
my part, I found the necessary outlay of capital too great to
permit of my “going on” under a shilling.
At this occupation I did a good deal; but, somehow, I was not
quite satisfied, and so finally abandoned it. The truth is, I
labored under the disadvantage of having no monkey—and American
streets are so muddy, and a Democratic rabble is so obstrusive,
and so full of demnition mischievous little boys.
I was now out of employment for some months, but at length
succeeded, by dint of great interest, in procuring a situation in
the Sham-Post. The duties, here, are simple, and not altogether
unprofitable. For example:—very early in the morning I had to
make up my packet of sham letters. Upon the inside of each of
these I had to scrawl a few lines on any subject which occurred
to me as sufficiently mysterious—signing all the epistles Tom
Dobson, or Bobby Tompkins, or anything in that way. Having folded
and sealed all, and stamped them with sham postmarks—New Orleans,
Bengal, Botany Bay, or any other place a great way off—I set out,
forthwith, upon my daily route, as if in a very great hurry. I
always called at the big houses to deliver the letters, and
receive the postage. Nobody hesitates at paying for a
letter—especially for a double one—people are such fools—and it
was no trouble to get round a corner before there was time to
open the epistles. The worst of this profession was, that I had
to walk so much and so fast; and so frequently to vary my route.
Besides, I had serious scruples of conscience. I can’t bear to
hear innocent individuals abused—and the way the whole town took
to cursing Tom Dobson and Bobby Tompkins was really awful to
hear. I washed my hands of the matter in disgust.
My eighth and last speculation has been in the Cat-Growing way. I
have found that a most pleasant and lucrative business, and,
really, no trouble at all. The country, it is well known, has
become infested with cats—so much so of late, that a petition for
relief, most numerously and respectably signed, was brought
before the Legislature at its late memorable session. The
Assembly, at this epoch, was unusually well-informed, and, having
passed many other wise and wholesome enactments, it crowned all
with the Cat-Act. In its original form, this law offered a
premium for cat-heads (fourpence a-piece), but the Senate
succeeded in amending the main clause, so as to substitute the
word “tails” for “heads.” This amendment was so obviously proper,
that the House concurred in it nem. con.
As soon as the governor had signed the bill, I invested my whole
estate in the purchase of Toms and Tabbies. At first I could only
afford to feed them upon mice (which are cheap), but they
fulfilled the scriptural injunction at so marvellous a rate, that
I at length considered it my best policy to be liberal, and so
indulged them in oysters and turtle. Their tails, at a
legislative price, now bring me in a good income; for I have
discovered a way, in which, by means of Macassar oil, I can force
three crops in a year. It delights me to find, too, that the
animals soon get accustomed to the thing, and would rather have
the appendages cut off than otherwise. I consider myself,
therefore, a made man, and am bargaining for a country-seat on
the Hudson.
THE LANDSCAPE GARDEN
The garden like a lady fair was cut
That lay as if she slumbered in delight,
And to the open skies her eyes did shut;
The azure fields of heaven were ’sembled right
In a large round set with flow’rs of light:
The flowers de luce and the round sparks of dew
That hung upon their azure leaves, did show
Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the ev’ning blue.
—GILES FLETCHER
No more remarkable man ever lived than my friend, the young
Ellison. He was remarkable in the entire and continuous profusion
of good gifts ever lavished upon him by fortune. From his cradle
to his grave, a gale of the blandest prosperity bore him along.
Nor do I use the word Prosperity in its mere wordly or external
sense. I mean it as synonymous with happiness. The person of whom
I speak, seemed born for the purpose of foreshadowing the wild
doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet—of
exemplifying, by individual instance, what has been deemed the
mere chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of
Ellison, I fancy, that I have seen refuted the dogma—that in
man’s physical and spiritual nature, lies some hidden principle,
the antagonist of Bliss. An intimate and anxious examination of
his career, has taught me to understand that, in general, from
the violation of a few simple laws of Humanity, arises the
Wretchedness of mankind; that, as a species, we have in our
possession the as yet unwrought elements of Content,—and that
even now, in the present blindness and darkness of all idea on
the great question of the Social Condition, it is not impossible
that Man, the individual, under certain unusual and highly
fortuitous conditions, may be happy.
With opinions such as these was my young friend fully imbued; and
thus is it especially worthy of observation that the
uninterrupted enjoyment which distinguished his life was in great
part the result of preconcert. It is, indeed evident, that with
less of the instinctive philosophy which, now and then, stands so
well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison would have found
himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary successes of his
life, into the common vortex of Unhappiness which yawns for those
of preeminent endowments. But it is by no means my present object
to pen an essay on Happiness. The ideas of my friend may be
summed up in a few words. He admitted but four unvarying laws, or
rather elementary principles, of Bliss. That which he considered
chief, was (strange to say!) the simple and purely physical one
of free exercise in the open air. “The health,” he said,
“attainable by other means than this is scarcely worth the name.”
He pointed to the tillers of the earth—the only people who, as a
class, are proverbially more happy than others—and then he
instanced the high ecstasies of the fox-hunter. His second
principle was the love of woman. His third was the contempt of
ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; and he
held that, other things being equal, the extent of happiness was
proportioned to the spirituality of this object.
I have said that Ellison was remarkable in the continuous
profusion of good gifts lavished upon him by Fortune. In personal
grace and beauty he exceeded all men. His intellect was of that
order to which the attainment of knowledge is less a labor than a
necessity and an intuition. His family was one of the most
illustrious of the empire. His bride was the loveliest and most
devoted of women. His possessions had been always ample; but,
upon the attainment of his one and twentieth year, it was
discovered that one of those extraordinary freaks of Fate had
been played in his behalf which startle the whole social world
amid which they occur, and seldom fail radically to alter the
entire moral constitution of those who are their objects. It
appears that about one hundred years prior to Mr. Ellison’s
attainment of his majority, there had died, in a remote province,
one Mr. Seabright Ellison. This gentlemen had amassed a princely
fortune, and, having no very immediate connexions, conceived the
whim of suffering his wealth to accumulate for a century after
his decease. Minutely and sagaciously directing the various modes
of investment, he bequeathed the aggregate amount to the nearest
of blood, bearing the name Ellison, who should be alive at the
end of the hundred years. Many futile attempts had been made to
set aside this singular bequest; their ex post facto character
rendered them abortive; but the attention of a jealous government
was aroused, and a decree finally obtained, forbidding all
similar accumulations. This act did not prevent young Ellison,
upon his twenty-first birth-day, from entering into possession,
as the heir of his ancestor, Seabright, of a fortune of four
hundred and fifty millions of dollars. {*1}
When it had become definitely known that such was the enormous
wealth inherited, there were, of course, many speculations as to
the mode of its disposal. The gigantic magnitude and the
immediately available nature of the sum, dazzled and bewildered
all who thought upon the topic. The possessor of any appreciable
amount of money might have been imagined to perform any one of a
thousand things. With riches merely surpassing those of any
citizen, it would have been easy to suppose him engaging to
supreme excess in the fashionable extravagances of his time; or
busying himself with political intrigues; or aiming at
ministerial power; or purchasing increase of nobility, or
devising gorgeous architectural piles; or collecting large
specimens of Virtu; or playing the munificent patron of Letters
and Art; or endowing and bestowing his name upon extensive
institutions of charity. But, for the inconceivable wealth in the
actual possession of the young heir, these objects and all
ordinary objects were felt to be inadequate. Recourse was had to
figures; and figures but sufficed to confound. It was seen, that
even at three per cent, the annual income of the inheritance
amounted to no less than thirteen millions and five hundred
thousand dollars; which was one million and one hundred and
twenty-five thousand per month; or thirty-six thousand, nine
hundred and eighty-six per day, or one thousand five hundred and
forty-one per hour, or six and twenty dollars for every minute
that flew. Thus the usual track of supposition was thoroughly
broken up. Men knew not what to imagine. There were some who even
conceived that Mr. Ellison would divest himself forthwith of at
least two-thirds of his fortune as of utterly superfluous
opulence; enriching whole troops of his relatives by division of
his superabundance.
I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made
up his mind upon a topic which had occasioned so much of
discussion to his friends. Nor was I greatly astonished at the
nature of his decision. In the widest and noblest sense, he was a
poet. He comprehended, moreover, the true character, the august
aims, the supreme majesty and dignity of the poetic sentiment.
The proper gratification of the sentiment he instinctively felt
to lie in the creation of novel forms of Beauty. Some
peculiarities, either in his early education, or in the nature of
his intellect, had tinged with what is termed materialism the
whole cast of his ethical speculations; and it was this bias,
perhaps, which imperceptibly led him to perceive that the most
advantageous, if not the sole legitimate field for the exercise
of the poetic sentiment, was to be found in the creation of novel
moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it happened that he
became neither musician nor poet; if we use this latter term in
its every-day acceptation. Or it might have been that he became
neither the one nor the other, in pursuance of an idea of his
which I have already mentioned—the idea, that in the contempt of
ambition lay one of the essential principles of happiness on
earth. Is it not, indeed, possible that while a high order of
genius is necessarily ambitious, the highest is invariably above
that which is termed ambition? And may it not thus happen that
many far greater than Milton, have contentedly remained “mute and
inglorious?” I believe the world has never yet seen, and that,
unless through some series of accidents goading the noblest order
of mind into distasteful exertion, the world will never behold,
that full extent of triumphant execution, in the richer
productions of Art, of which the human nature is absolutely
capable.
Mr. Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man
lived more profoundly enamored both of Music and the Muse. Under
other circumstances than those which invested him, it is not
impossible that he would have become a painter. The field of
sculpture, although in its nature rigidly poetical, was too
limited in its extent and in its consequences, to have occupied,
at any time, much of his attention. And I have now mentioned all
the provinces in which even the most liberal understanding of the
poetic sentiment has declared this sentiment capable of
expatiating. I mean the most liberal public or recognized
conception of the idea involved in the phrase “poetic sentiment.”
But Mr. Ellison imagined that the richest, and altogether the
most natural and most suitable province, had been blindly
neglected. No definition had spoken of the Landscape-Gardener, as
of the poet; yet my friend could not fail to perceive that the
creation of the Landscape-Garden offered to the true muse the
most magnificent of opportunities. Here was, indeed, the fairest
field for the display of invention, or imagination, in the
endless combining of forms of novel Beauty; the elements which
should enter into combination being, at all times, and by a vast
superiority, the most glorious which the earth could afford. In
the multiform of the tree, and in the multicolor of the flower,
he recognized the most direct and the most energetic efforts of
Nature at physical loveliness. And in the direction or
concentration of this effort, or, still more properly, in its
adaption to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth, he
perceived that he should be employing the best means—laboring to
the greatest advantage—in the fulfilment of his destiny as Poet.
“Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth.”
In his explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much
towards solving what has always seemed to me an enigma. I mean
the fact (which none but the ignorant dispute) that no such
combinations of scenery exist in Nature as the painter of genius
has in his power to produce. No such Paradises are to be found in
reality as have glowed upon the canvass of Claude. In the most
enchanting of natural landscapes, there will always be found a
defect or an excess—many excesses and defects. While the
component parts may exceed, individually, the highest skill of
the artist, the arrangement of the parts will always be
susceptible of improvement. In short, no position can be
attained, from which an artistical eye, looking steadily, will
not find matter of offence, in what is technically termed the
composition of a natural landscape. And yet how unintelligible is
this! In all other matters we are justly instructed to regard
Nature as supreme. With her details we shrink from competition.
Who shall presume to imitate the colors of the tulip, or to
improve the proportions of the lily of the valley? The criticism
which says, of sculpture or of portraiture, that “Nature is to be
exalted rather than imitated,” is in error. No pictorial or
sculptural combinations of points of human loveliness, do more
than approach the living and breathing human beauty as it
gladdens our daily path. Byron, who often erred, erred not in
saying, I’ve seen more living beauty, ripe and real, than all the
nonsense of their stone ideal. In landscape alone is the
principle of the critic true; and, having felt its truth here, it
is but the headlong spirit of generalization which has induced
him to pronounce it true throughout all the domains of Art.
Having, I say, felt its truth here. For the feeling is no
affectation or chimera. The mathematics afford no more absolute
demonstrations, than the sentiment of his Art yields to the
artist. He not only believes, but positively knows, that such and
such apparently arbitrary arrangements of matter, or form,
constitute, and alone constitute, the true Beauty. Yet his
reasons have not yet been matured into expression. It remains for
a more profound analysis than the world has yet seen, fully to
investigate and express them. Nevertheless is he confirmed in his
instinctive opinions, by the concurrence of all his compeers. Let
a composition be defective; let an emendation be wrought in its
mere arrangement of form; let this emendation be submitted to
every artist in the world; by each will its necessity be
admitted. And even far more than this, in remedy of the defective
composition, each insulated member of the fraternity will suggest
the identical emendation.
I repeat that in landscape arrangements, or collocations alone,
is the physical Nature susceptible of “exaltation” and that,
therefore, her susceptibility of improvement at this one point,
was a mystery which, hitherto I had been unable to solve. It was
Mr. Ellison who first suggested the idea that what we regarded as
improvement or exaltation of the natural beauty, was really such,
as respected only the mortal or human point of view; that each
alteration or disturbance of the primitive scenery might possibly
effect a blemish in the picture, if we could suppose this picture
viewed at large from some remote point in the heavens. “It is
easily understood,” says Mr. Ellison, “that what might improve a
closely scrutinized detail, might, at the same time, injure a
general and more distantly observed effect.” He spoke upon this
topic with warmth: regarding not so much its immediate or obvious
importance (which is little), as the character of the conclusions
to which it might lead, or of the collateral propositions which
it might serve to corroborate or sustain. There might be a class
of beings, human once, but now to humanity invisible, for whose
scrutiny and for whose refined appreciation of the beautiful,
more especially than for our own, had been set in order by God
the great landscape-garden of the whole earth.
In the course of our discussion, my young friend took occasion to
quote some passages from a writer who has been supposed to have
well treated this theme.
“There are, properly,” he writes, “but two styles of
landscape-gardening, the natural and the artificial. One seeks to
recall the original beauty of the country, by adapting its means
to the surrounding scenery; cultivating trees in harmony with the
hills or plain of the neighboring land; detecting and bringing
into practice those nice relations of size, proportion and color
which, hid from the common observer, are revealed everywhere to
the experienced student of nature. The result of the natural
style of gardening, is seen rather in the absence of all defects
and incongruities—in the prevalence of a beautiful harmony and
order, than in the creation of any special wonders or miracles.
The artificial style has as many varieties as there are different
tastes to gratify. It has a certain general relation to the
various styles of building. There are the stately avenues and
retirements of Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various mixed
old English style, which bears some relation to the domestic
Gothic or English Elizabethan architecture. Whatever may be said
against the abuses of the artificial landscape-gardening, a
mixture of pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.
This is partly pleasing to the eye, by the show of order and
design, and partly moral. A terrace, with an old moss-covered
balustrade, calls up at once to the eye, the fair forms that have
passed there in other days. The slightest exhibition of art is an
evidence of care and human interest.”