paper on mind and instinct; only I rather wonder at his laboring
to prove a theory which few are inclined to question. But he
does not after all, it appears to me, draw the right conclusions
from his argument. All living beings have a mind, or reason, or
what you will, which prompts them to do all that their animal
functions are capable of performing. In this respect man is as
much governed by instinct as a brute. My neighbor's dog every
night when I come home walks up to me, wags his tail, and looks
in my face, and says in his way, 'How are you?' His master gives
me a nod, takes his pipe from his mouth, and says the same. But
when a stranger comes to my door, neither the dog nor his master
salutes him; but were he to fall into the brook, they would both
run to pull him out. Are they not both influenced by exactly the
same feelings? If I should ask my neighbor to endorse my note,
he would look sulky, hem! and haw! and refuse; if I should
attempt to take a bone from his dog, the brute would snarl and
growl, and perhaps bite me. Do you see any marvellous difference
between the two animals? A near neighbor of mine, about six
months since, had a little boy of four years old, who had a
spaniel of which he was very fond. One day during the absence of
the father, the child was taken ill with the croup; the mother
was alarmed, and it so happened that her servants were away, and
she had no one to send for a physician. The poor woman was in
great tribulation, for in spite of all her efforts the child
grew worse. In about an hour after the child was taken ill, her
father's carriage stopped at the door, and her mother made her
appearance. Her father's house was about two miles distant. The
grandmother said that Carlo, the sick child's dog, 'came running
into the house, all bespattered with mud, and flew about and
acted so strangely that she knew something must be the matter
with little Billy, her grandson, and she came to see what it
was.' Until then, the mother of the child had not noticed the
absence of the dog from the room, for the boy was playing with
him when he was taken sick. The child remained ill three or four
days, and then died; and during the whole time the dog never
left his bed-side; he watched by the corpse until it was buried,
and then took possession of the little boy's chair, which he
would allow no one to touch, not even the child's mother. Every
day he absented himself for three or four hours; and the father
one day going to look at his child's grave, found that the dog
had almost scratched his way down to the coffin. He was after
this kept within doors; but he refused to eat, and in a short
time died in the chair of his little master. If I had time, I
could tell you a story almost as touching, in relation to a pig,
an animal that phrenologically speaking has generally been
looked upon as somewhat deficient in the region of the
sentiments.'
NOW that our attention has been awakened to the subject, we find in our
casual reading the testimony in favor of 'mind in animals' greatly to
increase and multiply. OLEUS MAGNUS, Bishop of Norway, in a work written
in Latin some two centuries ago, tells us of a fox that, in order to get
rid of the fleas which infested his skin, was accustomed to swim out into
a lake with a straw band held high and dry in his mouth. When the
water-hating vermin had all escaped from his submerged body to the dry
straw, down dived Reynard, leaving his tormentors 'at sea,' and rising
again beyond the scope of safe jumping. 'Curious, isn't it?' A
correspondent at Rochester, 'who experienced much satisfaction in the
perusal of the article' above alluded to, was yet 'a little dissatisfied
with the closing portion of it.' The proposition of the writer to 'abstain
entirely from animal food,' on the score of humanity, he considers
'especially ridiculous.' He has 'the gravest authority for stating, that
every drop of water that quenches our thirst or laves our bodies, contains
innumerable insects, which are sacrificed to our necessities or comforts;
each ingredient in the simplest vegetable fare conveys to inevitable
destruction thousands of the most beautiful and harmless of created
beings. From the first to the last gasp of our lives, we never inhale the
air of heaven without butchering myriads of sentient and innocent
creatures. Can we upbraid ourselves then for supporting our lives by the
death of a few animals, many of whom are themselves carnivorous, when the
infant who has lived for a single day has killed an infinitely greater
number of human beings than the longest life would suffice to murder by
design? Or, if we sacrifice either our lives or our comforts by
scrupulously denying ourselves the use of animal food, can we derive much
consolation from considering that we spare a few scores of beings, when we
involuntarily, but knowingly, are every moment massacreing more than the
longest life-time would suffice to enumerate?' · · · A REFERENCE to the
case of '_Rachael Baker, the American Somnambulist_,' in a late London
Magazine, has recalled that remarkable phenomenon very forcibly to our
mind. RACHAEL BAKER resided within four miles of 'the house where we were
born;' and the first exhibitions of her religious exercises during sleep
took place alternately at the homestead and the residence of a relation in
its near vicinity. We remember as it were but yesterday the solemnity
which sat upon the faces of the assembled neighbors, as they awaited the
signal-groan from an adjoining apartment, to which, at about seven P. M.,
the Somnambulist usually retired for the night. When the door was opened
the crowd pressed in. The sleeper, dressed in white muslin, lay straight
and motionless in bed; her eyes closed, her face white and inflexible as
marble; and her fingers with livid marks beneath the nails, clasped meekly
upon her bosom. Flecks of foam were visible at the corners of her mouth,
and her lips moved 'as if they would address themselves to speech,' for
some seconds before any audible sound came from them. At length, however,
in a clear silvery voice she opened with prayer; a prayer fervent,
devotional, and evidently direct from the heart. When this was concluded,
and after the lapse of a brief space, she began an exhortation, in
language pure, beautiful, often eloquent, and occasionally rising to a
noble sublimity; and then closed with prayer. If interrupted with a
question, as she frequently was, by clergymen, medical gentlemen, and
others, she answered it with readiness, and with a felicity of language
surpassing belief. 'RACHAEL,' said a clergyman to her in our hearing one
evening, while in the midst of her discourse, 'why do you engage in these
exercises? and why----' She interrupted the speaker with words to this
effect: 'I, even I, a worm of the dust, am but a feeble instrument in the
hands of HIM who hath declared, 'I will pour out of my spirit upon you;
and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy; your young men shall see
visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. And on my servants and on my
handmaidens I will pour out in those days of my spirit, and they shall
prophesy.' Even _so_ FATHER, for so it seemeth good in thy sight!' The
girl was of bashful demeanor; altogether uneducated; could scarcely read;
knew little of the Bible; and indeed in her waking hours conversed in a
language that was far from being respectable English; but neither in her
prayers nor in her exhortations was she ever at fault; nor did she at any
time exhibit the slightest hesitation or confusion. Her answers to
questions were brief, pointed, and invariably correct. Crowds flocked to
see her, until the public curiosity overran all bounds. She was visited by
many persons from New-York; and finally, under the direction of a
committee of medical gentlemen from the city, was brought to the
metropolis, where she created a great sensation. A pamphlet was written
upon her case by Dr. MITCHELL; and we should feel greatly obliged to any
reader who would place it for a short time in our hands. · · · A VALUED
friend and correspondent, to whose kindness we have frequently been
indebted, has sent us a '_Massachusetts Centinel_,' printed in Boston
sixty years ago; in which, among many other curious and amusing matters,
there is a copy of an original letter written by the celebrated GEORGE
ALEXANDER STEVENS, author of 'Lecture on Heads,' etc., dated at 'Yarmouth
Jail, County of Norfolk,' which runs thus:
'SIR: When I parted from you at Doncaster, I imagined, long
before this, to have met with some oddities worth acquainting
you with. It is grown a fashion of late to write lives; I have
now, and for a long time have had, leisure enough to undertake
mine, but want materials for the latter part of it; for my
existence now cannot properly be called living, but what the
painters term _still life_; having ever since February 13, been
confined in this town-goal for a London debt.
'As a hunted deer is always shunned by the happier herd, so am I
deserted by the company,[7] my share taken off, and no support
left me, save what my wife can spare me out of hers:
'Deserted in my utmost need
By those my former bounty fed.'
[7] The Norwich company of players, to which he belonged.
'With an economy, which until now I was a stranger to, I have
made shift to victual hitherto my little garrison, but then it
has been with the aid of my good friends and allies--my clothes.
This week's eating finishes my last waistcoat; and next, I must
atone for my errors upon bread and water.
'THEMISTOCLES had so many towns to furnish his table, and a
whole city bore the charge of his meals. In some respects I am
like him, for I am furnished by the labors of a multitude. A wig
has fed me two days; the trimming of a waistcoat as long; a pair
of velvet breeches paid my washerwoman, and a ruffled shirt has
found me in shaving. My coats I swallowed by degrees. The
sleeves I breakfasted upon for weeks; the body, skirts, etc.,
served me for dinner two months. My silk stocking have paid my
lodgings, and two pair of new pumps enabled me to smoke several
pipes. It is incredible how my appetite, (barometer like) rises
in proportion as my necessities make their terrible advances. I
here could say something droll about a good stomach, but it is
ill jesting with edge tools, and I am sure that is the sharpest
thing about me. You may think I can have no sense of my
condition, that while I am thus wretched, I should offer at
ridicule: but, Sir, people constituted like me, with a
disproportioned levity of spirits, are always most merry when
they are most miserable; and quicken like the eyes of the
consumptive, which are always brightest the nearer the patient
approaches his dissolution. However, Sir, to show you I am not
lost to all reflection, I think myself poor enough to want a
favor, and humble enough to ask it here. Sir, I might make an
encomium on your good nature, humanity, etc.; but I shall not
pay so bad a compliment to your understanding, as to endeavor,
by a parade of phrases, to win it over to my interest. If you
could, any night at a concert, make a small collection for me,
it might be a means of my obtaining my liberty; and you well
know, Sir, the first people of rank abroad will perform the most
friendly offices for the sick; be not, therefore, offended at
the request of a poor (though a deservedly punished) debtor.
'GEO. A. STEVENS.'
AMONG the facetiæ of the 'Centinel' we find a clever hit at two prominent
official characters of the name of DAY: 'TITUS, a Roman emperor, we are
told, once lamented that '_he had lost a Day_.' If the commonwealth of
Massachusetts were to _lose two Days_, it would not be the cause of much
lamentation!' A correspondent elsewhere observes, that in a procession on
a certain solemn occasion in this city, the place of the physician was
immediately before the corpse; which, he adds, was 'exactly consonant with
the etiquette observed at capital executions in ancient times; the
_executioner_ always going before!' By the way, 'speaking of STEVENS;'
perhaps the reader of good things at second-hand may not be aware how much
he is indebted to this author's '_Lectures on Heads_' for amusement and
instruction. They were very popular throughout Great Britain; and as
illustrated by the author, after the manner of 'OLD MATTHEWS,' they are
said to have been irresistible. It was in this collection that the
law-cases of 'BULLUM _vs._ BOATUM' and 'DANIEL _vs._ DISHCLOUT' had their
origin. They are familiar to every school-boy, not less for their wit than
the canine Latinity in which they abound; '_Primus strokus est provokus_;
now who gave the _primus strokus_? Who gave the first offence?' Or, 'a
drunken man is '_homo duplicans_,' or a double man, seeing things double,'
etc., etc. We annex an example or two of the writer's _individuality_. The
first is a sketch of a _nil admirari_ critic and amateur, who has
travelled long enough abroad to fall in love with every thing foreign, and
despise every thing belonging to his own country except himself: 'He
pretended to be a great judge of paintings, but only admired those done a
great way off, and a great while ago; he could not bear any thing painted
by any of his own countrymen. One day being in an auction-room where there
was a number of capital pictures, and among the rest an inimitable
painting of fruits and flowers, the connoisseur would not give his opinion
of the picture until he had examined his catalogue; when, finding it was
done by one of his own countrymen, he pulled out his eye-glass,
exclaiming: 'This fellow has spoiled a fine piece of canvass; he's worse
than a sign-post dauber; there's no keeping, no perspective, no
fore-ground, no _chiar'oscuro_. Look you, he has attempted to paint _a
fly_ upon that rose-bud! Why, it is no more like a fly than I am like an
----' But as the connoisseur approached his finger to the picture, the fly
flew away. It happened to be the _real_ insect!' Is not the following a
forcible picture of a mercurial, hero-loving Frenchman? 'Has he property?
An edict from the _Grand Monarque_ can take it, and he is satisfied.
Pursue him to the Bastile, or the dismal dungeon in the country to which a
lettre-de-cachet conveys him, and buries him for life: there see him in
all his misery; ask him 'What is the cause?' '_Je ne sai pas_; it is the
will of the _Grand Monarque_.' Give him a _soup-maigre_, a little sallad,
and a hind-quarter of a frog, and he's in spirits. 'Fal, lal, lal! _Vive
le Roi? Vive la bagatelle!'_' Here we have a Materialist proving the
affinity of matter: 'All round things are globular, all square things
flat-sided. Now, if the bottom is equal to the top, and the top equal to
the bottom, and the bottom and top are equal to the four sides, then all
matter is as broad as it is long.' But the materialist 'had not in his
head matter sufficient to prove matter efficient; and being thus
deficient, he knew nothing of the matter.' One of STEVENS'S 'heads' was
that of a heartless, devil-may-care sort of person, in some respects like
the hero of '_A Capital Joke_' in preceding pages, who is always 'keeping
it up.' He illustrates his own character very forcibly: 'I'll tell you how
it was; you see, I was in high spirits, so I stole a dog from a blind man,
for I do _so_ love fun! So then the blind man cried for his dog, and that
made me laugh; so says I to the blind man. 'Halloo, master! do you want
your dog?' 'Yes, Sir, indeed, _indeed_ I do,' says he. Then says I to the
blind man, says I, 'Go look for him! Keep it up!' I always turn sick when
I think of a parson; and my brother, he's a parson too, and he hates to
hear any body swear; so I always swear when I am along with him, just to
roast him. I went to dine with him one day last week; and as soon as I
arrived, I began to swear. I never swore so well in all my life; I swore
all my new oaths. At last my brother laid down his knife and fork, and
lifting up his hands and eyes, he calls out: '_O Tempora! O Mores_.' 'Oh,
ho! brother,' says I, 'don't think to frighten me by calling all your
family about you. I don't mind you nor your family neither. Only bring
Tempora and Moses _here_--that's all! I'll box 'em for five pounds. Keep
it up!' · · · THERE is many a bereaved heart that will be touched by the
following sad, sad lines, from the pen of JOHN RUDOLPH SUTERMEISTER, a
young and gifted poet, whose mortal part has 'been ashes these many a
year,' and whom the reader may remember as the author of a little poem
widely quoted and admired many years ago, commencing:
'O! for my bright and faded hours!
When life was like a summer stream,
On whose gay banks the virgin flowers
Blushed in the morning's rosy beam,
Or danced upon the breeze that bare
Its store of rich perfume along,
While the wood-robin poured on air
The ravishing delights of song!'
To us, who are familiar with the painful circumstances under which they
were written, and the deep affliction which they deplore, they seem almost
to sob with irrepressible grief:
A LAMENT.
I.
GIVE not to me the wreath of green,
The blooming vase of flowers;
They breathe of joy which once hath been,
Of gone and faded hours!
I cannot love the rose; though rich,
Its beauty will not last:
Give me--give _me_ the bloom o'er which
The early blight hath passed!
The yellow buds--give _them_ to rest
On my cold brow and joyless breast,
When life is failing fast!
II.
Take far from me the wine-cup bright,
In hours of revelry;
It suits glad brows, and bosoms light,
It is not meet for me:
Oh! I can pledge the heart no more
I pledged in days gone by;
Sorrow hath touched my bosom's core,
And I am left--to die!
Give me to drink of Lethe's wave,
Give me the cold and cheerless grave,
O'er which the night-winds sigh!
III.
Wake not upon my tuneless ear
Soft music's stealing strain;
It cannot soothe, it cannot cheer
This anguished heart again!
But place the Æolian harp upon
The tomb of her I love;
There, when Heaven shrouds the dying sun,
My weary steps will rove,
While o'er its chords Night pours its breath,
To list the serenade of death
Her silent bourne above!
IV.
Give me to seek the lonely tomb
Where sleeps the sainted dead,
When the pale night-fall throws its gloom
Above her narrow bed!
There, while the winds which sweep along,
O'er the harp-strings are driven,
And the funereal soul of song
Upon the air is given,
Oh! let my faint and parting breath
Be mingled with that song of death,
And flee with it to heaven!
* * * * *
'WHO hath redness of eyes?' This interrogative 'portion of divine
scripture' is forcibly illustrated by an anecdote, related with most
effective dryness by a friend of ours. An elderly gentleman, accustomed to
'indulge,' entered the bar-room of an inn in the pleasant city of H----,
on the Hudson, where sat a grave Friend toasting his toes by the fire.
Lifting a pair of green spectacles upon his forehead, rubbing his inflamed
eyes, and calling for a hot brandy-toddy, he seated himself by the grate;
and as he did so, he remarked to Uncle BROADBRIM that 'his eyes were
getting weaker and weaker, and that even spectacles didn't seem to do 'em
any good.' 'I'll tell thee friend,' rejoined the Quaker, 'what I think. I
think if thee was to _wear thy spectacles over thy mouth_ for a few
months, thy eyes would get sound again!' The 'complainant' did not even
return thanks for this medical counsel, but sipped his toddy in silence,
and soon after left the room, 'uttering never a word.' · · · THERE have
been various surmises, and sundry contradictory statements, in relation to
the work superscribed '_Count D'Orsay on Etiquette_,' which we noticed at
some length in our December issue. Mr. WILLIS, of the 'New Mirror' weekly
journal, seems to question its having been _written_ by the COUNT, but
expresses his belief that he may have loaned his name to the publishers
'for a consideration;' and this may possibly have been the fact with the
latest London edition. The author of the work in question, however, is Mr.
CHARLES WILLIAM DAY, an English gentleman, whose acquaintance with the
usages of the best European society is personal and authentic; who has
observed and travelled much; and who is moreover an artist of a high
order; painting in miniature, and sketching with admirable skill. An
esteemed friend and correspondent of this Magazine writes us from Boston,
that the manner of the fraud is somewhat as follows: 'Mr. DAY is the
author of a Journal of Travels, which Messrs. LONGMAN AND COMPANY of
London proposed to publish. As they treated him, however, in a
dishonorable manner, he withdrew his MSS. from them and came to America.
In retaliation, they sent orders to this country to have a spurious
edition published of his work on 'Etiquette,' which they had formerly
brought out, and which they truly supposed he designed to reprint in
New-York or Boston. It has passed through more than twenty editions in
London; a fact which I know, from having seen the Messrs. LONGMANS'
letters and accounts with the author. His own edition is now in press in
Boston; and I learn that he has added some 'Hints' with an especial eye to
Yankee manners.' We have also received a letter from Mr. DAY himself, in
which, while he 'forbears at present to make any comments on the conduct
of the Messrs. LONGMAN,' he proves beyond a doubt that 'the Count D'ORSAY
is _not_ the writer of the 'Hints on Etiquette,' but that he himself is
'the real, true author,' past all peradventure. · · · A FRIEND lately
returned from the west, relates among other matters the following
anecdote: 'On board of one of the steam-boats on the Mississippi, I
encountered a deck-hand, who went by the name of BARNEY. Like many of his
class, he was a drinking, reckless fellow, but warm-hearted, good-natured,
and generous to a fault. In early life he was in easy circumstances; was a
husband, and the father of several children. But one night during a
violent storm the house in which he resided was struck by lightning, and
the whole family, save himself, were instantly killed. His own escape was
considered a miracle at the time, not even a hair of his head having been
singed. From that time, however, he took to drinking, and so sank lower
and lower until he became what I found him. When I had heard his story, I
felt somewhat interested in the man, and one day managed to draw him into
conversation. He told me his early history with much natural pathos; and
finding him in the 'melting mood' I endeavored to lead him to some serious
thoughts upon the subject of his misfortunes, and especially of that one
which had bereft him in so awful a manner of his wife and children.
'BARNEY,' said I, 'don't you think it was a signal mercy that you alone
should have escaped unharmed from the bolt which destroyed all else you
loved upon earth? Was there not at least something _singular_ in the
fact?' 'That's what I said myself,' replied BARNEY, in a tremulous voice;
'I always thought it was _very_ sing'lar. But the fact I suppose was this,
Mr. WHITEHAT. The lightning, you see, was afraid of _a man_, and so like a
d----d sneak, it went twisting about to scorch women and little children!'
· · · BLACKWOOD has proclaimed in a late number, the '_Characteristics of
English Society_,' in language of truth and soberness, which goes
explicitly to confirm the reports of nearly all American and other
'foreigners' who have visited England. We subjoin an extract contrasting
English with French society:
'WE should indeed be sorry if our demeanor in those vast crowds,
where English people flock together, rather, as it would seem,
to assert a right, than to gratify an inclination, were to be
taken as an index of our national character: the want of all
ease and simplicity, those essential ingredients of agreeable
society, which distinguish these dreary meetings have long been
unfortunately notorious. Too busy to watch the feelings of
others, and too earnest to moderate our own, that true
politeness which pays respect to age; which tries to put the
most insignificant person in company on a level with the most
considerable--virtues which our neighbors possess in an eminent
degree--are, except in a few favored instances, unknown among
us; while affectation, in other countries the badge of ignorance
and vulgarity, is ours, even in its worst shape, when it borrows
the mien of rudeness, impertinence, and effrontery, the
appendage of those whose station is most conspicuous, and whose
dignity is best ascertained. There is more good breeding in the
cottage of a French peasant than in all the boudoirs of
Grosvenor square. · · · 'Frivolity and insipidity are the
prevailing characteristics of conversation; and nowhere in
Europe, perhaps, does difference of fortune or of station
produce more unsocial or illiberal separation. Very few of those
whom fortune has released from the necessity of following some
laborious profession are capable of passing their time agreeably
without the assistance of company; not from the spirit of gaity
which calls upon society for indulgence; not from any pleasure
they take in conversation, where they are frequently languid and
taciturn; but to rival each other in the luxury of the table, or
by a great variety of indescribable airs, to make others feel
the pain of mortification. They meet as if to fight the
boundaries of their rank and fashion, and the less definite and
perceptible is the line which divides them, the more punctilious
is their pride. It is a great mistake to suppose that this
low-minded folly is peculiar to people of rank; it is _an
English disease_.'