Chapter XXXII: Introduction: To the Biography of My Aunt Jemima, (2)

III.
But THE FISHES combine in one mystical sign
A moral right apt for the banquet;
And a practical hint, which I ne'er saw in print,
Yet a Rochefoucault maxim I rank it:--
If a secret I'd hide, or a project confide,
To a comrade's good faith and devotion,
Oh! the friend whom I'd wish, though he _drank_ like a _fish_,
Should be _mute_ as the tribes of the ocean.

THE ANATOMY OF COURAGE.
BY PRINCE PUCKLER MUSKAU.

IN A LETTER TO A FRIEND.

As for the article of courage and its various manifestations, it is a very peculiar thing: I have thought much about it, and observed a great deal; and I am convinced that, except in romances, there are very few men who at all times show distinguished, and _none at all_ who possess _perfect_ courage. I should esteem any man who maintained the contrary of himself, and who asserted that he did not know what fear was, a mere braggart; but, nevertheless, I should not consider it my duty to tell him so, to his face. There are endless _varieties_ of courage, which may, however, be comprised under three general dispositions of temperament, and six principal rubrics; within this arrangement a thousand modifications still remain, but I cannot here pursue them.

We come, first, to three sorts of that courage which alone can be called natural, and which, like all that nature gives _directly_, is perfect; that is, without any mixture of fear so long as _it lasts_, and which, therefore, has only a temporary influence. These are,

1. Courage from passion, such as love, anger, vengeance, and so forth.

2. From hunger, or the want of any thing indispensable to existence.

3. From habit, which, according to a law of nature, hardens completely against particular kinds of permanent danger.

All the others are artificial, but not, therefore, imperfect; that is, they are not always without admixture of fear, the result either of a dawning, or on already advanced state of civilization. They may be divided into

_a._ Courage out of vanity.

_b._ Out of a feeling of honour.

_c._ Out of duty; under which head may be reckoned the inspiration of religion, and all kinds of enthusiasm; which is also closely allied to _a_. At last we come to the physical conformation which supports courage, or renders it difficult of exhibition, or puts it altogether out of the question.

(There is certainly a fourth kind of courage, in some measure the shady side of the others,--courage from avarice. I omitted it, because it is rather an enormity, and can only produce criminals; it is, therefore, allied to madness, of which I do not speak here.)

They are, firstly, a strong and healthy nervous system, and a sanguine temperament.

Secondly, a weak and excitable constitution, which is called _par excellence_ a nervous constitution.

Thirdly, that unfortunate defective formation, probably of the nerves of the brain, which produces an unconquerable timidity, becomes real suffering and a regular malady, rendering all manifestations of courage next to impossible.

That these divisions are subject to more or less modification, and often branch off into each other through inward motives, or external influences, follows of course. I will in few words touch upon these powers in their general and universal operation, and examine how the different value of the chief combinations are classified.

One, two, and three, I give up; for every one knows that with both man and beast, when a beloved object is in danger, or under the influence of a natural impulse, or when animated by a blind rage, or pinched by hunger, instinct alone acts, and timidity vanishes: but let the excitement cease, and the courage disappears also. When full of food, the lion flees before the feeblest man; and, when the hunger of the terrible boa is quite appeased, it may be laid hold of, without danger. It is equally well known that habit would make us forget the sword suspended over our heads by a single hair. The soldier, continually in battle, is as indifferent to bullets as the boy to the flying ball: and yet the same soldier would shudder at a species of danger that the most cowardly spy encounters in cold blood, and, in all probability, would feel real terror if he were compelled to a conflict with a tiger, which the timid Indian, armed with a short sword, and protected only by a green shield, will go in search of and subdue. The boldest mariner is often absurdly fearful in a carriage; and I have known a brave officer who turned pale whenever he was obliged to leap his horse over a hedge or a ditch.

But the case is very different when the courage of civilisation makes common cause with the physical disposition. If No. 1, in its highest perfection, be conjoined with _a_, _b_, and _c_, it is easy to see that the individual uniting the whole will be the bravest possible man; when, however, No. 1 stands alone, precious as it is, in, and for itself, there is but little dependence on it. The weaker No. 2, united to _a_, _b_, or _c_, is a rock compared to it: for the last motives have this great and invaluable quality--they are lasting, while No. 1 depends upon time and circumstance; and then will produce only the _so-called_ naturally brave, of whom the Spaniards say, _He was brave in his day_; No. 1 reduced to his own resources would perhaps encounter with vermilion cheeks and perfect cheerfulness, danger that would make No. 2 + _a_, _b_, or _c_, pale and serious.

Notwithstanding this, it is by no means certain whether No. 1 would not be seized with a panic in the fight, for all his red cheeks; but No. 2, with his powerful auxiliary, certain that he must fight, is quite secure, while the colour returns to his cheek even in the midst of the danger. As soon as fear seizes No. 1, it must influence his action; with No. 2 + _a_, _b_, or _c_, it is a matter of indifference whether he feels fear or no, as it will be neutralized by the permanent auxiliary qualifications, and its influence on his actions nullified. And, although No. 1 + _a_, _b_, _c_, must always remain the _summum perfectum_, yet No. 2 + _a_, _b_, _c_, will sometimes do bolder and more surprising things, because the nervous excitement is more strongly acted on; especially if enthusiasm be brought into play.

The other sex, for instance, never possess any other than this species of courage; and if our manners had not, as well out of vanity, as a feeling of honour and duty, entirely dispensed with courage in them, and directed their whole education on this principle, then a lady, No. 2 + _a_ alone, even without _b_ and _c_, would certainly have surpassed the bravest man in point of courage, and would probably have been victor in every combat, where only this courage and its endurance, and not merely physical strength or skill, should decide.

No. 1 gifted also with _a_, _b_, _c_, would be brave sometimes, and sometimes not; if No. 2, however, were equally _a_, _b_, _c_, then the disadvantageous side of such a disposition would come into action, and No. 2 would in this case be a regular portion, not so much _because_ he _must_ be such, like No. 3, but because it would be far more convenient, and more suitable to his nature: such would be many men in the lower, and the whole dear sex in the highest, degree. The undeniably cowardly disposition of the Jews has the same foundation. We have so long denied them human and social rights, that the motives of vanity and the sense of honour can operate but feebly on them, while that of duty in relation to us can scarcely exist at all. Nothing but centuries of a more reasonable and humane policy can render this otherwise.

The unfortunate No. 3 would only be courageous in two predicaments; in half-frantic religious ecstacy, or in despair, itself the very extremity of fear, when he might reach a point beyond the limits of courage. We have seen, for example, people destroy themselves out of dread of death!

What I have here said, little as it is, appears to me sufficient to point out a mode of drawing new deductions from every possible combination; to determine their relative value; and, what is most important of all, to excite further reflections, from which all may draw practical benefit.

You may think, my dear friend, that I could not occupy myself with subjects, without endeavouring to analyse my own portion of courage; for who can undertake to study mankind without beginning and ending with himself? Are you curious to be informed on this point? It is a ticklish thing; but you know that I have a pleasure in being candid, and therefore willingly withdraw, at times, the curtains of my most secret chamber, to afford my good friends a glimpse. Listen, then: the result will be found in that admired _juste milieu_, which certain well-known governments have discovered without knowing it, and find that it answers admirably well, because it may be translated by the German word _mittel mässigkeit_ (moderation, or mediocrity.) This is just the case with me also: in the first place, I must own to the feminine temperament No. 2, although I would rather have belonged to No. 1; however, laws are not to be prescribed to the Creator; and to say of myself what I think, without maintaining it as certainly demonstrated, would be too vain on my part: fortunately, in addition to my mediocre No. 2, I possess _a_, _b_, _c_, thoroughly, at least in a high, if not in the highest degree.

I know the nervous agitation which in some is called bashfulness, and in others fear, as do many who would not perhaps admit it so candidly; but it does not conquer me, and acts merely as a shower of rain does on a man wrapped in a waterproof cloak; the water remains on the surface, and does not penetrate. I have before signified that physical conditions, that is, stronger or weaker condition of the nerves, produce great variations, particularly in the dispositions 1 and 2. The advantageous effect of a good breakfast on the courage has become proverbial among the French; and all those who are in the least "nervous" must acknowledge that there is a good deal of truth in it. The young libertine in Gil Blas was perfectly in the right to answer, when he was called at five in the morning to fight a duel, "That he would not rise at such an hour for a rendezvous with a lady, much less to have his throat cut by a man;" at eleven o'clock, when he had breakfasted, and was thoroughly awake--not before--he got up, went out, and was run through the body: a strong illustration of the folly of getting up, too soon. However, when it must be, the admirable _a_, _b_, _c_, can conquer even distasteful fasting, as they can everything else, whether they act together or singly: with the help of this _æs triplex_, my littleness has fought its way very comfortably through the world, as I hope it will continue to do, without any great injury accruing, or being likely to accrue, to my vanity, my sense of honour, or my sense of duty.

Being, in addition, half poet and half enthusiast, even the courage of rashness was not unknown to me in my youthful days; notwithstanding which, it is possible that, without my _a_, _b_, _c_, I might have run away when it was dangerous to stay.

Now that I have grown up a civilised man, I observe one peculiar shade. In danger, I think far less, sometimes not at all, of the danger itself; but I am _afraid of my fear_; that is, I am afraid that others should observe I am not quite so much at my ease, as my vanity and my sense of honour (duty has nothing to do with it) require I should be. At the very moment of danger, this feeling, as well as every other that can be called anxiety, ceases of itself; because action makes stronger claims on the spirit's strength, and the weaker affections fall naturally into the background. This weakness (for such it certainly is) of extreme anxiety respecting the opinion of men, is so characteristic of me, that I feel it continually whenever I am called upon to do anything that brings me under observation,--for example, whether I make a speech, act a part, or encounter mortal danger. Herewith must not, however, be reckoned more or less physical excitement, or when natural impulses such as I, II, III, come into play. I can, without boasting, affirm, with a good conscience, that the mortal danger is, in relation to the others, the lightest of the three; and you will laugh when I tell you, that the strongest fit of timidity that ever seized upon me was, absurdly enough, on one occasion when I was to _sing_ in public!--an unlucky passion that possessed me at one time in my foolish life, and which I renounced merely out of vexation at this ridiculous bashfulness. If I were writing about another, I should, out of civility, call such a disposition, only an exaggerated sense of honour,--at most vanity, well-founded vanity. But I dare not flatter myself, and therefore I give it its true name,--the fear of men; for bashfulness is a part of fear, as audacity is of courage, but of courage, so to say, without soul, consequently without dignity, as bashfulness is fear without shame. It must not be overlooked that the greatest courage cannot, at the bottom, dispense with audacity, and the greatest men in profane history possessed it. It is, however, one of the greatest gifts for the world; and many deceive through their whole lives, by the help of audacity alone. It is not necessary to say that it must, however, be coupled with understanding, and so applied as we must in public go decently clothed. I am sorry that I have it not, and can only obtain it by artificial means; but it appears to me of so much importance, that I am half inclined, dear Schefer, to favour you with a second dissertation, if it were not a principal maxim of my book and letter-writing trade not to give too much of what is valuable. You are quit for the fear this time; and, as you are but too well acquainted with me, I see you smile, and hear you distinctly exclaim, "Another fancy-piece to look like truth." My dear Schefer, a good conjurer shows all the cards, and yet you only see what he pleases to let you. You and the Secret Society understand me. Like Wallenstein, I keep my last word _in petto_. This is my last but one.

THE SONG OF THE COVER.
(NOT A SPORTING ONE.)

My Dear Mr. Editor.--I have been for some time troubled by a slight longing to illustrate the title-page (or rather the Cover and its pretty _pages_) of the Miscellany. Today I was taken suddenly worse with this desperate symptom of the _cacoethes scribendi_, but at length being safely delivered of the following doggrel, you will be glad to hear that I am now "as well as can be expected."

Ever, my dear Mr. Editor, yours truly,
R. J.

THE SONG OF THE COVER.

"SING a song of half-a-crown--
Lay it out this minute:
Buy the book, for half the town
Want to know what's in it.
Had you all the cares of Job,
You'd then forget your troubles,"
Cried Cupid, seated on the globe,
Busy blowing bubbles.

Rosy Summer, pretty Spring,
See them scattering flowers--
"Catch who can!" the song they sing:
Hearts-ease fall in showers.
Autumn, tipsy with the grape,
Plays a pipe and tabor;
Winter imitates the ape,
Mocking at his neighbour.

Bentley, Boz, and Cruikshank, stand,
Like expectant reelers--
"Music!"--"Play up!"--pipe in hand,
Beside the _fluted_ pillars!
Boz and Cruikshank want to dance,
None for frolic riper,
But Bentley makes the first advance,
Because he "pays the piper."

"Then sing a song of half-a-crown,
And make a merry race on't
To buy the book, all London town;
There's wit upon the _face_ on't.
Had you all the cares of Job,
You'd then forget your troubles,"
Cried Cupid, seated on the globe,
Busy blowing bubbles.

THE COBBLER OF DORT.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "MEPHISTOPHELES IN ENGLAND."

"Oh! the world's nothing more than a cobbler's stall,
Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!
And mankind are the boots and the shoes on the wall;
Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!
The great and the rich
Never want a new stitch;
They fit like a glove before and behind,
Are polished and neat, and always well lined,
And thus wear till they come to life's ending:
But the poor and the mean
Are not fit to be seen,--
They are things that none would borrow or steal,
Are out at the toes, and down at the heel,
And are always beyond any mending.
So the world's nothing more than a cobbler's stall,
Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!
And mankind are the boots and the shoes on the wall;
Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!

"Jacob!--Jacob Kats, I say!" exclaimed a shrill female voice.

"Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!" continued the singer.

"Are you deaf, mynheer?"

"And mankind are the boots and the shoes on the wall."

"Do leave off your singing, and open the door; the burgomaster will be angry that I have stayed so long."

"Stitch, stitch, hammer, hammer, hammer!"

"You are enough to provoke the most patient girl in Dort. Open the door, Jacob Kats! Open the door this instant, or you shall never have any more work from me!"

"Ya?" drawled the cobbler interrogatively, as he slowly opened the door of his stall.

"Is this the way you behave to your customers, mynheer?" asked a smartly-dressed, plump-faced, pretty little woman, in rather a sharp tone;--"keeping them knocking at the door till you please to open it? It's not respectful to the burgomaster, Jacob Kats!"

"Ya!" replied the mender of leather.

"Here, I want you to do this very neatly," said the girl, producing a small light shoe, and pointing to a place that evidently wanted repairing.

"Ya!" said Jacob Kats, examining with professional curiosity the object spoken of.

"The stitches have broken away, you see; so you must fill up the place they have left, with your best workmanship," she continued.

"Ya!" he responded.

"And mind you don't make a botch of it, mynheer!"

"Ya!"

"And let me have it in an hour, for the burgomaster has given me leave to go to a dance."

"Ya!"

"And be sure you make a reasonable charge."

"Ya."

"I shall be back in an hour," said the little woman, as she opened the door to let herself out of the stall; "and I shall expect that it will be ready by that time:" and away she went. "Ya!" replied Jacob for the last time, as he prepared to set briskly about the job, knowing that his fair customer was too important a personage to be disappointed. "It is not every cobbler that can boast of being employed by a burgomaster's nursery-maid," thought Jacob; and Jacob was right.

Now every one knows what sort of character a cobbler is; but a Dutch cobbler is the _beau idéal_ of the tribe, and the cobbler of Dort deserved to be king of all the cobblers in Holland. He was the finest specimen of "the profession" it was possible to meet with; a profession, by-the-by, which his forefathers from time immemorial had followed, for none of them had ever been, or ever aspired to be, shoemakers. Jacob could not be said to be tall, unless a height of five feet one is so considered. His body was what is usually called "punchy;" his head round like a ball, so that it appeared upon his shoulders like a Dutch cheese on a firkin of butter; and his face, having been well seamed by the ravages of the small-pox, closely resembled a battered nutmeg-grater, with a tremendous gap at the bottom for a mouth, a fiery excrescence just above it, for a nose, and two dents, higher still, in which were placed a pair of twinkling eyes. It will easily be understood from this description, that our hero was by no means handsome; but his father and his grandfather before him, had been remarkable for the plainness of their looks, and therefore Jacob had no earthly reason to desire to put a better face on his business than his predecessors. Much cannot be said of his dress, which had little in it differing from that of other cobblers. A red woollen cap ornamented his head,--a part of his person that certainly required some decoration; long sleeves, of a fabric which could only be guessed at, in consequence of their colour, cased his arms; half-a-dozen waistcoats of various materials covered the upper part of his body; and his nether garments were hid under an immense thick leather apron,--a sort of heir-loom of the family.

But Jacob had other _habits_ beside these; he drank much--he smoked more--and had an equal partiality for songs and pickled herrings. Alone, which is something like a paradox, he was the most sociable fellow in existence; he sang to himself, he talked to himself, he drank to himself, and was evidently on the most friendly terms with himself: but when any one made an addition to the society, he became the most reserved of cobblers; monosyllables were all he attempted to utter; nor had he any great variety of these, as may have been observed in the preceding dialogue. His stall was his kingdom; he swayed his hammer, and ruled his lapstone vigorously; and, as other absolute monarchs have done,--in his subjects he found his _tools_. His place of empire was worthy of its ruler. It had originally been an outhouse, belonging to one of those low Gothic-looking dwellings with projecting eaves and bow windows that may be seen in the unfashionable parts of most Dutch towns; and its interior, besides a multitude of objects belonging to the trade, contained a variety of other matters peculiar to himself. Such spaces on the wells as were not hidden from view by superannuated boots and shoes, were covered with coloured prints from designs by Ostade, Teniers, and others, representing boors drinking, playing at cards or at bowls, and similar subjects. On a heavy three-legged stool, the throne of the dynasty of the Kats, sat the illustrious Jacob, facing the window to receive all the advantages the light could give: before him were the paraphernalia of his vocation: on one side was a curious old flask, smelling strongly of genuine Schiedam, which invariably formed "a running accompaniment" to his labours; and on the other was an antique pipe, short in the stem, and having a bowl on which the head of a satyr had been carved, but constant use for several generations had made the material so black, that it might have been taken for the frontispiece of a more objectionable personage.

Jacob Kats had been diligently waxing some flax preparatory to commencing the repairs of the burgomaster's nursery-maid's shoe, occasionally stopping in his task to moisten his throat with the contents of the flask, which, either from a prodigal meal of pickled herrings having made him more thirsty than usual, or the Schiedam appearing more excellent, had been raised to his mouth so often that day, that it had tinged his nose to a more luminous crimson, and had given to his eyes a more restless twinkling, than either had known for some time; when, having prepared his thread, laid it carefully on his knee ready for immediate use, and placed the object on which his skill was to be exercised close at hand, he turned his attention to his pipe,--it being an invariable rule of his progenitors never to attempt anything of importance without first seeking the stimulating influence of the Virginian weed. On examining his stock of tobacco, he discovered that he had barely enough for one pipe.

"Donner und blitzen! no more? Bah! I wish to the Teufel my pipe would never want refilling," exclaimed the cobbler of Dort, filling the bowl with the remains of the tobacco; and then, having ignited it with the assistance of flint, steel, and German tinder, puffed away at the tube, consoling himself with the reflection that, when his labour was done, he should be able to procure a fresh supply. He smoked and stitched, and stitched and smoked, and smoked and stitched again, and, while his fumigations kept pace with his arms, his thoughts were by no means idle; for, to tell the exact truth, he became conscious of a flow of ideas more numerous and more ambitious than he had ever previously conceived. Among other notions which hurried one another through his pericranium, was one particularly interesting to himself. He thought it was high time to attempt something to prevent the ancient family of the Kats becoming extinct, as he was now on the shady side of forty, enjoying in single blessedness the dignities of Cobbler of Dort, and, if such a state continued, stood an excellent chance of being the last of his name who had filled that honourable capacity. He could not help condemning the taste of the girls of his native town, who had never looked favourably upon his advantages: even Maria Van Bree, a fair widow who had signified her affection every day for fifteen years by repeating a joke upon his nose, only last week had blighted his dearest hopes by marrying an old fellow with no nose at all. Jacob thought of his solitary condition, and fancied himself miserable. He became sentimental. His stitches were made with a melancholy precision, and in the intensity of his affliction he puffed his miserable pipe; but, as song was the medium through which he always expressed his emotions, his grief was not tuneless: in tones that, without any exaggeration, were wretched to a degree, he sung the following exquisite example of Dutch sentiment:

"Ach! had ik tranen kon ik schreijen,
De smart knaagt mij het leven af;
Neen wanhoop spaargeen folte ringen,
Stort bij Maria mij in't graf."

Which is most appropriately rendered thus:

"Ah! had I tears, so fast they'd spring,
Nought from these eyes the flood could wipe out;
But had I songs, I could not sing,--
The false Maria's put my pipe out."

The conclusion of this pathetic verse brought to his mind the extraordinary circumstance of his pipe (the one he had been smoking) continuing to be vigorously puffed long after it had usually required replenishing. He might have exhausted three in the same time. He also became conscious of a curious burning sensation spreading from immediately under his red cap to the very extremities of his ten toes. The smoke he inhaled seemed very hot; and the alarm which his observations on these matters created was considerably increased by hearing a roar of small shrill laughter burst from under his very nose!

"Donner und blitzen!" exclaimed the bewildered cobbler, as he took the pipe out of his mouth and looked around him to discover from whence the sounds proceeded.

"Smoke away, old boy! Smoke away! You won't smoke me out in a hurry, I can tell ye."

Jacob directed his eyes to the place from whence came this strange address, and his astonishment may be imagined at perceiving that _the words were uttered by his pipe!_ The ill-looking, black satyr, carved on the bowl, seemed to cock his eye at him in the most impertinent manner, twisted his mouth into all sorts of diabolical grimaces, and laughed till the tears ran down his sooty cheeks. Jacob was, as he himself expressed it, "struck all of a heap."

"You know you wished to the Teufel your pipe would never require refilling," said the voice as plainly as it could, while laughing all the time; "so your desire is now gratified. You may smoke me till the day of judgement."

Jacob, in fear and trembling, recalled to mind his impious wish; and even his regret for having been jilted by the widow Van Bree was forgotten in the intensity of his alarm.

"Smoke away, Jacob Kats!--I'm full of capital tobacco," continued the little wretch, with a chuckle.

The terrified cobbler was thinking of refusing, yet too much afraid of the consequences; while his tormentor, distorting his hideous features into a more abominable grin, shrieked out in his shrill treble,

"You _must_ smoke me--no use refusing _now_! Here I am, old boy, with a full bowl that will never burn out--never, never, never! so you'd best smoke." And then, as if noticing his indecision, he exclaimed, with a fresh burst of horrid laughter, "Well, if you won't, I'll make you: so, here goes!" and, before his wretched victim was aware of the manoeuvre, he jumped stem foremost into his mouth.

"Now, smoke away, old boy, or worse will follow!" said the little satyr threateningly.

Jacob was in such a state of fright that he did not dare to refuse; but the first mouthful of smoke he inhaled seemed to choke him, as if it was the burning flames of sulphur, and, gasping for breath, he brushed the pipe from his mouth.

"Smoke away, Jacob!--capital tobacco!" screamed the voice in a roar of more fiendish mirth, as he immediately regained his position. In vain, with one hand after the other, the miserable cobbler knocked the pipe from between his teeth: as fast as he struck it away, it returned to the same place. "Smoke away, old boy!" continued his unrelenting enemy, as often as his fits of laughter would allow. "Smoke away!--capital tobacco!"

Jacob Kats seemed in despair, when, casting his eyes upon his lapstone, a way of getting rid of the accursed pipe presented itself to his mind. He threw down the grinning demon on the floor, and with his lapstone raised above his head was about to crush it at a blow. "Smoke away, old boy!" fixing itself again firmly between his teeth, before Jacob had time to put his intention into execution, jeeringly continued the detested voice; "smoke away!--capital tobacco!"

With one great effort, such as great minds have recourse to on great occasions. Jacob let fall the stone, with a vigorous grasp caught hold of the grinning pipe, and, as he thought, before it could make a guess as to what he was about to do, dashed it into a thousand pieces upon the lapstone at his feet.

"Donner und blitzen!" cried the delighted cobbler; "I have done for you now!"

Alas for all sublunary pleasures!--alas for all worldly convictions!--instead of his enemy being broken into a thousand pieces, it was multiplied into a thousand pipes,--every one a facsimile of the original, each possessing the same impertinent cock of the eye, each disclosing the same satirical twist of the mouth, and all laughing like a troop of hyenas, and shouting in chorus, "Smoke away! smoke away, old boy!--capital tobacco!"

The patience of a Dutchman may be great, but the concentrated patience of all Holland could not stand unmoved on so trying an occasion as that which occurred to Jacob Kats. He saw his multitudinous tormentors form into regular rank and file, and then, as if his mouth had been a breach which he had "armed to the teeth," they presented their stems like so many bayonets, and charged in military fashion, screaming, laughing, and shouting, in a manner sufficiently terrible to scare the senses out of all the cobblers in Christendom. Slowly the trembling wretch retreated before the threatening phalanx; but he was surrounded--his back was against the wall--there was no escape; and with one leap the enemy were in the citadel. Extraordinary as it may appear, Jacob did not lose his presence of mind. As they were all jostling, and giggling, and crying out to be smoked, the unconquered cobbler firmly grasped the whole mass of his foes in both his hands to make a last attempt at their destruction, by throwing them into a tub of water, in which he soaked his leather, that happened to be just within reach; but, in a manner inexplicable to him, he felt that the more vigorously he grasped them in a body, the more rapidly they seemed to shrink from his touch, till nothing was left but the original pipe, which suddenly slipped out of his hands.

"Well then, you _won't_ smoke me," coolly remarked the sooty demon;--"but," added he, in tones that made the marrow in Jacob's bones turn cold as ice, "I'LL SMOKE YOU!"

While the last of the family of the Kats was reflecting upon the meaning of those mysterious words, to his increasing horror he observed the well-smoked features of the satyr gradually swell into an enormous bulk of countenance, as the same process of enlargement transformed the stem into legs, arms, and body, proportionately huge and terrific; but the monstrous face still wore its original expression, and seemed to the unhappy Dutchman as if he was looking at the cock of his eye through a microscope. Without saying a word, the monster, with the finger and thumb of his right hand, caught up Jacob Kats by the middle, just as an ordinary man would take up an ordinary pipe, and with his left hand twisted one of his victim's legs over the other, as if they had been made of wax, till they came to a tolerable point at the foot; then, taking from a capacious pocket at his side a moderate-sized piece of tobacco, with the utmost impudence imaginable, he rubbed it briskly upon Jacob's unfortunate nose, which, as would any fiery nose under such circumstances, was burning with indignation; and the weed immediately igniting, as the poor cobbler lay with his head down gasping for breath, he thrust the flaming mass into his mouth, extended a pair of jaws that looked like the lock of the Grand Canal, quietly raised Jacob's foot between them, and immediately began to smoke with the energy of a steam-engine! Miserable Jacob Kats!--what agonies he endured! At every whiff the inhuman smoker took, he could feel the narcotic vapour, hot as a living coal, drawn rapidly down his throat, through his veins and out at his toes, to be puffed in huge volumes out of the monster's mouth, till the place was filled with the smoke. Jacob felt that his teeth were red-hot,--that his tongue was a cinder,--and big drops of perspiration coursed each other down his burning cheeks, like the waves of the Zuyder Zee on the shore when the tide's running up. Jacob looked pitiably at his tormentor, and thought he discerned a glimpse of relenting in the atrocious ugliness of his physiognomy. He unclosed his enormous jaws, and removed from them the foot of his victim. The cobbler of Dort congratulated himself on the approach of his release.

"Jacob Kats, my boy!" exclaimed the giant, in that quiet patronising kind of voice all great men affect, carelessly balancing Jacob on his finger and thumb at a little distance from his mouth, as he threw out a long wreath of acrid smoke; "Jacob, you are a capital pipe,--there's no denying _that_. You smoke admirably,--take my word for it;" and then, without a word of pity or consolation, he resumed his unnatural fumigations with more fierceness than ever. Jacob had behaved like a martyr,--he had shown a spirit worthy of the Kats in their best days; but the impertinence of such conduct was not to be endured. He would a minute since have allowed himself to have been dried into a Westphalia ham, to which state he had been rapidly progressing, but the insult he had just received had roused the dormant spirit of resistance in his nature; and, while every feature in his tyrant's smoky face seemed illuminated with a thousand sardonic grins, having no better weapon at hand, Jacob hastily snatched the red cap off his head, and, taking deliberate aim at his persecutor, flung it bang into the very cock of his eye. The monster opened his jaws to utter a yell of agony, and down came the head of Jacob Kats upon the floor, that left him without sense or motion.

How long the cobbler of Dort remained in this unenviable situation it is impossible to say, but he was first recalled to consciousness by a loud knocking at the door of his stall.

"Jacob! Jacob Kats!" exclaimed the well-known voice of his fair customer, in a tone of considerable impatience; and Jacob, raising himself on his elbows, discovered that he had fallen back off his stool; and the empty flask at his side, and the unfinished work on his lap, while they gave him a tolerably correct notion of his condition, did not suggest any remedy for the fatal consequences of disappointing the burgomaster's nursery-maid. It is only necessary to add, that, with considerable difficulty, he managed to satisfy his important patroness; but, to the very day of his death, Jacob, who proved to be the last of the long dynasty of Kats who enjoyed the dignity inseparable from the situation of Cobbler of Dort, could not, with any degree of satisfaction, make up his mind as to whether the strange effects he had that eventful day experienced had been caused by extraordinary indulgence in the luxury of pickled herrings,--or too prodigal allowance of Schiedam,--or intense disappointment for the loss of the widow Van Bree.

AN EPIGRAM.

On Sabbath morn two sisters rise,
And each to chapel goes;
Fair Caroline to close her eyes,
And Jane to eye her clothes (close).

ANOTHER.

All Flora's friends have died, it seems, before her:--
I wish my wife had been a friend of Flora!

HERO AND LEANDER.
FROM THE GREEK OF MUSÆUS.

The lamp that saw the lovers side by side
In furtive clasp; the swimmer bold o' nights;
The close embrace Aurora never spied,
Sing Muse! and Sestos, nest of their delights,
Where Hero watched, and Eros had his rites
Duly performed. My song is of Leander,
And lovingly the beacon-lamp requites,
Which lured him o'er the ocean's back to wander,
Sweet Hero's message-light, love's harbinger and pandar.

Zeus should have placed that signal-light above,
(Their love-race ended) 'mid the constellations,
And called its name the bridal star of love,
As minister of rapture's keen sensations,
The cresset, by whose aid they found occasions
Of sleepless nights--till blew the fatal blast.
Come, Muse! and join with me in lamentations
For that clear night, by which love's bidding past,
And for Leander's life, extinguished both at last.

Sestos is opposite Abydos, near
And neighbour cities--parted by the sea:
Love with one arrow scorched a virgin there,
And here a youth; the fairest Hero she,
The handsome bachelor, Leander, he.
Stars of their cities, but resembling each
The other. Sestos keeps her memory
Where Hero's lamp was wont his way to teach,
And for Leander moans Abydos' sullen beach.

Whence grew Leander's passion? Whence again
Did the same fire sweet Hero's heart devour?
Priestess of Cypris, and of noble strain,
Untaught in Hymen's rites, and of love's power
Unconscious, Hero in a sea-side tower,
An ancient and ancestral pile, was dwelling,--
Another Cypris, but a virgin flower,
In sensitive white purity excelling,
The slander and the touch of license rude repelling.

She went not where the light-foot choir assembled,
Shunned ribalds, and the breath that Envy blew,
(The fair hate those are fairer,) and she trembled
At thought of young Love's quiver,--for she knew
His mother favoured every shaft he drew;
Prayers to the mother, and with girlish art
Cates to the son she offered: nathless flew
From the sly urchin's bow the fire-plumed dart
Straight to its destined mark, the maiden's trembling heart.

What time came round the Sestian festival,
Sacred to Cypris, and her Syrian fere,
All who inhabited the coronal
Of sparkling isles their way to Sestos steer;
Some from Emonia gather far and near;
Others from Cyprus; in Cythera now
No woman stays; in Sestos now appear
The Phrygian, and the dancer on the brow
Of spicy Lebanon, as thereto bound by vow.

Thither the virgin-hunters thick repair,
As is their wont; a rash and reckless race,
Whose prayers are only offered to the fair.
There moved our Hero with majestic pace;
A star-like glory scattered from her face
Sparkles of light, as when the moon discloses
Among the stars her cheek's clear-shining grace;
Like a twin-rose, one white, one red, reposes
On either snow-white cheek the blushing bloom of roses.

You'd say her limbs were rose-buds; for a light
Of rose-like hues fell from them; you might see
The rose-blush on her feet and ankles white;
And from her limbs with every movement free
Flowed many graces: they who feigned them three
Said falsely, for in Hero's laughing eyes
A thousand graces budded. Such was she--
Fit priestess of the beauty of the skies,
For without question hers was mortal beauty's prize.

Into the young men's minds her beauty entered:
Who wished not loveliest Hero for his wife?
Where'er she paced the temple, still she centred
All eyes, hearts, wishes. "I have seen the strife
For beauty's prize in Lacedemon, rife
With virgins radiant, with love's dazzling splendour;
But never there, nor elsewhere in my life,
Saw I a girl so dignified, yet tender;
She surely is a Grace: Oh, would Queen Cypris lend her--

"Or give her me! I've tired, not filled mine eye
With gazing. Let me press her dainty side,
And die! A god's life on Olympus high
Would I refuse, had I that girl for bride:
But, since to me thy priestess is denied,
Queen! let my home with such a one be gladdened."
Thus spake one bachelor; another tried
To smile and mock, as tho' he were not saddened,
Hiding the secret wound, which all the time him maddened.

But thou, Leander, wouldst not hide the wound,
And vex thy secret soul; but when Desire
Surprised thee looking on the maid renowned,
Tamed by the sudden darts of arrowy fire,
Thou wouldst not live without her; fiercer, higher,
Flamed love's hot torch, and pierced into thy marrow,
Fed by her eye-beams. Loveliness, entire
And blameless, sharper is than any arrow,
Reaching the heart of man thro' channel sure tho' narrow.

The liquid fire from hers to his eye glides,
Thence passing inward, dives into his breast:
A sudden whirl of thoughts his mind divides;
Amazement at her loveliness confest;
Shame at himself soon caught; fear, love's unrest,
And hope, impatient for love's recompense;
But love to this delirious whirl gave zest,
And furnished him with resolute impudence
To venture, and outface that glorious innocence.

He turned on her askant his guileful eye,
With speechless nods the damsel's mind assailing:
She gladly saw his love, and silently
Her sweet face ever and anon was veiling,
And then with furtive nods her lover hailing,
Bowed to him in return. He with delight
Observed she saw, nor scorned his love. Then, trailing
His robe of beams, the Day departed quite,
(Leander watched the hour,) and rose the star of night.

Nor, when he saw the dark-robed mist, he lingered,
But hastened boldly to the maid beloved,
And with a sigh her rosy palm he fingered.
But, drawing back her hand, the virgin moved
In silence from th' intruder; unreproved,
For he had seen her nods, and they were kind,
He pulled her broidered robe, and, as behoved,
He drew her gently to the gloom behind:
She slowly followed him, as if against her mind.

And then with art and language feminine
She threatened him:--"Why pullest me, lewd ranger?
Pursue thy way, I beg, and leave me mine.
To touch a priestess is a deed of danger;
A virgin's bed is not for any stranger."
She spake as virgins should; and yet she missed
To frighten him, who reckoned soon to change her,
When he her chiding heard; for well he wist
That women chide the most when they would fain be kissed.

Kissing her polished, fragrant neck, he cries:
"After the fairest Cytherea, fair!
And after the most wise Athena, wise!
For with Jove's daughters thee will I compare,
And not with any dames that mortal are;
Happy thy father! happy she who bore thee!
But hear, and pardon, and accept my prayer;
I come for love; for love I now implore thee;
Perform love's ministry with me, for I adore thee.

"A virgin priestess to the Cyprian Queen!
No grace in virgins Cytherea trows;
To marriage only point her rites, I ween;
Then if to her thy heart true service vows,
Accept me for thy lover and thy spouse,
Whom Eros hunted as a spoil for thee.
As Hermes of the gold-wand (Fame allows)
Led Hercules to serve Queen Omphale,
So Cytherea now, not Hermes, leadeth me.

"The tale of Atalantis too is known,
Who fled the couch of Prince Milanion,
To keep her virgin flower; but wrath was shewn
By Cypris, who, for scorn to marriage done,
Him once she loved not, made her dote upon:
Beware lest thou too anger her." Commenting
Thus cunningly, the maiden's ear he won,
And willing mind, to dulcet words consenting,
To love's soft eloquence, that genders love, relenting.

In silence on the ground she fixed her eyes,
And gently turned aside her glowing cheek,
And shuffled her small feet, and modest-wise
Drew round her graceful neck, and bosom sleek,
Her robe yet closer. These are signs that speak;
A virgin's silence ever means consent;
The bitter-sweet of love was hers, and eke
The glow of heart, hopeful, but not content,
While yet the thoughts are lost in love's first wonderment.

This for Leander gentle Hero felt;
But, while she downward looked, his greedy eyes
Fed on her neck. With words that dew-like melt,
While blossom on her cheek the moist red dies
Of modesty, she says: "Such power there lies
In thy sweet eloquence, that it might move
The flinty rock; who taught the harmonies
Of such enticing words? What impulse drove
Thee hither? Who thy guide? Oh was it, was it Love?

"Perchance thou mockest me; but how canst thou,
A stranger and unknown, my love enjoy?
I never can be thine by open vow;
My parents shut me up. Can we employ
Art for our secret, love? Oh, men destroy
Who trust them! ever babbling in the street
Of what they do in secret. Wilt decoy
A trusting heart to ruin? yet, as meet,
Speak truth; thy fatherland and name to me repeat.

"My name is Hero; my abode is lonely,
A tower that lifts its echoes to the sky,
For so my parents will; one handmaid only
Dwells with me there; no choirs e'er court mine eye,
Nor friends of equal years. The shores close by
Rebellow; night and day the roaring tide
Rings in mine ears, and eke the clanging cry
Of the sea-winds." She spake, and sought to hide,
Shamefaced, her rosy cheek, her words to chide.

Leander then did with himself advise,
How in love's contest he might best contend;
For wily Love, though wont to tyrannise,
Heals whom he wounds, and ever loves to lend
His subjects wit, their counsellor and friend.
He helped Leander, then, who deeply sighed,
And said: "Dear virgin! for our wished-for end
I dauntless on the rugged surge will ride,
Tho' in it ships be whelmed, and o'er it lightnings glide.

"Seeking thy bed, I tremble not, nor cower
At ocean's angry roar and frightful front:
A dripping bed-mate, nightly to thy tower
Will I swim o'er the rapid Hellespont;
Abydos is not far from Hero's haunt.
But promise me to shew a lamp, to be
My nightly star; and it shall be my wont,
E'en like a ship, to swim across the sea,
Thy lamp the blessed star that guides my course to thee.

"And, watching it, I ne'er will turn mine eye on
Setting Boötes, nor th' unwetted Wain,
Nor on the sworded, storm-engirt Orion,
But, guided by the lamp, I soon shall gain
Safe anchorage and sweet. Strict guard maintain
Against the blasts, for fear my safety-light
They rudely quench, and in the howling main
I perish so. Leander am I hight,
And Hero's happy spouse." Thus they their love-vows plight.

She from her tower to shew a lamp agrees,
And he from the swelling waves at night to cleave:
Then to her tower the anxious maiden flees,
While he must in a pinnace Sestos leave,
And in Abydos wait till he receive
The promised signal, his appointed guide,
When he must swim, not sail. Till they achieve
Love's celebration, rest is them denied.
Haste, Night! and canopy the bridegroom and the bride.

In veil of darkness Night ran up the sky,
Bringing on sleep, but not for Hero's lover;
He, where the swelling waves roared mightily,
For by the shore, stood waiting to discover
The lamentable lamp that lured him over--
To death at last. But Hero, seaward turning,
Perceived the gloom, and for her ocean-rover
Kindled the signal; but on his discerning
Its promised flame, he burned with love, as that was burning.

At first he trembled at the ringing roar
Of the mad surge, but with the soothing spell
Of hopeful words took courage; "What is more
Cruel than love, or more implacable
Than ocean? in moist ruin this doth swell;
That in the heart, a burning furnace, raves.
Fear not, my soul! why shouldst thou fear the hell
Of waters? Aphrodite from the waves
Sprung, and rules over them, sways our love pains and saves."

He then put off his vest with playful glee,
And twined it round his head; and from the shore
Plunged fearlessly into the surf o' the sea;
And where the signal shone, he hastened o'er,
Ship, sail, and oars himself. But yet before
He reached his port, how oft the Sestian flower
Kept off the breezes with the robe she wore
From the trimmed lamp! It is her nuptial hour--
Leander comes at last, and now ascends her tower.

With a mute clasp she welcomed to her home
The panting youth, and to her chamber led,
While from his hair fast dropt the salt sea-foam:
She rubbed his limbs with rose-oil, and then led
Her lover to her virgin couch, and said,
Embracing him the while, and softly willing
"Enough of brine and odours which bred:
No bridegroom but thyself was ever willing
To run such risk, such toil none else but thou fulfilling.

"No longer lies our joy and us between
That envious sea--now lay thee down to rest."
Silence was there, and Night drew round her screen;
Their nuptial troth was by no minstrel blest;
The bridal pair were in no hymn addrest;
No choir danced round them; and no torches lightened
About the genial bed; no marriage guest
Led the gay dance; nor hymeneal heightened
The joy, approving it; no parent's smile there brightened.

Silence arranged the couch, and Darkness drew
The curtains; paranymph and bridemaid none
Had they beside. Aurora ne'er did view
Leander lying, when the night was done,
In Hero's arms. He was already gone,--
Already wishing for the night again.
The wife at night, by day a virgin shone.
As thought her parents wise; while she was fain,
Of night, to welcome him who made their wisdom vain.

Thus they enjoyed awhile their furtive pleasure,
He to his bed-mate nightly swimming o'er;
But soon their life's bloom fell, and scant their measure
Of bridal hours. When came the winter frore,
And brought the cold blast and the whirlwind's roar,
Sharp gusts the bottom of the deep confounding,
And lashing up the main from shore to shore,
Whirling and rushing, roaring and rebounding,
The watery paths above and shaken depths astounding--

What time a desperate pilot, who no more
Amid the waters wild his course could hold,
Had run his ship upon a fork o' the shore;
Not then the tempest checked Leander bold,
For Hero's signal-light her summons told.
Oh! cruel, faithless light of love! to scout him
On such a night! to plunge him in the cold
And hissing waves, that rudely toss and flout him!
Why could not Hero sleep, while winter raged, without him?

But love and fate compelled her; light of love,
Drawn by desire, she shewed not, but the black
Torch-gloom of fate. The winds collected drove
Volumes of gusty darts upon the track
Of the sea-broken shore; but on the back
Of raving ocean lost Leander went.
The water stood in heaps; with fearful crack
The winds ran counter, and were madly blent,
Rushing from every side, in wildest minglement.

Wave upon wave! ocean with ether mixt!
Mighty the crash! How could Leander ride on
The monstrous whirl? Sore tost, he one while fixt
In prayer on Cypris, then on King Poseidon,
And e'en the fierce and frantic Boreas cried on,
Who then forgot his Atthis. Lover lorn!
None helped him, none! Love, whom he most relied on,
Averted not his fate; tost, tumbled, torn,
By every counter wave he was at random borne.