Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Captain Samuel Godman, the paternal grandfather of Stewart A. Godman, was born and educated in Virginia; he was the son of a planter who was by marriage the uncle of Thomas Jefferson. He married, soon after he had attained his majority, and removed to the city of Baltimore, Maryland, where he engaged extensively in the shipping and tobacco business; at that time the heaviest and most lucrative traffic of the place. Here he remained several years, and having accumulated quite a handsome fortune, he removed to the city of Annapolis, where he resided until his death, in 1795. At the breaking out of the Revolutionary struggle, Captain Godman, promptly and with characteristic energy espoused the cause of liberty, and with the assistance of his two brothers, at once raised a company of which he was unanimously elected captain, and tendered their services to his suffering country. This company was gladly accepted, and formed a part of the well-known regiment of the “Maryland Line,” which upheld the honor of the struggling colonies and covered itself with so much glory throughout our ever memorable contest for Independence. During the whole war was Captain Godman true to his responsibility, sharing in every battle in which his regiment took part, and making a liberal use of his private means in supplying the necessities of his command. At the memorable battle of the Cowpens, in Spartanburg district, South Carolina, he was severely wounded, by a musket ball, in the leg, which disabled him for awhile; but he soon, even before the wound had healed, resumed his post at the head of his company, and continued with them until peace was declared, the end had been accomplished and his beloved land was free.

John D. Godman, M. D., the father of Stewart, was born at Annapolis in 1796. Before he was two years of age he had the misfortune to lose both of his parents, and was subsequently defrauded by his father’s executor of his inheritance; thus was he thrown, at an early age, entirely upon his own resources. He also, while yet a boy, served his country: being on board the flotilla during the bombardment of Fort McHenry by the British, in the war of 1812. At the close of the war he commenced the study of medicine. As a student, he was diligent, energetic and persevering, and as an evidence of his proficiency and distinguished attainments, he was called to the chair of Anatomy in the University of Maryland (vacated by an accident to the Professor.) and for several weeks before he graduated, filled this situation with so much propriety as to gain universal applause. After his graduation, he entered upon the active duties of his profession with the same energy and diligence which had distinguished him while a pupil. He filled the chair of Anatomy in the Medical College of Ohio, and subsequently, in 1826, was called to the same chair in Rutger’s Medical College in the city of New York. In these situations he acquired a popularity almost unparalleled. But his professional duties, together with his other scientific pursuits, proved too arduous, in that climate, for a constitution already subdued by labor and broken by disease, and he was compelled to seek a more genial clime. From this time his disease steadily progressed, so as to leave no hope for his final recovery, but he still continued to labor in the field of Science and Literature almost to the last week of his life. He died in the thirty-fourth year of his age. The following merited tribute to the memory of Dr. Godman, we take from an address delivered on that occasion before the Medical Faculty and Students of Columbian College.

“There has recently appeared among us a man so remarkable for the character of his mind, and the qualities of his heart—one whose life, though short, was attended with such brilliant displays of genius, with such distinguished success in the study of our profession and the kindred sciences, that to pass him by without tracing the history of his career, and placing before you the prominent traits of his character, as exhibited in the important events of his life, would alike be on act of injustice to the memory of eminent worth, and deprive you of one of the noblest examples of the age.” To specify the numerous and admired productions of Dr. Godman would occupy too much of our limited space, but they have been before the public for a considerable time, and have been received with high approbation, and several have been republished in foreign countries.

The mother of S. A. Godman was the second daughter of Rembrant Peale, Esq., the celebrated artist—who, still living, is the oldest and the best painter of whom America can boast—his splendid allegorical painting of “The Court of Death,” and his admirable likeness of Washington, painted from an original portrait taken by him of the Father of his Country, which hangs over the Vice-President’s seat in the United States’ Senate Chamber—are familiar to thousands of your readers. Mrs. Godman is a remarkable woman—possessing all the amiable traits that most adorn the gentler sex, combined with an amount of energy and decision of mind seldom to be met with—both developed and improved by a thorough course of education in a celebrated seminary abroad.

Dr. Godman left three children, then too young to appreciate the full extent of their loss—one, a daughter, now married to Dr. W. W. Goldsmith, of Kentucky, is a most gifted and lovely lady; the others were boys, the elder of whom is the subject of the present sketch—the other, Harry R. Godman, M. D., is already known to the reading public, and by the purity and depth of feeling, expressed with so much ease and beauty in his writings, is winning for himself, surely and deservedly, a reputation as one of the best of the younger poets of our country.

Stewart A. Godman was born in Cincinnati, Sept. 8th, 1822, a few weeks before his father resigned his professorship in the Medical College of Ohio; and at the early age of six weeks he commenced his wanderings—being carried by his parents to the city of Baltimore.

It appears to be a provision of nature, and it is doubtless a wise one, that, no matter what may be the surrounding circumstances, every man destined to produce an impression upon his fellows, and to leave his “footprints on the sands of time,” must, in his earlier years, encounter a series of changes and difficulties, preparing him, as it were perforce, for the position he is to occupy. The inborn, inherent energy that is in them, produces a restlessness and a desire for something, they know not what, that keeps them ever shifting from purpose and pursuit, until at last they find the field and make the opening in which they are fitted to shine. This want of stability, as it seems, and dislike to plod along contentedly in whatever road circumstances have placed them, subjects them oftentimes to the charge of fickleness, and it is only when they have found their natural sphere—and true genius ever will force a path to its legitimate position—is it admitted by lookers-on that it was the resistless cravings of the governing, controlling spirit eagerly seeking its own, that actuated them—instead of fickleness.

This fate was not escaped by young Godman, for, although still comparatively a young man, he has experienced vicissitudes, changes and trials—mental, physical and pecuniary—greater than most persons have to encounter who live to the allotted age of three score years and ten. Naturally of an energetic and bold disposition, averse to restraint, and deprived at the early age of eight years, by death, of his father—a loss in any case so great, but in his, with such a parent, how irreparable—his life has been checkered by the changing phases that ever accompany the life-struggle of each man who strives to attain an eminent position by paths novel and self-suggested. Blessed in an unusual degree with friends, able, willing, indeed anxious, to assist him, he would have had only to follow either of the many openings and advantages that were freely tendered, to have attained certain wealth and station at an early age. The natural independence of his character, however, combined with his strong innate feeling of self-reliance, caused him to undervalue and neglect the many easy roads to success, that by the influence of his father’s numerous friends and admirers were offered—and to prefer the more hazardous and difficult plan of carving out his own road, of being the architect of his own fortune.

His primary education was most thorough; for quick, keen, inquiring and industrious, and having the very best instructors, he made rapid progress in every branch. At a very early age, when the brilliancy of his mind and the promise he gave of doing credit to his preceptors were already apparent, anxious to mingle in the real bustle and business of life, he determined to leave school. At this time he was at the Baltimore College, then under the charge of that finished scholar and accomplished gentleman, John Prentiss, Esq., and despite the persuasions of his friends and teachers he persisted in his determination. Removing then from Baltimore to Philadelphia, he entered the large establishment of that well-known merchant, David S. Brown, Esq., where he remained for three years, and earned a reputation for business tact and ability such as is seldom awarded a youth of his years. Not finding in the details of commerce that mental satisfaction he sought, and unheeding altogether the unusually advantageous prospects before him, much against the advice of Mr. Brown, he resolved to try the profession of medicine. Returning to Baltimore, to which place he was invited by Dr. R. S. Stewart (after whom he was named) then one of the largest practitioners in the Monumental City, but now retired with an ample fortune—he attended one course of lectures at the University of Maryland. Here he stood first among his classmates—but disgusted with the details of hospital practice, at the end of the first winter he found that medicine was not the path he wished to pursue.

His uncle, Thomas Jefferson Godman, residing in Madison, Indiana, was anxious to have young Godman study law, and at his earnest solicitation he went to Madison, and entered as a student the office of the Hon. Jesse D. Bright, now United States Senator. Law, however, was not more congenial to his spirit than medicine; and after three months hard study, he threw aside Blackstone, Chitty, and their compeers, and applied for admittance into the United States Navy, as a midshipman. Although, at the time of his application, which was made directly to the President, there was a very large number of applicants on record for warrants, young Godman received his at once—“in consideration,” as was written in the letter containing the warrant, “of the distinguished services of his grandfather during the Revolution,” and for which neither pension nor remuneration had ever been asked. Only about eighteen months did Godman remain in the navy; at first the glitter, pomp, and excitement of the service pleased, but he soon found that it was no place to rise—for time, not merit, graduated promotion—so quitting the navy, he entered the merchant service, and after making a couple of short voyages, he returned home. His friends, fearful that he would never settle down to regular business, opposed his again going to sea, and persuaded him to re-enter the mercantile business. He then determined to go to Charleston, where, through the influence of a distinguished friend of his father, Dr. E. Geddings, he at once obtained a situation in one of the largest stores in the city. He remained there some eight months, when his independent spirit having been wounded, in consequence of some misunderstanding with his employer, about a leave of absence during the holydays, he relinquished his situation, and again went to sea, as mate of a merchantman. A wanderer, did he thus continue, until almost twenty-one, when an accident, seemingly the most trivial, changed the entire course of his life.

He had just returned to Charleston from a voyage, and had fully determined, having made all his arrangements, to go to China and settle among the inhabitants of the Celestial Empire, when the suggestion of a casual acquaintance caused him to reflect seriously upon the manner in which he was squandering his life and talents; and he at once determined to go into the country for a couple of years, and in the quiet of rural life, to settle his mind, and chalk out a course for the future. Acting upon this resolution, he went to Abbeville District, South Carolina, where, as money was not his object, further than as a means of subsistence for the present, he took a situation in a country store. Whilst here, he became acquainted with and attached to Miss A. R. Gillam, to whom, before he was twenty-two, he was united in marriage. This event necessarily brought about a change in his plans, and induced him to remain in the up-country of South Carolina. His wife died about two years after their union. In 1848 he married Miss M. E. Watts, of Laurens District. A short time previous to this marriage, Godman bought the Laurensville Herald—a small country paper, having only three hundred and fifty subscribers. To this he devoted all his energies, and after having made for it an enviable reputation, he sold it at the expiration of a little more than two years with a subscription list of nearly two thousand. Seeing the necessity that existed for a Southern Literary Newspaper of high standing, he last fall determined to establish such a journal; and the great success and universal popularity of the paper which he is now publishing, “The Illustrated Family Friend,” clearly attests the tact, talent, energy and business qualifications of its editor.

Inheriting the brilliant parts of his father, from his temperament necessarily a hard student and deep thinker, with all the advantages that an extensive and thorough knowledge of the world, which a keen, inquiring, analytical mind must acquire, from close communion with mankind under almost every phase of life—the unexampled success and universal popularity that has been obtained by Godman, as a writer, are not astonishing, though they are remarkable. Philosophic imagination, vividness of conception, energy, and a conscientious endeavor to make all that he does tend to some practical and useful purpose, are his distinguishing mental traits. Although he writes rapidly, his style is easy, graceful, natural, whilst at the same time, it is always bold, vigorous, original, and worthy of all commendation for its elevated moral tone. Should his life be spared, we are certain that he will win for himself a reputation second to no author of whom America can boast; for already, since the demise of the lamented Cooper, he has attained the enviable distinction of being one of the best, if not the best writer of Nautical Romances now living.

Socially, Stewart A. Godman enjoys an unusual degree of personal popularity, and is respected and esteemed by all who know him; in his deportment he is affable and polite to all; in conversation fluent, though unstudied. With a mind stocked with a vast fund of anecdote, and a vivid imagination to point the varied scenes through which he has passed, he is always listened to with interest, while at the same time he imparts knowledge to his friends, who esteem it a privilege to cluster around him in his moments of leisure.

* * * * *

FANNY.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

Through the broad rolling prairie I’ll merrily ride,
Though father may frown, and though mother may chide;
To the green leafy island, the largest of three,
That sleep in the midst of that silent green sea—
For there my dear Fanny, my gentle young Fanny,
My own darling Fanny is waiting for me.

Ho! Selim—push on! The green isle’s still afar,
And morning’s pale light dims the morning’s large star;
Before the sun rises she’ll watch there for me,
Her eyes like twin planets that gaze on the sea.
My young, black-eyed Fanny, my winsome, sweet Fanny,
My own darling Fanny, that waiteth for me.

Come, Selim! come, sluggard! speed swifter than this,
There are ripe, rosy lips that I’m dying to kiss;
And a dear little bosom will bound with delight,
When the star on thy forehead first glitters in sight.
My glad little Fanny! my arch, merry Fanny,
My graceful, fair Fanny, no star is so bright.

Then her soft, snowy arms round me fondly will twine,
And her warm, dewy lips will be pressed close to mine;
And her full, rosy bosom with rapture will beat,
When again, and no more to be parted, we meet.
My lovely young Fanny, my own darling Fanny,
My dear, modest Fanny, no flower is so sweet.

So father may grumble, and mother may cry,
And sister may scold—I know very well why;
’Tis that beauty and virtue are all Fanny’s store,
That while we are rich, she, alas! is quite poor.
My winsome young Fanny, my true, faithful Fanny,
My own darling Fanny, I’ll love you the more.

Ho! Selim! fleet Selim! bound fast o’er the plain,
The morning advances, the stars swiftly wane;
I see in the distance the green leafy isle,
Between us and it stretches many a mile,
Where my fond, faithful Fanny, my own darling Fanny,
Shall welcome us both with a tear and a smile.

* * * * *

THE PHYSIOLOGY OF DANDYISM.

BY THOMPSON WESTCOTT.

WHAT DANDIES DO.

Fops differ from scare-crows in this particular—the latter guard the young blades of green things by the appearance of their apparel alone; but dandies are themselves young blades and green things, and are not stationary effigies, but moving frights. They are not stuffed figures which stand still, but empty semblances which perigrinate. They are defective verbs, which “do” and “suffer,” it is true, but are only used in certain moods and tenses: _to wit_, the indicative mood, and imperfect tense—indicating that such things are, and are not worth much. This etymological fact establishes that dandies do something, and having settled into that conviction, it becomes necessary to inquire with great gravity, what do they do?

It will not require an overwhelming quantum of credulity to lead the reader to a belief that nothing of much importance has ever been done by an exquisite. He neither adds to the character or the utility of society. He aids not in commerce or manufactures—except, perhaps, as a buyer of coats and kid gloves—being, as to those things, a consumer, whether profitably so or not to the artist in cloth and professor of gloving, a narrow inspection of their ledgers will only answer satisfactorily. He is not what political economists call a producer, unless the labor he bestows upon cultivating his moustache, may entitle him to a place among the “sons of toil.” He adds nothing to the general wealth; although he extravagantly expends the money which he borrowed from a rich friend, or that which his kind grandfather, the tavern-keeper, bequeathed him when he left off selling common brandy, and went to “a world of pure spirits.” Except to “point a moral, or adorn a tale,” the fop is therefore not useful. He is, like vice,

——A monster of such hideous mien,
That to be hated needs but to be seen;

but we trust that the further remarks of the poet, in regard to familiarity of face, will not apply to the dandy, though many of that tribe who saunter along Chestnut street have faces extremely familiar. If a herd of bucks were interrogated as to their own opinions of their positions in society, it is probable that they would assign themselves to the ornamental department. But on that subject a very lively debate might be held, and if it were at length decided that they were decorations to the “solidarity of the peoples,” their relative situation would be like gold leaf on gingerbread; extremely gaudy, to be sure, but very unwholesome to swallow. They are ugly ornaments, like odd figures upon Indian temples, serving no purpose but to mislead the veneration of those who ignorantly worship at the shrine. They are like copper rings in Choctaw noses, ungraceful extras upon the face of nature, and of no intrinsic value. There can only be one point of view in which a buck may be looked at in a useful light, and that is as an object to be laughed at.

In a late number of Graham we devoted some space to an elucidation of the question, “How are dandies made?” and having said sufficient upon that topic, we pass to a notice of their doings. A prompt and significant period might be put to these lucubrations, by the averment that dandies do “an infinite deal of nothing,” but that would not be literally true, for although their actions are of no public importance, still those who write their biographies will be compelled to admit that they do something. Ease is but a word which signifies a comparative release from labor; idleness is but the definition of a state of unprofitable action. Those who have nothing to do cannot exist without doing something; and he who has much time on his hands is compelled to employ it in some pursuit to escape from the horror of positive _ennui_. Therefore, even dandies, those cob-webs of society, catch flies when the unwary insects come into the meshes of their webs, and at times put themselves to great inconvenience and fatigue, whilst enjoying the felicity of their _otium cum dignitate_.

But how does the exquisite spend his hours? It may be safely asserted that midnight very often passes before he seeks his bed, after the fatigues of the day and night—and that the sun has mounted high in the meridian before he awakes from slumbers which are not refreshing.

Then, as he endeavors to costume himself in the fifth story room of some fashionable boarding-house, he finds himself environed with difficulties. On a winter morning he will get out of his bed shivering, and find all his toilet arrangements deranged by frost. His water will probably be frozen in his pitcher, and scarcely disposed to yield to the endearing demonstration of his gold-headed cane. His landlady may wait upon him to assure him that his stockings and drawers, which were washed on the previous night, are frozen stiff, and that she has not had time to properly dry and iron them.

This will be sad news, indeed; for although your true dandy riots in coats and variety of apparel which the world can see, he is generally rather short in those articles which every one is presumed to have, but which are not visible to the public eye. Perhaps the freezing of the indispensables which the landlady brings him may put him to serious inconvenience. If so, it must be borne. That will not be the least of his troubles. The necessity of being particular about his whiskers, is by no means the greatest of the cares which annoy him. Hours are daily spent in the study of neck-cloths, the experimental philosophy of dress-coats, the spindleizing of thin legs, and the tightening of pantaloons. Those are home employments to which it is only necessary to allude. The real business of the day commences when the fop, about twelve o’clock, emerges for a walk on the south side of Chestnut street. Here he is noted for those particularities of dress which are his own glory, and “the badge of all his tribe.” Perhaps he meets one of his associates, and arm-in-arm they mince their way along, talking of Miss So-and-so’s party, or the “insufferable stupidity” of some who have not as many coats as themselves; simpering and twaddling, thus their movements may be varied by manœuvres which are indescribably odd. The unmeaning faces which have for some time been expressive of nothing but inanity, will suddenly become o’erspread with an appearance of semi-consciousness, as some dashing belle approaches. By a movement simultaneous and sudden, both exquisites will make a jerking bend of the body from the hips upward—their right hands will be raised to their hats; by the time the lady has passed them, and proceeded six feet in the opposite direction, their beavers will be lifted from their noddles at least twelve inches, held extended a moment, and by the time the belle is twenty feet off, returned to the craniums on which they rested, and the delighted couple pass onward, supposing they have made genteel bows. None but those who have seen a first-rate fop publicly salute a lady of his acquaintance, can have an idea of the ludicrous character of his movements, and the comical nature of the entire manœuvre.

But the twain at length, tire of their promenade and adjourn to some fashionable drinking saloon for a “whiskey skin,” or a “brandy plain.” Still they must have amusement, and they accordingly determine to try their skill at billiards—a gentlemanly game, which will not fatigue their weak muscles or agitate their delicate nerves. The mysteries of this diversion, like the oddities of backgammon, are well calculated to puzzle the uninformed mind. It would, perhaps, be irreverent to compare it to marbles, that fascination of youth, yet it resembles it much, though sooth to say, it is not as readily understood by the unlearned.

Judging from appearances, billiards is a game in which the endeavor of the player is to cause certain ivory balls to hit other balls “back-handed licks.” With a thin rod of wood, the player is constantly going through strange gymnastics. Sometimes he endeavors to strike one spheroid against another. At other times he propels his ivory plaything in such a manner, that it does nothing but fly from side to side of a table enclosed by a padded rim, without producing any visible effect whatever. Occasionally the great object seems to be to push a ball against which mischief is evidently meditated, into a bag, or pocket, some of which are ambushed in the corners, and others in the center of the rim of the table. Then, again, the player does not seem to care a half-penny for this triumph, though within his power, but rather seeks to make one ball strike another, which flies off at a tangent, hits another, and then in backing out from the concussion, touches one of the balls already struck. Whilst all this is going on—an attendant is constantly meddling with a frame of rods above the table, on which are strung white and black wooden beads. Occasionally all the beads are moved one way, then some of them are shifted to the place from which they were removed. The spectator in vain endeavors to ascertain the nature of the game. All that he can tell about it is, that the players bend over the table with scientific calculation, and throw themselves into many strange attitudes whilst considering how much force is necessary to make one ball strike another, or to cause a series of shocks among all which are upon the table. When it is all over, and the cues are returned to the rack, Blessed Ignorance leaves the billiard-saloon, satisfied that somebody has won the game; but why, or how, it is impossible for him to determine, inasmuch as the whole business seems to be a very grave and solemn mystery.

In these ceremonies fops delight, and it is pleasant to hear them boast of their triumphs, in tones which should characterize important achievements.

The afternoon promenade in Chestnut street, upon fine afternoons—when belledom is abroad—is one of the principal occupations of the dandy. There he is preëminent for the instability of his legs, the absurdity of his over-coat, the glossiness of his hat, (the dandy _pure et simple_, does not affect the Kossuth slouch,) the surprising appearance of his shirt-collar, his cravat-tie _comme il faut_; his kid gloves—which just now are of a bright green color; his light cane, the head of which is an ivory facsimile in little of an opera-dancer’s leg—and his very noticeable beard and moustache. Glorying in his appearance, conceiting himself to be admired by the numerous beautiful women he passes, he is supremely happy, and condescendingly deigns to stare at the most handsome of those whom he meets, with undisguised impudence.

In the evening he goes to a party—should he be lucky enough to be invited to one, by those who gave it, or by some _lady_ who has been herself invited—there he appears in all the brilliancy of a little coat, tight trowsers, fancy vest, and cravat-tie. Perhaps he small-talks with the lovely Emma, or drawls out some observation about “the weathah,” to Miss Mary. Perhaps he may even waltz in the modern style—which is certainly the most ridiculous and vulgar that has yet been taught in the schools.

Let the uninitiated reader imagine the right arm of the Exquisite placed very carefully round the waist of the delicate creature, so as to draw her closely to him—let it be supposed that he holds his left arm straight out from the shoulder, bending it at the elbow, and extending his hand above his head—think, that with that hand he grasps the taper engloved fingers of the fair one, which hold a closed fan—presume that the other arm of the dear creature rests lovingly on the right shoulder of the dandy, and her head also, if she feels dizzy—picture to the mind the exquisite on his tip-toes, afflicted also with a chronic bend at the knees, which defies straightening—suppose that his back is so curved that his head hangs over the face of his partner—in fact, imagine the figure which a mark of interrogation would cut in a waltz with a note of admiration, and you have a faint idea of the awkward appearance of a buck and belle, about to start off in the Redowa or Schottische.

But even if imagination can picture these things, it will be insufficient to realize fully, the latest style of waltzing, which bears but little resemblance to the same diversion of five years ago. The word _twiddle_, is about the only one which can convey a notion of the modern step; which is no more the measured “one,” “two,” “three” of the old waltz, but is rather a mincing trot, in which the dancers sometimes scud backward or forward for considerable distances, or occasionally spin round in dizzy circles, or gyrate in semicircles from right to left, and then from left to right, the body of the dandy all crooked and ungraceful as possible, and the fair one yielding herself a languishing victim to the direction of the fop, and resting in his arms with the most innocent abandonment.

If there should happen to be no party in the first circles in the evening—the history of which we are now writing—the Exquisite goes to the opera, if Maretzek happens to be in town. Here he uses his _lorgnette_ with vigor, and gazes at all the ladies in the boxes. At times, he smites the kid-glove in his right hand against that upon his left, or shouts in a weak voice and at the wrong time “Bravo.” Perchance he expatiates to his neighbor upon the _poetamentt della voce_ of Bosio, or asserts that Salvi’s head voice is failing.

But although he may do something here with his opera-glass, the great place for his triumphs with that instrument is at a Hayes or Lind concert at the “Musical Fund Hall.” It is one of the most confirmed tests of the merits of an exquisite, that his sight is not good. There are unfortunates who are not fops, to whom Heaven has been pleased to assign but a limited scope of vision—it therefore does not follow that every short-sighted person is a dandy, but _e converso_, as the lawyers say, every dandy is indubitably short-sighted. The malady has become epidemic within a few years, and an exquisite would not be admitted into society without this optical certificate of his worthiness. To prove his title he relies upon an eye-glass which hangs by a cord or chain from his button-hole, and whenever there is aught to be seen he inspects it with nose bestrid with these queer-looking aids to the eye. The failing has advanced gradually until confirmed myopia has become alarmingly prevalent, and the number and appearance of adventitious helps to the vision has so increased that the fashionable preparations for a concert or opera now-a-days are formidable. A quizzing-glass in times gone by was an offensive ostentation. It made no odds if the possessor was as blind as a brick wall without windows, he was sneered at, and liable to continual insult if he dared to endeavor to put himself upon an optical par with other people; but by degrees this prejudice was done away with, and as the rights of seeing advanced the necessity became apparent. Double-glasses for each eye succeeded the old quizzers—then the single-barrel diminutive spy-glass was brought forth with fear and trembling. It lived down opposition, and was succeeded by larger instruments of the same pattern. At length small double-barreled opera-glasses, with handles, were seen in the first circles—they were permitted, and since that time _lorgnettes_ have been growing bigger and bigger until they look like awful monsters, all eyes, which by unhappy fate have been linked together, Cyclopean Siamese twins.

But this is a visionary digression—we must go back to the dandies at fashionable concerts. Here he amuses himself by scanning the faces of the performers and persons near him. As soon as the intermission commences the fop rises, and distrusting his sight altogether, relies upon his _lorgnette_ for a proper view of the lady who sat next to him during the first part of the performance. His fellow dandies imitate him, and the fair and confused object of short-sighted devotion is made the centre for the focus of fifty opera-glasses, raised without blushing by as many asses, who believe that they are acting quite genteelly.

Having got through with this ceremony, and having heard the Hayes entirely through the programme, the buck repairs to “Guys” or “Pelletiers,” and eats or drinks whatever his rich acquaintances request and pay for. After a time he returns to his room in the fifth story, goes to bed and snores until eleven next morning, when the servant enters to awaken him to another day of similar events.

* * * * *

STANZAS.

BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.

Tell him I lingered alone on the shore,
Where we parted in sorrow to meet never more;
The night wind blew cold on my desolate heart,
But colder those wild words of doom “Ye must part!”

O’er the dark heaving waters I sent forth a cry,
Save the wail of those waters there came no reply.
I longed like a bird o’er the billows to flee
From my lone island home and the moan of the sea.

Away—far away—from the wild ocean shore,
Where the waves ever murmur, “No more, never more.”[1]
Where I dream ’tis his voice, and then wake but to hear
That lone song of the surges, so mournful and drear.

Yet tell him our own fairy isle of the sea
Is still dear in its desolate beauty to me,
Though a hollow wind sighs through the echoing bowers,
Where I wander alone through an Eden of flowers;

Though the wing of the tempest o’ershadows the wold,
Where the asphodel meadows once blossomed in gold,
And the silence and chill of the sepulchre sleep
On its dream-haunted woodlands that border the deep.

And say, though the night-wind blew cold, and the gloom
Of our parting was drear as the night of the tomb,
I know when all shadows are swept from the main,
Our own star o’er the waters shall tremble again.

When the clouds that now veil from us heaven’s fair light;
Their soft silver lining turn forth on the night;
When time shall the vapors of falsehood dispel,
He shall know if I loved him, but never how well.

Though we meet not again in our island of flowers;
Though the hollow winds sigh through its desolate bowers,
Every bud that the wing of the tempest has riven,
Shall blossom again in the islands of heaven.

-----

[1]

No more—no more—no more!
Such language bears the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore.
_Lines to One in Paradise._

* * * * *

THE SIGH.

BY MRS. E. OAKES SMITH.

We meet no more in silent bower,
No more in festive hall—
Nor when comes on the twilight hour,
And night dews ’gin to fall—
The stars in quiet beauty shine,
As once they shone on high,
When all thy radiant looks were mine,
Though only now _thy sigh_.

Another looks within thine eyes,
So angel-like serene,
He cannot tell how softly lies
My spirit-love between—
I envy not thy hand in his,
But when I pass thee by,
For me there is enough of bliss
May I but hear thee sigh.

* * * * *

SONNET.—THE STARS.

BY REV. S. DRYDEN PHELPS.

Bright lamps of the illimitable sky!
Hung by Jehovah’s all-creating hand,
Amid the chambers of his temple high
Where ye have gazed with never-sleeping eye,
Upon this darkened orb, this far-off land,
While age succeeding age hath rolled away.
Ye saw fair Eden—the destroying flood—
The rise of empires, and their sad decay—
The deeds of heroes, and earth’s fields of blood:
Ye have beheld the path old Time hath trod
Man’s idol-worship—his neglect of God;
And, beaming as of old from heaven’s high tower,
To all the world, at evening’s hallowed hour,
Ye speak—how eloquent!—your Maker’s love and power!

* * * * *

THE CRYSTAL PALACE AND ITS LESSONS.

BY HORACE GREELEY.

Each age, each race, inscribes itself, with more or less distinctness, on History’s dial. Nineveh, almost faded from our traditions of the world’s infancy, revisits us in her freshly exhumed sculptures and in the vivid narrations of Layard. The Egypt of Sesostris and the Pharaohs survives no less in her pyramids and obelisks than in the ever-enduring records of Moses and Manetho. Jerusalem, in her lonely humiliation, best typifies the Hebrew state and race. Ancient Rome lives for us in the Capitol and the Coliseum, as does her mediæval and sacerdotal offspring and namesake in St. Peter’s and the Vatican. Royal and feudal France, the France of Richelieu and Louis le Grand, still lingers in the boundless magnificence and prodigality, the showy sieges and battle-pieces of Versailles. The England of the last three centuries confronts us in the Bank—not a very stately nor graceful edifice, it must be allowed; but very substantial and well furnished—the fit heart’s core of a trading, money-getting people. So we Americans of the Nineteenth Century will be found in due time to have inscribed ourselves most legibly, though all unconsciously, on the earth’s unfading records—how, or in what, time alone can tell. Perhaps a railroad over the Rocky Mountains, a telegraph across the Atlantic, a towering observatory wherein all the storms and calms at any moment prevailing within the earth’s atmosphere shall be portrayed on a common dial-plate, and the storms which _shall_ take place at any point during the next day or week, with their several directions and intensities—perhaps something very different from any of these. Essential History still insists on writing itself, and will not be controlled nor anticipated.

—The Crystal Palace, with its contents and purposes, was the clearest expression yet given to the spirit and aspirations of our time—aspirations not wholly utterable nor even comprehensible as yet, but sufficiently so to demand and reward our deepest attention. That Palace was the first edifice ever built for and consecrated to the uses of Universal Industry. It was the first structure ever devoted to the advancement and diffusion of the Useful Arts throughout the world—the first in which, to the greatest extent consistent with individual selfishness, the arcana of skill and production were thrown open to all mankind, with an express invitation, “Come hither, and see how the most successful workers accomplish their ends, and learn to rival or excel them if you can.” Herein was assembled the first general convention or council of Captains of Industry—the first practical Peace Congress ever held. Magnificent in conception and most triumphant in execution, this grand and fruitful enterprise deserves something more than the journalist’s fleeting paragraph. We cannot waste the time that we devote to its contemplation, even though I should succeed no farther than in drawing your attention to the subject, leaving it to be pondered unaided, unembarrassed, by my crude and hasty suggestions.

Who first proposed a grand Exposition of the Industry of all Nations at London, it were hardly worth while to inquire. The suggestion might have presented itself to any mind, and in fact probably _did_ present itself simultaneously, or at least independently, to several. It was a natural sequence of the profound peace everywhere prevailing—of the all-pervading spirit of Enterprize generated by Commerce—of the rapid march of Discovery and Invention—of the steady growth and at length realized importance of the Useful Arts. Good ideas are rather abundant in our day—too plentiful to obtain much credit from a busy, practical, work-day generation. In this instance, however, the seed fell on good ground, and the result was an immense though not yet fully gathered harvest. Much credit is due to those who first gave the idea hospitality and nurture, until it expanded in the warm sunshine of Royal favor into the benignant reality whereto the nations were gathered. And perhaps the most influential among the early and steadfast friends of the World’s Exhibition was Albert, consort of Queen Victoria, and one of the most constant and discriminating among the patrons and visitors of the great undertaking. In an age when princes are plainly falling into discredit and disuse, let us remember the good which this one powerfully aided to do, and not suffer our republican prejudices to blind us to the moral. Hereditary legislators and hereditary rulers are plainly absurd; but hereditary patrons and stimulators of inventive genius and industrial efficiency are not to be disparaged. Let them be remembered in the approaching day of kingly tribulation and aristocratic downfall. There are better uses for even the most obsolete and worthless than hanging them. Royalty and Nobility may be at ever so ruinous a discount, but Humanity is still at par. Kill the monarch, but save alive the man. His purple wrappages have cramped and concealed him; strip them off and burn them, but respect the glorious image of God which you have thereby unswathed and liberated.

Nor is it worth while to attempt adjusting the measure of credit due respectively to Paxton and to others, for the idea of the Crystal Palace and its consummation. A solid, rather heavy, North-of-England horticulturist, employed in overseeing the Duke of Devonshire’s extensive gardens and conservatories, has a new tropical plant confided to his charge, which, by a perfect knowledge of his art and an unbounded command of means, he induces to vegetate and flourish in that high latitude—of course, in an artificially fervid soil and under shielding glass. Here it grows and aspires with unimagined rapidity to an unprecedented height, threatening to shiver its frail covering in its upward career. Necessity, mother of invention, pricks on the unideal gardener to enlarge, and still enlarge, his glass shelter, which this aspiring rival of Jack’s Bean-Stalk threatens to put his head and arms through in quest of altitude and sunshine: so he elevates and expands his crystal encasement, until, little by little, step by step, a stately glass house has been erected; and this becomes the model of the hitherto unsuggested Crystal Palace. The gardener had no premonition of this, no idea of anything beyond sheltering his delicate though gigantic plant, and saving its artificial Timbuctoo from destruction:

“He builded wiser than he knew.”

But when plans and designs for the immense edifice required to hold the contributions of all nations to the grand Exposition were advertised for, he was prepared to compete for the proffered reward; and his plan, dictated to him by Nature herself, was found the best of all, adopted, and, with some necessary modifications of detail, carried into effect. The result was the Crystal Palace, the most capacious, convenient, economical, healthful, and admirable structure ever devised for any kindred purpose. Earth was ransacked for alluring marvels; Science racked its brains for brilliant combinations; Art exhausted its subtle alchemy in quest of dazzling effects; Labor poured out its sweat like rain to fill this grand receptacle with whatever is beautiful and winning: yet the Crystal Palace remained to the end the crowning triumph of all.

Within the last century, London has expanded rapidly and immensely, but especially toward the West, or up the Thames. Temple Bar, the western boundary of the city proper, (or ancient London,) is now considerably East, I think, of the center of the Great Metropolis; while the present residences of nearly all the nobility and gentry are built on grounds which were open country since the days of the Plantagenets and Tudors. In the center of this magnificent “West end,” between St. James’s Palace and Kensington Gardens, though much nearer the latter, stretches Hyde Park, one of the most spacious and pleasant expanses of sward and shade and water that eye ever feasted on. Boston Common would be somewhat like it, if it were ten times as large and twenty times as well watered as at present. Hyde Park is the favorite resort of the Aristocracy for equestrian and carriage exercise, and thoroughly justifies their choice. On the southern verge of this noble expanse, some three miles West of the Bank, Exchange, and London Bridge, the Crystal Palace was erected. It was not an imposing edifice. No stately gateway, no frowning turrets, no graceful spire, no lofty tower, marked the capacious structure from whose roof the flags of all nations rose and floated in perfect amity. Its slender ribs of iron, covered and hidden for some thirty feet from the earth by boards, like any house of wood, were thenceforth visible through the glass which formed the upper siding and roof, like a spider’s web on the grass of a dewy morning. Slender iron columns or pillars, rising at intervals unperceived from beneath the floor, helped to sustain the weight of the slight yet ponderous roof, through which, though covered with canvass to modify the heat of the few sunny days vouchsafed to an English summer, as abundance of light, not only under the murkiest London skies, but even during the prevalence of the great July eclipse, was at all times received. So immense was the volume of atmosphere enclosed, or so perfect the arrangements for ventilation, that no sense of exhaustion or of breathing vitiated air was at any time experienced; for the building was something more than a third of a mile in length from east to west, some three hundred feet wide, and rather more than a hundred feet from floor to roof, with eight or ten large doors for entrance and exit hardly ever closed during the day. On a volume of atmosphere thus extended, and constantly changing, the breathings of sixty thousand persons for hours could make no impression. In this vast bazaar, which a few months saw advance from its first conception to its perfect realization, and which yet was barely completed at the day appointed for opening the exhibition, the choice or characteristic products of all nations had already for some weeks been accumulating. Under the mere corner (though of itself covering more than an acre) devoted to machinery, mainly British, water-pipes and adaptations of steam-power had already been conducted, the steam itself being generated outside. An army of carpenters and other artisans had been some weeks at work on the fixtures and decorations of the several departments, so that, when the eagerly expected opening day at length arrived, although the whole visible area had an unmistakable aspect of haste and rawness—an odor born of green boards and fresh paint,—and although an infinity of carpenters’ work still remained undone, especially in the galleries or upper story, yet the Exhibition was plainly there, and only needed time to perfect its huge proportions, and stand forth the acknowledged wonder of the world.

The first of May, 1851, was a happy day for London. Her skies had relaxed something of their habitual sullenness to usher in the pageant whereby the Sovereign of the Realm, surrounded by her chief councilors and grandees, was to inaugurate the first grand Exhibition of All Nations’ Industry. The rain, which had dripped or pattered almost or quite daily for weeks, held up the evening before and promised not to return for this whole May-day—a promise which was only broken by a slight shower at noon, too late to mar the interest or pleasure of the festival. At an early morning hour, a strong current of human life set westward from the city proper toward Hyde Park, and long before the doors of the House of Glass were opened, they were surrounded by eager groups, though no admission was purchasable save at the cost of a season ticket—over fifteen dollars. Even thus, some thirty thousand enjoyed and swelled the in-door pageant; while perhaps ten times as many gazed from the parks and streets at the meagre procession out-doors which escorted the Queen from her palace of St. James to the airier, richer palace of the working millions, the hall of vastest prophecy. They arrived, a robed and jeweled procession of Princes and Embassadors—of noble Ladies and noble Workers—the Duke of Wellington and Mr. Paxton—the Master of the Buckhounds, Groom of the Stole, Gentleman Usher of Sword and State, Gold Stick in Waiting, Silver Stick in Waiting, and other such antediluvian absurdities—attended Her Majesty, along with the Foreign Commissioners, Architects of the edifice, her older children, and some other living verities, on her slow and measured progress from side to side and end to end of the mighty convocation. This strange mingling of the real with the shadowy, the apposite with the obsolete, gave additional piquancy and zest to the spectacle. Had the courtly symbols of an out-worn, out-grown feudal age appeared by themselves, we might have taken them for some fanciful creation of a mind diseased by reading Froisart and Walter Scott, and watched to see them exhale like ghosts at cock-crowing; but here they are so mixed up and blended with undeniable entities; with the solid and practical Prince Albert; with our own portly and palpable Embassador; with that world-known Celestial who accompanies and illustrates the Chinese Junk, himself first of matter-of-fact conservatives—a walking, human Junk—that we cannot refuse to credit its total verity, in spite of the glaring anachronisms. Then there was a prosy though proper Address read by Prince Albert as head of the Royal Commission to his Royal consort as head of the kingdom, telling her how the Exhibition was first started, and how it had moved onward till now—rather superfluous it must be confessed, since they had doubtless talked the matter all over between them a dozen times when much more at their ease, and in a far more satisfactory manner; but Queens must endure and take part in some dreary absurdities as well as other people. This speech was through in time, and was very briefly and fittingly responded to. I trust the prayer which the Archbishop of Canterbury sent up in behalf of us all was as graciously received. There was some music, rather out of place and lost in the vastness of space to all but the few immediately under the Transept, and some other performances; but all in perfect order, in due and punctual season, without a betrayal of awkwardness or conscious incongruity. Between two and three o’clock the pageant was at an end,—the Royal cortege departed, and the Exhibition formally opened. Let me now try to give some general notion of its character, by glancing at the more obvious details, so far as I, at this distance of time and space, may be able to recall them.