Chapter VIII (5)

And would it stop here? The charm once broken, would the wounded feeling of nationality find repose in our State governments, or would they, too, in their turn, feel the effects of the same dissolving and decomposing process? These, also, are but creations of law, and compacts, and historical events, and accidents of locality, in which none of the present generation had any share, and which have brought all the smaller political powers within certain boundaries to be members of one larger body politic, with all the irregularities and inequalities it may geographically present. What magic, then, in the bond that holds together the smaller parts composing New York, or Virginia, or Massachusetts, or South Carolina, which is not to be found in the national organization? What sacred immutability in the results giving rise to the one class of political wholes that does not exist in the other? Such questions are becoming already rife among us, and let the healthful charm of our greater nationality be once lost, they would doubtless multiply with a rapidity that might startle even the most radical. The doctrine may not be intended, but it would logically and inevitably result from much of our most popular oratory on the inherent right of self-government, that any part of any separate State might sever its connection with the whole, or might form a union with any contiguous territory, whenever it might seem to the majority of such part to be for their interest, or to belong to their abstract right to make such secession or annexation. There is, however, an extreme to which the principle may be carried, even beyond this. The tendency to what is called individualism, or the making all positive legislation dependent for its authority upon the higher law of the individual sanction, would soon give a practical solution to the most disorganizing theories that now exist as germs in the idea expressed by that barbarous but most expressive term _come-outer-ism_. And this suggests the next and closely related aspect of our important problem.

There is, in the fourth place, the value of the national Constitution as THE GRAND CONSERVATOR OF ALL LOWER LAW, and of all lower political rights whatever. No law of the State, of the city, of the family, of the school, no contract between man and man, no prescriptive right, no title to property, no exclusive domain in land, no authority over persons, could fail to be weakened by a wound inflicted on the all-conserving law of our higher nationality. There are none of these but what are even now demoralized, and seriously affected in their most inner sanctions, by the increasing practice of speaking lightly of a bond so sacred. What right has he to the possession of his acres who counsels resistance to one law of the land, and, in so doing, strikes at the very life of the authority by which he holds all he calls his own? It must be true of human, as well as of the Divine law, that he who offends in one point is guilty of all. The severence of one link breaks the whole chain. There is no medium between complete submission to every constitutional ordinance, or rightful and violent revolution against the whole political system. But if such inconsistency can be charged on him who claims the right of property in land, although that, too, is beginning to be disputed, with how much more force does it press on the man who asserts property, or—if a less odious term is preferred—authority, in persons? We do not dispute his claim. It comes from the common source of all human authority, whether of man over man, or of man to the exclusion of man from a challenged domain. But certainly _his_ title can have no other foundation than the political institutions of the country maintained in all their coherent integrity; and, therefore, he who asserts it should be very conservative, he should be very reverent of law in all its departments, he should be very tender of breaking Constitutions, he should hold in the highest honor the decisions of an interpreting judiciary. He should, in short, be the very last man ever to talk of revolution, or nullification, or secession, or of any thing else that may in the least impair the sacredness or stability of constitutional law.

Call government, then, what we will, social compact, divine institution, natural growth of time and circumstances—conceive of it under any form—still there is ever the same essential idea. It is ever one absolute, earthly, sovereign power, acting, within a certain territory, as the sanction and guaranty of all civil or political rights, in other words, of all rights that can not exist without it. There may be many intermediate links in the chain, but it is only by virtue of this, in the last appeal, that one man has the exclusive right to the house in which he lives, or to the land which he occupies. Hence alone, too, are all the _civil_ rights of marriage and the domestic relations. The family is born of the state. On this account, says Socrates, may it be held that _the law has begotten us_, and we may be justly called its sons. There is the same idea in the maxim of Cicero, _In aris et focis est respublica_; and in this thought we find the peculiar malignity of that awful crime of treason. It is a _breach of trust_, and, in respect to government, of the most sacred trust. It is the foulest parricide. It is aiming a dagger at that civic life from which flows all the social and domestic vitality. The notion, in feudal times, had for its outward type the relation of lord and dependent—of service and obedience on the one hand, and protection on the other. The form has changed, but the essential idea remains, and ever must remain, while human government exists on earth. He who breaks this vital bond, he who would seek to have the protection to his person and his property, while he forfeits the tenure of citizenship, he is the _traitor_. And hence arises the essential difference between treason and mobbism. The man who is guilty of the former not only commits violence, but means by that violence to assail the very existence through which alone he himself may be said to exist as a citizen, or member of a living political organism. There is no more alarming feature of the times than the indifference with which men begin to look upon this foul, unnatural crime, and even to palliate it under the softened title of “political offenses,” or a mere difference in political opinions. To punish it is thought to savor only of barbarism and a barbarous age. If we judge, however, from the tremendous consequences which must result from its impunity, ordinary murder can not be named in the comparison. If he who takes a single life deserves the gallows, of how much sorer punishment shall he be thought worthy who aims at the life of a nation—a nation, too, like our own, the world’s last hope, the preservation of whose political integrity is the most effectual means of INTERVENTION we can employ in favor of true freedom in every other part of the globe.

And this brings us to our fifth measure of value, but we can only briefly state it. The world has seen enough of despotism. It is probable, too, that there will be no lack of lawless popular anarchy. In this view of things, how precious is every element of constitutional liberty! How important to have its lamp ever trimmed and burning, as a guide to the lost, a bright consolation of hope to the despairing! Only keep this light steadily shining out on the dark sea of despotism, and it will do more for the tossing and foundering nations than any rash means of help that, without any avail for good, may only draw down our own noble vessel into the angry breakers, and engulfing billows of the same shipwreck.

EDITOR’S EASY CHAIR.

Even yet the talk of LOUIS NAPOLEON, and of that audacious action which in a day transmuted our thriving sister republic, with her regularly-elected President, and her regularly-made—though somewhat tattered—Constitution, into a kind of anomalous empire, with only an army, and a Bonaparte to hold it together—is loud, in every corner of the country. It has seemed not a little strange, that the man, at whom, three years ago, every one thought it worth his while to fling a sneer, should have gathered into his hands, with such deft management, the reins of power, and absolutely out-manœuvred the bustling little THIERS, and the bold-acting CAVAIGNAC.

Old travelers are recalling their recollection of the spruce looking gentleman, in white kids, and with unexceptionable beaver, who used to saunter with one or two mustached companions along Pall-Mall; and who, some three months after, in even more _recherche_ costume, used to take his morning drive, with four-in-hand, upon the asphalte surface of the Paris avenues. There seemed really nothing under cover of his finesse in air and garb which could work out such long-reaching strategy as he has just now shown us.

Belabor him as we will, with our honest republican anathemas, there must yet have been no small degree of long-sightedness belonging to the man who could transform a government in a day; and who could have laid such finger to the pulse of a whole army of Frenchmen, as to know their heart-bound to a very fraction.

The truth is, the French, with the impulse of a quick-blooded race, admire audacity of any sort; and what will call a shout, will, in nine cases out of ten, call a welcome. It is not a little hard for a plain, matter-of-fact American to conceive of the readiness with which the French army, and all the myrmidons of that glowing republican power, shift their allegiance—as obedient as an opera chorus to the wink of the _maestro_.

We can ourselves recall the memory of a time when that CHANGARNIER, who is now a lion in fetters, held such rule over Paris military and Paris constabulary, that a toss of his thumb would send half the representatives to prison; and now, there is not so much as a regiment who would venture a wail for his losses. This offers sad comment on the “thinking capacity” of bayonets!

What shall we suppose of these hundred thousand scene-shifters in the red pantaloons? Are they worked upon merely by the Napoleonic champagne to a change of views; or are they tired of a sham Republic, and willing to take instead a sham Empire; or have they grown political economists, with new appreciation of government stability, and a long-sighted eagerness to secure tranquillity? Or, is not the humbler truth too patent, that their opinions herd together by a kind of brute sympathy, and are acted upon by splendor—whether of crime or of munificence; and, moreover, is it not too clear that those five hundred thousand men who prop the new dynasty with bayonets, are without any sort of what we call moral education, and rush to every issue like herds of wild bison—guided solely by instinct?

And would not a little of that sort of education which sets up school-houses, and spreads newspapers, and books, and Harper’s Magazines like dew over the length and the breadth of our land, do more toward the healing of that sick French nation, than the prettiest device of Constitution, or the hugest five-sous bath-house? Ah, well-a-day, we shall have little hope for _la belle France_, UNTIL HER ARMY SHOWS INTELLIGENCE, and HER STATESMEN HONESTY.

We can hardly give this current topic the go-by, without bringing to our reader’s eye a happy summing up of suppositions in the columns of Punch, and if our listener will only read Congressional for Parliamentary, and the _Bentons_ and the _Casses_ for the _Grahames_ and the _Gladstones_, he may form a very accurate idea of a _Napoleon-Mr.-Fillmore_.

Suppose the head of the Executive, or the Minister for the time being, were to take it into his head one morning to abolish the Houses of Parliament.—Suppose some of the members elected by large constituencies were to think it a duty to go and take their seats, and were to be met at the doors by swords and bayonets, and were to be wounded and taken off to prison for the attempt.—Suppose the Minister, having been harassed by a few Parliamentary debates and discussions, were to send off to Newgate or the House of Correction a few of the most eminent members of the Opposition, such as the Disraelis, the Grahames, the Gladstones, the Barings, and a sprinkling of the Humes, the Wakleys, the Walmsleys, the Cobdens, and the Brights.—Suppose the press having been found not to agree with the policy of the Minister, he were to peremptorily stop the publication of the _Times_, _Herald_, _Chronicle_, _Post_, _Advertiser_, _Daily News_, _Globe_, &c., &c., and limit the organs of intelligence to the Government _Gazette_, or one or two other prints that would write or omit just what he, the Minister, might please.—Suppose, when it occurred to the public that these measures were not exactly in conformity with the law, the Minister were to go or send some soldiers down to Westminster Hall, shut up the Courts, send the Lord Chancellor about his business, and tell Lords Campbell, Cranworth, and all the rest of the high judicial authorities, to make the best of their way home.—Suppose a few Members of Parliament were to sign a protest against these proceedings; and suppose the documents were to be torn down by soldiers, and the persons signing them packed off to Coldbath Fields or Pentonville.—Suppose all these things were to happen with a Parliament elected by Universal Suffrage, and under a Republican form of Government[.]—And lastly—Suppose we were to be told that this sort of thing is liberty, and what we ought to endeavor to get for our own country;—Should we look upon the person telling us so, as a madman, or a knave, or both? and should we not be justified in putting him as speedily, and as unceremoniously as possible—outside our doors?

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

In our last EASY chat with our readers, we sketched in an off-hand way the current of the KOSSUTH talk; and we hinted that our enthusiasm had its fevers and chills; so far as the talk goes, a chilliness has come over the town since the date of our writing—an unworthy and ungracious chill—but yet the natural result of a little over-idolatry. As for Congressional action, no apology can be found, either in moderation or good sense, for the doubtful and halting welcome which has been shown the great Hungarian.

The question of Government interference in his national quarrel was one thing; but the question of a welcome to a distinguished and suffering stranger was quite another. The two, however, have been unfortunately mingled; and a rude and vulgar effort has been made to prejudge his mission, by affronting him as a guest. We may be strong enough to brave Russia, and its hordes of Cossacks; but no country is strong enough to trample on the laws of hospitality We see the hint thrown out in some paper of the day, that the slackened sympathy for KOSSUTH, in Washington, is attributable mainly to the influence of the diplomatic circles of that city. We fear there may be a great deal of truth in this hint: our enthusiasm finds volume in every-day chit-chat, and dinner-table talk; it lives by such fat feeding as gossip supplies; and gossip finds its direction in the salons of the most popular of entertainers.

Washington has a peculiar and shifting social character—made up in its winter elements of every variety of manner and of opinion. This manner and these opinions, however, are very apt to revolve agreeably to what is fixed at the metropolis; and since the diplomatic circles of the capital are almost the only permanent social foci of habit and gossip, it is but natural there should be a convergence toward their action. The fact is by no means flattering; but we greatly fear that it is pointed with a great deal of truth.

Our readers will observe, however, that we account in this way only for the slackened tone of talk, and of salon enthusiasm; nor do we imagine that any parlor influences whatever of the capital can modify to any considerable degree, either legislative, or moral action.

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

Of Paris, now that she has fallen again into one, of her political paroxysms, there is little gayety to be noted. And yet it is most surprising how that swift-blooded people will play the fiddle on the barricades! Never—the papers tell us—were the receptions at the Elysée more numerously attended, and never were the dresses richer, or the jewels more ostentatiously displayed.

Some half dozen brilliant _soirées_ were, it seems, on the _tapis_ at the date of Louis Napoleon’s manœuvre; the invitations had been sent, and upon the evenings appointed—a week or more subsequent to the turn of the magic lantern—the guests presented themselves before closed doors. The occupants and intended hosts were, it seems, of that timid class living along the Faubourg St. Honoré and the Faubourg St. Germain, who imagined themselves, their titles, and their wealth, safer under the wing of King Leopold of Belgium, than under the shadow of the new-feathered eagle. A thriving romance or two, they say, belonged to the quiet movements of the Republic. Thus, the papers make us a pleasant story out of CAVAIGNAC and his prospective bride, Mademoiselle ODIER. And if we furbish up for the reading of our country clients, we venture to say that we shall keep as near the truth as one half of the letter-writers.

For two or three years, it seems that General Cavaignac has been a constant visitor at the house of the rich banker, M. ODIER, He was regarded as a friend of the family, and wore the honors of a friend; that is to say, he had such opportunities of conversation, and for attention in respect to the daughter of the house, as is rarely accorded to Paris ladies in their teens. The General looks a man of fifty—he may be less; but he has a noble carriage, a fine face, and a manner full of dignity and gentleness. The pretty blonde (for Mlle. Odier is so described), was not slow to appreciate the captivating qualities of the General. Moreover, there belonged to her character a romantic tinge, which was lighted up by the story of the General’s bravery, and of the dauntless way in which he bore himself through the murderous days of June. In short, she liked him better than she thought.

The General, on the other hand, somewhat fixed in his bachelor habitude, and counting himself only a fatherly friend, who could not hope, if he dared, to quicken any livelier interest—wore imperturbably the dignity and familiarity of his first manner.

One day—so the story runs—conversation turned upon a recent marriage, in which the bridegroom was some thirty years the lady’s senior. The General in round, honest way, inveighed against the man as a deceiver of innocence, and avowed strongly his belief that such inequality of age was not only preposterous, but wicked.

Poor Mademoiselle Odier!—her fond heart feeding so long blindly on hope, lighted by romance and love, could not bear the sudden shock. She grew pale—paler still, and, to the surprise of the few friends who were present—fainted.

Even yet the General lived in ignorance; and would perhaps have died in ignorance, had not some kind friend made known to him the state of Mlle[.] Odier’s feelings. The General was too gallant a man to be conquered in loving; and the issue was, in a week, an acknowledged troth of the banker’s daughter with the General Cavaignac.

Upon the evening preceding the change of the Republic, they were together—father, daughter, and lover—at the first presentation of a new play. The marriage was fixed for the week to come. But in view of the unsettled state of affairs, the General advised a postponement. The next morning he was a prisoner, on his way to Ham.

He wrote—the gossips tell us—a touching letter to Mademoiselle Odier, giving up all claim upon her, as a prisoner, which he had so proudly boasted while free, and assuring her of his unabated devotion.

She wrote—the gossips tell us—that he was dearer to her now than ever.

So the matter stands; with the exception that Cavaignac has been freed, and that the day of marriage is again a matter of consultation.

May they have a long life, and a happy one—longer and happier than the life of the Republic!

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

The drawing of the “Lottery of Gold” was _the event_ of Paris which preceded the _coup-d’état_. Some seven millions of tickets had been sold at a franc each; and the highest prize was, if we mistake not, a sum equal to a hundred thousand dollars. Interest was of course intense; and the National Circus, where the lots were drawn, was crowded to its utmost capacity. The papers give varying accounts as to the fortunate holder of the ticket drawing the first prize, one account represents her as a poor washerwoman, and another, as a street porter. A story is told of one poor fellow who, by a mistaken reading of one figure, imagined himself the fortunate possessor of the fortune. He invited his friends to a feast, and indulged in all sorts of joyous folly. The quick revulsion of feeling, when the truth appeared, was too much for the poor fellow’s brain, and he is now in the mad-house.

Another equally unfortunate issue is reported of a poor seamstress, who had spent the earnings of years, amounting to six or seven hundred francs, upon the chance of a prize, and drew—nothing. She, too, has lost both money and mind. The affair, however, has had the fortunate result of taming down wild expectancies, and of destroying the taste for such labor hating schemes of profit. It were devoutly to be hoped, that a little of the distaste for moneyed lotteries, would breed a distaste in the French mind for political lotteries.

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

As for affairs at home, they budge on in much the old fashion. The town is not over-gay—partly through fatigues of last winter, which are not yet wholly forgotten—partly through a little Wall-street depletion, and partly through the ugly weather, which has sown catarrhs and coughs with a very liberal hand.

Poor Jenny Lind—true to her native tenderness of heart, has yielded up the closing scenes of what would have been a glorious triumph, to the grief at a mother’s death. She goes away from us mourning, and she leaves behind her a nation of mourners!

The opera is to tinkle in our ears again—with the symphony of Steffanone, Benedetti, and the rest. The town takes music quietly this winter, and the old fashion of listening has almost grown into a habit of appreciation. The town is building up into a Paris-sided company of streets; and the seven stories of freestone and marble will soon darken down Broadway into a European duskiness of hue. The street lights glimmer on such nights as the almanac tells no story of the moon; and on other nights we draggle as we may, between clouds and rain—consoling ourselves with the rich city economy, and hopeful of some future and freer dispensation—of gas.

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

For want of some piquancy, which our eye does not catch in the French journals, we sum up our chit-chat with this pleasant whim-wham of English flavor:

My man Davis is a bit of a character. If he’s not up to a thing or two, I should like to know who is. I am often puzzled to know how a man who has seen so much of life as he has should condescend to have “no objection to the country,” and to take service with a retired linen-draper, which I am. I keep a dog-cart, and, not being much of a whip, Davis generally drives. He has some capital stories; at least I think so; but perhaps it is his manner of telling them; or perhaps I’m very easily pleased. However, here’s one of them.

HOW MR. COPER SOLD A HORSE.

“Mr. Coper, as kept the Red Lion Yard, in —— street, was the best to sell a horse I ever know’d, sir; and I know’d some good ’uns, I have; but he _was_ the best. He’d look at you as tho’ butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and his small wall-eyes seemed to have no more life in ’em than a dead whiting’s. My master, Capt. ——, stood his hosses there, and, o’ course, I saw a good deal of Mr. Coper. One day a gent came to look at the stable, and see if he could buy a hoss. Coper saw in a minute that he knew nothing about horseflesh, and so was uncommon civil. The first thing he showed him was a great gray coach-hoss, about seventeen hands and a inch, with a shoulder like a Erkilus.”

“I suppose you mean Hercules?”

“I suppose I do, sir. The gent was a little man so, o’ course, the gray was taken in agen, and a Suffolk Punch cob, that ’ud a done for a bishop, was then run up the yard. But, lor! the little gent’s legs ’ud never have been of any use to him; they’d a’ stuck out on each side like a curricle-bar—so he wouldn’t do. Coper showed him three or four others—good things in their way, but not at all suited to the gent. At last Coper says to him, with a sort of sigh, ‘Well, sir, I’m afear’d we shan’t make a deal of it to-day, sir; you’re very particular, as you’ve a right to be, and I’ll look about, and if I can find one that I think ’ll do, I’ll call on you.’ By this time he had walked the gent down the stable to opposite a stall where was a brown hoss, fifteen hands or about, ‘Now there ’ud be the thing to suit you, sir,’ says he, ‘and I only wish I could find one like him.’ ‘Why can’t I have him?’ says the gent. ‘Impossible,’ says Coper. ‘Why impossible?’ says the gent. ‘Because he’s Mrs. Coper’s hoss, and money wouldn’t buy him of her; he’s perfect, and she knows it.’ ‘Well,’ says the gent, getting his steam up, ‘I don’t mind price’ ‘What’s money to peace of mind?’ says Coper. ‘If I was to sell that hoss, my missis would worry my life out.’ Well, sir, the more Coper made a difficulty of selling the hoss, the more the gent wanted to buy, till at last Coper took him to a coach-hus, as tho’ to be private, and said to him in a whisper, ‘Well, tell you what I’ll do: I’ll take ninety pounds for him; perhaps he’s not worth that to every body, but I think he is to you, who wants a perfect thing, and ready-made for you.’ ‘You’re very kind,’ said the gent, ‘and I’ll give you a check at once.’ ‘But, mind,’ says Coper, ‘you must fetch him away at night; for if my missus saw him going out of the yard, I do believe she’d pull a life-guardsman off him. How I shall pacify her I don’t know! Ninety pounds! why, ninety pounds won’t pay me for the rows; leave alone the hoss!’

“The gent quite thought Coper was repenting of the bargain, and so walked away to the little countin’-house, and drew a check for the money. When he was gone, I burst out a-laughin’; because I know’d Mrs. Coper was as mild as a bran-mash, and ’ud never a’ dared to blow up her husband; but Coper wouldn’t have it—he looked as solemn as truth. Well, sir, the horse was fetched away that night.”

“But why at night, Davis?”

“Because they shouldn’t see his good qualities all at once, I suppose, sir; for he’d got the Devonshire coat-of-arms on his off knee.”

“Devonshire coat-of-arms?”

“Yes, sir; you see Devonshire’s a very hilly country, and most of the hosses down there has broken knees, so they calls a speck the Devonshire coat-of-arms. Well, sir, as Mrs. Coper’s pet shied at every thing and nothing, and bolted when he warn’t a-shieing, the gent came back in about a week to Coper.

“ ‘Mr. Coper,’ says he, ‘I can’t get on with that hoss at all—perhaps I don’t know how to manage him; he goes on so odd that I’am afraid to ride him; so I thought, as he was such a favorite with Mrs. Coper, you should have him back again.’

“ ‘Not if you’d give me ninety pounds to do it,’ says Coper, looking as tho’ he was a-going to bite the gent.

“ ‘Why not?’ says the gent.

“ ‘I wouldn’t go through what I have gone through,’ says Coper, hitting the stable-door with his fist enough to split it, ‘not for twice the money. Mrs. Coper never left off rowing for two days and nights, and how I should a’ stopped her, I don’t know, if luck hadn’t stood my friend; but I happened to meet with a hoss the very moral of the one you’ve got, only perhaps just a leetle better, and Mrs. C. took to him wonderful. I wouldn’t disturb our domestic harmony by having that hoss of yourn back again, not for half the Bank of England.’ Now the gent was a very tender-hearted man, and believed all that Coper told him, and kept the hoss; but what he did with him I can’t think, for he was the wiciousest screw as ever put his nose in a manger.”

EDITOR’S DRAWER.

We placed on record, not long since in the “Drawer,” two or three anecdotes of the pomposity and copied manners of New England negroes, in the olden time. Here is another one, that seems to us quite as laughable as the specimens to which we have alluded. It is not quite certain, but rather more than probable, that the minister who takes a part in the story was the same clergyman who said, in conversation with a distinguished Puritan divine, that he could “write six sermons a week and make nothing of it.” “Precisely!” responded the other; “you _would_ make _just_ nothing of your sermons!” But to the story.

There were a good many colored people in Massachusetts many years ago, and one of them, an old and favorite servant, was held by a clergyman in one of the easternmost counties of the State. His name was Cuffee; and he was as pompous and imitative as the CÆSAR, whose master “libbed wid him down on de Plains,” in Connecticut. He presumed a good deal upon his age and consequence, and had as much liberty to do as he pleased as any body in the house. On the Sabbath he was always in the minister’s pew, looking around with a grand air, and, so far as appearances went or indicated, profiting as much by his master’s rather dull preaching as any of the congregation around him who were pretending to listen.

One Sunday morning Cuffee noticed that several gentlemen in the neighborhood of his master’s pew had taken out their pencils, and were taking notes of the discourse; either because it was more than usually interesting, or because they wished it to be seen by the parson that they _thought_ it was. Cuffee determined that he would follow the example thus set him; so in the afternoon he brought a sheet of paper and pen and ink-horn to church with him. His master, looking down from his pulpit into his pew, could hardly maintain his gravity, as he saw his servant “spread out” to his task, his great red tongue out, and one side of his face nearly touching the paper. Cufee applied himself vigorously to his notes, until his master had come to his “sixteenth and lastly,” and “in view of this subject we remark, in the eighth and last place,” &c., knowing nothing all the while, and caring just as little, about the wonderment of his master, who was occasionally looking down upon him.

When the minister reached home, he sent for Cufee to come into his study.

“Well, Cuffee,” said he, “what was that I saw you doing in meeting this afternoon?”

“Me, massa?—w’at was _I_ a-doin?”

“Yes, Cuffee; what was that you were about, in stead of listening to the sermon?”

“I was a-listenin’ _hard_, massa, and I was _takin’ notes_.”

“You taking notes!” exclaimed the minister.

“Sartain, massa; all de oder gem’men take notes too.”

“Well, Cuffee, let us _see_ your notes,” said his master.

Hereupon Cuffee produced his sheet of paper. It was scrawled all over with all sorts of marks and lines; worse than if a dozen spiders, escaped from an ink-bottle, had kept up a day’s march over it. It would have puzzled Champollion himself to have unraveled its mysteries.

The minister looked over the notes, as if with great attention, and at length said,

“Why, Cuffee, this is all nonsense!”

“E’yah! e’yah!” replied Cuffee; “I t’ought so myse’f, all de time you was a-preachin’! Dat’s a fac’! E’yah! e’yah!”

The minister didn’t tell the story himself, being rather shy about the conclusion. It leaked out, however, through Cuffee, one day, and his master “never heard the last of it.”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

In a play which we once read, there is a physician introduced, who comes to prescribe to a querulous, nervous old gentleman. His advice and directions as to what he is to do, &c., greatly annoy the excitable old man; but his _prescriptions_ set him half crazy. He calls to the servant in a voice like a Stentor—although a moment before he had described that organ as “all gone, doctor—a mere penny-whistle”—and ordered him to “kick the doctor down stairs, and pay him at the street-door!” “Calls himself one of the ‘_faculty_?’ ” growled the old invalid, after the physician had left in high dudgeon, and vowing vengeance; “calls himself one of the faculty; stupid old ass! with his white choker and gold-headed cane, and shrugs, and sighs, and solemn looks: ‘faculty!’—why he hasn’t _got_ a faculty! never _had_ a faculty!” We thought, at the time of reading this, of an anecdote which had lain for years in our “Drawer,” of the British actress, in one of the provincial towns of England, who was preparing to enact the solemnly tragic character of “Jane Shore,” in the historical and instructive drama of that name, which is richly worth perusal, for the lesson which it teaches of the ultimate punishment of vice, even in its most seductive form. The actress was in her dressing-room, preparing for the part, when her attendant, an ignorant country girl, informed her that a woman had called to request of her two orders for admission, to witness the performance of the play, her daughter and herself having walked four miles on purpose to see it.

“Does she _know_ me?” inquired the lady.

“Not at all; leastways she _said_ she didn’t,” replied the girl.

“It is very strange!” said the lady—“a most extraordinary request! Has the good woman got her _faculties_ about her?”

“I think she _have_, ma’am,” responded the girl, “for I see her have summat tied up in a red silk handkercher!”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

One seldom meets with a truer thing than the following observations by a quaint and witty author upon what are termed, less by way of “eminence,” perhaps, rather than “notoriety,” _Great Talkers_:—“Great Talkers not only do the least, but generally _say_ the least, if their words be weighed instead of reckoned.” He who labors under an incontinence of speech seldom gets the better of his complaint; for he must prescribe for himself, and is very sure of having a fool for his physician. Many a chatterbox might pass for a shrewd man, if he would keep his own secret, and put a drag-chain now and then upon his tongue. The largest minds have the smallest opinion of themselves; for their knowledge impresses them with humility, by showing them the extent of their ignorance, and the discovery makes them taciturn. Deep waters are still. Wise men generally talk little, because they think much. Feeling the annoyance of idle loquacity in others, they are cautious of falling into the same error, and keep their mouths shut when they can not open them to the purpose. The smaller the _calibre_ of the mind, the greater the _bore_ of a perpetually open mouth. Human heads are like hogsheads—the emptier they are, the louder report they give of themselves. I know human specimens who never think; they only _think_ they think. The clack of their word-mill is heard, even when there is no wind to set it going, and no grist to come from it. A distinguished Frenchman, of the time of Cardinal Richelieu, being in the antechamber of that wily statesman, on one occasion, at the time that a great talker was loudly and incessantly babbling, entreated him to be silent, lest he might annoy the cardinal.

“Why do you wish me not to speak?” asked the chatterbox; “I talk a good deal, certainly, but then I talk well.”

“_Half_ of that is true!” retorted the sarcastic Frenchman.

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

It is getting to be a rather serious business for a man to stand up, in these modern days, in a court of justice as a witness. What with impertinent questions of all sorts, and the impudent “bullyragging” of counsel, he is a fortunate and self-possessed man if he is not nearly at his wits’ end before he comes off from that place of torture, a witness-stand. “Moreover, and which is more,” as Dogberry would say, when he _comes_ off, he has not escaped; for now the reporters take him up; and in a little paragraph, inclosed in brackets, we hear somewhat of his character, personal appearance, &c., something after the following fashion:

“[Mr. Jenkins is a small, restless, fidgety man, with little black eyes, one of which has a remarkable inward inclination toward the nose, which latter feature of his face turns up slightly, and indicates, by its color, the influence upon it of alcoholic fluids. He is lame of one leg, and wore a drab roundabout. As he left the stand, we observed a patch on the north side of his pantaloons, which evidenced ‘premeditated poverty.’ Mr. Jenkins was an extremely willing witness.”]

If the witness is so fortunate as to escape the foregoing species of counsel, he may fall into the hands of _another_ description; namely, the ambitious young advocate, who, as “the _learned_ counsel,” considers it incumbent upon him to use high-sounding words, in order to impress both the jury and the witness with the extent of his legal acquirements, and the depth of his erudition generally.

Such a “counsel” it was, who, some years ago, in Albany, had assumed the management of the defense in a case of assault and battery which had occurred in that good old Dutch city. The witness, a not over-clear-headed Irishman, was placed upon the stand, where he was thus interrogated:

“Your name, you say, is Maloney?”

“Yes, Si-r-r; Maloney is me name, and me mother’s name that bore me; long life to her in the owld counthry!”

“We don’t wish to hear any thing of the ‘ould counthry,’ Mr. Maloney,” said the “witty” counsel “Mr. Maloney, do you know my client?”

“Sir?” asked Mr. Maloney, in a monosyllable.

“Do you know _this_ man?” pointing to his client[.]

“Yes, Sir-r-r, I seen him wance-t.”

“Well, Mr. Maloney, did you see that man, that individual sitting at your right hand, did you see him raise his muscular arm, and endeavor to arouse the passions and excite the fears of my client?”

“Sir?” again asked the witness.

“The Court will please note the hesitancy of the witness. Let me ask you the _second_ time, Mr. Maloney, did you have an uninterrupted view, were your optics undimmed, when the plaintiff by your side, the individual in question, raised his muscular arm, and with malice prepense and murder aforethought, assaulted the person of my client, in violation of the laws of the country _and_ of the State of New York?”

“Sir?” said the witness, inquiringly, for the third time.

“Would it not be well, Mr. ——,” suggested the justice upon the bench to the “learned counsel,” “to put your question to the witness in simpler and more direct terms?”

“_Perhaps_ so, your honor. The witness is either very stupid or very designing. Well then, Mr Maloney, you see that man, the plaintiff there, don’t you?”

“Sure, I sees that man plain enough foreaninst me here, but I didn’t know he was a _plaintiff_. He might ha’ been a tinker, for all _I_ knew about it.”

“Well, Mr. Maloney, you see him _now_, at least. Now, sir, do you see _this_ man, my client?” laying his hand upon the defendant’s shoulder.

“Bedad I _do_, yer honor; I’m not a mole nor a bat, yer honor.”

“Very well, Mr. Maloney. Now, Mr. Maloney, did you see _that_ man strike _this_ man?”

“I _did_, yer honor, and knock him flat. Faix! but ’twas a big blow! ’Twas like the kick ov a horse!”

“Your question is answered, Mr. Counsel,” said the magistrate, “and your testimony is now in.”

Dryden’s lesson, that “it needs all we know to make things _plain_,” is somewhat illustrated by this actual occurrence.

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

Many a disciple of Lavater and of Spurzheim will tell you that physiology and phrenology are each, and of themselves, infallible tests of character. But, as Robert Burns sings:

“The best-laid schemes of mice and men
Gang aft aglee:”

a fact which was very humorously illustrated at the recent trial of the Michigan railroad conspirators. A man entered the crowded court-room one day, during the progress of the long-protracted trial, and looking eagerly around, asked of a by-stander which were the prisoners? A wag, without moving a muscle, pointed to the jury-box, and said.

“_There_ they are, in that box!”

“I _thought_ so!” said the inquirer, in a whisper. “What a set of gallows-looking wretches they are! If there’s any thing in physiology and phrenology, they _deserve_ hanging, any how!”

The jury were all “picked men” of that region!

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

It is a good many years ago now, since we laughed a good hour by “Shrewsbury Clock” at the following description, by the hero of a native romance bearing his name, of the manner and bearing of New York Dry Goods “Drummers.” The scene succeeds the history of the hero’s first acquaintance with a “drummer;” who, mistaking him for a country “dealer,” had given him his card on board of a steamboat, taken him to his hotel in town, sent him his wine, given him tickets to the theatre, and requested him to call at his store in Hanover-square, where it was his intention to turn these courtesies to profitable account. On a bright pleasant morning, accordingly, our hero visits the store, where Mr. Lummocks, the drummer, receives him with open arms, and introduces him to his employer. But we will now let him tell the story in his own words; and DICKENS has seldom excelled the picture:

“He shook me heartily by the hand, and said he was really delighted to see me. He asked me how the times were, and offered me a cigar, which I took, for fear of giving offense, but which I threw away the very first opportunity I got.

“ ‘Buy for cash, or on time?’ he asked.

“I was a little startled at the question, it was so abrupt; but I replied, ‘For cash.’

“ ‘Would you like to look at some prints, major?’ he inquired.

“ ‘I am made obliged to you,’ I answered; ‘I am very fond of seeing prints.’

“With that he commenced turning over one piece of calico after another, with amazing rapidity.

“ ‘There, major—very desirable article—splendid style—only two-and-six: cheapest goods in the street.’

“Before I could make any reply, or even guess at his meaning, he was called away, and Mr. Lummocks stepped up and supplied his place.

“ ‘You had better buy ’em, colonel,’ said Mr. Lummocks; ‘they will sell like hot cakes. Did you say you bought for cash?’

“ ‘Of _course_,’ I said, ‘if I buy at all.’

“He took a memorandum out of his pocket, and looked in it for a moment.

“ ‘Let me see,’ said he, ‘Franco, Franco—what did you say your firm was? Something and Franco, or Franco and Somebody? The name has escaped me.’

“ ‘I have no firm,’ I replied.

“ ‘O, you haven’t, hain’t ye? all alone, eh? But I don’t see that I’ve got your first name down in my “tickler.” ’

“ ‘My first name is Harry,’ said I.

“ ‘Right—yes—I remember,’ said Mr. Lummocks, making a memorandum; ‘and your references, colonel, who did you say were your references?’

“ ‘I have no reference,’ I replied; ‘indeed I know of no one to whom I could refer, except my father.’

“ ‘What—the old boy in the country, eh?’

“ ‘My father is in the country,’ I answered, seriously, not very well pleased to hear my parent called the ‘Old Boy.’

“ ‘Then you have no _city_ references, eh?’

“ ‘None at all: I have no friends here, except yourself.’

“ ‘Me!’ exclaimed Mr. Lummocks, apparently in great amazement. ‘Oh, oh!—but how much of a bill do you mean to make with us, captain?’

“ ‘Perhaps I may buy a vest-pattern,’ I replied, ‘if you have got some genteel patterns.’

“ ‘_A vest-pattern!_’ exclaimed Mr. Lummocks; ‘what! haven’t you come down for the purpose of buying goods?’

“ ‘No, sir,’ I replied: ‘I came to New York to seek for employment; and as you had shown me so many kind attentions, I thought you would be glad to assist me in finding a situation.’

“Mr. Lummock’s countenance underwent a very singular change when I announced my reasons for calling on him.

“ ‘Do you see any thing that looks _green_ in there?’ he asked, pulling down his eyelid with his forefinger.

“ ‘No, sir, I do not,’ I replied, looking very earnestly into his eye.

“ ‘Nor in _there_, either?’ said he, pulling open his other eye.

“ ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ I replied, after a minute examination.

“ ‘I guess _not!_’ said Mr. Lummocks; and without making any other answer, he turned on his heel and left me.

“ ‘Regularly sucked, eh, Jack?’ asked a young man who had been listening to our conversation.

“ ‘Don’t mention it!’ said Mr. Lummocks; ‘the man is a fool.’ ”

Our friend was about to demand an explanation of this strange conduct, when the proprietor came forward and told him that he was not a retailer but a _jobber_, and advised him, “if he wanted a vest-pattern, to go into Chatham-street!”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

He must have been a good deal of an observer, and something of a philosopher also, who wrote as follows, in a unique paper, some fifteen years ago:

“Man is never contented. He is the fretful baby of trouble and care, and he will continue to worry and fret, no matter how pretty are the playthings that are laid before him to please him. He will sometimes fret because he can _find nothing to fret about_. I’ve known just such men myself. If he were bound to live in this world forever, he would fret because he couldn’t leave and go to another, ‘just for a change;’ and now, seeing that sooner or later he _must_ go, and no mistake, he frets like a caged porcupine, and thinks he would like to live here always. The fact is, he don’t know _what_ he wants.

“I’ve seen about enough of this world myself. For forty years I’ve been searching every nook and corner for some pleasant spring of happiness, instead of which I have only found a few flood-swollen streams, bearing upon their surface innumerable bubbles of vanity, _and all along by their margins nests of young humbugs are continually being hatched_. I have drunk of these waters nigh unto bursting, and have always departed as dry as a cork.

“In fact, I’ve been kicked about like an old hat, nearly used up by the flagellations of Old Time, and am now feeling the way with my cane down to the silent valley. But, yet, I’m happy—‘happy as a clam at high water.’ I sleep like a top, but I don’t eat as much as I used to. Oh! it is a blessed thing to lie down at night with a light stomach, and a lighter conscience! You ought to _see_ me sleep sometimes! The way I ‘take it easy is a caution to children!’ ”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

It may not be new, but whether new or not, it is worthy of being repeated to our readers, the beautiful reply of a little lad to an English bishop, who said to him, one day, “If you will tell me where GOD is, I’ll give you an orange.” “If you will tell me where HE is _not_,” promptly responded the little fellow, “I will give you _two!_” Better than all earthly logic was the simple faith of this trusting child.

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

Here is an awful “fixed fact” for snuff-takers! Perhaps the “Statistics of Snuff and Sneezing” may yet form a part of some remote census of these United States:

“It has been very exactly calculated, that in forty years, two entire years of the snuff-taker’s life are devoted to tickling his nose, and two more to the sonorous and agreeable processes of blowing and wiping it, with other incidental circumstances!”

How about “Statistics of Chewing?”—the time employed in selecting, inserting, rolling, and ejecting the quid?—the length of the yellow lines at the corners of the mouth, in the aggregate?—the lakes of saliva, spirted, squirted, spit, sprinkled, and drizzled? We commend the pregnant theme to some clever American statist. Ah! well would it be if we be stowed half the time in making ourselves agreeable, that we waste in rendering ourselves offensive to our friends!

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

The late lamented JOHN SANDERSON, the witty author of “The American in Paris,” speaking of Père La Chaise, says: “A Frenchman, who enjoys life so well, is, of all creatures, the least concerned at leaving it. He only wishes to be buried in the great Parisian burying-ground; and often selects his marble of the finest tints for his monument, and has his coffin made, and his grave dug in advance.” A lady told the author, with great _empressement_, that she had rather _not die at all_, than to die and be buried any where except in Père La Chaise!

LITERARY NOTICES

Harper and Brothers have published an edition of LAYARD’s _Popular Account of Discoveries at Nineveh_, being an abridgment of his large work on the same subject, by the author himself. In this edition, the principal Biblical and historical illustrations are introduced into the narrative. No changes on any material points of opinion or fact are made in the narrative, as more recent discoveries have confirmed the original statements of the author. The present form of the work will no doubt be highly acceptable to the public. With as much condensation as was admitted by the nature of the subject, and at a very moderate expense, the curious researches of Mr. Layard are here set forth, throwing an interesting light on numerous topics of Biblical antiquity, and Oriental customs in general.

_Memoirs of the Great Metropolis_, by F. SAUNDERS (published by G. P. Putnam), is not only a convenient and instructive guide-book for the traveler in England, but contains numerous literary allusions and reminiscences, illustrating the haunts of celebrated authors. The writer is evidently familiar with his subject from personal observation; he is at home in the antique nooks and corners of the British capital; and, at the same time, making a judicious use of the best authorities, he has produced a volume filled with valuable information, and a variety of amusing matter. We advise our friends who are about packing up for a European tour to remember this pleasant book, and if it should not be able to alleviate the misery of sea-sickness, it will at least prepare them for an intelligent examination of the curiosities of London.

_Dream Life: A Fable of the Seasons_, by IK. MARVEL. (Published by Charles Scribner.) A new volume in the same vein of meditative pathos, and quaint, gentle humor as the delightful “Reveries of a Bachelor,”—perhaps, indeed, bearing too great an affinity with that unique volume to follow it in such rapid succession. The daintiest cates most readily produce a surfeit, and it is not strange that the pure Hyblæan sweetness of these delicious compositions should pall upon the sense by a too luxurious indulgence. With a writer of less variety of resource than Ik. Marvel, it would not be worth while to advance such a criticism; but we are perverse enough to demand of him not only pre-eminence in a favorite sphere, but a more liberal taste of other qualities, of which we have often had such pleasant inklings.