Chapter XVII (4)

European topic still has its place, and LOUIS NAPOLEON with his adroit but tyrannic manœuvres, fills up a large space of the talk. It would seem, that he was rivaling the keenest times of the Empire, in the zeal of his espionage; and every mail brings us intelligence of some unfortunately free-talker, who is “advised” to quit “the Republic.”

Americans are very naturally in bad odor; and from private advices we learn that their requisitions to see the lions of the capital city, meet with a growing coolness. Still, however, the gay heart of Paris leaps on, in its fond, foolish heedlessness; and the operas and theatres win the discontented away from their cares, and bury their lost liberties under the shabby concealment of a laugh.

Report says that the masked balls of the Opera were never more fully attended; or the gayety of their Carnival pursued with a noisier recklessness.

This, indeed, is natural enough: when men are denied the liberty of thinking, they will relieve themselves by a license of desire; and when the soul is pinioned by bonds, the senses will cheat the man.

There is no better safeguard for Despotism, whether under cover of a Kingdom or a Republic—than immorality. The brutality of lust is the best extinguisher of thought: and the drunkenness of sensualism will inevitably stifle all the nobler impulses of the mind.

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As for political chat at home, it runs now in the channel of President-making; and the dinner-tables of Washington are lighted up with comparison of chances. Under this, the gayeties proper are at a comparative stand-still. The Assembly balls, as we learn, are less brilliant, and more promiscuous than ever; and even the select parties of the National Hotel are singularly devoid of attractions. Lent too is approaching, to whip off, with its scourge of custom, the cue of papal diplomats; and then, the earnestness of the campaign for the Presidency will embrue the talk of the whole Metropolis.

While we are thus turning our pen-point Washington-ward, we shall take the liberty of felicitating ourselves, upon the contrast which has belonged to the reception of LOLA MONTES, in New York, and in the metropolis of the nation. Here, she was scarce the mention of a respectable journal; there, she has been honored by distinguished “callers.”

We see in this a better tone of taste in our own city, than in the city of the nation; and it will justify the opinion, which is not without other support, that the range of honorable delicacy is far lower in the city of our representatives, than in any city of their clients. Representatives leave their proprieties at home; and many a member would blush at a license within the purlieus of his own constituency, which he courts as an honor in the city of our Cæsars! We wish them joy of their devotion to the Danseuse, whom—though we count as humble as themselves in point of morals—we believe to be superior, mentally, to the bulk of her admirers.

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As a token of French life and morals, we make out this sad little bit of romance from a recent paper:

A few days since, some boatmen upon the Seine saw what appeared to be a pair of human feet floating down the stream; manning their barge, they hastened to the spot, and succeeded in drawing from the water the body of a young woman, apparently about twenty-five years of age, and elegantly dressed; a heavy stone was attached to her neck by a cord. Within a small tin box, in the pocket of her dress, carefully sealed, was found the following note:

“My parents I have never known; up to the age of seven years, I was brought up by a good woman of a little village of the Department of the Seine and Marne; and from that time, to the age of eighteen I was placed in a boarding-house of Paris. Nothing but was provided for my education. My parents were without doubt rich, for nothing was neglected that could supply me with rich toilet, and my bills were regularly paid by an unknown hand.

“One day I received a letter; it was signed, ‘Your mother.’ Then I was happy!

“ ‘Your birth,’ she wrote me, ‘would destroy the repose of our entire family; one day, however, you shall know me: honorable blood flows in your veins, my daughter—do not doubt it. Your future is made sure. But for the present, it is necessary that you accept a place provided for you in the establishment of M——; and when once you have made yourself familiar with the duties of the place, you shall be placed at the head of an even larger establishment.’

“A few days after, I found myself in the new position. Years passed by. Then came the Revolution of February. From that fatal time I have heard nothing of my family. Alone in the world, believing myself deserted, maddened by my situation, I yielded, in an evil hour, to the oaths of one who professed to love me. He deceived me; there is nothing now to live for; suicide is my only refuge. I only pray that those who find this poor body, will tell my story to the world; and, please God, it may soften, the heart of those who desert their children!”

The story may be true or not, in fact; it is certainly true to the life, and the religion of Paris: and while such life, and such sense of duty remains, it is not strange that a Napoleon can ride into rule, and that the French Republic should be firmest under the prick of bayonets.

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It appears that a Madame de la Ribossière has deceased lately in Paris, leaving a very large fortune—to the city of Paris—much to the ire, not only of her family, but of sundry friends, literary and others, who had contributed very greatly to her amusement.

A French writer comments on the matter in a strain which, considering our duties as Editor, we shall not think it worth while to gainsay.

Madame de la Ribossière was a lady of refined tastes, who derived a large part of her enjoyment of life from the accomplishments of artistic and literary gentlemen; how then, does it happen that she should not have given proof of the pleasure she had received by a few princely legacies?

In the good old times (may they come again!) authors had different treatment. Thus Pliny, the younger, in writing to Tacitus, says, “I have received the past year some twenty-five thousand _ses terces_ more than yourself—in the way of legacies—but don’t be jealous!”

The truth is, that a rich man rarely died in Rome, without leaving some token to the author who had beguiled the hours of solitude—enlarged his ideas, or consoled him in affliction. Cicero speaks of a large inheritance, which he possessed, of statues and beautiful objects. In short, Roman literature and the history of antiquity grew out of those princely endowments, which independence and strength of opinion did not fail to secure.

But nowadays, says the French author, a writer is paid like a starveling; and picks up such crumbs of charity as fall only from the tables of the publishers. And he goes on pleasantly, to suggest a change in this matter; which, if it gain footing on the other side of the water, we shall take the liberty of welcoming very kindly in America. When the custom of leaving legacies to writers is in vogue, we shall take the liberty of suggesting, in our own behalf, such objects of art as would be agreeable to us; and such stocks as we should prefer as a permanent investment.

Meantime, we suck our quill in our Easy Chair, with as much forbearance as we can readily command.

EDITOR’S DRAWER.

That was a dignified and graceful entertainment which recently took place in the gay capital of France. Some two hundred of the “nobility and gentry,” including a sprinkling of English aristocracy, assembled in a prominent hall of the city, to see a _Rat and Owl Fight_! And while they were getting ready the combatants, which went by sundry fancy or favorite names, they had a _poet_ in leash, who “improvised a _strophe_” for the occasion! Think of a “poet” apostrophizing, in studied measures, twelve rats and four old owls! But that’s “the way they _do_ things in France.”

They have another very sensible and dramatic amusement there, which they call the “_Mat de Cocagne_.” This is a long pole, of about eighteen inches diameter at the base, well polished and greased from top to bottom, with soft soap, tallow, and other slippery ingredients. To climb up this pole to the top is an eminent exploit, which crowns the victorious adventurer with a rich prize, and gains him the acclamations of ten thousand spectators. The “pretenders” strip off their upper gear altogether, and roll up their trowsers mid-thigh, and thus accoutred, present themselves at the bottom of the mast. Now just listen to a description of the operation, and reflections thereupon, and tell us whether you ever read any thing more “perfectly _French_.”

“The first who attempt the ascent look for no honor; their office is to prepare the way, and put things in train for their successors: they rub off the grease from the bottom, the least practicable part of the pole. In every thing the first steps are the most difficult, although seldom the most glorious; and scarcely ever does the same person commence an enterprise, and reap the fruit of its accomplishment. They ascend higher by degrees, and the expert climbers now come forth, the heroes of the list: they who have been accustomed to gain prizes, whose prowess is known, and whose fame is established since many seasons. They do not expend their strength in the beginning; they climb up gently, and patiently, and modestly, and repose from time to time; and they carry, as is permitted, a little sack at their girdle, filled with ashes to neutralize the grease and render it less slippery.

“All efforts, however, for a long time prove ineffectual. There seems to be an ultimate point, which no one can scan, the measure and term of human strength; and to overreach it is at last deemed impossible. Now and then a pretender essays his awkward limbs, and reaching scarce half way even to this point, falls back clumsily amidst the hisses and laughter of the spectators; so in the world empirical pretension comes out into notoriety for a moment only to return with ridicule and scorn to its original obscurity.

“But the charm is at length broken: a victorious climber has transcended the point at which his predecessors were arrested. Every one now does the same: such are men: they want but a precedent: as soon as it is proved that a thing is possible, it is no longer difficult. Our climber continues his success: farther and farther still; he is a few feet only from the summit, but he is wearied, he relents. Alas! is the prize, almost in his grasp, to escape from him! He makes another effort, but it is of no avail. He does not, however, lose ground: he reposes. In the mean time, exclamations are heard, of doubt, of success, of encouragement.

“After a lapse of two or three minutes, which is itself a fatigue, he essays again. It is in vain! He begins even to shrink: he has slipped downward a few inches, and recovers his loss by an obstinate struggle (‘_applause_!’—‘_sensation_!’), but it is a supernatural effort, and—his last. Soon after a murmur is heard from the crowd below, half raillery and half compassion, and the poor adventurer slides down, mortified and exhausted, upon the earth!

“So a courtier, having planned from his youth his career of ambition, struggles up the ladder, lubric and precipitous, to the top—to the very consummation of his hopes, and then falls back into the rubbish from which he has issued; and they who envied his fortune, now rejoice in his fall. What lessons of philosophy in a greasy pole! What moral reflections in a spectacle so empty to the common world! What wholesome sermons are here upon the vanity of human hopes, the disappointments of ambition, and the difficulties of success in the slippery paths of fortune and human greatness! But the very defeat of the last adventurer has shown the _possibility_ of success, and prepared the way for his successor, who mounts up and perches on the summit of the mast, bears off the crown, and descends amidst the shouts and applause of the multitude. It is Americus Vespucius who bears away from Columbus the recompense of his toils!”

So much for climbing a greased pole in reflective, philosophical Paris!

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Inquisitiveness has been well described as “an itch for prying into other people’s affairs, to the neglect of our own; an ignorant hankering after all such knowledge as is not worth knowing; a curiosity to learn things that are not at all curious.” People of this stamp would rather be “put to the question” than not to ask questions. Silence is torture to them. A genuine _quidnunc_ prefers even false news to _no_ news; he prides himself upon having the first information of things that never happened. Yankees are supposed to have attained the greatest art in parrying inquisitiveness, but there is a story extant of a “Londoner” on his travels in the provinces, who rather eclipses the cunning “Yankee Peddler.” In traveling post, says the narrator, he was obliged to stop at a village to replace a shoe which his horse had lost; when the “Paul Pry” of the place bustled up to the carriage-window, and without waiting for the ceremony of an introduction, said:

“Good-morning, sir. Horse cast a shoe I see. I suppose, sir, you are going to—?”

Here he paused, expecting the name of the place to be supplied; but the gentleman answered:

“You are quite right; I generally go there at this season.”

“Ay—ahem!—do you? And no doubt you are now come from—?”

“Right again, sir; I _live_ there.”

“Oh, ay; I see: you do! But I perceive it is a London shay. Is there any thing stirring in London?”

“Oh, yes; plenty of other chaises and carriages of all sorts.”

“Ay, ay, of course. But what do folks say?”

“They say their prayers every Sunday.”

“That isn’t what I mean. I want to know whether there is any thing new and fresh.”

“Yes; bread and herrings.”

“Ah, you are a queer fellow. Pray, mister, may I ask your name?”

“Fools and clowns,” said the gentleman, “call me ‘Mister;’ but I am in reality one of the clowns of Aristophanes; and my real name is _Brekekekex Koax!_ Drive on, postillion!”

Now this is what _we_ call a “pursuit of knowledge under difficulties” of the most _obstinate_ kind.

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In these “leaking” days of wintry-spring, when that classical compound called “_splosh_,” a conglomerate of dirty snow and unmistakable mud, pervades the streets of the city, perhaps these “_Street Thoughts by a Surgeon_” may not be without some degree of wholesome effect upon the community:

“In perambulating the streets at this period, what a number of little ragamuffins I observe trundling their hoops! With what interest I contemplate their youthful sport; particularly when I regard its probable consequences! A hoop runs between a gentleman’s legs. He falls. When I reflect on the wonderful construction of the skeleton, and consider to how many fractures and dislocations it is liable in such a case, my bosom expands to a considerate police, to whose ‘non-interference’ we are indebted for such chances of practice!

“The numerous bits of orange-peel which diversify the pavement, oftentimes attract my attention. Never do I kick one of them out of the way. The blessings of a whole profession on the hands that scatter them! Each single bit may supply a new and instructive page to the ‘Chapter of Accidents.’

“Considering the damp, muddy state of the streets at this time of the year, I am equally amazed and delighted to see the ladies, almost universally, going about in the thinnest of thin shoes. This elegant fashion beautifully displays the conformation of the ankle-joint; but to the practitioner it has another and a stronger recommendation. I behold the delicate foot separated scarcely by the thickness of thin paper from the mire. I see the exquisite instep, undefended but by a mere web. I meditate upon the influence of the cold and wet upon the frame. I think of the catarrhs, coughs, pleurisies, consumptions, and other interesting affections that necessarily must result from their application to the feet; and then I reckon up the number of pills, boluses, powders, draughts, mixtures, leeches, and blisters, which will consequently be sent in to the fair sufferers, calculate what they must come to, and wish that I had the amount already in my pocket!”

A world of satirical truth is here, in a very small compass.

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There is a good story told recently of Baron Rothschild, of Paris, the richest man of his class in the world, which shows that it is not only “money which makes the mare go” (or horses either, for that matter), but “_ready_ money,” “unlimited credit” to the contrary notwithstanding. On a very wet and disagreeable day, the Baron took a Parisian omnibus, on his way to the Bourse, or Exchange; near which the “Nabob of Finance” alighted, and was going away without paying. The driver stopped him, and demanded his fare. Rothschild felt in his pocket, but he had not a “red cent” of change. The driver was very wroth:

“Well, what did you get _in_ for, if you could not pay? You must have _known_, that you had no money!”

“I am Baron Rothschild!” exclaimed the great capitalist; “and there is my card!”

The driver threw the card in the gutter: “Never heard of you before,” said the driver, “and don’t want to hear of you again. But I want my fare—and I must _have_ it!”

The great banker was in haste: “I have only an order for a million,” he said. “Give me change;” and he proffered a “coupon” for fifty thousand francs.

The conductor stared, and the passengers set up a horse-laugh. Just then an “Agent de Change” came by, and Baron Rothschild borrowed of him the six sous.

The driver was now seized with a kind of remorseful respect; and turning to the Money-King, he said:

“If you want ten francs, sir, I don’t mind lending them to you on my own account!”

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“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” says the BIBLE, “THOU hast ordained praise.” Whoso reads the following, will feel the force of the passage.

At an examination of a deaf and dumb institution some years ago in London, a little boy was asked in writing:

“Who made the world?”

He took the chalk, and wrote underneath the words:

“In the beginning GOD created the heavens and the earth.”

The clergyman then inquired, in a similar manner

“Why did JESUS CHRIST come into the world?”

A smile of gratitude rested upon the countenance of the little fellow, as he wrote:

“This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that JESUS CHRIST came into the world to save sinners.”

A third question was then proposed, evidently adapted to call the most powerful feelings into exercise:

“Why were _you_ born deaf and dumb, when _I_ can both hear and speak?”

“Never,” said an eye-witness, “shall I forget the look of resignation which sat upon his countenance, when he again took the chalk and wrote:

“_Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in Thy sight!_”

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We find a piece of poetry in the “Drawer,” entitled “_The Husband’s Complaint_,” and we quote a few stanzas from it to show, that there are elsewhere, sympathizers with all those unfortunate husbands, victims to German worsted, who are compelled to see pink dogs with green eyes gradually growing before them every day, or untamed African lions in buff, with vermilion eyeballs, glaring from the frame upon them.

“I hate the name of German wool,
In all its colors bright,
Of chairs and stools in fancy-work,
I hate the very sight!
The rugs and slippers that I’ve seen,
The ottomans and bags,
Sooner than wear a stitch on me,
I’d walk the streets in rags!”

“I’ve heard of wives too musical,
Too talkative, or quiet;
Of scolding or of gaming wives,
And those too fond of riot;
But yet, of all the errors known,
Which to the women fall,
Forever doing “fancy-work,”
I think exceeds them all!

“The other day, when I came home,
No dinner was for me;
I asked my wife the reason why,
And she said “One, two, three!”
I told her I was hungry,
And I stamped upon the floor,
She never looked at me, but said,
“I want one dark-green more!”

“Of course she makes me angry,
But she doesn’t care for that;
But chatters while I talk to her,
“One white and then a black;
One green, and then a purple,
(Just hold your tongue, my dear,
You really do annoy me so),
I’ve made a wrong stitch here!”

“And as for confidential chat,”
With her eternal “_frame_,”
Though I should speak of fifty things,
She’d answer me the same:
’Tis, “Yes, love—five reds, then a black—
(I quite agree with you)—
I’ve done this wrong—seven, eight, nine, ten,
An orange—then a blue!”

“If any lady comes to tea,
Her bag is first surveyed;
And if the pattern pleases her,
A copy then is made;
She stares the men quite out of face,
And when I ask her why,
’Tis, “Oh, my love, the pattern of
His waistcoat struck my eye!”

“And if to walk I am inclined
(It’s seldom I go out),
At every worsted-shop she sees,
Oh, how she looks about!
And says, “Bless me! I _must_ ’go in,
The pattern is so rare;
That group of flowers is just the thing
I wanted for my chair!”

“Besides, the things she makes are all
Such “Touch-me-not” affairs,
I dare not even use a stool,
Nor screen; and as for chairs,
’Twas only yesterday I put
My youngest boy in one,
And until then I never knew
My wife had such a tongue!

“Alas, for my poor little ones!
They dare not move nor speak,
It’s “Tom, be still, put down that bag,
Why, Harriet, where’s your feet!
Maria, standing on that stool!!
It wasn’t made for use;
Be silent all: three greens, one red,
A blue, and then a puce!”

“Oh, Heaven preserve me from a wife
With “fancy-work” run wild;
And hands which never do aught else
For husband or for child:
Our clothes are rent, our bills unpaid,
Our house is in disorder,
_And all because my lady-wife_
_Has taken to embroider_!”

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Private subscriptions to a book, “for the benefit of the author,” is one way of paying creditors by taxing your friends. There have been some curious specimens of this kind of “raising the wind,” in this same big metropolis of Gotham, which have proved what is called at the West “a caution;” a caution which the victims found, to their mortification, that they needed beforehand. “All honor to the sex,” we say, of course, but not the _same_ honor to _all_ of the sex; for there have been instances, hereabout, of inveterate feminine book-purveyors, who have reflected little honor upon themselves, and less upon “the sex;” as certain public functionaries could bear witness—in fact, _have_ borne witness, upon the witness-stand. There is a laughable instance recorded of a new method of giving a subscription, which we shall venture to quote in this connection. Many years ago, a worthy and well-known English nobleman, having become embarrassed in his circumstances, a subscription was set on foot by his friends, and a letter, soliciting contributions, was addressed, among others, to Lord Erskine, who immediately dispatched the following answer:

“MY DEAR SIR JOHN:

“I am enemy to subscriptions of this nature; first, because my own finances are by no means in a flourishing plight; and secondly, because pecuniary assistance thus conferred, must be equally painful to the donor and the receiver. As I feel, however, the sincerest gratitude for your public services, and regard for your private worth, I have great pleasure in _subscribing_—[Here the worthy nobleman, big with expectation, turned over the leaf, and finished the perusal of the note, which terminated as follows]: in _subscribing_ myself,

“My dear Sir John,

“Yours, very faithfully,

“ERSKINE.”

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Very bad spelling is sometimes the best, as in the case of the English beer-vender, who wrote over his shop-door:

“_Bear_ sold here.”

Tom Hood, who saw it, said that it was spelled right, because the fluid he sold was his own _Bruin_!

Not less ingenious was the device of the quack-doctor, who announced in his printed handbills that he could instantly cure “the most obstinate _aguews_;” which orthography proved that he was no conjuror, and did not attempt to cure them by _a spell_.

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It was Punch, if we remember rightly, who told the story, some years ago, of a man who loaned an umbrella to a friend, a tradesman in his street, on a wet, nasty day. It was not returned, and on _another_ wet, disagreeable day, he called for it, but found his friend at the door, going out with it in his hand.

“I’ve come for my umbrella,” exclaimed the loan-_or_.

“Can’t help _that_,” exclaimed the borrower; “don’t you see that I am going out with it?”

“Well—yes—” replied the lender, astounded at such outrageous impudence; “yes; but—but—but what am _I_ to do?”

“Do?” replied the other, as he threw up the top, and walked off; “do? do as _I_ did: _borrow one_!”

One of the best chapters in “Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures,” is where that amiable and greatly-abused angel reproaches her inhuman spouse with loaning the family umbrella:

“Ah! that’s the third umbrella gone since Christmas! What were you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain. I don’t think there was any thing about _him_ that would spoil. Take cold, indeed! He does not look like one o’ the sort to take cold. He’d better taken cold, than our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Caudle? I say, do you _hear the rain_? Do you hear it against the windows? Nonsense; you can’t be asleep with such a shower as that. Do you _hear_ it, I say? Oh, you _do_ hear it, do you? Well, that’s a pretty flood, I think, to last six weeks, and no stirring all this time out of the house. Poh! don’t think to fool _me_, Caudle: _he_ return the umbrella! As if any body ever _did_ return an umbrella! There—do you hear it? Worse and worse! Cats and dogs for six weeks—always six weeks—and no umbrella!

“I should like to know how the children are to go to school, to-morrow. They shan’t go through _such_ weather, _that_ I’m determined. No; they shall stay at home, and never learn any thing, sooner than go and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder who they’ll have to thank for knowing nothing. People who can’t feel for their children ought never to _be_ fathers.

“But _I_ know why you lent the umbrella—_I_ know, very well. I was going out to tea to mother’s, to-morrow;—you _knew_ that very well; and you did it on purpose. Don’t tell me; _I_ know; you don’t want me to go, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don’t you think it, Caudle! No; if it comes down in buckets-full, I’ll go all the more: I will; and what’s more, I’ll walk every step of the way; and you know that will give me my death,” &c., &c., &c.

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The satire of the following lines, upon that species of sentimental song-writing which prevailed a few years ago to a much greater extent than at present, is somewhat broad; but any one who remembers the feeble and affected trash which has hitherto been set to music, and sung by lachrymose young ladies and gentlemen, will not consider it one whit too much deserved.

I.

“My lute hath only one sad tone,
It hath a mournful twang:
Its other strings are cracked and gone,
By one unlucky bang!
You ask me why I don’t restore
Its early sweetness, and fresh cord it;
Oh, no! I’ll play on it no more!
Between ourselves—I can’t afford it!

II.

“You tell me that my light guitar
Is now as silent as the grave;
That on it now I play no bar,
Though _once_ it thrill’d with many a stave
Alas! to strike it once again,
More power than I possess requires;
The effort would be worse than vain—
My light guitar has lost its wires!

III.

“My heart, my lute, my light guitar,
All broken as they be,
As like unto each other are,
As little pea to pea.
Come, heart; come, lute, guitar, and all,
In one lament ye all are blended!
Hang on your nails against the wall—
I can’t afford to get you mended!”

Just fancy this touching song sung by a “nice young man,” with all the modern “shakes” and _affetuoso_ accompaniments, and you will “realize” a fair hit at what was not long since a fashionable species of English ballad music.

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“Speaking of music,” by-the-by, we are reminded of rather a sharp reply made by a celebrated nobleman in England to an enterprising musical gentleman, who was a good deal of an enthusiast in the art. “I have waited upon you, my lord, to ask for your subscription of twenty guineas to the series of six Italian concerts, to be given at ——’s Rooms. Knowing your lordship to be an admirer of the sweet—”

“You’ve been misinformed, sir. I am _not_ much of an admirer of the school of ‘difficult music:’ on the contrary, I often wish, with Dr. Johnson, that ‘it was not only _difficult_, but _impossible_.’ ”

“But as a nobleman, as a public man, your lordship can not be insensible to the value of your honored name upon the subscription-list. Your eminent brother, the greatest of London’s prelates, the most gifted, your honorable brother subscribed fifty guineas. Here, sir, is his signature upon this very paper which I hold in my hand.”

“Well,” replied “his lordship,” “I have no hesitation to state, that if I were as _deaf_ as he is, I wouldn’t mind subscribing myself! He’s as deaf as a post, or as a dumb adder; and can not hear the sounds of your Italian charmers, charm they never so loudly. I have no such good luck.”

Thinking, doubtless, that trying to secure “his lordship’s” patronage under such circumstances, and with such opinions, involved the pursuit of musical subscriptions “under difficulties,” the importunate solicitor, with a succession of low bows, left the apartment; and as he left “the presence” he _thought_ he heard a low, chuckling laugh, but it didn’t affect _his_ risibles!

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What a life-like “picture in little” is this by HOOD of the “torrent of rugged humanity” that set toward an English poor-house, at sound of _The Work House Clock_! Remark, too, reader, the beautiful sentiment with which the extract closes:

“There’s a murmur in the air,
And noise in every street;
The murmur of many tongues,
The noise of many feet.
While round the work-house door
The laboring classes flock;
For why? the Overseer of the P——
Is setting the work-house clock.

“Who does not hear the tramp
Of thousands speeding along,
Of either sex, and various stamp
Sickly, crippled, and strong;
Walking, limping, creeping,
From court and alley and lane,
But all in one direction sweeping,
Like rivers that seek the main?

“Who does not see them sally
From mill, and garret, and room,
In lane, and court, and alley,
From homes in Poverty’s lowest valley
Furnished with shuttle and loom:
Poor slaves of Civilization’s galley—
And in the road and footways sally,
As if for the Day of Doom?
Some, of hardly human form,
Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil,
Dingy with smoke, and rust, and oil,
And smirched beside with vicious toil,
Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm,
Father, mother, and care-full child,
_Looking as if it had never smiled_;
The seamstress lean, and weary, and wan,
With only the _ghosts_ of garments on;
The weaver, her sallow neighbor,
The grim and sooty artisan;
Every soul—child, woman, or man,
Who lives—or dies—by labor!

“At last, before that door
That bears so many a knock,
Ere ever it opens to Sick or Poor,
Like sheep they huddle and flock—
And would that all the Good and Wise
Could see the million of hollow eyes,
With a gleam derived from Hope and the skies
Upturned to the Work-House Clock!

“Oh! that the Parish Powers,
Who regulate Labor’s hours,
The daily amount of human trial,
Weariness, pain, and self-denial,
Would turn from the artificial dial
That striketh ten or eleven,
And go, for once, by that older one
That stands in the light of Nature’s sun,
And takes its time from Heaven!”

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There is something very amusing to us in this passage, which we find copied upon a dingy slip of paper in the “Drawer,” descriptive of the “sweet uses” to which sugar is put in “Gaul’s gay capital:”

“Here is the whole animal creation in paste, and history and all the fine arts in _sucre d’orge_. You can buy an epigram in dough, and a pun in a soda-biscuit; a ‘Constitutional Charter,’ all in jumbles, and a ‘Revolution’ just out of the frying-pan. Or, if you love American history, here is a United States frigate, two inches long, and a big-bellied commodore bombarding Paris with ‘shin-plasters;’ and the French women and children stretching out their little arms, three-quarters of an inch long, toward Heaven, and supplicating the mercy of the victors, in molasses candy. You see also a General Jackson, with the head of a hickory-nut, with a purse, I believe, of ‘Carroway Comfits,’ and in a great hurry, pouring out the ‘twenty-five millions,’ a king, a queen, and a royal family, all of plaster of Paris. If you step into one of these stores, you will see a gentleman in mustaches, whom you will mistake for a nobleman, who will ask you to ‘give yourself the pain to sit down,’ and he will put you up a paper of bon-bons, and he will send it home for you, and he will accompany you to the door, and he will have ‘the honor to salute you’—all for four sous!”

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Few things are more amusing, to one who looks at the matter with attention, than the literary style of the Chinese. How inseparable it is, from the exalted opinions which “John Chinaman” holds of the “Celestial Flowery Land!” Every body, all nations, away from the Celestial Empire, are “Outside Barbarians.” And this feeling is not assumed; it is innate and real in the hearts of the Chinese, both rulers and ruled. A friend once showed us a map of China. China, by that map, _occupied all the world_, with the exception of two small spots on the very outer edge, which represented Great Britain and the United States! These “places” they had _heard_ of, in the way of trade for teas, silks, etc., with the empire.

We once heard a friend describe a Chinese “chop,” on government-order. He was an officer on board a United States vessel, then lying in the harbor at Hong-kong. A great commotion was observable among the crowds of boats upon the water, when presently a gayly-decorated junk was observed approaching the vessel. She arrived at the side, when a pompous little official, with the air of an emperor, attended by two or three mandarins, was received on deck. He looked the personification of Imperial Dignity. He carried a short truncheon in his right hand, like Richard the Third; and with his “tail” (his own, and his followers’) he strode toward the quarter-deck. Arrived there, he unrolled his truncheon, a small square sheet of white parchment, bearing a single red character, and held it up to the astonished gaze of the officers and crew! This was a “_Vermilion Edict_,” that terrible thing, so often fulminated by Commissioner Lin against the “Outside Barbarians;” and that single red character was, “_Go away!_” After the exhibition of which, it was impossible (of course!) to stay in the Chinese waters. Having shown this, the great Mandarin and his “tail” departed in solemn silence over the side of the ship. Of these “special edicts,” especially those touching the expulsion of the “smoking mud,” or opium, from the “Central Kingdom,” we may give the readers of the “Drawer” specimens in some subsequent number; there happening to be in that miscellaneous receptacle quite a collection of authentic Chinese State Papers, with translations, notes, and introductions, by a distinguished American savant, long a resident in the “Celestial Flowery Land.”

LITERARY NOTICES.

One of the most welcome reprints of the season is Harper and Brothers’ edition of the _Life and Works of Robert Burns_, edited by ROBERT CHAMBERS, in four handsome duodecimos. This is a tribute of exceeding value to the memory of the great Peasant Bard, disclosing many new facts in his history, and enhancing the interest of his writings by the admirable order of their arrangement. These are interwoven with the biography in chronological succession, and thus made to illustrate the poetical experience and mental development of Burns, while they receive a fresh and more striking significance from their connection with the circumstances and impressions that led to their production. The present editor was induced to undertake the grateful task of preparing the works of his gifted countryman for the press by his profound interest in the subject, and by his perceptions of the short-comings of previous laborers in the same field. Dr. Currie, who was the pioneer of subsequent biographical attempts, entered upon his task with too great deference to public opinion, which at that time visited the errors of Bums with excessive severity of retribution. Hence the caution and timidity which characterized his memoir, converting it into a feeble apology for its subject, instead of a frank and manly narration of his life. Lockhart’s biography of Burns is a spirited and graceful production, inspired with a genuine Scottish feeling, written in a tone of impartial kindness, and containing many just, and forcible criticisms. It is, however, disfigured with numerous inaccuracies, and brings forward few details to increase our previous knowledge of the subject. Nor can the genial labors of Allan Cunningham be regarded as making further biographical efforts superfluous.

Mr. Chambers has availed himself in this edition of ample materials for a life of the poet, including the reminiscences of his youngest sister, who was still living at the date of the composition of these volumes. Devoted to the memory of Burns with the enthusiasm of national pride, a zealous student of his glorious poetry, and a warm admirer of the originality and nobleness of his character, in spite of its glaring and painful defects, he has erected a beautiful and permanent monument to his fame, which will survive the recollections of his errors and infirmities. We think this edition must speedily take the place of all others now extant. The notes in illustration of the biography, are copious and valuable. No one can read the poems, in connection with the lucid memoir, without feeling a new glow of admiration for the immortal bard, “whose life was one long hardship, relieved by little besides an ungainful excitement—who during his singularly hapless career, did, on the whole, well maintain the grand battle of Will against Circumstances—who, strange to say, in the midst of his own poverty conferred an imperishable gift on mankind—an Undying Voice for their finest sympathies—stamping, at the same time, more deeply, the divine doctrine of the fundamental equality of consideration due to all men.”

A new edition of _The Corner Stone_, by JACOB ABBOTT, with large additions and improvements, is issued in a very neat and convenient volume by Harper and Brothers. The series of works devoted to practical religion, of which this volume is a part, have been received with such general favor by the Christian public, as to make quite unnecessary any elaborate comments on their merits. Their peculiar power consists in their freedom from speculative subtleties, their luminous exhibition of the essential evangelical doctrines, their spirit of fervent and elevated piety, their wise adaptation to the workings of the human heart, and their affluence, aptness, and beauty of illustration. Mr. Abbott is eminently a writer for the masses. His practical common sense never forsakes him. He is never enticed from his firm footing amidst substantial realities. The gay regions of cloud-land present no temptations to his well disciplined imagination. He must always be a favorite with the people; and his moral influence is as salutary as it is extensive.

Blanchard and Lea have issued a reprint of BROWNE’S _History of Classical Literature_. The present volume is devoted to the literature of Greece, and comprises an historical notice of her intellectual development, with a complete survey of the writers who have made her history immortal. Without any offensive parade of erudition, it betrays the signs of extensive research, accurate learning, and a polished taste. As a popular work on ancient literature, adapted no less to the general reader than to the profound student, it possesses an unmistakable merit, and will challenge a wide circulation in this country.

We have also from the same publishers a collection of original _Essays on Life, Sleep, Pain_, and other similar subjects, by SAMUEL H. DIXON, M.D. They present a variety of curious facts in the natural history of man, which are not only full of suggestion to the scientific student, but are adapted to popular comprehension, and form a pleasant and readable volume.

George P. Putnam has republished SIR FRANCIS HEAD’S lively volume entitled _A Faggot of French Sticks_, describing what he saw in Paris in 1851. The talkative baronet discourses in this work with his usual sparkling volubility. Superficial, shallow, good-natured; often commonplace though seldom tedious; brisk and effervescent as ginger-beer, it rattles cheerfully over the Paris pavements, and leaves quite a vivid impression of the gayeties and gravities of the French metropolis.

James Munroe and Co., Boston, have issued the third volume of _Shakspeare_, edited by Rev. H. N. HUDSON, whose racy introductions and notes are far superior to the common run of critical commentaries—acute, profound, imbued with the spirit of the Shakspearian age, and expressed in a style of quaint, though vigorous antiqueness.

The same publishers have issued a Poem, called the _Greek Girl_, by JAMES WRIGHT SIMMONS, thickly sprinkled with affectation on a ground-work of originality;—a charming story, by the author of the “Dream-Chintz,” entitled _The House on the Rock_;—and a reprint of _Companions of My Solitude_, one of the series of chaste, refined, and quiet meditative essays by the author of “Friends in Council.”

_Sorcery and Magic_ is the title of a collection of narratives by THOMAS WRIGHT, showing the influence which superstition once exercised on the history of the world. The work is compiled with good judgment from authentic sources, and without attempting to give any philosophical explanation of the marvelous facts which it describes, leaves them to the reflection and common sense of the reader. It is issued by Redfield in the elegant and tasteful style by which his recent publications may be identified.

_Ravenscliffe_, by Mrs. MARSH, and _The Head of the Family_, by the author of “Olive,” and “The Oglevies,” have attained a brilliant popularity among the leading English novels of the season, and will be welcome to the American public in Harper’s “Library of Select Novels,” in which they are just reprinted.

Miss MITFORD’S _Recollections of a Literary Life_ (republished by Harper and Brothers) will be found to possess peculiar interest for the American reader. In addition to a rich store of delightful personal reminiscences, genial and graceful criticisms on old English authors, as well as on contemporary celebrities, and copious selections from their choicest productions, Miss Mitford presents several agreeable sketches of American authors and other distinguished men, including Daniel Webster, Halleck, Hawthorne, Whittier, Wendell Holmes, and so forth. She shows a sincere love for this country, and a cordial appreciation of its institutions and its literature. The whole book is remarkable for its frank simplicity of narrative, its enthusiasm for good letters, its fine characterizations of eminent people, and its careless beauties of style. A more truly delightful volume has not been on our table for many a day.

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Mr. T. HUDSON TURNER, one of the ablest of British archæologists, and a contributor to the _Athenæum,_ died of consumption, on the 14th of January, at the age of thirty-seven.

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The _Westminster Review_ has been excluded from the Select Subscription Library of Edinburgh, on the special ground of its heresy!

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Among the new works in the press the following are announced by Mr. Bentley: “History of the American Revolution,” by GEORGE BANCROFT; the “Memoirs of the Marquis of Rockingham,” by the Earl of ALBEMARLE; “Letters of Gray the Poet,” edited from original MSS., with Notes by the Rev. J. MITFORD; “Memoirs of the Court of George III.,” by J. HENEAGE JESSE; “Memoirs of Sarah Margaret Fuller, the Marchioness of Ossola,” edited by R. W. Emerson and W. H. CHANNING; “History of the Governors-General of India,” by Mr. KAYE, author of “The History of the Affghan War,” and various other works of general interest.

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JULES BENEDICT, the companion of the Swedish Nightingale in America, has entered into an arrangement with a London publisher to issue his complete account of Jenny Lind’s tour in America.

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It is said that Mr. MACAULAY has delayed the publication of the third and fourth volumes of his _History of England_ in consequence of his having obtained some new information relating to King William the Third. King William, it is asserted, figures as the chief personage in the narrative—and the greatest stress is laid on his conduct subsequently to the Revolution.

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ROBERT BROWNING, in his Italian sojourn, has been interesting himself biographically in PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY; and the result of this inquiry we are to have shortly in some unpublished letters of SHELLEY’S, with a preface by BROWNING himself.

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MR. W. CRAMP is preparing a critical analysis of the _Private Letters_ of Junius to Woodfall, to be added to his new edition of Junius. The private correspondence with Woodfall is a field of inquiry that hitherto has not been sufficiently explored. Mr. Cramp is pursuing his investigation on the plan of the essays on the letters of “Atticus Lucius,” and those in defense of the Duke of Portland. This inquiry promises to reveal many additional facts in proof of Mr. Cramp’s hypothesis that Lord Chesterfield was Junius.

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Major CUNNINGHAM has completed his work on _The Bhilsa Topes, or Budhist Monuments of Central India_—and the Governor General of India has sent the manuscript home to the Court of Directors, strongly recommending the court to publish it at their own expense.

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DR. WILLIAM FREUND, the philologist, is engaged in constructing a German-English and English-German Dictionary on his new system. He hopes to complete the work in the course of next year.

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The first volume has appeared of a collected edition of the _Poetical and Dramatic Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton_, containing “The New Timon,” “Constance,” “Milton,” “The Narrative Lyrics,” and other pieces. Of the poems in this volume public opinion has already expressed its estimate, and it is sufficient for us to notice their republication in convenient and elegant form. In a note to the passage in “The New Timon” referring to the late Sir Robert Peel, the author says “he will find another occasion to attempt, so far as his opinions on the one hand, and his reverence on the other, will permit—to convey a juster idea of Sir Robert Peel’s defects or merits, perhaps as a statesman, at least as an orator.” Very singular are the lines in the poem, written before the fatal accident:

“Now on his humble, but his faithful steed,
Sir Robert rides—he never rides at speed—
Careful his seat, and circumspect his gaze,
And still the cautious trot the cautious mind betrays.
Wise is thy head! how stout soe’er his back,
Thy weight has oft proved fatal to thy hack!”

The generous and graceful turn given to this in the foot-note, is such as one might expect from Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. In another series we have the second part of _Ernest Maltravers_, or, as the other title bears, _Alice, or The Mysteries_. In this work of allegorical fiction, with the author’s usual power and felicity of narrative, there is mingled a philosophical purpose; and in a new preface Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton ascribes to it, above all his other works, “such merit as may be thought to belong to harmony between a premeditated conception, and the various incidents and agencies employed in the development of plot.” “Ernest Maltravers,” the type of Genius or intellectual ambition, is after long and erring alienation happily united to “Alice,” the type of Nature, nature now elevated and idealized.

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A new novel, by the gifted author of “Olive,” and the “Ogilvies,” entitled “The Head of the Family,” is spoken of in terms of warm admiration by the London press. The _Weekly News_ remarks, “The charm of idyllic simplicity will be found in every page of the book, imparting an interest to it which rises very far above the ordinary feeling evoked by novel reading. So much truthfulness, so much force, combined with so much delicacy of characterization, we have rarely met with; and on these grounds alone, irrespective of literary merit, we are inclined to credit the work with a lasting popularity.”

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The same journal has a highly favorable notice of LOSSING’S _Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution_, from which we take the following passage: “In reviewing the recent volumes of Lord Mahon’s History that treat of the American war, we expressed an opinion that the subject was one to which no American writer had done justice. The work now before us appears (so far as we may judge from its first moiety), to be the best contribution that any citizen of the United States has yet made to a correct knowledge of the circumstances of their war of independence. It is not a regular history; and the blank in transatlantic literature, to which we have referred, remains yet to be supplied. But Mr. Lossing has given us a volume full of valuable information respecting the great scenes and the leading men of the war. And the profuseness with which he has illustrated his narrative with military plans, with portraits of statesmen and commanders, and with sketches of celebrated localities, gives great interest and value to these pages.”

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With all its stubborn John Bullism, the London _Athenæum_ is compelled to pay a flattering tribute to the literary merits of our distinguished countryman, NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE: “Among the sterling pleasures which, though few, make rich amends for the many grievances and misconstructions that await honest critics, there is none so great as the discovery and support of distant and unknown genius. Such pleasure the _Athenæum_ may fairly claim in the case of Mr. Hawthorne. Like all men so richly and specially gifted, he has at last found his public—he is at last looked to, and listened for: but it is fifteen years since we began to follow him in the American periodicals, and to give him credit for the power and the originality which have since borne such ripe fruit in ’The Scarlet Letter’ and ’The House of the Seven Gables.’ Little less agreeable is it to see that acceptance, after long years of waiting, seems not to have soured the temper of the writer—not to have encouraged him into conceit—not to have discouraged him into slovenliness. Like a real artist Mr. Hawthorne gives out no slightly planned nor carelessly finished literary handiwork.”

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