Chapter IX (3)

To illustrate the view we have endeavored to present, let us select some particular date--say the 5th day of March, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy. What was the history of our own country for that day? What the masses were doing would be the answer which some of the new school would promptly make. But even could this be ascertained it would not be history. On that day the three millions of our land were engaged in the various avocations connected with their ordinary life and ordinary interests. On that day, too, there was a particular, and, perhaps, ascertainable state of agriculture, of the mechanic arts, of education, &c., such as might furnish the ground of a most valuable statistical essay. There were also, doubtless, thousands of striking incidents every where transpiring. But none of these constituted the then history of our country. This was all taking place in one narrow street of one single city, away off in one remote corner of our land. A quarrel had arisen between a few foreign soldiers and a collection of exasperated citizens, in the course of which some few of the latter were slain. In this event was centred, for the time, the whole history of the English colonies in North America, and of what afterward became the great American nation. Among all the acts and states, and influences of that day, this alone was history, because it alone, whether right or not, entered into the universal national memory. It was _thought_ by all, _felt_ by all, and therefore became, for the time in which it was so thought and felt, the one common history of all. Again--on the 19th day of April, 1775, the one fact which afterward formed the common thought and the common memory, was the battle of Lexington. On the 4th of July, 1776, it was the Declaration of American Independence. On the 23d day of September, 1780, there might have been seen, in a secluded valley of the Hudson, three rustic militia men busily examining the dress of a British officer. One of them is in the act of taking a piece of paper from the prisoner's boot. This, in a most emphatic sense, was American history for that day; may we not say the history of Europe also, and of the world. And so in other departments. A single man is standing before a company of statesmen and ecclesiastics. It is Luther before the Diet of Worms. This is the one common thought which represents that momentous period in the records of the Church. The subject tempts us with further illustrations, but we call to mind that our Drawer and Easy Chair are waiting impatiently for the delivery of their contents. It is time, therefore, to exchange the prosings of the Editor's Table for their more varied, and, as we trust the reader will judge, more attractive materials.

Editor's Easy Chair.

Our _now_, when we write, stands morally as far off from what will be _now_ to our readers, when this sheet comes before them, as though the interval measured half the circumference of the Ecliptic, instead of being bounded between these dull March days and the bright April morning, when our Magazine will be lying by many an open window from Maine to Georgia. Our Easy Chair chit-chat must take its coloring from our _now_, and not from that of our readers.

* * * * *

The town has just woke up from its wintry carnival of sleighs and bells, and wears much the aspect of a reveler who is paying the penalty for too free over-night potations. Broadway no longer flows along like a stream of molten silver, but resembles nothing so much as the mud-river of Styx--"darker far than perse" of the great Florentine; and instead of the fairy-like sleighs of the month gone by, is traversed only by the lumbering omnibuses, scattering far and wide the inky fluid. To cross the street dry-shod is not to be thought of, save at one or two points where philanthropic tradesmen, mindful of the public good--and their own--have subsidized a troop of sweepers to clear a passage in front of their doors. We accept the favor with all gratitude, and do not inquire too closely into the stories of silver goblets, presented by grateful ladies to these public benefactors. Under such circumstances all lighter matters of gossip are things of the past--and of the future, let us hope.

* * * * *

Into the current of graver talk several pebbles have been thrown, which have rippled its surface into circlets wider than usual. The meeting in commemoration of COOPER was a worthy tribute to the memory of one who has shed honor upon his country by adding new forms of beauty to the intellectual wealth of the world. It was singularly graceful and appropriate that the funeral discourse of the greatest American Novelist, should have been pronounced by the greatest American Poet--and should we say the greatest living poet who speaks the tongue of Milton and Shakspeare, who would dare to place another name in competition for the honor with that of BRYANT?

* * * * *

Public "Lectures," or the "Lyceum," as one of the lecturing notabilities not very felicitously denominates the institution, had begun to assume a somewhat mythical character in the estimation of townsmen, as relics of ages long gone by, of which man's memory--the Metropolitan man's, that is--takes no note. We have indeed had rumors from the "Athens of America," and other far-away places, that Lectures had not fallen into utter desuetude; but we were, on the whole, inclined to put little faith in the reports. During the last few weeks, however, the matter has again forced its way into the town talk. The "Tabernacle" weekly opens its ponderous jaws, for the delivery of the "People's Lectures," where, for the not very alarming sum of one shilling--with a deduction in cases where a gentleman is accompanied by more ladies than one--a person may listen for an hour to the mystic elocution and seer-like deliverances of EMERSON, or may hear KANE depict the dreamy remembrances of those Hyperborean regions where sunrise and sunset are by no means those every-day occurrences that they are in more equatorial regions. To us, as we sit in our Easy Chair, it seems as though this system of cheap popular public lectures were capable of almost indefinite expansion. Why should not SILLIMAN or GUYOT address three thousand instead of three hundred hearers? Why should they not unswathe the world from its swaddling-clothes before an audience which would fill our largest halls? Why should not ORVILLE DEWEY discourse on the great problems of Human Destiny and Progress before an assemblage which should people the cavernous depths of the "Tabernacle," as well as before the audience, relatively small, though doubtless fit, assembled before the frescoes of the Church of the Messiah? We throw these suggestions out lightly, by way of hint; a graver consideration of them would belong rather to our Table than to our Easy Chair discourses.

* * * * *

As a sort of pendant to the nine-days' talk of the Forrest divorce case, we notice the unanimous verdict of approval which has been accorded to the exemplary damages awarded in the case of a savage and cowardly assault committed by one of the principals in that scandalous affair. Though no pecuniary award can make reparation to the person who has suffered the infliction of brutal personal outrage, yet as long as there are ruffians whose only susceptible point is the pocket-nerve, we are glad to see the actual cautery applied to that sensitive point.

* * * * *

If things continue much longer in their present downward course, it will be necessary for any man who hopes to gain acceptance in respectable society to have it distinctly noted on his cards and letters of introduction, that he is not a Member of either House of Congress. The last month has been signalized at Washington by several exhibitions of Congressional scurrility, which in no other city in the Union would have been tolerated beyond the limits of the lowest dens of infamy. In one of these affairs, the summit of impudence was crowned by one of the interlocutors, who, after giving and receiving the most abusive epithets, excused himself from having recourse to the duello, that _ultima ratio_--of fools--on the plea that he was a member of a Christian church; which plea was magnanimously accepted by his no less chivalrous compeer in abuse. It would be no easy task to decide which was the most disreputable, the "satisfaction" evaded, or the means of its evasion.

* * * * *

This is not the place to discuss the stringent "Maine Liquor Law," which is proposed for adoption in the Empire State; but we can not avoid chronicling the almost sublime assumption of one of its opponents, who challenged its advocates to name any man of lofty genius who was not a "toddy-drinker." As this side of the measure seems sadly in want of both speakers and arguments, we consider ourselves entitled to the gratitude of the opponents of the law, for insinuating to them that the defense of punch by Fielding's hero, that it was "a good wholesome liquor, nowhere spoken against in Scripture," is capable of almost indefinite extension and application.

* * * * *

A somewhat characteristic reminiscence of JOHN NEWLAND MAFFITT has been lying for a long while in our mind; and we can not do better than accord to it the honors of paper and ink. It happened years ago, when that eccentric preacher was in the height of his reputation; when he was, or at least thought he was in earnest; before the balance of his mind had been destroyed by adulation, conceit, vanity, and something worse.

During these days, in one of his journeyings, he came to a place on the Mississippi--perhaps its name was not _Woodville_, but that shall be its designation for the occasion. Now, Woodville was the most notoriously corrupt place on the whole river; it was the sink into which all the filth of the surrounding country was poured; it was shunned like a pest-house, and abandoned to thieves, gamblers, desperadoes, and robbers.

Maffitt determined to labor in this uninviting field. He commenced preaching, and soon gathered an audience; for preaching was something new there; and besides, Maffitt's silvery tones and strange flashes of eloquence would at that time attract an audience any where. Those who knew the man only in his later years know nothing of him.

Day after day he preached, but all to no purpose. He portrayed the bliss of heaven--its purity and peace--in his most rapt and glowing manner. It was the last place which could have any charms for his Woodville audience.

He portrayed the strife and turmoil of the world of woe. Apart from its physical torments--and they felt a sort of wild pride in defying these--they rather liked the picture. At all events, it was much more to their taste than was his description of heaven.

So it went on, day after day. Not a sigh of penitence; not a wet eye; not a single occupant of the anxious seat. His labors were fruitless.

Finally, he determined upon a change of tactics. He spoke of the decay of Woodville; how it was falling behind every other town on the river--"Oh!" said he, "might but the Angel of Mercy be sent forth from before the Great White Throne, commissioned to proclaim to all the region round that there was a revival in Woodville, and what a change there would be! The people would flock here from every quarter; the hum of business would be heard in your streets; the steamers, whose bright wheels now go flashing past your wharf, would stay in their fleet career; these dense forests, which now lour around, would be hewn down and piled up for food for these vast leviathans; and thus a golden tide would pour in upon you; and Woodville would become the wealthiest, the most beautiful, and the happiest place on the banks of the great Father of Waters!"

A chord had been touched in the hitherto insensible hearts of the Woodvillers. Thought, emotion, feeling, were aroused; and soon the strange electric sympathy of mind with mind was excited. The emotion spread and increased; the anxious seats were thronged; and a powerful, and to all appearance genuine revival of religion ensued. The character of Woodville was entirely changed; and from that time it has continued to be one of the most moral, quiet, thriving, and prosperous of all the minor towns upon the Mississippi.

* * * * *

Turning our eye Paris-ward, our first emotion is one of sorrow--for their sakes and our own--at the present sad fate of our French brethren of the quill. The bayonet has pitted itself against the pen, and has come off victor--for the time being. The most immediate sufferers are doubtless political writers, who must stretch their lucubrations upon the Procrustean bed furnished by the Prince-President. But the sparkling _feuilletonists_ who blow up such brilliant bubbles of romance from the prosaic soap-and-water of every-day life, can not escape. How can Fancy have free play when the Fate-like shears of the _Censure_ or the mace of the new press-law are suspended over its head? Besides, the lynx-eye of despotism may detect a covert political allusion in the most finely-wrought romance of domestic life. The delicate touches by which the _feuilletonist_ sought to depict the fate of the deserted girl whose body was fished up from the Seine, may be thought to bear too strongly upon the fate of poor LIBERTÉ, betrayed and deserted by her quondam adorer, the Nephew of his Uncle; in which case, the writer would find himself forced to repent of his pathos behind the gratings of a cell, while his publisher's pocket would suffer the forfeiture of the 'caution-money.' Parisian gossip can not, under such circumstances, furnish us any thing very lively, but must content itself with chronicling the brilliant but tiresome receptions of the Elysée.

An occasional claw is however protruded through the velvet paws upon which French society creeps along so daintily in these critical days, showing that the propensity to scratch is not extinct, though for the present, as far as the President and his doings are concerned, "I dare not waits upon I would" in the cat-like Parisian salon life.

* * * * *

The subject of gossip most thoroughly French in its character, which has of late days passed current, is one of which the final scene was Genoa, and the prominent actor unfortunately an American. We touch upon the leading points of this as they pass current from lip to lip.

Our readers have no great cause of regret if they have never before heard of, or have entirely forgotten, a certain so-called "Chevalier" WYKOFF, who, a few years since, gained an unenviable notoriety, in certain circles in this country, as the personal attendant of the famous _danseuse_, FANNY ELSSLER. Since that time the Chevalier has occasionally shown his head above water in connection with Politics, Literature, Fashion, and Frolic.

In due course of years the Chevalier grew older if not wiser, and became anxious to assume the responsibilities of a wife--provided that she was possessed of a fortune. It chanced that, about these times, a lady whom he had known for many years, without having experienced any touches of the tender passion, was left an orphan with a large fortune. The sympathizing Chevalier was prompt with his condolences at her irreparable loss, and soon established himself in the character of confidential friend.

The lady decides to visit the Continent to recruit her shattered health. The Chevalier--sympathizing friend that he is--is at once convinced that there is for him no place like the Continent.

Having watched the pear till he supposed it fully ripe, the ex-squire to the _danseuse_ proposed to shake the tree. One evening he announced that he must depart on the morrow, and handed the lady a formidable document, which he requested her to read, and to advise him in respect to its contents.

The document proved to be a letter to another lady, a friend of both parties, announcing a deliberate intention of offering his fine person, though somewhat the worse for wear, to the lady who was reading the letter addressed to her friend. This proposal in the third person met with little favor, and the Chevalier received a decided negative in the second person.

The Chevalier, however, saw too many solid charms in the object of his passion to yield the point so easily. The lady returns to London, and lo! there is the Chevalier. She flees to Paris, and thither he hies. She hurries to Switzerland, and one morning as she looks out of the Hospice of St. Bernard, she is greeted with the Chevalier's most finished bow of recognition. She walks by the Lake of Geneva, and her shadow floats upon its waters by the side of that of her indefatigable adorer. He watches his opportunity and seizes her hand, muttering low words of love and adoration; and as a company of pleasure-seekers to whom they are known approaches, he raises his voice so as to be heard, and declares that he will not release the hand until he receives a promise of its future ownership. Bewildered and confused, the lady whispers a "Yes," and is for the moment set at liberty. No sooner is she fairly rid of him than she retracts her promise, and forbids her adorer the house.

She again flies to the Continent to avoid him. He follows upon her track, bribes couriers and servants all along her route, and finally manages at Genoa to get her into a house which he declares to be full of his dependents. He locks the door, and declares that marry him she must and shall. She refuses, and makes an outcry. He seizes her and tries to _soothe_ her with chloroform. Once more she is frightened into a consent.

But the Chevalier is now determined to make assurance doubly sure; and demands a written agreement to marry him, under penalty of the forfeiture of half her fortune, in case of refusal. To this the lady consents: and the ardent admirer leaves the room to order a carriage to convey her to her hotel. She seizes the opportunity to make her escape.

On the day following, the adventurous Chevalier involuntarily makes the acquaintance of the Intendant of Police, and finds that his "bold stroke for a wife" is like to entail upon him certain disagreeable consequences in the shape of abundant opportunity for reflection, while a compulsory guest of the public authorities of Genoa.

Ought not the Chevalier WYKOFF to have been a Frenchman?

Editor's Drawer.

The following anecdote of a legal gentleman of Missouri, was compiled many years ago from a newspaper of that State. There is a racy freshness about it that is quite delightful:

Being once opposed to Mr. S----, then lately a member of Congress, he remarked as follows to the jury, upon some point of disagreement between them:

"Here my brother S---- and I differ materially. Now this, after all, is very natural. Men seldom see things in the same light; and they may disagree in opinion upon the simplest principles of the law, and that very honestly; while, at the same time, neither, perhaps, can perceive any earthly reason why they should. And this is merely because they look at different sides of the subject, and do not view it in all its bearings.

"Now, let us suppose, for the sake of illustration, that a man should come into this court-room, and boldly assert that my brother S----'s head" (here he laid his hand very familiarly upon the large "chuckle-head" of his opponent) "is _a squash_! I, on the other hand, should maintain, and perhaps with equal confidence, that it was _a head_. Now, here would be difference--doubtless an honest difference--of opinion. We might argue about it till doom's-day, and never agree. You often see men arguing upon subjects just as _empty_ and trifling as this! But a third person coming in, and looking at the neck and shoulders that support it, would say at once that I had reason on my side; for if it was _not_ a head, it at least occupied the _place_ of one: it stood where a head _ought_ to be!"

All this was uttered in the gravest and most solemn manner imaginable, and the effect was irresistibly ludicrous.

* * * * *

Washington Irving, in one of his admirable sketches of Dutch character, describes an old worthy, with a long eel-skin queue, a sort of covering that was "a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair." This was in "other times;" and here is a "Tail" of that remote period:

"A Tale I'll tell of "other times,"
Because I'm in the mind:
You may have seen the tale before,
I've seen it oft behind.

"There's no detraction in this tale,
Nor any vile attack,
Or slander when 'tis told, although
It goes behind one's back.

"Impartial auditors it had,
Who ne'er began to rail,
Because there always was an ear
For both sides of the tale.

"But oh, alas! I have forgot,
I am not in the queue;
The tale has just dropped from my head.
As it was wont to do!"

* * * * *

A clergyman in one of our New England villages once preached a sermon, which one of his auditors commended.

"Yes," said a gentleman to whom it was mentioned, "it _was_ a good sermon, but he _stole_ it!"

This was told to the preacher. He resented it, at once, and called upon his parishioner to retract what he had said.

"I am not," replied the aggressor, "very apt to retract any thing I may have said, for I usually weigh my words before I speak them. But in this instance I will retract. I said you had stolen the sermon. I find, however, that I was wrong; for on returning home, and referring to the book whence I thought it had been taken, I found it there, word for word!"

The angry clergyman "left the presence," with an apparent consciousness that he had made very little by his "motion."

* * * * *

We gave in a late "Drawer" some rather frightful statistics concerning snuff-takers and tobacco-chewers: we have now "the honor to present" some curious characteristics of the kinds of _materiel_ which have regaled the nostrils of so many persons who were "up to snuff."

Lundy Foot, the celebrated snuff-manufacturer, originally kept a small tobacconist's shop at Limerick, Ireland. One night his house, which was uninsured, was burnt to the ground. As he contemplated the smoking ruins on the following morning, in a state bordering on despair, some of the poor neighbors, groping among the embers for what they could find, stumbled upon several canisters of unconsumed but half-baked snuff, which they tried, and found so grateful to their noses, that they loaded their waistcoat pockets with the spoil.

Lundy Foot, roused from his stupor, at length imitated their example, and took a pinch of his own property, when he was instantly struck by the superior pungency and flavor it had acquired from the great heat to which it had been exposed. Treasuring up this valuable hint, he took another house in a place called "Black-Yard," and, preparing a large oven for the purpose, set diligently about the manufacture of that high-dried commodity, which soon became widely known as "Black-Yard Snuff;" a term subsequently corrupted into the more familiar word, "Blackguard."

Lundy Foot, making his customers pay liberally through the nose for one of the most "distinguished" kinds of snuffs in the world, soon raised the price of his production, took a larger house in the city of Dublin, and was often heard to say,

"I made a very handsome fortune by being, as I supposed, utterly ruined!"

* * * * *

Somebody has described Laughter as "a faculty bestowed exclusively upon man," and one which there is, therefore, a sort of impiety in not exercising as frequently as we can. One may say, with Titus, that we have "lost a day," if it shall have passed without laughing, "An inch of laugh is worth an ell of moan in any state of the market," says one of the old English "Fathers." Pilgrims at the shrine of Mecca consider laughter so essential a part of their devotion that they call upon their prophet to preserve them from sad faces.

"Ah!" cried Rabelais, with an honest pride, as his friends were weeping around his sick bed; "if I were to die ten times over, I should never make you cry half so much as I have made you laugh!"

After all, if laughter be genuine, and consequently a means of innocent enjoyment, _can_ it be inept?

* * * * *

Taylor, an English author, relates in his "Records," that having restored to sight a boy who had been born blind, the lad was perpetually amusing himself with a hand-glass, calling his own reflection his "little man," and inquiring why he could make it do every thing he did, _except to shut its eyes_. A French lover, making a present of a mirror to his mistress, sent with it the following lines:

"This mirror _my_ object of love will unfold,
Whensoe'er your regard it allures;
Oh, would, when I'm gazing, that might behold
On its surface the object of _yours_!"

This is very delicate and pretty; but the following old epigram, on the same subject, is in even a much finer strain:

"When I revolve this evanescent state,
How fleeting is its form, how short its date;
My being and my stay dependent still
Not on my own, but on another's will:
I ask myself, as I my image view,
Which is the real shadow of the two?"

* * * * *

It is a little singular, but it is true, that scarcely any native writer has succeeded better in giving what is termed the true "Yankee dialect," than a foreigner, an Englishman, Judge Haliburton, of Nova Scotia, "Sam Slick." Hear him describe a pretty, heartless bar-maid, whom he met at the "Liner's Hotel, in Liverpool:"

"What a tall, well-made, handsome piece of furniture she is, ain't she, though? Look at her hair--ain't it neat? And her clothes fit so well, and her cap is so white, and her complexion so clear, and she looks so good-natured, and smiles so sweet, it does one good to look at her. She's a whole team and a horse to spare, that's a fact. I go and call for three or four more glasses than I want, every day, just for the sake of talking to her. She always says,

"'What will you be pleased to have, sir!'

"'Something,' says I, 'that I can't have,' looking at her pretty mouth--about the wickedest.

"Well, she laughs, for she knows well enough what I mean; and she says,

"'Pr'aps you'll have a glass of bitters, sir,' and off she goes to get it.

"Well, this goes on three or four times a day; every time the identical same tune, only with variations. It wasn't a great while afore I was there agin.

"'What will you be pleased to have, sir?' said she agin, laughin'.

"'Something I can't git,' says I, a-laughin' too, and lettin' off sparks from my eyes like a blacksmith's chimney.

"'You can't tell that till you try,' says she; 'but you can have your bitters at any rate;' and she goes agin and draws a glass, and gives it to me.

"Now she's seen _you_ before, and knows you very well. Just you go to her and see how nicely she'll curtshy, how pretty she'll smile, and how lady-like she'll say,

"'How do you do, sir? I hope you are quite well, sir? Have you just arrived? Here, chamber-maid, show this gentleman up to Number Two Hundred. Sorry, sir, we are so full, but to-morrow we will move you into a better room. Thomas, take up this gentleman's luggage.' And then she'd curtshy agin, and smile so handsome!

"Don't that look well, now? Do you want any thing better than that? If you do, you are hard to please, that's all. But stop a little: don't be in such an almighty, everlastin' hurry. Think afore you speak. Go there, agin, see her a-smilin' once more, and look clust. It's only skin-deep; just on the surface, like a cat's-paw on the water; it's nothin' but a rimple like, and no more. Then look cluster still, and you'll discarn the color of it. You laugh at the 'color' of a smile, but do you _watch_, and you'll _see_ it.

"Look, _now_; don't you see the color of the shilling there? It's white, and cold, and silvery: _it's a boughten smile_, and a boughten smile, like an artificial flower, hain't got no sweetness into it. It's like whipt cream; open your mouth wide; take it all in, and shut your lips down tight, and it ain't nothin'. It's only a mouthful of moonshine, a'ter all."

Sam goes on to say that a smile can easily be counterfeited; but that the eye, rightly regarded, can not deceive.

"Square, the first railroad that was ever made, was made by Natur. It runs strait from the heart to the eye, and it goes so almighty fast it can't be compared to nothin' but 'iled lightning. The moment the heart opens its doors, out jumps an emotion, whips into the car, and offs, like wink, to the eye. That's the station-house and terminus for the passengers, and every passenger carries a lantern in his hand, as bright as an argand lamp; you can see him ever so far off.

"Look to _the eye_, Square: if there ain't no lamp there, no soul leaves the heart that hitch: there ain't no train runnin', and the station-house is empty. Smiles can be put on and off, like a wig; sweet expressions come and go like lights and shades in natur; the hands will squeeze like a fox-trap; the body bends most graceful; the ear will be most attentive; the manner will flatter, so you're enchanted; and the tongue will lie like the devil: _but the eye never_.

"But, Square, there's all sorts of eyes. There's an onmeanin' eye, and a cold eye; a true eye and a false eye; a sly eye, a kickin' eye, a passionate eye, a revengeful eye, a man[oe]uvring eye, a joyous eye, and a sad eye; a squintin' eye, and the evil-eye; and more'n all, the dear little lovin' eye. They must all be studied to be larnt; but the two important ones to be known are the true eye and the false eye."

An American writer, somewhat more distinguished as a philosopher and psychologist than Mr. Slick, contends that the "practiced eye" may often deceive the most acute observer, but that there is something in the play of the lines about the mouth, the shades of emotion developed by the least change in the expression of the lips, that defies the strictest self-control. We leave both theories with the reader.

* * * * *

That was a pleasant story, told of an English wit, of very pleasant memory, who was no mean proficient in "turning the tables" upon an opponent, when he found himself losing. On one occasion he was rapidly losing ground in a literary discussion, when the opposite party exclaimed:

"My good friend, you are not such a rare scholar as you imagine; you are only an _every-day_ man."

"Well, and you are a _week_ one," replied the other; who instantly jumped upon the back of a horse-laugh, and rode victoriously over his prostrate conqueror.

* * * * *

We know not the author of the following lines, nor how, or at what time, they came to find a place in the "Drawer;" but there is no reader who will not pronounce them very touching and beautiful:

I am not old--I can not be old,
Though three-score years and ten
Have wasted away like a tale that is told,
The lives of other men

I am not old--though friends and foes
Alike have gone to their graves;
And left me alone to my joys or my woes,
As a rock in the midst of the waves

I am not old--I can not be old,
Though tottering, wrinkled, and gray;
Though my eyes are dim, and my marrow is cold,
Call me not old to-day!

For early memories round me throng,
Of times, and manners, and men;
As I look behind on my journey so long,
Of three-score miles and ten.

I look behind and am once more young,
Buoyant, and brave, and bold;
And _my heart_ can sing, as of yore it sung,
Before they called me old.

I do not see her--the old wife there--
Shriveled, and haggard, and gray;
But I look on her blooming, soft, and fair,
As she was on her wedding-day.

I do not see you, daughters and sons,
In the likeness of women and men;
But I kiss you now as I kissed you once
My fond little children then.

And as my own grandson rides on my knee,
Or plays with his hoop or kite,
I can well recollect I was merry as he,
The bright-eyed little wight!

'Tis not long since--it can not be long,
My years so soon were spent,
Since I was a boy, both straight and strong.
But now I am feeble and bent.

A dream, a dream--it is all a dream!
A strange, sad dream, good sooth;
For old as I am, and old as I seem,
My heart is full of youth.

Eye hath not seen, tongue hath not told,
And ear hath not heard it sung,
How buoyant and bold, tho' it seem to grow old,
Is the heart forever young!

Forever young--though life's old age,
Hath every nerve unstrung;
The heart, _the heart_ is a heritage,
That keeps the old man young!

* * * * *

That is a good story told of an empty coxcomb, who, after having engrossed the attention of the company for some time with himself and his petty ailments, observed to the celebrated caustic Dr. Parr, that he could never go out without catching cold in his head.

"No wonder," said the doctor, rather pettishly; "you always go out without any thing in it!"

We have heard somewhere of another of the same stamp, who imagined himself to be a poet, and who said to "Nat. Lee," whose insane verse was much in vogue at the time:

"It is not easy to write like a madman, as you do."

"No," was the reply; "but it is very easy to write like _a fool_, as _you_ do!"

There was some "method" in the "madness" that dictated that cutting rejoinder, at any rate.

* * * * *

"I was once a sea-faring man," said an old New York ship-master one day, to a friend in "The Swamp," "and my first voyage was to the East Indies. To keep me from mischief, the mate used to set me picking oakum, or ripping up an old sail for 'parceling,' as it was called. While engaged one day at this last employment, it occurred to me that a small piece of the sail would answer an admirable purpose in mending my duck over-trowsers, as they were beginning to be rather tender in certain places, owing, perhaps, to my sitting down so much. I soon appropriated a small piece, but was detected by the mate while 'stowing it away.'

"He took it from me, and while he was lecturing me, the captain, a noble fellow, with a human heart in his bosom, came on deck, when the whole matter was laid before him.

"'A----,' said he, 'always _ask_ for what you want; if it is _denied_ to you, then steal it, if you think proper.'

"I remembered his advice; and in a short time afterward had another piece of canvas snugly 'stowed away.' I carried it forward, and gave it to my 'chummy,' an old 'salt,' who had the charge of my wardrobe (which consisted of six pairs of duck-trowsers, the same number of red-flannel shirts, a Scotch woolen cap, and a fine-tooth comb), and performed my mending.

"The next day I went on deck with a clean pair of trowsers on, neatly patched. As I was going forward the captain hailed me:

"'You took that piece of canvas, sir!'

"'Yes, captain,' I replied, 'I _did_. You yourself told me to ask, and if I was refused, to do the _other_ thing. I was refused, and _did_ do the 'other thing.''

"'Well,' rejoined the captain, 'I have no great objection to your having the canvas, but let me tell you that you will never make a sailor if you carry your flying-jib over the stern!'

"My 'chummy,' sewing from the inside, had 'seated' my trowsers with a piece of canvas marked 'F. JIB!"'

* * * * *

There used to be quite popular, many years ago, a species of letter-writing in poetry, in accomplishing which much ingenuity was tasked and much labor expended. The ensuing lines are a good example of this kind of composition by comic writers who have not sufficiently advanced in joking to get "out of their _letters_." The lines were addressed to Miss Emma Vee, who had a pet jay, of which she was very fond:

"Your jay is fond, which well I know,
He does S A to prove;
And he can talk, I grant, but O!
He can not talk of love.

"Believe me, M A, when I say,
I dote to that X S,
I N V even that pet J,
Which U sometimes caress.

"Though many other girls I know,
And they are fair, I C,
Yet U X L them all, and so
I love but M A V.

"M A, my love can ne'er D K,
Except when I shall die;
And if your heart _must_ say me nay,
Just write and tell me Y!"

* * * * *

The following "_Welsh Card of Invitation_" is a very amusing example of the avoidance of pronouns:

"Mr. Walter Morton, and Mrs. Walter Morton, and Miss Sandys's compliments to Mr. Charles Morgan, Mrs. Charles Morgan, Miss Charles Morgan, and the Governess (whose name Mr. Walter Morton, Mrs. Walter Morton, and Miss Sandys do not recollect), and Mr. Walter Morton, Mrs. Walter Morton, and Miss Sandys request the favor of the company of Mr. Charles Morgan, Mrs. Charles Morgan, Miss Charles Morgan, and the Governess (whose name Mr. Walter Morton, Mrs. Walter Morton, and Miss Sandys do not recollect), to dinner on Monday next.

"_Mr. Walter Morton_, _Mrs. Walter Morton_, and Miss Sandys, beg to inform Mr. Charles Morgan, Mrs. Charles Morgan, Miss Charles Morgan, and the Governess (whose name Mr. Walter Morton, Mrs. Walter Morton, and Miss Sandys do not recollect), that Mr. Walter Morton, Mrs. Walter Morton, and Miss Sandys can accommodate Mr. Charles Morgan, Mrs. Charles Morgan, Miss Charles Morgan, and the Governess (whose name Mr. Walter Morton, Mrs. Walter Morton, and Miss Sandys do not recollect), with beds, if remaining through the night is agreeable to Mr. Charles Morgan, Mrs. Charles Morgan, Miss Charles Morgan, and the Governess (whose name Mr. Walter Morton, Mrs. Walter Morton, and Miss Sandys do not recollect!)"

This is an exact copy of an authentic note of invitation to a dinner-party. In point of roundaboutativeness, it is on a par with the long legal papers which used to be served upon pecuniary delinquents.

* * * * *

If you would enjoy a bit of most natural and felicitous description, read the following by that classical and witty writer--no longer, with sorrow be it spoken, of this world--the author of "The American in Paris." The passage has been in the "Drawer" for many years:

"There is a variety of little trades and industries which derive their chief means of life from the wants and luxuries of the street; I mean trades that are unknown in any other country than Paris. You will see an individual moving about at all hours of the night, silent and active, and seizing the smallest bit of paper in the dark, where you can see nothing; and with a hook in the end of a stick, picking it up, and pitching it with amazing dexterity into a basket tied to his left shoulder; with a cat-like walk, being every where and nowhere at the same time, stirring up the rubbish of every nook and gutter of the street, under your very nose. This is the 'Chiffonier.' He is a very important individual. He is in matter what Pythagoras was in mind; and his transformations are scarcely less curious than those of the Samian sage. The beau, by his pains, peruses once again his worn-out dicky or cravat, of a morning, in the 'Magazin des Modes;' while the politician has his linen breeches reproduced in the 'Journal des Debats;' and many a fine lady pours out her soul upon a _billet-doux_ that was once a dish-cloth. The 'chiffonier' stands at the head of the little trades, and is looked up to with envy by the others. He has two coats, and on holidays wears a chain and quizzing-glass. He rises, too, like the Paris gentry, when the chickens roost, and when the lark cheers the morning, goes to bed.

"All the city is divided into districts, and let out to these 'chiffoniers' by the hour; to one from ten to eleven, and from eleven to twelve to another, and so on through the night; so that several get a living and consideration from the same district. This individual does justice to the literary compositions of the day. He crams into his bag indiscriminately the last vaudeville, the last sermon of the Archbishop, and the last essay of the Academy.

"Just below the 'chiffonier' is the 'Gratteur.' This artist scratches the livelong day between the stones of the pavement for old nails from horses' shoes, and other bits of iron; always in hope of a bit of silver, and even perhaps a bit of gold; more happy in his hope than a hundred others in the possession. He has a store, or 'magazin,' in the Faubourgs, where he deposits his ferruginous treasure. His wife keeps this store, and is a '_Marchande de Fer_.' He maintains a family, like another man; one or two of his sons he brings up to scratch for a living, and the other he sends to college; and he has a lot 'in perpetuity' in Père la Chaise. His rank, however, is inferior to that of the 'chiffonier,' who will not give him his daughter in marriage, and he don't ask him to his _soirées_."

* * * * *

A sad and "harrowing" event (after the manner of "the horrid" poetical school), is recorded in the subjoined wild "Fragment:"

"His eye was stern and wild; his cheek
Was pale and cold as clay;
Upon his tightened lip a smile
Of fearful meaning lay:

"He mused awhile, but not in doubt;
No trace of doubt was there;
It was the steady, solemn pause
Of resolute despair!

"Once more he looked upon the scroll,
Once more its words he read;
Then calmly, with unflinching hand,
Its folds before him spread.

"I saw him bare his throat, and seize
The blue, cold-gleaming steel,
And grimly try the temper'd edge
He was so soon to feel!

"A sickness crept upon my heart,
And dizzy swam my head:
I could not stir, I could not cry,
I felt benumbed and dead!

"Black icy horrors struck me dumb,
And froze my senses o'er:
I closed my eyes in utter fear,
And strove to think no more!

* * * * *

"Again I looked: a fearful change
Across his face had passed;
He seemed to rave:--on cheek and lip
A flaky foam was cast.

"He raised on high the glittering blade;
Then first I found a tongue:
'Hold! madman! stay the frantic deed!
I cried, and forth I sprung:

"He heard me, but he heeded not:
One glance around he gave:
And ere I could arrest his hand,
He had--BEGUN TO SHAVE!"

We can recall some half-dozen specimens of this style of writing; one, at least, of which, from an erratic American poet, must be familiar to the general reader.

Literary Notices.

_Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli._ (Published by Phillips, Sampson, and Co.) The subject of these volumes has left a reputation for strength and brilliancy of intellect which, we imagine, will hardly be justified hereafter by the perusal of her writings. No one, however, can read this touching tribute to her memory without perceiving that she was a remarkable woman. It at once explains the secret of her success, and of her want of general recognition. From her early childhood, she displayed a wonderful precocity of genius. This was stimulated by constant mental inebriation, produced by the excitements of an ambitious and ill-judged education. Her girlish studies were devoted to subjects which demanded the mature experience of a masculine intellect. Deprived of the frolic delights of childhood, a woman in cultivation while young in years, goaded to the wildest intensity of effort by the urgency of an exacting parent, and attaining an extraordinary mental development at the expense of her physical nature, she must, of course, soon have become the object of marked attention and wonder--a prodigy to her friends, and a mystery to herself. Thus she was early placed in a false position. She grew up self-involved, her diseased mind preying on itself, and the consciousness of her personal importance assumed a gigantic magnitude, which threatened to overshadow all healthy manifestations of character. In this condition, she was accustomed to claim more than she could give--more than others were content to grant. The loftiness of her self-esteem was the measure of her lavish disdain. Hence, with the exception of those with whom chance had made her intimate, she was more formidable than attractive to the circle of her acquaintance; her presence in society called forth aversion or terror; as she dispensed the scathing splendors of her Jove-like lightnings, rather than the sweet refreshments of womanhood. But beneath this social despotism, were concealed a genuine kindliness of nature, a large sympathizing heart, a singular power of entering into the condition of others, and a weird magnetic charm which drew to her closest intimacy the most opposite characters. She was, moreover, generous and noble to an uncommon degree, in all the more sacred relations of life; with a high sense of duty; never shrinking from sacrifices; a wise and faithful counselor where her confidence was invoked; absolutely free from every trait of petty or sordid passion; the very soul of honor; and with a sense of justice that seemed to ally her with Eternal Truth.--In these volumes, she is left in a great measure to speak for herself. Her letters and private journals present a transparent record of her character. The editorial portion, by R. W. Emerson, James F. Clarke, and W. H. Channing, is executed with beautiful candor. The most truthful simplicity graces and fortifies their statements. With no other aim than to exhibit an honest portraiture of their friend, they have in no case, that we can discover, allowed their private feelings to gain the mastery over their sterner judgments.--Her residence in Italy reveals her heroism, devotion, and womanly tenderness, in a light that would almost induce the belief, on the part of those who had met her only in the antagonisms of society, that she had changed her identity. A profound, mysterious pathos hovers around her Italian experience, preparing the reader for the tragic close of a life, which was itself a tragedy. The description of her last hours presents a scene of desolation, before which grief can only bow in mute tears.

_Charity and its Fruits_, by JONATHAN EDWARDS, edited by TRYON EDWARDS. A new work from the pen of the illustrious Northampton pastor can not fail to be welcome to the admirers of his profound and original genius. Combining a rare acuteness of metaphysical speculation, with a glowing fervor of religious sentiment, Edwards has called forth the most expressive eulogiums from the philosophers of the old world, while his name is still "familiar as a household word" in the primitive homes of New England. His character presented a striking union of intellectual vigor with earnest piety. The childlike simplicity of his tastes was blended with the refined subtlety of a mediæval schoolman. The apostle of disinterested love, his soul was inspired and thrilled with contemplating the glories of redemption, and the triumphs of grace over the ruins of humanity The Lectures contained in this volume are devoted to his favorite theme. They illustrate the principle of love as the foundation of the Christian character, and the expression of reconciliation with the Lord. In the high standard of duty which they present, in their deep and comprehensive views of human nature, and in the force and sweetness of their style, they compare favorably with the standard productions of their author, and are certainly not surpassed by any religious treatise of modern times.

The manuscripts from which these lectures have been prepared were nearly ready for the press, as left by the writer. They were afterward placed in the charge of Dr. Hopkins and Dr. Bellamy, and are now for the first time given to the public by the present editor. He justly deserves the gratitude of the religious world for this valuable gift. (Published by R. Carter and Brothers).

Harper and Brothers have issued a neat octavo edition of Sir JOHN RICHARDSON'S _Arctic Searching Expedition_, comprising a copious journal of a boat-voyage through Rupert's Land and the Arctic Sea, in search of Sir John Franklin--a variety of interesting details concerning the savages of that region--and an elaborate treatise on the physical geography of North America. Sir John Richardson left Liverpool in March, 1848, and after landing in New York, proceeded at once to the Saut Ste. Marie, where he arrived about the last of April. Starting in a few days from the Saut, he reached the mouth of the River Winnipeg on the 29th of May, and arrived at Cumberland House, on the Saskatchewan, June 13--a distance of nearly 3000 miles from New York. His various adventures on the overland route to Fort Confidence, in 66 degrees of north latitude, where the winter residence of the party was established, are related with great minuteness, presenting a lively picture of the manners of the Indians, and the physical phenomena of the icy North. The history of Sir John Franklin's Expedition, and the present state of the search for that intrepid navigator, is briefly recorded. With the prevailing interest in every thing connected with Arctic discovery, this volume is a most seasonable publication, and will be read with avidity by our intelligent countrymen.

_The Future Wealth of America_, by FRANCIS BONYNGE, is a volume of curious interest, describing the physical resources of the United States, and the commercial and agricultural advantages of introducing several new branches of cultivation. Among the products enumerated by the author as adapted to the soil and climate of this country are tea, coffee, and indigo, the date, the orange, the peach fruit, and the guava. The work, though written in an enthusiastic spirit, is filled with practical details, and presents a variety of useful suggestions in regard to the conditions of national prosperity. Mr. Bonynge is familiarly acquainted with the culture of tropical products, having resided for fourteen years in India and China. His book is well-deserving the attention of the American public.

The Twenty-second Part of COPLAND'S _Dictionary of Practical Medicine_ is published by Harper and Brothers, reaching to the eight hundredth page of the third volume of the work, and to the commencement of the letter S. For laymen who have occasion to refer to a medical work, this Dictionary forms a valuable book of reference, and may be consulted with convenience and profit. Its merits are too well known to the profession to demand comment.

_A Reel in the Bottle, for Jack in the Doldrums_, by Rev. HENRY T. CHEEVER. Modern allegory is a dangerous species of composition. The taste of the age demands clearness, brevity, point; it prefers practical facts to mystic symbols; and, above all, rejects artificial tamperings with Oriental imagery. Imitations of the venerable simplicity of the Bible are always offensive to a correct mind; and scarcely less so is the ancient form of allegory disguised in fashionable trappings. The volume now put forth by Mr. Cheever forms no exception to these remarks. He has met with but indifferent success, in an attempt where a perfect triumph would have brought little credit. The frequent sacrifices of nature and good taste, which his plan demands, illustrate his ingenuity at the expense of his judgment. He reminds us of John Bunyan, whom he takes for his model, only by contrast. We should as soon expect a modern Hamlet from Bulwer as a second Pilgrim's Progress from the present author. (Published by Charles Scribner.)