Chapter XIII: Esther's Narrative (4)

An Easy Chair for July, and specially for such hot July, as we doubt not is just now ripening over our readers' heads, should be a cool chair, with a lining of leather, rather than the soft plushes which beguile the winter of its iciness. Just so, we should be on the look-out in these hap-hazard pages, that close our monthly labors, for what may be cooling in the way of talk; and should make our periods wear such shadows as will be grateful to our sun-beaten readers.

If by a touch of the pen, we could, for instance, build up a grove of leaf-covered trees, with some pebble-bottomed brook fretting below--idly, carelessly, impetuously--even as our pen goes fretting over this Paris _feuille_; and if we could steep our type in that summer fragrance which lends itself to the country groves of July; and if we could superadd--like so many fragmentary sparkles of verse--the songs of July birds--what a claimant of your thanks we should become?

Much as a man may be street-ridden, after long city experience--even as the old and rheumatic become bed-ridden--yet the far-off shores of Hoboken, and the tree-whispers of St. John's and Grammercy Parks, do keep alive somewhat of the Eden longings, which are born into the world with us, and which can only die when our hearts are dead.

And hence it is that we find it a loving duty to linger much and often as we may in this sunny season of the year (alas, that it should be only in imagination!) around rural haunts--plucking flowers with broad-bonneted girls--studying shadows with artist eye--brushing the dews away with farmers' boys--lolling in pools with sleek-limbed cattle--dropping worms or minnow with artist anglers, and humming to ourselves, in the soft and genial spirit of the scene, such old-time pleasant verses as these:

The lofty woods, the forests wide and long,
Adorned with leaves and branches fresh and green,
In whose cool bowers the birds with many a song
Do welcome with their quire the summer's queen;
The meadows fair, where Flora's gifts among
Are intermixed with verdant grass between;
The silver-scaled fish that softly swim
Within the sweet brook's crystal watery stream.

All these and many more of His creation
That made the Heavens, the angler oft doth see;
Taking therein no little delectation,
To think how strange, how wonderful they be;
Framing, thereof, an inward contemplation,
To set his heart from other fancies free;
And while he looks on these with joyful eye,
His mind is rapt above the starry sky.

And since we are thus in the humor of old and rural-imaged verse--notwithstanding the puff and creak of the printing enginery is coming up from the caverns below us (a very Vulcan to the Venus of our thought) we shall ask your thanks for yet another triad of verses, which will (if you be not utterly barren) breed daisies on your vision.

The poet has spoken of such omnibus drives and Perrine pavements as offended good sense two or three hundred years ago:

Let them that list these pleasures then pursue,
And on their foolish fancies feed their fill;
So I the fields and meadows green may view,
And by the rivers fresh may walk at will,
Among the daizies and the violets blue,
Red hyacinth, and yellow daffodil,
Purple narcissus like the morning rayes,
Pale ganderglas, and azure culverkayes.

I count it better pleasure to behold
The goodly compass of the loftie skie;
And in the midst thereof, like burning gold,
The flaming chariot of the world's great eye;
The wat'ry clouds that in the ayre up rolled
With sundry kinds of painted colors flie;
And faire Aurora lifting up her head,
All blushing rise from old Tithonus' bed.

The hills and mountains raised from the plains,
The plains extended level with the ground,
The ground divided into sundry vaines,
The vaines enclosed with running rivers round,
The rivers making way through Nature's chaines,
With headlong course into the sea profound;
The surging sea beneath the vallies low,
The vallies sweet, and lakes that gently flow.

The reader may thank us for a seasonable bouquet--tied up with old ribbon indeed, and in the old free and easy way--but the perfume is richer than the artificial scents of your modern verse.

* * * * *

We do not know who first gave the epithet "leafy June;" but the goodness of the term was never so plain, as through that twelfthlet of the year which has just shadowed our paths. Whether it be the heavy rains of the early spring, or an over-luxurious outburst from the over-stiff chains of the last winter--certain it is, that the trees never bore up such heaviness of green, or the grass promised such height and "bottom." And we can not forbear the hope, that the exceeding beauty of the summer will stimulate the activity and benevolence of those guardians of our city joy, in whose hands lies the fate of the "Up-town Park."

* * * * *

And as we speak of parks, comes up a thought of that very elegant monument to the memory of Washington, which has risen out of the brains of imaginative and venturesome people, any time during the last fifty years. The affair seems to have a periodic and somewhat whimsical growth. We suffer a kind of intermittent Washingtonianism, which now and then shows a very fever of drawings, and of small subscriptions; and anon, the chill takes us, and shakes the whole fabric to the ground.

We can not but regard it as a very unfavorable symptom, that a corner-stone should have been laid some two or three years ago in a quarter called Hamilton Square, and that extraordinary energy should have pushed forward the monumental design to the height of a few feet.

Since that period a debility has prevailed. The Washington sentiment has languished painfully--proving to our mind most satisfactorily, that the true Washington enthusiasm is periodic in its growth; and that to secure healthful alternations of recruit and exuberance, it should--like asparagus--be cut off below ground.

Meantime, the strangers and office-seekers of our great capital, are doing somewhat toward redeeming the fame of the country. In connection with their design, a suggestion is just now bruited of calling upon clergymen, this coming Fourth of July (three days hence, bear in mind) to drop a hint to the memory of the hero who has made that day the Sunday of our political year, and furthermore, to drop such pennies, as his parishioners will bestow, into the Washington monumental fund.

We should be untrue to the chit-chat of the hour--as well as to our Washington fervor--if we did not give the suggestion a record, and the purpose a benison!

* * * * *

It is fortunate for all minor matters--such as Jenny Lind, Kossuth, green-peas, strawberries, and Lola Montez--that our President-making comes only by quartettes of years. It is painful to think of the monotone of talk which would overtake the world, if Baltimore Conventions were held monthly or even yearly.

We are writing now in the eye of the time; and can give no guess as to what candidates will emerge from the Baltimore ballot-boxes; but when this shall come under our reader's eye, two names only will form the foci of his political fears and hopes. Without any predilections whatever, we most ardently wish that our reader may not be disappointed--however his hopes may tend: and if any editor in the land can "trim" to his readers' humor, with greater sincerity, and larger latitude, we should like to know it.

* * * * *

Ole Bull has been delighting the musical world, in his way, for the month last gone, and has made more converts to the violin, by the fullness of his faith, and the fervor of his action, than many preachers can win over, by like qualities, to any labor of love.

The truth is, there lies in this Scandinavian a heartiness of impulse, and an exuberance of soul, which makes the better part of what men call genius. You have a conviction--as you listen--that you are dependent for your delight upon no nice conformity with rules--no precision of compliance--no formulary excellence, but only and solely upon the spirit of the man, creeping over him to the very finger-tips, and making music and melody of very necessity.

There is a freshness, a wildness, a _fierté_ in the harmonies that Ole Bull creates, which appeal not alone to your nice students of flats and sharps, but to every ear that ever heard a river flowing, or the soughing of pine woods. It is a make-piece--not of Donizetti's arias--but of that unceasing and musical hum which is going up every summer's day in the way of bee-chants, and bird-anthems, and which the soul-wakened Scandinavian has caught, and wrought and strung upon five bits of thread!

The papers (they are accountable for whatever may not be true in our stories) have told us strange, sad things of the musical hero's life. First, that he has been a great patron of the arts--nor is it easy to believe that he could be otherwise. Next, they have told us, that he is an earnest lover of such liberty as makes men think, and read, and till their own lands--nor is this hard to believe. Again they tell us that he has sometimes rendered himself obnoxious to the powers that be--that his estates, once very large, have been confiscated, and that he has come hitherward only for the sake of repairing his altered fortunes.

If the truth lie indeed so hardly upon him, we wish him even more success than his merit will be sure to win.

Among the _on dits_ of the time, we must not pass by the good and ill-natured comments upon the new-passed Liquor Laws of Massachusetts and of Rhode Island. When the reader remembers that Nahant and Newport are within the limits of these two States, and that summer visitors to the favorite watering places are not unapt to call for a wine-card, and to moisten their roast lamb and peas (especially after an exhilarating sea-bath) with a cup of Heidseck, or of Longworth's sparkling Catawba, they may readily imagine the consternation that has crept over certain portions of the visiting world. We (meaning we as Editors) are of course without any preferences either for watering places or--for that matter--liquoring places. Yet we are curious to see how far the new system will favor the fullness and the gayety of the old summer resorts.

Persistent Newport visitors, who have grown old with their sherry and their port, are arranging for the transportation of "small stores," as a portion of their luggage; and are negotiating with the landlords their rates of "corkage." Whether this side-tax on the matter will not render host and guest obnoxious to the new-started laws, is a matter we commend to the serious attention of the hopeful lawyers of Newport.

What the reformatory legal enactments may do with the wine-growers of Ohio, and with the distillers of Pennsylvania and Indiana, we are curious to see. As for the latter, we can not say (speaking now in our individual capacity) that we should greatly regret the downfall of those huge distillery pig-yards, which spend their odors over the Ohio river; but as for the Cincinnati wines and vineyards, we must confess that we have a lurking fondness that way--first, because the grape culture is Scriptural, beautiful, healthful; and next, because it is clothing the hill-sides of our West with a purple and bountiful product, that develops nobly the agricultural resources of the country, and throws the gauntlet in the very face of Burgundy. Still again, we have a fancy--perhaps a wrong one--that pure wines, well made, and cheapened to the wants of the humblest laborer, will outgrow and overshadow that feverish passion for stronger drink which vitiates so sadly our whole working population: and yet once again, we have charity for western vineyards, for a very love of their products; and have felt ourselves, after a wee bit of the quiet hock which Zimmermann presses out of the ripe Catawba--a better feeling toward our fellows, and a richer relish for such labor of the office as now hampers our pen.

* * * * *

Under story of pleasure-seeking for the summer, some Journalists record the intent of a southern party to broach--in the August that now lies thirty days into the sunshine--the passage of the Rocky Mountains, skirting by the way the miniature valley of the Missouri--wearing weapons of defense and offense--carrying parlors upon wheels, and kitchens in their carts--shooting rabbits and Indians as the seasons vary, and dining upon buffalo and corn bread _à volanté_.

We wish them much pleasure of the trip--meaning good roads, few Indians, and musquito bars.

Seriously, however, when shall we see the valley of the Missouri form a pleasant tangent to summer travel, and the sportsman who now camps it by Long Lake, or shoots coot by Moniment Point--oiling his rifle for a range at the stalking varmint by St. Joseph's, and along the thousand forked branches of the Missouri waters?

At Minnessota, they say (the doubtful newspapers again,) people have discovered a gem of a lake,--so still, that the bordering trees seem growing root upward, and the islands are all _Siamesed_ where they float; and so clear that you count your fish before you throw them the bait, and make such selections among the eager patrons of your hook, as you would do at the City market on the corner of Spring-street.

When Professor Page's Galvanic Railroad will take us there in a day, we will wash the ink from our fingers in the lake of Minnessota; and if the fates favor us, will stew a trout in Longworth's Catawba; meantime, we wait hopefully feeding upon Devoe's, moderately fatted mutton, and great plenty of imaginative diet.

* * * * *

Among the rest, old Markham's "Summer Contentments" has furnished us with rare meals, and inveigled us into trying with inapt hands the _metier_ of the rod and angle. We flatter ourselves that we have won upon the _character_ of the angler, however little we may win upon his fish.

"He must," says pleasant old Markham, "neither be amazed with storms, nor frighted with thunder; and if he is not temperate, but has a gnawing stomach, that will not endure much fasting, and must observe hours, it troubleth the mind and body, and loseth that delight which only maketh pastime pleasing.

"He must be of a well-settled and constant belief, to enjoy the benefit of his expectation; for than to despair, it were better never to be put in practice: and he must ever think, when the waters are pleasant, and any thing likely, that there the Creator of all good things, hath stored up much of plenty; and though your satisfaction be not as ready as your wishes, yet you must hope still, that with perseverance you shall reap the fullness of your harvest with contentment. Then he must be full of love both to his pleasure, and his neighbor--to his pleasure, which will otherwise be irksome and tedious--and to his neighbor, that he never give offense in any particular, nor be guilty of any general destruction; then he must be exceeding patient, and neither vex nor excruciate himself with any losses or mischances, as in losing the prey when it is almost in hand, or by breaking his tools by ignorance or negligence; but with pleased sufferance amend errors, and think mischances instructions to better carefulness."

We commend all this to the trout fishers among the musquitos, and black flies of Hamilton County--for even into that dim, and barbarian region, our monthly budget finds its way.

* * * * *

Among other things of the hour, we must spare a note for those pleasant statistics of author-and-bookdom, which the international discussion of Copyright has called into print.

Heretofore, the man of books has been reckoned as a liver, for the most part, upon such manna as rained down from time to time, from a very imaginative heaven; he has lived, by a certain charitable courtesy of the world, (which is coy of ferreting out its injustices) beyond the tongue of talk, and his pride and poverty have suffered an amiable reprieve.

The time, it seems, is now gone by; and we find Prescott and Irving submitted to the same fiscal measurement, as are the brokers upon 'Change. We wish the whole author fraternity might come as bravely out of it as the two we have named: and should it ever come to pass, that the fraternity were altogether rich, we hope they will not neglect the foundation of some quiet hospital for the poor fellows (like ourselves) who record their progress, and chronicle their honors.

In old times a fancy held men's minds, that the payment for poetry came only from Heaven: and that so soon as the Divine fingers which caught the minstrelsy of the angel world, touched upon gold, they palsied, and lost their power. Under the present flattering condition of the author world (of which, alas, we only read!) it may be well to revive the caution: the poor may, at the least, console themselves thereby; and as for the rich--they need no consolation.

Time and time again, we believe, spicy authors have threatened to take the publisher's business off his hands; and in lieu of half the profits, to measure them all with themselves. But, unfortunately for the credit of the calling, authors are, in the general way, blessed with very moderate financial capacity; and from Scott to Lamartine, they have in such venture, to the best of our observation, worked very hard--for very little pay.

* * * * *

Speaking of Lamartine, reminds us of a little episode of French life, which has latterly crept into the French papers, and which would have made (as the publishers say) a "companion volume" to Lamartine's Raphael--always provided it were as well written out. The episode is dismissed in two or three lines of the journals, and is headed in very attracting way--"Died of Love."

Such a kind of death being mostly unheard of--especially in New York--it will be necessary to justify the title by a somewhat fuller _résumé_ of the story, than the journalist favors us with.

Marie of Montauban was as pretty a girl as the traveler might see in going through all of southern France; and a pretty girl of southern France, is more than pretty in any other quarter of France.

Her father had been a small _propriétaire_, and had married a descendant of an old family, under circumstances of that vague and wild romance which grew up a little after the old Revolution. Both the parents, however, died early in life: she inherited from the mother exceeding delicacy, and a refinement, which agreed very poorly with the poverty to which her father's improvidence had left her an heir.

Admired and beloved, and sometimes courted by those about her, she resolutely determined to secure her own support. She commenced in a romantic way--by quitting secretly her home, and throwing herself upon a very broad and a very wicked world. Fortune guided her to the home of a worthy baker; she here learned the smaller mysteries of his craft, and made such show in the front shop of her new-found patron, as bewitched the provincial _gailliards_, and made its tale upon the heart of the baker's son.

In short, the son wooed in earnest; the baker protested: and whether it was the protest (which is sure to kindle higher flame) or the honest heart of the wooer himself, Marie forgot the earnest longings, which her mother's nature had planted in her, and became the runaway wife of the runaway baker's son.

All French runaways (except from Government) go to Paris: therefore it was, that in a year's time, you might have seen the humble sign of the baker's son upon a modest shop of the Boulevard Beaumarchais. Beauty is always found out in Paris, and it is generally admired. Therefore it was, that the baker's son prospered, and the Café de Paris heard mention of the beautiful baker's wife of the Beaumarchais.

But, with the sight of the Louvre, the Tuileries, and all the elegancies of metropolitan life, the old longings of the motherly nature came back to the humiliated Marie. She stole hours for reading and for music, and quieted her riotous ambition with the ambition of knowledge.

Still, however, her admirers besieged her; but thanks to her birth, besieged in vain. From month to month she attended her shop; and from month to month beguiled her mission with reading of old stories, and with the music of her guitar.

Now, it happened that in this time, a certain Jacques Arago (well known to fame) chanced upon a day to visit the baker's shop of the Boulevard Beaumarchais; and it further happened, that as the customer was a traveler and a savant, that he fell into talk with the beautiful Marie, who even then held in her fingers some work of the visitor himself.

Talk ripened into conversation, and conversation into interest. The heart of Marie--always dutiful at home--now went wandering under the guide of her mind. She admired the distinguished traveler, and from admiring, she came presently--in virtue of his kind offices and of his instructions continued day after day--to love him.

Therefore it was that Jacques Arago, when he came to depart upon new voyages (and here we follow his own story, rather than probability), did not whisper of his leave to the beautiful Marie, who still held her place in the baker's shop upon the Boulevard Beaumarchais.

But she found her liking too strong to resist; and when she heard of his departure, she hurried away to Havre--only to see the sails of his out-bound ship glimmering on the horizon.

She bore the matter stoutly as she could--cherishing his letters each one as so many parts of the mind that had enslaved her; and, finally, years after, met him calmly, on his return. "I have lived," she said, "to see you again."

But in a little while, Arago, sitting one day in his bureau, receives a letter from Marie of Beaumarchais.

"You deceived me when you went away over the sea; I forgive you for it! Will you forgive me now another deception? I was not well when you saw me last; I am now in the Hospital Beaujon; I shall die before tomorrow. But I die faithful to my religion--God--you! Adieu!

MARIE."

Jacques Arago himself writes so much of the story as has served to make the back-bone for this; and we appeal to the ninety thousand readers of our gossip if Jacques Arago needed any thing more than the _finesse_ of Lamartine, and a touch of his poetic nature, to weave the story of poor Marie into another Raphael?

AN OLD GENTLEMAN'S LETTER.

"THE STORY OF THE BRIDE OF LANDECK."

DEAR SIR--I now resume the very interesting tale I wished to tell you; but from which, in my last, I was diverted in a manner requiring some apology.

You know, however, that this failing of being carried away to collaterals, is frequent in old gentlemen and nurses; and you must make excuses for my age and infirmity. Now, however, you shall have the story of "The Bride of Landeck." A bride is always interesting, and therefore I trust that my bride will not be less so than others. There is something so touching in the confidence with which she bestows the care of her whole fate and happiness on another, something so strangely perilous, even in her very joy, such a misty darkness over that new world into which she plunges, that even the coarsest and most vulgar are moved by it.

I recollect an almost amusing instance of this. The very words employed by the speakers will show you that they were persons of inferior condition; and yet they were uttered with a sigh, and with every appearance of real feeling.

I was one day walking along through the streets of a great city, where it is the custom, in almost all instances, for marriages to take place in church. My way lay by the vestry of a fashionable church, and I was prevented for a minute or two from passing by a great throng of carriages, and a little crowd gathered to see a bride and bridegroom set out upon their wedding tour. There were two mechanics immediately before me--carpenters apparently--and, being in haste, I tried to force my way on. One of the men looked round, saying quietly, "There's no use pushing, you can't get by;" and in a moment after, the bridal party came forth. The bridegroom was a tall, fine-looking, grave young man; and the bride a very beautiful, interesting creature, hardly twenty. They both seemed somewhat annoyed by the crowd, and hurried into their carriage and drove away.

When the people dispersed, the two carpenters walked on before me, commenting upon the occurrence. "Well," said the one, "she's as pretty a creature as ever I saw; and he's a handsome man; but he looks a little sternish, to my mind. I hope he'll treat her well."

"Ah, poor thing," said the other, "she has tied a knot with her tongue, that she can not untie with her teeth."

It is not, however, only sentiment which is occasionally elicited at weddings. I have known some of the most ludicrous scenes in the world occur on these solemn occasions. One, especially, will never pass from my mind, and I must try to give you an account of it, although the task will be somewhat difficult.

Some fifty years ago, in the good city of Edinburgh, many of the conveniences, and even necessaries of household comfort were arranged in a very primitive manner. It was about this time, or a little before it, that a gentleman, whom I afterward knew well, Mr. J---- F----, wooed and won a very beautiful girl of the best society in the city. His doing so was, indeed, a marvel to all; for, though young, witty, and well-looking, he was perhaps the most absent man upon the face of the earth; and the wonder was that he could ever recollect himself sufficiently to make love to one woman for two days consecutively. However, so it was; and a vast number of mistakes and blunders having been got over, the wedding day was appointed and came. The ceremony was to be performed in the house of the bride's father; and a large and fashionable company was assembled at the hour appointed. The bridegroom was known to have been in the house some time; but he did not appear; and minister, parents, bride, bridesmaids, and bridesmen, all full dressed, the ladies in court lappets, and the gentlemen with _chapeaux bras_ under their arms, began to look very grave.

The bride's brother, however, knew his friend's infirmity, and was also aware that he had an exceedingly bad habit of reading classical authors in places the least fitted for such purposes. He stole out of the room, then, hurried to the place where he expected his future brother-in-law might be found; and a minute after, in spite of doors and staircases, his voice was heard exclaiming, "Jimmy--Jimmy; you forget you are going to be married, man. Every one is waiting for you."

"I will come directly--I will come directly," cried another voice--"I quite forgot--go and keep them amused."

The young gentleman returned, with a smile upon his face; but announced that the bridegroom would be there in an instant; and the whole party arranged themselves in a formidable semi-circle. This was just complete, when the door opened, and the bridegroom appeared. All eyes fixed upon him--all eyes turned toward his left arm, where his _chapeau bras_ should have been; and a universal titter burst from all lips. Poor F---- stood confounded, perceived the direction of their looks, and turned his own eyes to his left arm also. Close pressed beneath it, appeared, instead of a neat black _chapeau bras_, a thin, flat, round piece of oak, with a small brass knob rising from the centre of one side. In horror, consciousness, and confusion, he suddenly lifted his arm. Down dropped the obnoxious implement, lighted on its edge, rolled forward into the midst of the circle, whirled round and round, as if paying its compliments to every body, and settled itself with a flounder at the bride's feet. A roar, which might have shook St. Andrews, burst from the whole party.

The bride married him notwithstanding, and practiced through life the same forbearance--the first of matrimonial virtues--which she showed on the present occasion.

Poor F----, notwithstanding the sobering effects of matrimony, continued always the most absent man in the world; and one instance occurred, some fifteen or sixteen years after his marriage, which his wife used to tell with great glee. She was a very notable woman, and good housekeeper. Originally a Presbyterian, she had conformed to the views of her husband, and regularly frequented the Episcopal church. One Sunday, just before the carriage came to the door to take her and her husband to the morning service, she went down to the kitchen, as was her custom, in mercantile parlance, to take stock, and give her orders. She happened to be somewhat longer than usual: the carriage was announced, and poor F----, probably knowing that if he gave himself a moment to pause, he should forget himself, and his wife, and the church, and all other holy and venerable things, went down after her, with the usual, "My dear, the carriage is waiting; we shall be very late."

Mrs. F---- went through her orders with customary precision, took up her prayer-book, entered the carriage with her husband, and rolled away toward the church.

"My dear, what an extraordinary smell of bacon there is in the carriage," said Mr. F----.

"I do not smell it, my dear," said Mrs. F----.

"I do," said Mr. F----, expanding his nostrils emphatically.

"I think I smell it too, now," said Mrs. F----, taking a sniff.

"Well, I hope those untidy servants of ours do not smoke bacon in the carriage," said Mr. F----.

"Oh, dear, no," replied his wife, with a hearty laugh. "No fear of that, my dear."

Shortly after, the carriage stopped at the church door; and Mr. and Mrs. F---- mounted the stairs to their pew, which was in the gallery, and conspicuous to the whole congregation. The lady seated herself, and laid her prayer-book on the velvet cushion before her. Mr. F---- put his hand into his pocket, in search of his own prayer-book, and pulled out a long parallelogram, which was not a prayer-book, but which he laid on the cushion likewise.

"I don't wonder there was a smell of bacon in the carriage, my dear," whispered Mrs. F----; and, to his horror, he perceived lying before him, in the eyes of a thousand persons, a very fine piece of red-and-white streaky bacon, which he had taken up in the kitchen, thinking it was his prayer-book.

On only one subject could Mr. F---- concentrate his thoughts, and that was the law, in the profession of which he obtained considerable success, although occasionally, an awful blunder was committed; but, strange to say, never in the strictly legal part of his doings. He would forget his own name, and write that of some friend of whom he was thinking instead. He would confound plaintiff with defendant, and witnesses with counsel; but he never made a mistake in an abstract legal argument. There, where no collateral, and, as he imagined, immaterial circumstances were concerned--such as, who was the man to be hanged, and who was not--the reasoning was clear, acute, and connected; and for all little infirmities of mind, judges and jurors, who generally knew him well, made due allowance.

Other people had to make allowance also; and especially when, between terms, he would go out to pay a morning visit to a friend, Mrs. F---- never counted, with any certainty, upon his return for a month. He would go into the house where his call was to be made, talk for a few minutes, take up a book, and read till dinner time--dine--and lucky if he did not fancy himself in his own house, and take the head of the table. Toward night he might find out his delusion, and the next morning proceed upon his way, borrowing a clean shirt, and leaving his dirty one behind him. Thus it happened, that at the end of a twelvemonth, his wardrobe comprised a vast collection of shirts, of various sorts and patterns, with his own name on very few of them.

The stories of poor Jimmy F----'s eccentricities in Edinburgh were innumerable. On one occasion, seeing a lady, on his return home, coming away from his own door, he handed her politely into her carriage, expressing his regret that she had not found Mrs F---- at home.

"I am not surprised, my dear," said the lady, who was in reality his own wife, "that you forget me, when you so often forget yourself."

"God bless me," cried Jimmy, with the most innocent air in the world. "I was quite sure I had seen you somewhere before; but could not tell where it was."

Dear old Edinburgh, what a city thou wert when I first visited thee, now more than forty years ago! How full of strange nooks and corners, and, above all, how full of that racy and original character which the world in general is so rapidly losing! Warm hearted hospitality was one of the great characteristics of Auld Reekie in those times, and it must be admitted that social intercourse was sometimes a little too jovial. This did not indeed prevent occasional instances of miserly closeness, and well laughed at were they when they were discovered. There was a lady of good station and ample means in the city, somewhat celebrated for the not unusual combination of a niggard spirit, and a tendency to ostentatious display. Large supper parties were then in vogue; and I was invited to more than one of these entertainments at the house of Lady C---- G----, where I remarked that, though the table was well covered, the guests were not very strenuously pressed to their food. She had two old servants, a butler and a foot-man, trained to all her ways, and apparently participating in her economical feelings. These men, with the familiarity then customary in Scotch servants, did not scruple to give their mistress any little hints at the supper table in furtherance of her saving propensities, and as the old lady was somewhat deaf, these _asides_ were pretty much public property. On one occasion, the butler was seen to bend over his mistress's chair, saying, in a loud whisper, and good broad Scotch, "Press the jeelies, my leddy--press the jeelies. They'll no keep."

Lady C---- G---- did not exactly catch his words, and looked up inquiringly in his face, and the man repeated, "Press the jeelies, my leddy: they're getting mouldy."

"Shave them, John--shave them," said Lady C---- G----, in a solemn tone.

"They've been shaved already, my leedy," roared John; and the company of course exploded.

But to return to my tale. The small village of Landeck, is situated in the heart of the Tyrol, and in that peculiar district, called the Vorarlberg. It is as lovely a spot as the eye of man can rest upon, and the whole drive, in fact, from Innspruck is full of picturesque beauty. But--

But I find this is the last page of the sheet, when I fondly fancied that I had another whole page, which I think would be sufficient to conclude the tale. I had probably better, therefore, reserve the story of The Bride of Landeck for another letter, and only beg you to believe me

Yours faithfully,

P.

Editor's Drawer.

It is not a very long time ago, that "bustles" formed a very essential part of a fashionable lady's dress; nor has this singular branch of the fine arts altogether fallen into decadence at the present day. And, as apropos of this, we find in the "Drawer" a description of the uses of this article in Africa, which we think will awaken a smile upon the fair lips of our lady-readers. "The most remarkable article of dress," says the African traveler, from whom our extract is quoted, "that I have seen, is one which I have vaguely understood to constitute a part of the equipment of my fair countrywomen; in a word, the veritable '_Bustle!_' Among the belles here, there is a reason for the excrescence which does not exist elsewhere; for the little children ride astride the maternal bustle, which thus becomes as useful as it is an ornamental protuberance. Fashion, however, has evidently more to do with the matter than convenience; for old wrinkled grandmothers wear these beautiful anomalies, and little girls of eight years old display protuberances that might excite the envy of a Broadway belle. Indeed, Fashion may be said to have its perfect triumph and utmost refinement in this article; it being a positive fact that some of the girls hereabout wear _merely_ the bustle, without so much as the shadow of a garment! Its native name is "_Tarb-Koshe_.""

* * * * *

Here is a formula for all who can couple "love" and "dove," by which they may rush into print as "poets" of the common "water." The skeleton may be called any thing--"Nature," "Poesy," "Woman," or what not:

Stream.....mountain.....straying,
Breeze.....gentle.....playing;
Bowers.....beauty.....bloom,
Rose.....jessamine.....perfume.
Twilight.....moon.....mellow ray,
Tint.....glories.....parting day.
Poet.....stars.....truth.....delight,
Joy.....sunshine.....silence.....night;
Voice.....frown.....affection.....love,
Lion.....anger.....taméd dove.
Lovely.....innocent.....beguile,
Terror.....frown.....conquer.....smile;
Loved one.....horror.....haste.....delay,
Past.....thorns.....meet.....gay.
Sweetness.....life.....weary.....prose,
Love.....hate.....bramble.....rose;
Absence.....presence.....glory.....bright,
Life.....halo.....beauty.....light.

* * * * *

Not long since a young English merchant took his youthful wife with him to Hong-Kong, China, where the couple were visited by a wealthy Mandarin. The latter regarded the lady very attentively, and seemed to dwell with delight upon her movements. When she at length left the apartment, he said to the husband, in broken English (worse than broken China):

"What you give for that wifey-wife yours?"

"Oh," replied the husband, laughing at the singular error of his visitor, "two thousand dollars."

This the merchant thought would appear to the Chinese rather a high figure; but he was mistaken.

"Well," said the Mandarin, taking out his book with an air of business, "s'pose you give her to me; give you _five_ thousand dollar!"

It is difficult to say whether the young merchant was more amazed than amused; but the very grave and solemn air of the Chinaman convinced him that he was in sober earnest; and he was compelled, therefore, to refuse the offer with as much placidity as he could assume. The Mandarin, however, continued to press his bargain:

"I give you seven thousand dollar," said he: "You _take_ 'em?"

The merchant, who had no previous notion of the value of the commodity which he had taken out with him, was compelled, at length, to inform his visitor that Englishmen were not in the habit of selling their wives after they once came in their possession--an assertion which the Chinaman was very slow to believe. The merchant afterward had a hearty laugh with his young and pretty wife, and told her that he had just discovered her full value, as he had that moment been offered seven thousand dollars for her; a very high figure, "as wives were going" in China at that time!

Nothing astonishes a Chinaman so much, who may chance to visit our merchants at Hong-Kong, as the deference which is paid by our countrymen to their ladies, and the position which the latter are permitted to hold in society. The very servants express their disgust at seeing American or English ladies permitted to sit at table with their lords, and wonder why men can so far forget their dignity!

* * * * *

We have seen the thought contained in the following Persian fable, before, in the shape of a scrap of "Proverbial Philosophy," by an eastern sage; but the sentiment is so admirably versified in the lines, that we can not resist presenting them to the reader:

"A little particle of rain,
That from a passing cloud descended,
Was heard thus idly to complain:
'My brief existence now is ended.
Outcast alike of earth and sky,
Useless to live--unknown to die.'

"It chanced to fall into the sea,
And then an open shell received it,
And, after-years, how rich was he
Who from its prison-house relieved it!
That drop of rain had formed a gem,
To deck a monarch's diadem."

* * * * *

There is a certain London cockneyism that begins to obtain among _some_ persons even here--and that is, the substitution of the word "gent," for gentleman. It is a gross vulgarism. In England, however, the terms are more distinctive, it seems. A waiting-maid at a provincial inn, on being asked how many "gents" there were in the house, replied, "Three gents and four gentlemen." "Why do you make a distinction, Betty?" said her interrogator. "Oh, why, the gents are only _half_ gentlemen, people from the country, who come on horseback; the others have their carriages, and are _real_ gentlemen!"

* * * * *

Most readers will remember the ill-favored fraternity mentioned by Addison, known as "_The Ugly Club_," into which no person was admitted without a visible queerity in his aspect, or peculiar cast of countenance. The club-room was decorated with the heads of eminent ogres; in short, every thing was in keeping with the deformed objects of the association. They have a practice at the West of giving to the ugliest man in all the "diggins" round about, a jack-knife, which he carries until he meets with a man uglier than himself, when the new customer "takes the knife," with all its honors. A certain notorious "beauty" had carried the knife for a long time, with no prospect of ever being called upon to "stand and deliver" it. He had an under-lip, which hung down like a motherless colt's, bending into a sort of pouch for a permanent chew of tobacco his eyes had a diabolical squint _each_ way; his nose was like a ripe warty tomato; his complexion like that of an old saddle-flap; his person and limbs a miracle of ungainliness, and his gait a cross between the slouch of an elephant and the scrambling movement of a kangaroo. Yet this man was compelled to give up the knife. It happened in this wise: _He was kicked in the face by a horse!_ His "mug," as the English cockney would call it, was smashed into an almost shapeless mass. But so _very_ ugly was he _before_ the accident, that, when his face got well, it was found to be so much improved that he was obliged to surrender up the knife to a successful competitor! He must have been a handsome man, whom a kick in the face by a horse would "improve!"

* * * * *

Some years ago the Queen of England lost a favorite female dog. It was last seen, before its death, poking its nose into a dish of sweet-breads on the pantry-dresser. Foul play was suspected; the scullery-maid was examined; the royal dog-doctor was summoned; a "crowner's quest" was held upon the body; and the surgeon, after the evidence was "all in," assuming the office of coroner, proceeded to "sum up" as follows:

"This affair was involved, apparently, in a good deal of doubt until this inquisition was held. The deceased might have been poisoned, or might not; and here the difficulty comes in, to determine whether he was or wasn't. On a post-mortem examination, there was a good deal of vascular inflammation about the coats of the nose; and I have no doubt the affair of the sweet-bread, which was possibly very highly peppered, had something to do with these appearances. The pulse had, of course, stopped; but, as far as I could judge from appearances, I should say it had been pretty regular. The ears were perfectly healthy, and the tail appeared to have been recently wagged; showing that there could have been nothing very wrong in that quarter. The conclusion at which, after careful consideration, I have arrived, is, that the royal favorite came to his death from old age, or rather from the lapse of time; and a _deodand_ is therefore imposed on the kitchen-clock, which was rather fast on the day of the dog's death, and very possibly might have accelerated his demise!"

* * * * *

It is no small thing to be called on suddenly to address a public meeting, of any sort, and to find all your wits gone a-wool-gathering, when you most require their services. "Such being the case," and "standing admitted," as it will be, by numerous readers, we commend the following speech of a compulsory orator at the opening of a free hospital:

"GENTLEMEN--Ahem!--I--I--I rise to say--that is, I wish to propose a toast--wish to propose a toast. Gentlemen, I think that you'll all say--ahem--I think, at least, that this toast is, as you'll say, the toast of the evening--toast of the evening. Gentlemen, I belong to a good many of these things--and I say, gentlemen, that this hospital requires no patronage--at least, you don't want any recommendation. You've only got to be ill--got to be ill. Another thing--they are all locked up--I mean they are shut up separate--that is, they've all got separate beds--separate beds. Now, gentlemen, I find by the report (_turning over the leaves in a fidgety manner_), I find, gentlemen, that from the year seventeen--no, eighteen--no, ah, yes, I'm right--eighteen hundred and fifty--No! it's a 3, thirty-six--eighteen hundred and thirty-six, no less than one hundred and ninety-three millions--no! ah! (_to a committee-man at his side_,) Eh?--what?--oh, yes--thank you!--thank you, yes--one hundred and ninety-three thousand--two millions--no (_looking through his eye-glass_), two hundred and thirty-one--one hundred and ninety-three thousand, two hundred and thirty-one! Gentlemen, I beg to propose--

"_Success to this Institution!_"

Intelligible as Egyptian hieroglyphics, and "clear as mud" to the "most superficial observer!"

* * * * *

That was a touch of delicate sarcasm which is recorded of Charles Lamb's brother, "James Elia." He was out at Eton one day, with his brother and some other friends; and upon seeing some of the Eton boys, students of the college, at play upon the green, he gave vent to his forebodings, with a sigh and solemn shake of the head: "Ah!" said he, "what a pity to think that these fine ingenuous lads in a few years will all be changed into frivolous members of parliament!"

* * * * *

Some spendthrifts belonging to "_The Blues_" having been obliged to submit their "very superior long-tailed troop horses" to the arbitrament of a London auctioneer's hammer, a wag "improves the occasion" by inditing the following touching parody:

"Upon the ground he stood,
To take a last fond look
At the troopers, as he entered them
In the horse-buyer's book.
He listened to the neigh,
So familiar to his ear;
But the soldier thought of bills to pay,
And wiped away a tear.

"Beside the stable-door,
A mare fell on her knees;
She cocked aloft her crow-black tail,
That fluttered in the breeze,
She seemed to breathe a prayer--
A prayer he could not hear--
For the soldier felt his pockets bare,
And wiped away a tear.

"The soldier blew his nose--
Oh! do not deem him weak!
To meet his creditors, he knows
He's not sufficient 'cheek.'
Go read the writ-book through,
And 'mid the names, I fear,
You're sure to find the very Blue
Who wiped away the tear!"

* * * * *

We believe it is Dryden who says, "It needs all we know to make things _plain_." We wonder what he would have thought of this highly intelligible account of blowing up a ship by a submarine battery, as Monsieur Maillefert blew up the rocks in Hellgate:

"There is no doubt that all submarine salts, acting in coalition with a pure phosphate, and coagulating chemically with the sublimate of marine potash, _will_ create combustion in nitrous bodies. It is a remarkable fact in physics, that sulphurous acids, held in solution by glutinous compounds, will create igneous action in aquiferous bodies; and hence it is, therefore, that the pure carbonates of any given quantity of bituminous or ligneous solids will of themselves create the explosions in question."

We have heard men listen to such lucid, _pellucid_ "expositions" as this, with staring eyes:

"And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew."

* * * * *

He was a keen observer and a rare discriminator of children, who drew this little picture, in a work upon "Childhood and its Reminiscences:"

"See those two little girls! You hardly know which is the elder, so closely do they follow each other. They were born to the same routine, and will be bred in it for years, perhaps, side by side, in unequal fellowship; one pulling back, the other dragging forward. Watch them for a few moments as they play together, each dragging her doll about in a little cart. Their names are Cecilia and Constance, and they manage their dolls always as differently as they will their children. You ask Cecilia where she is going to drive her doll to, and she will tell you, 'Through the dining-room into the hall, and then back into the dining-room,' which is all literally true. You ask Constance, and with a grave, important air, and a loud whisper, for Doll is not to hear on any account, she answers, 'I am going to take her to London, and then to Brighton, to see her little cousin: the hall is Brighton, you know,' she adds, with a condescending look. Cecilia laments over a dirty frock, with a slit at the knee, and thinks that Mary, the maid, will never give her the new one she promised. Constance's doll is somewhat in the costume of the king of the Sandwich Islands; top-boots and a cocked-hat, having only a skein of worsted tied round her head, and a strip of colored calico or her shoulders; but she is perfectly satisfied that it is a wreath of flowers and a fine scarf; bids you smell of the "rose-oil" in her hair, and then whips herself, to jump over the mat.

"In other matters, the case is reversed. When fear is concerned, Cecilia's imagination becomes active, and Constance's remains perfectly passive. A bluff old gentleman passes through that same hall. The children stop their carts and stare at him, upon which he threatens to put them in his pocket. Poor Cecilia runs away, in the greatest alarm; but Constance coolly says: "You _can't_ put us in your pocket; it isn't half big enough!"

It strikes us that there is an important lesson to parents in this last passage. Because _one_ child has no fear to go to bed in the dark, how many poor trembling children, differently constituted, have passed the night in an agony of fear!

* * * * *

There are few more striking things in verse, in the English Language, than "_The Execution of Montrose_." The author has not, to our knowledge, been named, and the lines appeared for the first time many years ago. The illustrious head of the great house of GRAHAME in Scotland was condemned to be hung, drawn, and quartered; his head to be affixed on an iron pin and set on the pinnacle of the Tolbooth in Edinburgh; one hand to be set on the port of Perth, the other on the port of Stirling; one leg and foot on the port of Aberdeen, the other on the port of Glasgow. In the hour of his defeat and of his death he showed the greatness of his soul, by exhibiting the most noble magnanimity and Christian heroism. The few verses which follow will enable the reader to judge of the spirit which pervades the poem:

"'Twas I that led the Highland host
Through wild Lochaber's snows,
What time the plaided clans came down
To battle with Montrose:
I've told thee how the Southrons fell
Beneath the broad claymore,
And how we smote the CAMPBELL clan
By Inverlochy's shore:
I've told thee how we swept Dundee,
And tamed the LINDSAY'S pride!
But never have I told thee yet,
How the Great Marquis died!

"A traitor sold him to his foes;
Oh, deed of deathless shame!
I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet
With one of ASSYNT'S name--
Be it upon the mountain side,
Or yet within the glen,
Stand he in martial gear alone,
Or backed by armed men--
Face him, as thou would'st face the man
Who wronged thy sire's renown;
Remember of what blood thou art,
And strike the caitiff down!"

The poet goes on to describe his riding to the place of execution in a cart, with hands tied behind him, and amidst the jeers and taunts of his enemies; but his noble bearing subdued the hearts of many even of his bitter foes. Arrived at the place of execution, the "Great Marquis" looks up to the scaffold, and exclaims: