Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

SALMAGUNDI.

PEOPLE’S EDITION.

SALMAGUNDI;
OR, THE
WHIMWHAMS AND OPINIONS OF LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ., AND OTHERS.

WILLIAM IRVING, JAMES KIRKE PAULDING

AND

WASHINGTON IRVING.

In hoc est hoax, cum quiz et jokesez,
Et smokem, toastem, roastem folksez,
Fee, faw, fum. _Psalmanazar._

With baked and boiled, and stewed and toasted,
And fried and broiled, and smoked and roasted,
We treat the town.

PRINTED FROM THE ORIGINAL EDITION, WITH A PREFACE AND NOTES BY EVERT A.
DUYCKINCK.

NEW YORK:
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS,
FOURTH AVENUE AND TWENTY-THIRD STREET.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by
THE EXECUTORS OF
J. K. PAULDING AND WASHINGTON IRVING,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.

EDITOR’S PREFACE.

The present reprint of the following papers has grown out of the repeated demand, of late years, for an edition of SALMAGUNDI, worthy to accompany the collected volumes of the writings of the distinguished authors. The book would probably have been included by Mr. Irving in the revised edition of his works, had it been wholly his own. It was published some time ago, in the series of the writings of his friend and relative, the joint author of the essays, Mr. Paulding, and though it had been long out of print in that form, Mr. Irving did not seem disposed to break the association. He was accustomed, indeed, to speak of it as a light, trivial publication, the sport of his boyish days; and he certainly showed no eagerness in reviving it; but we cannot suppose him insensible to the many excellences which the work undoubtedly possesses—charms of manner and of thought springing from the fresh joyous period of youth, and lending their grace to the brightest pages of his matured labors. SALMAGUNDI is the literary parent, not only of the “Sketch Book” and the “Alhambra,” but of all the intermediate and subsequent productions of Irving, even of some slight ornaments of the graver offspring of the “Columbus” and “Washington.” There is, for instance, in one of the later numbers, a chapter of “The Chronicles of the renowned and Ancient City of Gotham,” which anticipates the humor of Knickerbocker; there are traits of tenderness and pathos suggestive of the plaintive sentiment of the “Sketch Book;” and the kindly humors of the Cockloft mansion are an American “Bracebridge Hall.”

The book in fact, is every way in place in company with the series of Mr. Irving’s writings. It was not all of his composition, to be sure, nor did it receive that care of revision at his hands, bestowed upon his other compositions in his latest editions; but, without separating his part from the rest, and making every allowance for inexperience of style, we may readily enough detect throughout its pages the genius of Washington Irving.

Leaving the particular elucidation of the special authorship of the various articles to his literary executor and biographer, if he shall think proper in his forthcoming work to make such an investigation and disclosure, we may here generally state, for the information of the reader, that SALMAGUNDI was the joint production of William Irving, James Kirke Paulding, and Washington Irving. It is well known that the humorous and sentimental poetry of the work was wholly written by William Irving, who was at the time a merchant of New York, and some seventeen years older than his brother Washington. The genial and inventive faculties of William Irving were of a high order. Besides the poetry of SALMAGUNDI, the work is indebted to him for occasional hints and sketches worked up by his brother, among which may be mentioned the amusing picture of the civic militia exercises in the letter of Mustapha, in the fifth number, and the equally humorous sketch, of more serious import, of the political “slang-whangers” in the fourteenth.

William Irving married the sister of James Kirke Paulding, who came from his home in Westchester County, to New York, for the first time, on a visit to his new relative. He found the house of his brother-in-law in the city the genial resort of a knot of wits and humorists who graced the Calliopean Society, a literary institution of those days. An intimacy with Washington Irving sprang up, of which in due time came the joint authorship of SALMAGUNDI, which was thus a species of family party. A considerable portion of the book was written by Paulding. We may, perhaps, trace his pen in the oriental papers, a form of writing for which he retained a liking, and which he practiced with great spirit and elegance to the last. Many of the exquisite passages of description of nature were undoubtedly written by him. “Mine Uncle John,” a mellow, fine toned portrait, was his work, and he had a hand in “Autumnal Reflections,” one of the most refined sentimental papers of the volume. It is, perhaps, a common misapprehension of this eminent writer, that his pen was wanting in geniality, and that he took rather a splenetic view of life. This notion has probably arisen from the admission of a controversial element into his productions where, perhaps, it might have been better shut out; but certainly, with this exception, no American writer has spread upon his page more feeling observation, more friendly truths, more genial sympathies. His favorite method of the apologue affords a kindly proof of this, which is not to be mistaken by those skilled in literary physiognomy.

Some ten years or more after the conclusion of SALMAGUNDI, Paulding ventured alone upon a second series. Washington Irving was in Europe, and the muse of Pindar Cockloft was silent. It was a dangerous undertaking, for the very essence of a Salmagundi is the combination of divers ingredients—a product of many minds. The new work proved a little too uniform and didactic in parts. Geoffrey Crayon could have pruned and heightened it here and there. Yet it contains many delightful pages. There is, among other things, a charming account of a further visit to the old Cockloft Hall, inviting as the old. One passage in it—the death of old Cæsar—has a genuine touch of pathos. The cherry-tree had fallen which he had assisted his master to plant sixty years before, and the poor negro “seemed smitten with the same blast that leveled it. It was curious,” concludes the little narrative, “to see how the errors of his early impressions—for he was sixteen years old when brought from Africa—had mixed up with the simple ideas implanted subsequently, respecting the Christian religion. His kind mistresses ministered to the wants of his soul, as well as the infirmities of his body, and endeavored to make him comprehend the mysteries of our faith. But they were beyond his reach. He feared, he said, ‘the Lord would not know him’—meaning that, lowly as he was, it might escape the Divinity that such a being had ever existed. His decay was gradual, but the state of his mind was singularly compounded of the mistakes of ignorance and the ramblings of lightheadedness, as it is called. The day before he died I was in to see him. ‘Massa Launcelot,’ said he, ‘think old negro like me ever go to heaven?’ ‘I warrant you, old Cæsar,’ replied I. He seemed comforted with the assurance, but still a doubt hung on his mind—‘What will old negro like me do there?’—Then his eye seemed glad for a moment, and his last words were—‘Never mind—I can wait upon the angels.’”

While we write, the remains of this author, at the venerable age of eighty-two, are being borne to the tomb. It is due to his memory, and to his generous participation in the literature of the day, to express the opinion that when the productions of Paulding, now for some time hidden from the world, shall be revived, the public will again find in them, a freshness and interest, a spirit and humor, unabated since their first appearance. To the inhabitants of New York in particular, they will present strong claims to attention, for the author, though he turned his back upon the city, was a genuine son of Manhattan.

Of the third writer, Washington Irving, it is not necessary here to speak, nor have we occasion, as we have said, further to point out his share in the work. The many graces and excellences of his style are too well known for the reader to need a guide to find them out. He will meet everywhere in these pages the first sprightly efforts of invention, the playful humor, the sportive fancy, the tender sentiment which constituted in youth as in age—Washington Irving.

A word should be said of the publisher of the work, David Longworth, a gentleman as much given to whimwhams as any of the race so pleasantly satirized in the little yellow-covered numbers which he sent forth fortnightly to the public. He was the theatrical publisher of the day, in the neighborhood of the old Park Theatre, then a new building, holding his place of business on the spot now sacred so the good cheer of Windust. Here he displayed, on the outer wall, a huge painting of the crowning of Shakespeare; while within, a distinction for those times in the infant state of the arts, his shop boasted as its attraction a series of the prints of Alderman Boydell’s recently published Shakespeare Gallery. He had been a printer, and had ingrafted on his occupation a taste for elegance in typography, engraving, and binding. His beautiful “Telemachus” and other publications, would, in our day, be simply accounted neat; but in his time they made a sensation, very much as luxuries of furniture and living, now enjoyed by everybody, were then considered somewhat aristocratic, and reserved only for undoubted affluence. But Longworth had a special whim for elegance. He called his shop, by a fine effort of the imagination, “The Sentimental Epicure’s Ordinary;” and as a proof of his judgment, trifled with the English language. In the original edition of some of his books, proper names are spelt with small initial letters. Oddly enough, the man who was so grandiloquent himself would not allow New York its appropriate capitals. It must be written new-york, and portly philadelphia must dwindle in lower-case. The wags of SALMAGUNDI, while they were laughing at the town, must sometimes have been tempted to place a full length of their humorist publisher on his pages.

SALMAGUNDI was quite a success on its first appearance. It did not make a fortune for its authors. That was hardly to be expected of so modest a little pamphlet; but it created its impression. Slight as it was in form, and apparently written off so carelessly, it was really the most formidable incursion which had yet been made in America into the realm of taste in this species of literature. Franklin had written a half dozen agreeable essays for a newspaper, and addressed a few complimentary apologues to the French ladies. Francis Hopkinson was really an elegant author, who, like Belknap in the Foresters, had turned the graces of his pen to the decoration of politics; Dennie wrote some ingenious lay sermons, and was steeped in rhetorical refinements: but none of these were read by the fair. We do not, indeed, recall a single book written in America worthy of Belinda’s toilet-table before SALMAGUNDI.

As for the success out of doors, it must have been a cheerful thing to witness. Dr. Francis, the genial reminiscent, tells us:—

“Ere half a dozen numbers of SALMAGUNDI were issued, quite a commotion arose among the literati and the public concerning the work and its authors. The humble drudges about town, who had lived obscurely, yet fancied themselves members of the literary world by their revision of Dilworth; and the editors of catechisms with explanatory notes, were astounded at that greater eclat which elegant letters secured, and which was denied to their uninventive products; while fashionable coteries everywhere were prodigal of conjectures from what mine the gold dust was brought to light for the commonwealth of letters. SALMAGUNDI was found at almost every tea-table. The sale announced the fact that literary property was both vendible and profitable.”

The “characters” sketched in these pleasant papers were doubtless drawn more or less from the life, and included most of the notabilities of the town, with occasionally a glance beyond it. There are said to be some touches of Dennie, the essayist and critic of Philadelphia, in Launcelot Langstaff. A whole bevy of beaux and belles saw themselves reflected in the Ding Dongs and Sophy Sparkles. The base metal of Brummagem adventurers and spendthrifts was nailed to the counter by the satire of Straddle: theatrical critics were silenced by a glance at themselves in the mirror of ’Sbidlikens; fashionable upstarts shrank from the portraits of the Giblets; the small-beer of the politician soured at the thundering satire of Dabble; the feathers of the carpet soldiers wilted when they were paraded in the regiment of the Fag-rags. SALMAGUNDI was the mild terror of the town when society was not too overgrown an instrument to be played upon by a cunning musician.

New York was a queer place then, as our own New York may be, doubtless, to our descendants fifty years hence, if they have a pair of Salmagundi spectacles to see it with. There were all sorts of humors afloat, small and great, from fashionable nothings, with their idle brains, to the heads of great projectors teeming with national wonders. We see something of all in the book. There is that North River Society which figures on so many pages. Were the wits conscious how much of the future these humorous projectors, the Stevenses, the Livingstons, and Fultons, held in as yet uncrystalized solution in their vagaries? Mr. Ichabod Fungus laughs at that “aquatic mole or water rat,” the “Torpedo,” with which the great inventor entertained the town at the Battery, but we hear nothing of his waggery when the Clermont ascends the Hudson. It was the heyday, too, of the Jeffersonian era, and the reader may get a very good idea of the feelings entertained towards the sage of Monticello, in respect to his “economical” administration of embargos and gun-boats.

How distant it all seems—far removed as the days of the “Spectator” itself, the parent of this fluttering progeny of humors and anticipations of the gentle essayists. There is nothing of New York of the present time in its pages—of our bustling, driving, busy era. The town seems then to have had an hour or two for a little tea-table chat. The demon of ceaseless work had not then taken such full possession of the world. There was something to laugh over, and sorrow had leisure for a tear. There were actors then; people went to the theatre, and talked over the performance when they came away. Where is the great George Frederick now, and the gentle accents of Cooper? The poor wizened Frenchmen, exiles of Europe and Saint Domingo, whose quaint habits so perplexed My Aunt Charity, where are they? Vanished from earth, but not before their fadeless images were stamped within the leaves of this book.

Well, all have gone, writers and actors. The garments of the beaux would startle us like ghosts if we were to look into the old wardrobes; the beauty of the belles has withered into ashes; good and evil undreamt of have come out of the inventors and politicians; a new generation swarms with a new set of follies, and we write the eulogies and epitaphs of the departed humorists. So runs the world away, will be the reflection of the reader as he lays down these sprightly pages, redolent of youth and vivacity, of the spring-time of life, when satire itself has no bitterness, though it may affect scornful words and frowning emphasis, when hope spreads its gayest hues of promise, and melancholy itself has its tinct of eloquence and pleasure.

* * * * *

The text of this edition is that of the original work as it was first published by Longworth. In the subsequent reprints, several papers of interest were dropped, which are now restored. A few verbal corrections have been made, following the Paris edition of Irving’s works of 1834, which had more or less of the author’s supervision. The notes to that copy, so far as they extended, have been retained, and will be found to be appropriately credited.

The interesting sketch of the Summer-house of Cockloft Hall, which appears as the frontispiece, is a contribution to the volume from Mr. W. A. Whitehead, of Newark.

NEW YORK, _April 7, 1860_.

CONTENTS.

NO. PAGE
I.— SATURDAY, JANUARY 24, 1807 1
PUBLISHER’S NOTICE. SHAKESPEARE GALLERY, NEW YORK 4
FROM THE ELBOW-CHAIR OF LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ. 5
THEATRICS—CONTAINING THE QUINTESSENCE OF MODERN CRITICISM.
BY WILLIAM WIZARD, ESQ. 14
NEW YORK ASSEMBLY. BY ANTHONY EVERGREEN, GENT. 17

II.— WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1807. FROM THE ELBOW-CHAIR OF
LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ. 24
MR. WILSON’S CONCERT. BY ANTHONY EVERGREEN, GENT. 31
COCKLOFT FAMILY 34
TO LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ. 39
ADVERTISEMENT 43

III.— FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 1807. FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR 46
LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB KELI KHAN, CAPTAIN OF A
KETCH, TO ASEM HACCHEM, PRINCIPAL SLAVE-DRIVER TO HIS
HIGHNESS THE BASHAW OF TRIPOLI 49
FASHIONS. BY ANTHONY EVERGREEN, GENT. 55
INCOG 58
PROCLAMATION, FROM THE MILL OF PINDAR COCKLOFT, ESQ. 62
DR. CHRISTOPHER COSTIVE 66

IV.— TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1807. FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR 71
MEMORANDUMS FOR A TOUR TO BE ENTITLED “THE STRANGER IN NEW
JERSEY; OR, COCKNEY TRAVELLING.” BY JEREMY COCKLOFT, THE
YOUNGER 75
FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR 84
FLUMMERY. FROM THE MILL OF PINDAR COCKLOFT, ESQ.; BEING A
POEM WITH NOTES, OR RATHER NOTES WITH A POEM; IN THE
MANNER OF DR. CHRISTOPHER COSTIVE 86

V.— SATURDAY, MARCH 7, 1807. FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR 99
LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB KELI KHAN, TO ABDALLAH EB’N
AL RAHAB, SURNAMED THE SNORER, MILITARY SENTINEL AT THE
GATE OF HIS HIGHNESS’ PALACE 99
BY ANTHONY EVERGREEN, GENT. 111
TO THE LADIES. FROM THE MILL OF PINDAR COCKLOFT, ESQ. 118

VI.— FRIDAY, MARCH 20, 1807. FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR 123
THEATRICS. BY WILLIAM WIZARD, ESQ. 136

VII.— SATURDAY, APRIL 4, 1807. LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB
KELI KHAN, TO ASEM HACCHEM, PRINCIPAL SLAVE-DRIVER TO
HIS HIGHNESS THE BASHAW OF TRIPOLI 146
FROM THE MILL OF PINDAR COCKLOFT, ESQ. NOTES BY WILLIAM
WIZARD, ESQ. 157

VIII.— SATURDAY, APRIL 18,1807. BY ANTHONY EVERGREEN, GENT. 164
ON STYLE. BY WILLIAM WIZARD, ESQ. 173
TO CORRESPONDENTS 182

IX.— SATURDAY, APRIL 25, 1807. FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR 187
LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB KELI KHAN, CAPTAIN OF A
KETCH, TO ASEM HACCHEM, PRINCIPAL SLAVE-DRIVER TO HIS
HIGHNESS THE BASHAW OF TRIPOLI 197
FROM THE MILL OF PINDAR COCKLOFT, ESQ. 206

X.— SATURDAY, MAY 16, 1807. FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR 212
TO LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ. 214
THE STRANGER IN PENNSYLVANIA. BY JEREMY COCKLOFT, THE
YOUNGER 221

XI.— TUESDAY, JUNE 2, 1807. LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-BUB KELI
KHAN, CAPTAIN OF A KETCH, TO ASEM HACCHEM, PRINCIPAL
SLAVE-DRIVER TO HIS HIGHNESS THE BASHAW OF TRIPOLI 232
FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR. MINE UNCLE JOHN 244

XII.— SATURDAY, JUNE 27, 1807. FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR 254
THE STRANGER AT HOME; OR, A TOUR IN BROADWAY. BY JEREMY
COCKLOFT, THE YOUNGER 265
FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR 275
FROM THE MILL OF PINDAR COCKLOFT, ESQ. 276

XIII.— FRIDAY, AUGUST 14, 1807. FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR 281
PLANS FOR DEFENDING OUR HARBOR. BY WILLIAM WIZARD, ESQ. 285
FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR. A RETROSPECT; OR, “WHAT YOU WILL” 295
TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS 308

XIV.— SATURDAY, SEPT. 16, 1807. LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB
KELI KHAN, TO ASEM HACCHEM, PRINCIPAL SLAVE-DRIVER TO
HIS HIGHNESS THE BASHAW OF TRIPOLI 310
COCKLOFT HALL. BY LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ. 322
THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE. BY WILLIAM WIZARD, ESQ. 335

XV.— THURSDAY, OCT. 1, 1807. SKETCHES FROM NATURE. BY ANTHONY
EVERGREEN, GENT. 340
ON GREATNESS. BY LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ. 349

XVI.— THURSDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1807. STYLE AT BALLSTON. BY WILLIAM
WIZARD, ESQ. 360
LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB KELI KHAN, TO ASEM HACCHEM,
PRINCIPAL SLAVE-DRIVER TO HIS HIGHNESS THE BASHAW OF
TRIPOLI 368

XVII.— WEDNESDAY, NOV. 11, 1807. AUTUMNAL REFLECTIONS. BY
LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ. 380
BY LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ. 386
CHAP. CIX.—OF THE CHRONICLES OF THE RENOWNED AND ANTIENT
CITY OF GOTHAM 392

XVIII.— TUESDAY, NOV. 24, 1807. THE LITTLE MAN IN BLACK. BY
LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ. 401
LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB KELI KHAN, TO ASEM HACCHEM,
PRINCIPAL SLAVE-DRIVER TO HIS HIGHNESS THE BASHAW OF
TRIPOLI 411

XIX.— THURSDAY, DEC. 31, 1807. FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR 420
LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB KELI KHAN, TO MULEY HELIM
AL RAGGI, SURNAMED THE AGREEABLE RAGAMUFFIN, CHIEF
MOUNTEBANK AND BUFFA-DANCER TO HIS HIGHNESS 422
BY ANTHONY EVERGREEN, GENT. 434
TEA: A POEM 441

XX.— MONDAY, JANUARY 25, 1808. FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR 448
TO THE LADIES. BY ANTHONY EVERGREEN, GENT. 458
FAREWELL 468

SALMAGUNDI.

NO. I.—SATURDAY, JANUARY 24, 1807.

As everybody knows, or ought to know, what a SALMAGUND is, we shall spare ourselves the trouble of an explanation; besides, we despise trouble as we do everything low and mean, and hold the man who would incur it unnecessarily as an object worthy our highest pity and contempt. Neither will we puzzle our heads to give an account of ourselves, for two reasons; first, because it is nobody’s business; secondly, because if it were, we do not hold ourselves bound to attend to anybody’s business but our own; and even _that_ we take the liberty of neglecting when it suits our inclination. To these we might add a third, that very few men _can_ give a tolerable account of themselves, let them try ever so hard; but this reason we candidly avow, would not hold good with ourselves.

There are, however, two or three pieces of information which we bestow gratis on the public, chiefly because it suits our own pleasure and convenience that they should be known, and partly because we do not wish that there should be any ill-will between us at the commencement of our acquaintance.

Our intention is simply to instruct the young, reform the old, correct the town, and castigate the age; this is an arduous task, and therefore we undertake it with confidence. We intend for this purpose to present a striking picture of the town; and as everybody is anxious to see his own phiz on canvas, however stupid or ugly it may be, we have no doubt but the whole town will flock to our exhibition. Our picture will necessarily include a vast variety of figures; and should any gentleman or lady be displeased with the inveterate truth of their likenesses, they may ease their spleen by laughing at those of their neighbors—this being what _we_ understand by _poetical justice_.

Like all true and able editors, we consider ourselves infallible; and therefore, with the customary diffidence of our brethren of the quill, we shall take the liberty of interfering in all matters either of a public or a private nature. We are critics, amateurs, dilettanti, and cognoscenti; and as we know “by the pricking of our thumbs,” that every opinion which we may advance in either of those characters will be correct, we are determined, though it may be questioned, contradicted, or even controverted, yet it shall never be revoked.

We beg the public particularly to understand that we solicit no patronage. We are determined, on the contrary, that the patronage shall be entirely on our side. We have nothing to do with the pecuniary concerns of the paper; its success will yield us neither pride nor profit—nor will its failure occasion to us either loss or mortification. We advise the public, therefore, to purchase our numbers merely for their own sakes; if they do not, let them settle the affair with their consciences and posterity.

To conclude, we invite all editors of newspapers and literary journals to praise us heartily in advance, as we assure them that we intend to deserve their praises. To our next-door neighbor, “Town,”[1] we hold out a hand of amity, declaring to him that, after ours, his paper will stand the best chance for immortality. We proffer an exchange of civilities: he shall furnish us with notices of epic poems and tobacco; and we in return will enrich him with original speculations on all manner of subjects, together with “the rummaging of my grandfather’s mahogany chest of drawers,” “the life and amours of mine Uncle John,” “anecdotes of the Cockloft family,” and learned quotations from that unheard-of writer of folios, _Linkum Fidelius_.

PUBLISHER’S NOTICE.

SHAKESPEARE GALLERY, NEW YORK.[2]

This work will be published and sold by D. Longworth. It will be printed on hot-pressed vellum paper, as that is held in highest estimation for buckling up young ladies’ hair—a purpose to which similar works are usually appropriated; it will be a small, neat, duodecimo size, so that, when enough numbers are written, it may form a volume sufficiently portable to be carried in old ladies’ pockets and young ladies’ work-bags.

As the above work will not come out at stated periods, notice will be given when another number will be published. The price will depend on the size of the number, and must be paid on delivery. The publisher professes the same sublime contempt for money as his authors. The liberal patronage bestowed by his discerning fellow-citizens on various works of taste which he has published, has left him no _inclination_ to ask for further favors at their hands, and he publishes this work in the mere hope of requiting their bounty.[3]

FROM THE ELBOW-CHAIR OF LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ.

We were a considerable time in deciding whether we should be at the pains of introducing ourselves to the public. As we care for nobody, and as we are not yet at the bar, we do not feel bound to hold up our hands and answer to our names.

Willing, however, to gain at once that frank, confidential footing, which we are certain of ultimately possessing in this, doubtless, “best of all possible cities;” and anxious to spare its worthy inhabitants the trouble of making a thousand _wise_ conjectures, not one of which would be worth a tobacco-stopper, we have thought it in some degree a necessary exertion of charitable condescension to furnish them with a slight clew to the truth.

Before we proceed further, however, we advise everybody, man, woman, and child, that can read, or get any friend to read for them, to purchase this paper—not that we write for money, for, in common with all philosophical wiseacres, from Solomon downward, we hold it in supreme contempt. The public are welcome to buy this work, or not, just as they choose. If it be purchased freely, so much the better for the public—and the publisher; we gain not a stiver. If it be not purchased, we give fair warning—we shall burn all our essays, critiques, and epigrams, in one promiscuous blaze; and, like the books of the sibyls and the Alexandrian Library, they will be lost forever to posterity. For the sake, therefore, of our publisher, for the sake of the public, and for the sake of the public’s children to the nineteenth generation, we advise them to purchase our paper. We beg the respectable old matrons of this city not to be alarmed at the appearance we make; we are none of those outlandish geniuses who swarm in New York, who live by their wits, or rather by the little wit of their neighbors, and who spoil the genuine honest American tastes of their daughters with French slops and fricasseed sentiment.

We have said we do not write for money—neither do we write for fame; we know too well the variable nature of public opinion to build our hopes upon it—we _care_ not what the public think of us, and we suspect, before we reach the tenth number, they will not _know_ what to think of us. In two words, we write for no other earthly purpose but to please ourselves; and this we shall be sure of doing, for we are all three of us determined beforehand to be pleased with what we write. If, in the course of this work, we edify and instruct and amuse the public, so much the better for the public; but we frankly acknowledge that so soon as we get tired of reading our own works, we shall discontinue them without the least remorse, whatever the public may think of it. While we continue to go on, we will go on merrily: if we moralize, it shall be but seldom; and, on all occasions, we shall be more solicitous to make our readers laugh than cry; for we are laughing philosophers, and clearly of opinion that wisdom, true wisdom, is a plump, jolly dame, who sits in her arm-chair, laughs right merrily at the farce of life—and takes the world as it goes.

We intend particularly to notice the conduct of the fashionable world; nor in this shall we be governed by that carping spirit with which narrow-minded book-worm cynics squint at the little extravagances of the ton; but with that liberal toleration which actuates every man of fashion. While we keep more than a Cerberus watch over the guardian rules of female delicacy and decorum, we shall not discourage any little sprightliness of demeanor, or innocent vivacity of character. Before we advance one line further, we must let it be understood, as our firm opinion, void of all prejudice or partiality, that the ladies of New York are the fairest, the finest, the most accomplished, the most bewitching, the most ineffable beings that walk, creep, crawl, swim, fly, float, or vegetate in any or all of the four elements; and that they only want to be cured of certain whims, eccentricities, and unseemly conceits, by our superintending cares, to render them absolutely perfect. They will, therefore, receive a large portion of those attentions directed to the fashionable world; nor will the gentlemen who _doze_ away their time in the circles of the _haut-ton_ escape our currying. We mean those stupid fellows who sit stock still upon their chairs, without saying a word, and then complain, “How stupid it was at Mrs. ——’s party.”

This department will be under the peculiar direction and control of ANTHONY EVERGREEN, gent., to whom all communications on this subject are to be addressed. This gentleman, from his long experience in the routine of balls, tea-parties, and assemblies, is eminently qualified for the task he has undertaken. He is a kind of patriarch in the fashionable world, and has seen generation after generation pass away into the silent tomb of matrimony while he remains unchangeably the same. He can recount the amours and courtships of the fathers, mothers, uncles, and aunts, and even the grandames, of all the belles of the present day—provided their pedigrees extend so far back without being lost in obscurity. As, however, treating of pedigrees is rather an ungrateful task in this city, and as we mean to be perfectly good-natured, he has promised to be cautious in this particular. He recollects perfectly the time when young ladies used to go sleigh-riding at night, without their mammas or grandmammas; in short, without being matronized at all: and can relate a thousand pleasant stories about Kissing-bridge.[4] He likewise remembers the time when ladies paid tea-visits, at three in the afternoon, and returned before dark to see that the house was shut up and the servants on duty. He has often played cricket in the orchard in the rear of old Vauxhall, and remembers when the Bull’s Head[5] was quite out of town. Though he has slowly and gradually given in to modern fashions, and still flourishes in the _beau monde_, yet he seems a little prejudiced in favor of the dress and manners of the _old school_, and his chief commendation of a new mode is, “that it is the same good old fashion we had before the war.” It has cost us much trouble to make him confess that a cotillon is superior to a minuet, or an unadorned crop to a pig-tail and powder. Custom and fashion have, however, had more effect on him than all our lectures; and he tempers, so happily, the grave and ceremonious gallantry of the old school with the “hail-fellow” familiarity of the new, that we trust, on a little acquaintance, and making allowance for his old-fashioned prejudices, he will become a very considerable favorite with our readers—if not, the worse for themselves, as they will have to endure his company.

In the territory of criticism, WILLIAM WIZARD, Esq., has undertaken to preside; and though we may all dabble in it a little by turns, yet we have willingly ceded to him all discretionary powers in this respect. Though Will has not had the advantage of an education at Oxford or Cambridge, or even at Edinburgh or Aberdeen, and though he is but little versed in Hebrew, yet we have no doubt he will be found fully competent to the undertaking. He has improved his taste by a long residence abroad, particularly at Canton, Calcutta, and the gay and polished court of Hayti. He has also had an opportunity of seeing the best singing-girls and tragedians of China, is a great connoisseur in mandarin dresses, and porcelain, and particularly values himself on his intimate knowledge of the buffalo, and war dances of the northern Indians. He is likewise promised the assistance of a gentleman, lately from London, who was born and bred in that centre of science and _bon goût_, the vicinity of Fleet Market, where he has been edified, man and boy, these six-and-twenty years, with the harmonious jingle of Bowbells. His taste, therefore, has attained to such an exquisite pitch of refinement that there are few exhibitions of any kind which do not put him in a fever. He has assured Will, that if Mr. Cooper emphasizes “_and_” instead of “_but_,” or Mrs. Oldmixon pins her kerchief a hair’s breadth awry, or Mrs. Darley offers to dare to look less than the “daughter of a senator of Venice,”—the standard of a senator’s daughter being exactly six feet,—they shall all hear of it in good time. We have, however, advised Will Wizard to keep his friend in check, lest, by opening the eyes of the public to the wretchedness of the actors by whom they have hitherto been entertained, he might cut off one source of amusement from our fellow-citizens. We hereby give notice, that we have taken the whole corps, from the manager in his mantle of gorgeous copper-lace to honest John in his green coat and black breeches, under our wing—and woe be unto him who injures a hair of their heads. As we have no design against the patience of our fellow-citizens, we shall not dose them with copious draughts of theatrical criticism; we well know that they have already been well physicked with them of late; our theatrics shall take up but a small part of our paper; nor shall they be altogether confined to the stage, but extend from time to time to those incorrigible offenders against the peace of society, the stage critics, who not unfrequently create the fault they find, in order to yield an opening for their witticisms—censure an actor for a gesture he never made, or an emphasis he never gave; and, in their attempt to show off _new readings_, make the sweet swan of Avon cackle like a goose. If any one should feel himself offended by our remarks, let him attack us in return—we shall not wince from the combat. If his passes be successful, we will be the first to cry out, a hit! a hit! and we doubt not we shall frequently lay ourselves open to the weapons of our assailants. But let them have a care how they run a tilting with us; they have to deal with stubborn foes, who can bear a world of pummelling; we will be relentless in our vengeance, and will fight “till from our bones the flesh be hack’t.”

What other subjects we shall include in the range of our observations, we have not determined, or rather we shall not trouble ourselves to detail. The public have already more information concerning us, than we intended to impart. We owe them no favors, neither do we ask any. We again advise them, for their own sakes, to read our papers when they come out. We recommend to all mothers to purchase them for their daughters, who will be taught the true line of propriety, and the most advisable method of managing their beaux. We advise all daughters to purchase them for the sake of their mothers, who shall be initiated into the arcana of the bon-ton, and cured of all those rusty old notions which they acquired during the last century: parents shall be taught how to govern their children, girls how to get husbands, and old maids how to do without them.

As we do not measure our wits by the yard or the bushel, and as they do not flow periodically nor constantly, we shall not restrict our paper as to size or the time of its appearance. It will be published whenever we have sufficient matter to constitute a number, and the size of the number shall depend on the stock in hand. This will best suit our negligent habits, and leave us that full liberty and independence which is the joy and pride of our souls. As we have before hinted, that we do not concern ourselves about the pecuniary matters of our paper, we leave its price to be regulated by our publisher: only recommending him, for his own interest, and the honor of its authors, not to sell their invaluable productions too cheap.

Is there any one who wishes to know more about us?—let him read SALMAGUNDI, and grow wise apace. Thus much we will say—there are three of us, “Bardolph, Peto, and I,” all townsmen good and true; many a time and oft have we three amused the town without its knowing to whom it was indebted; and many a time have we seen the midnight lamp twinkle faintly on our studious phizes, and heard the morning salutation of “past three o’clock,” before we sought our pillows. The result of these midnight studies is now offered to the public; and little as we care for the opinion of this exceedingly stupid world, we shall take care, as far as lies in our careless natures, to fulfill the promises made in this introduction; if we do not, we shall have so many examples to justify us, that we feel little solicitude on that account.

THEATRICS—CONTAINING THE QUINTESSENCE OF MODERN CRITICISM.

BY WILLIAM WIZARD, ESQ.

Macbeth was performed to a very crowded house, and much to our satisfaction. As, however, our neighbor “Town” has been very voluminous already in his criticisms on this play, we shall make but few remarks. Having never seen Kemble in this character, we are absolutely at a loss to say whether Mr. Cooper performed it well or not. We think, however, there was an error in his _costume_, as the learned Linkum Fidelius is of opinion that in the time of Macbeth the Scots did not wear sandals, but wooden shoes. Macbeth also was noted for wearing his jacket open, that he might play the Scotch fiddle more conveniently—that being a hereditary accomplishment in the Glamis family.

We have seen this character performed in China, by the celebrated _Chow-Chow_, the Roscius of that great empire, who in the dagger scene always electrified the audience by blowing his nose like a trumpet. Chow-Chow, in compliance with the opinion of the sage Linkum Fidelius, performed Macbeth in wooden shoes; this gave him an opportunity of producing great effect, for on first seeing the “air-drawn dagger,” he always cut a prodigious high caper, and kicked his shoes into the pit at the heads of the critics; whereupon the audience were marvelously delighted, flourished their hands, and stroked their whiskers three times, and the matter was carefully recorded in the next number of a paper called the _Flim-Flam_ (_English_, “Town”).

We were much pleased with Mrs. Villiers in Lady Macbeth; but we think she would have given a greater effect to the night scene, if, instead of holding the candle in her hand, or setting it down on the table, which is sagaciously censured by neighbor “Town,” she had stuck it in her night-cap. This would have been extremely picturesque, and would have marked more strongly the derangement of her mind.

Mrs. Villiers is not by any means large enough for the character: Lady Macbeth having been, in our opinion, a woman of extraordinary size, and of the race of the giants, notwithstanding what she says of her “little hand”—which being said in her sleep passes for nothing. We should be happy to see this character in the hands of the lady who played _Glumdalca_, queen of the giants, in Tom Thumb; she is exactly of imperial dimensions; and, provided she is well shaved, of a most interesting physiognomy: as she appears likewise to be a lady of some nerve, I dare engage she will read a letter about witches vanishing in air, and such _common occurrences_, without being unnaturally surprised, to the annoyance of honest “Town.”

We are happy to observe that Mr. Cooper profits by the instructions of friend “Town,” and does not dip the daggers in blood so deep as formerly by a matter of an inch or two. This was a violent outrage upon our immortal bard. We differ with Mr. “Town” in his _reading_ of the words “this is a _sorry sight_.” We are of opinion the force of the sentence should be thrown on the word _sight_, because Macbeth having been, shortly before, most confoundedly humbugged with an aërial dagger, was in doubt whether the daggers actually in his hands were real, or whether they were not mere shadows, or as the old English _may_ have termed it, _syghtes_ (this, at any rate, will establish our skill in _new readings_). Though we differ in this respect from our neighbor “Town,” yet we heartily agree with him in censuring Mr. Cooper for omitting that passage so remarkable for “beauty of imagery,” etc., beginning with “and pity like a naked new-born babe,” etc. It is one of those passages of Shakespeare which should always be retained, for the purpose of showing how sometimes that great poet could talk like a buzzard; or, to speak more plainly, like the famous mad poet, Nat Lee.

As it is the first duty of a friend to advise, and as we profess and do actually feel a friendship for honest “Town,” we warn him never, in his criticisms, to meddle with a lady’s “petticoats,” or to quote Nic Bottom. In the first instance he may “catch a tartar;” and in the second, the ass’s head may rise up in judgment against him; and when it is once afloat there is no knowing where some unlucky hand may place it. We would not, for all the money in our pockets, see “Town” flourishing his critical quill under the auspices of an ass’s head, like the great Franklin in his _Montero Cap_.

NEW YORK ASSEMBLY.

BY ANTHONY EVERGREEN, GENT.

The assemblies this year have gained a great accession of beauty. Several brilliant stars have risen from the East and from the North, to brighten the firmament of fashion; among the number I have discovered _another planet_, which rivals even Venus in lustre, and I claim equal honor with Herschel for my discovery. I shall take some future opportunity to describe this planet, and the numerous satellites which revolve around it.

At the last assembly the company began to make some show about eight, but the most fashionable delayed their appearance until nine—nine being the number of the muses, and therefore the best possible hour for beginning to exhibit the graces. (This is meant for a pretty play upon words, and I assure my readers that I think it very tolerable.)

Poor Will Honeycomb, whose memory I hold in special consideration, even with his half century of experience, would have been puzzled to point out the humors of a lady by her prevailing colors; for the “rival queens” of fashion, Mrs. Toole and Madame Bouchard,[6] appeared to have exhausted their wonderful inventions in the different disposition, variation, and combination of tints and shades. The philosopher who maintained that black was white, and that, of course, there was no such color as white, might have given some color to his theory on this occasion, by the absence of poor forsaken white muslin. I was, however, much pleased to see that red maintained its ground against all other colors, because red is the color of Mr. Jefferson’s *******, Tom Paine’s nose, and my slippers.[7]

Let the grumbling smellfungi of this world, who cultivate taste among books, cobwebs, and spiders, rail at the extravagance of the age; for my part, I was delighted with the magic of the scene, and as the ladies tripped through the mazes of the dance, sparkling and glowing and dazzling, I, like the honest Chinese, thanked them heartily for the jewels and finery with which they loaded themselves, merely for the entertainment of bystanders, and blessed my stars that I was a bachelor.

The gentlemen were considerably numerous, and being, as usual, equipt in their appropriate black uniforms, constituted a sable regiment, which contributed not a little to the brilliant gayety of the ball-room. I must confess I am indebted for this remark to our friend the cockney, Mr. ’Sbidlikensflash, or _’Sbidlikens_, as he is called for shortness. He is a fellow of infinite verbosity—stands in high favor—with himself—and, like Caleb Quotem, is “up to everything.” I remember when a comfortable, plump-looking citizen led into the room a fair damsel, who looked for all the world like the personification of a rainbow; ’Sbidlikens observed that it reminded him of a fable, which he had read somewhere, of the marriage of an honest, painstaking snail, who had once walked six feet in an hour for a wager, to a butterfly whom he used to gallant by the elbow, with the aid of much puffing and exertion. On being called upon to tell where he had come across the story, ’Sbidlikens absolutely refused to answer.

It would but be repeating an old story to say that the ladies of New York dance well—and well may they, since they learn it scientifically, and begin their lessons before they have quit their swaddling clothes. The immortal Duport has usurped despotic sway over all the female heads and heels in this city; horn-books, primers, and pianos are neglected to attend to his positions; and poor Chilton, with his pots and kettles and chemical crockery, finds him a more potent enemy than the whole collective force of the “North River Society.”[8] ’Sbidlikens insists that this dancing mania will inevitably continue as long as a dancing-master will charge the fashionable price of five-and-twenty dollars a quarter, and all other accomplishments are so vulgar as to be attainable at “half the money;” but I put no faith in ’Sbidlikens’ candor in this particular. Among his infinitude of endowments, he is but a poor proficient in dancing; and though he often flounders through a cotillon, yet he never cut a pigeon-wing in his life.

In my mind there’s no position more positive and unexceptionable than that most Frenchmen, dead or alive, are born dancers. I came pounce upon this discovery at the assembly, and I immediately noted it down in my register of indisputable facts; the public shall know all about it. As I never dance cotillons, holding them to be monstrous distorters of the human frame, and tantamount in their operations to being broken and dislocated on the wheel, I generally take occasion, while they are going on, to make my remarks on the company. In the course of these observations I was struck with the energy and eloquence of sundry limbs, which seemed to be flourishing about without appertaining to anybody. After much investigation and difficulty, I at length traced them to their respective owners, whom I found to be all Frenchmen to a man. Art may have meddled somewhat in these affairs, but nature certainly did more. I have since been considerably employed in calculations on this subject; and by the most accurate computation I have determined that a Frenchman passes at least three-fifths of his time between the heavens and the earth, and partakes eminently of the nature of a gossamer or soap-bubble. One of these jack-o’-lantern heroes, in taking a figure, which neither Euclid nor Pythagoras himself could demonstrate, unfortunately wound himself—I mean his feet—his better part—into a lady’s cobweb muslin robe; but perceiving it at the instant, he set himself a-spinning the other way, like a top, unraveled his step, without omitting one angle or curve, and extricated himself without breaking a thread of the lady’s dress! he then sprung up, like a sturgeon, crossed his feet four times, and finished this wonderful evolution by quivering his left leg, as a cat does her paw when she has accidentally dipped it in water. No man, “of woman born,” who was not a Frenchman, or a mountebank, could have done the like.

Among the new faces I remarked a blooming nymph, who has brought a fresh supply of roses from the country to adorn the wreath of beauty, where lilies too much predominate. As I wish well to every sweet face under heaven, I sincerely hope her roses may survive the frosts and dissipations of winter, and lose nothing by a comparison with the loveliest offerings of the spring. ’Sbidlikens, to whom I made similar remarks, assured me that they were very just and very prettily exprest; and that the lady in question was a prodigious fine piece of flesh and blood. Now, could I find it in my heart to baste these cockneys like their own roast beef—they can make no distinction between a fine woman and a fine horse.

I would praise the sylph-like grace with which another young lady acquitted herself in the dance, but that she excels in far more valuable accomplishments. Who praises the rose for its beauty, even though it is beautiful?

The company retired at the customary hour to the supper-room, where the tables were laid out with their usual splendor and profusion. My friend, ’Sbidlikens, with the native forethought of a cockney, had carefully stowed his pocket with cheese and crackers, that he might not be tempted again to venture his limbs in the crowd of hungry fair ones who throng the supper-room door; his precaution was unnecessary, for the company entered the room with surprising order and decorum. No gowns were torn—no ladies fainted—no noses bled—nor was there any need of the interference of either managers or peace officers.

NO. II.—WEDNESDAY, FEB. 4, 1807.

FROM THE ELBOW-CHAIR OF LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQUIRE.

In the conduct of an epic poem, it has been the custom, from time immemorable, for the poet occasionally to introduce his reader to an intimate acquaintance with the heroes of his story, by conducting him into their tents, and giving him an opportunity of observing them in their night-gown and slippers. However I despise the servile genius that would descend to follow a precedent, though furnished by Homer himself, and consider him as on a par with the cart that follows at the heels of the horse, without ever taking the lead, yet at the present moment my whim is opposed to my opinion; and whenever this is the case, my opinion generally surrenders at discretion. I am determined, therefore, to give the town a peep into our divan; and I shall repeat it as often as I please, to show that I intend to be sociable.