Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

"We are quite sensible that as far as the mere composition
is concerned there is very great merit in its publication.
The style is vigorous and lively--and not unfrequently the
animation rises into eloquence. The narrative parts of the
volumes are in general exceedingly well written; and we must
not omit to say, that during those short intervals when the
author permits himself to lose sight of his extreme opinions
he rarely fails to delight the reader with a page or two
distinguished by acute observation and good sense.

"Still, the faults of the book are of the most serious kind.
It is incomplete in plan: for it is neither a regular
narrative, nor a treatise, nor a commentary, nor a history,
nor an article for a review--but something of all five. As
we have said, it is written in a tone highly excited and
partial; and it has the misfortune to appear before the
world as the exponent of seemingly a new, but in reality of
an old and familiar, doctrine, by employing examples and
reasonings of which very few people indeed will not be able
to detect at once either the sophistry or the
incompleteness.

"We forbear to enter into any general discussion on the
well-worn topics of the Pilgrim Fathers and the Puritan
settlements. The verdict of an impartial age has been long
ago pronounced on these questions: and we may well deplore
the unsound judgment of any writer of the deserved eminence
of Judge Haliburton who gratuitously brings upon himself an
imputation of outrageous eccentricity by attempting to
unsettle, on his own single authority, conclusions so well
and so long established....

"There is a great deal said in these volumes in
disparagement of the early New Englanders. They are
stigmatized as turbulent, schismatic, dishonest,
revolutionary, bigoted, cruel, and so on. These are old
charges, which have been several times placed in their true
light; and it is needless again to undertake a defence and
to enter into explanations which are familiar to most
educated persons. We are not the indiscriminate admirers of
the policy pursued by the first colonists of Massachusetts
Bay; but the course which they adopted, the communities
which they built up, and the form of liberty which they
introduced into the New World can be adequately understood
only when surveyed from a comprehensive and impartial point
of view. It is at best a shallow criticism which contents
itself with the discovery that the settlers were religious
zealots, and had no particular respect for either kings or
bishops.

... "We close these volumes. We regret that the author has
been so ill-advised as to publish them at all. They are well
written, as we have said--and in some respects possess great
merit; but truth compels us to add, that they are very
unworthy of the author and of the great questions they
profess to elucidate and discuss."

A FEW QUESTIONS FROM A WORN-OUT LORGNETTE.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

BY A. OAKEY HALL.

I trust I am not _now_ impertinent, however much so I may have been heretofore. I have seen and observed a great deal. My observations have engendered experiences. My experiences have some point to them. And altogether, I think I am entitled to ask a few questions of those whom I have sometimes overlooked, but now address myself to most immediately. I am proud to say that I never belonged to but one mistress. I was of too much value to be exchanged, lost, lightly parted with, or--I feel prouder as I say it--_sold_. Moreover, I was a _gage d'amour_. That fascinating Dr. ----!

But though curious, I will be discreet. This sole mistress of mine gave me plenty to do. Many thanks to her for it, since it has given me an insight into much that is wonderful. I am certain she preferred opera to the drama. I saw more of the stage at the first, and more of the audience at the last. I have found much in both to puzzle me. Some things I have solved. As for that which remains, I had hoped to determine for myself, but an unlucky fall from a nail has spoiled my sight. I have been now two months imprisoned in an _escrutoire_. Others must answer my questions.

In the first place, I want to know why theatres and opera houses have such curious odors when empty? I have often perceived this fact when our carriage came announced the last of all. And why are the lights turned out when the audience have half-way reached the front doors? What becomes of the bills which are left behind? Do the rag-pickers ever break in? Where do the musicians go to through that little door in the stage? And why does the kettle drummer always glance around the house upon entering with such an air of satisfaction? As if any one cared for _him_! Why does the leader always stop to take a pinch of snuff, while the audience are breathing in their boots and gaiters to catch the first note of the new opera? Why does the fat man with the violoncello always saw upon two strings, and leave the two in the middle to such a contemptuous silence and exile? Why do the front-bench people get up ten minutes before the performances are over, and rush from the house as if the floor was on fire, while the galleries make twice as much noise by crying "hush!" and always stay to hear the speech (if there is any), although they have not paid as much by half as they who ran away? Why does the lover, rushing upon the stage to the embrace of his mistress, stop half way to bow to the ladies in the boxes? And why doesn't the aforesaid mistress box his ears for his impoliteness? And why did she say, just before he came, "Here comes my Alonzo! Hark! I hear his step," when every door upon the stage was shut, and nothing was heard but the confused trampling behind her, which might have been the galloping of donkeys? And why did this same lady wait for him by the side of a rosewood table, covered with satin damask, and ornamented with a Wellington inkstand--and she dressed in a robe of shot-silk, with laces and feathers--while he was dressed as a valiant knight of the sixteenth century should be? And now I think of it, why did _Mr. Anderson_, in the play of "Gisippus," visit the Roman centurion in a brick house, entered through a mahogany door, with a brass plate upon it? Why do the peasantry of Europe always dress with the most expensive ribbons about their legs and arms when they come out to dance at the wedding, or to drink from pewter mugs to the health of the bride? And why do they stand like mutes at a funeral, whilst two people in their midst are plotting some horrible murder? Why do the Italian banditti wear such steeple-crowned hats when they creep through small holes, or kneel for concealment behind rocks which only cover their foreheads? Why do the soldiers in _Fra Diavolo_ stand and sing, "We must away, 'tis duty calls," while they sit at a table drinking punch, and seem in no more hurry to go than if they were paid for drinking? Why do the chamois-hunters in "Amilie" continue so urgent about going to the mountains away, after the prey, before the dawning of the day, when it is evident from the very nature of things that they couldn't be spared for such a severe service on any contingency?

Why does the lover always sing tenor in an opera? What connection is there between villany and a bass voice? What's the necessity of a _prima donna_ singing towards the ceiling when she addresses a chorus behind her? By what right does the head man in the chorus do all the gesticulating, while his fellows stand like militia-men? Who ever saw an excited basso bid a "minion away," without trying to throw his fist behind him? Why does Ernani's mistress wear such splendid diamonds, and not sell them to give him release from persecution? I have seen a sentimental young lady swear to share the poverty and disgrace of her lover, when she was fool enough to lay aside most precious jewels and dresses, which would have purchased affluence, and then robe herself in calico! Now, why did he permit _that_?

Why do stage heroines venture out into the woods in November in white silk dresses? Are there never any snakes about? And why are theatrical forests always green in the middle of winter? What kind of thermometers do managers have? Why is it that three or four stout men, with loaded pistols, allow themselves to be beaten off the stage by a slim man with a small stick? In my opinion--and I don't care who hears it--Richard the Third (whom I understand to be a natural son of one Shakespeare) was a great numskull to allow Richmond to beat him with the two dozen lanky-looking scoundrels who come in during the last scene!

Why do the fairies shake so convulsively when they soar through the air over the stage? Are stage-fairies all over the world such unequal highflyers? Who made gaiter-boots for Juno and her attendant goddesses, in the many classical plays I have witnessed? Did the Egyptians and Persians know how to make cotton-cloth a yard wide--I have measured their costumes too often behind the footlights not to know the exact measurement.

Why do people always cough in the theatre after a severe storm of thunder and lightning, and hold their handkerchiefs to their noses at such times? Why does the moon, in every opera wherein she condescends to show herself, stand still for half an hour immediately over a chimney? What is the necessity of a man dying for love, and singing himself to death like a swan, when he has strength enough of body and mind to pick up three or four pounds of _bouquets_? And why does he give them up to the spasmodic lady in white muslin, whom he has been abusing for half an hour, and declaring, in most emphatic terms, that they part from that time forward for ever? What wonderful hair-invigorator do some actors use in order to grow themselves a fine pair of bushy whiskers in fifteen minutes? How is it possible for a noble lord to have travelled over thousands of miles, to have encountered unheard-of perils, in order to return and marry the miller's maid, and yet to preserve, through years of absence, the same trousers, vest, coat, and hat, in which he first won her affections? Mentioning hats, why does the rich landholder, in modern comedy, sometimes go without a hat, when all his servants talk to him with _their_ hats upon their heads? Is there any forcible, necessary, or (to put it stronger) _absolute_, connection between a queen in distress and large quantities of pearls strung about the hair?

These are but a twentieth part of the inquiries which crowd into my questioning-box. I know they are disjointed,--as I soon shall be. But I will see what can be done for me, as things here stand, before I venture to again pile "whys" upon "wherefores."

FRAGMENTS:

FROM "THE STORY OF A SOUL," AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

BY H. W. PARKER.

A TOUR DE FORCE.

I felt myself alone--alone as one
Who leapt in joy from starry rock to rock
Across creations stream, and joyed to know
Himself alone in starry solitudes,
Communing with his soul and God; and clomb
The heights of glory, there amazed to see
The wilderness of worlds, and feel the want
Of other hearts to share excess of bliss.
Alone!--it startled me with such a fear--
A daring fear, as only spirits can have.
At once I would be every where--on all
The peopled globes where'er myself had been;
My lonely being would I spread through all.
I thought, with the velocity of thought
Which disembodied souls alone may know--
I thought, I willed, myself in thousand places
In quick and successive instants, quick as one;
And so around again, and still around,
Without an interval. Soon as a flash,
A thousand selves were scattered o'er the deep
Of distant space; and, urging on my soul,
Around and on, with energy immortal,
And swifter still, at last I seemed to grow
Ubiquitous--a multipresence dread,
A loneliness enlarged, more awful yet--
Until, in thought's extreme rapidity,
The distant selves were blended into one,
And space was gone! The universe was lost
In me--in nothingness.
Soon it returned
And stood resplendent; space again became
A mode of thought, as thought resumed its calm,
And motion ceased with will. I found myself
Far off in outer coasts of light....

MEMORY.

.... The vision changed; for still
The cherub Fancy sports beyond the grave,
Led by the hand of Reason. Once again,
My memory rose, a painted canvas, framed
In golden mouldings of immortal joy.
But now the perfect copy of a life,
With all the colors glorified, began
To melt in slow dissolving views of truth.
From out the crowded scene of mortal deeds,
A group enraged, colossal in its shapes:
Self--a dead giant, hideous and deformed,
Lay, slain with lightning, while, upon his head,
Stood holy Love, her eyes upturned to Heaven,
Her hands extended o'er the kneeling forms
Of Faith and Hope....

MUSIC.

Nor were the splendors silent all. To spirits
'Tis ever one to see, to hear, to feel--
The music of the spheres is therefore truth,
And, now, no more I heard the noise confused
Of humming stars and murmuring moons, in tones
Discordant; but as in the focal point
Of whispering rooms, so here I found at last
The centre where the perfect chords combine--
Where the full harmonies of rolling worlds
Are poring evermore in billowy seas
Of sounds, that break in thundered syllables
Unutterable to men. A naked soul
Within the central court of space, to me
The trill of myriad stars, the heavy boom
Of giant suns that slowly came and went,
The whistlings, sweet and far, of lesser orbs,
And the low thunder of more distant deeps,
Ever commingling, grew to eloquence
No mortal brain may bear. The universe
Had found a voice....

HEAVEN.

"Look to thy God." I flamed at Him with will intense,
And soon a sea of light and love arose
And bathed my soul, and filled the empty space
With overflowing glory. All was heaven;
And all the joy, the splendor, I had known
In space, to this was but the prelude harsh
Of brazen instruments, before the song
Of some incarnate seraph, breathes and rolls
A flood of fulness o'er a tranced world.
Enough to say, whate'er we wish of scene,
Society, occupation, pleasure--
Whenever wished, is ours; and this is Heaven;
This is the prize of earthly self-denial.
Freedom, the boundless freedom of the pure--
This the reward of holy self-restraint.

A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[6]

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.