Chapter II: Introduction

_Embracing a Sketch of the Origin and Organization of the Society of
Chiffonniers._

COURTEOUS READER:

In the character of an author I beg leave to salute thee as my reader; and, as host of “The Globe,” as my guest. Having for some time kept an establishment for the accommodation of travellers—that is, for supplying at moderate charges such conveniences and refreshments as are necessary to comfort and strengthen the body or outer man, I have lately been induced, indeed in a manner compelled, by the rage of competition, to add a new branch to the business; a department for providing various cates and delicious dainties to cheer and invigorate the spirit or inner man—to the end that both the mental and material palates of my patrons may be gratified at my table.

This, it is suspected, will become a general practice. As libraries are expelling decanters from steamers; sojourners at hotels will next require landlords to furnish literary as well as culinary food—books as well as butcher’s meat; philosophical essays and fashionable novels as well as pasties and beef à la mode. A change is passing over the world and none feel it more than those in my line. Temperance has already turned bar-rooms out of doors; while, from the efforts made by new doctors on diet, it is likely kitchens will soon have to follow. So far as I am concerned, the change will not be disagreeable, for I still prefer Horace to Kitchiner, and Tully to Mrs. Glasse. I can have no objection to imitate Phædo, who kept a victualing shop, and entertained those whom he fed; for like him I may peradventure have a Socrates for a boarder. May I hope, gentle guest, our acquaintance will be as agreeable to thyself as to me—that the fare to be set before thee will be to thy taste, and that I and my family may often have the prof—I mean the pleasure of thy company.

Ahem—It never was my wont to make excuses when my stock of viands was low; yet, sooth to say, the pantry is at present bare of fresh meats and of game. Vegetable and other watery aliments have been so much cried up in these parts, that old dealers in sirloins and haunches have been driven from the trade; some have taken stands in the fish-market, others opened stores for the sale of garden truck, and not a few have begun to vend “cookies and candies,” which last, strange to say, are found the most profitable. All I can therefore promise thee on the present occasion is a simple dish, or rather a wholesome bowl of spoon-meat—_un dejeuné à la cuiller_. I pray thee let not thine anger kindle at this announcement, for, on my veracity and hopes of public favor, it is a pleasant and not an unsubstantial food—a rather thick, but still an agreeable, acidulous fluid—one in which thou wilt find (what Englishmen erroneously attribute to beer) both meat and drink—though certainly not washing and mending, which Irishmen, it is said, formerly ascribed to their whiskey.

Its appearance may not be enticing to “queasy” appetites, but I have seldom known a customer who, after once tasting it, did not lick the dish clean. Pray excuse me: I am oblivious in bringing into the parlor expressions belonging to the kitchen. But I scorn to take advantage of any one—to decoy customers by false colors; _i. e._ by hanging out signboards which promise what I cannot supply. Thou hast seen my _signum_ on the title page, where it honestly indicates, as honest signs should do, the entertainment to be had within; and to convince thee of the liberal principles on which I am determined to build up my business, I ask not a doit for the meal of which thou art about to partake—all that is required of thee is to meet the small charge of the publisher for this “bill of fare.” Having done that—there is a seat—here comes thy food—now sit thee down, and in the language of mine ancient brethren of the spigot and spit, “much good may it do thee.”

There is one thing it behooves me to say, since it will, I trust, assist in making our acquaintance more lasting than from a temporary visit it otherwise might be. People of my profession are natural judges of character. Without knowing how, we become practical physiognomists—comprehending at a glance a stranger’s disposition, his station in society, and often the state of his purse—not that the latter excites my curiosity as it does that of unworthy members of the craft—men whose attentions are graduated by their ideas of the repletion or collapsion of a customer’s pockets. Now there are traits in thy countenance of a cultivated and ingenuous mind—marks stamped by Nature on her favorite offspring. Hence it is not less my duty than my desire to make thy short stay with me agreeable.

It was formerly a custom of respectable hosts to entertain an esteemed guest during his first refection with pleasant stories, traditions, local news, or other matters; on which account, chiefly, inns or taverns became known as “houses of entertainment.” Attached as I am to the good old ways of our forefathers, I will take this chair and relate some particulars which will not be distasteful to so amiable a spirit as thine. They will prepare thee for the company of a number of gentlemen, whom I hope to have the honor of introducing to thee, members of a society whose meetings are held once a week in my house. If I have not misjudged thy character, thou wilt be amused with their conversation; and wilt moreover learn the names of some new dishes, which, with their assistance, I hope shortly to serve to my customers.

I have here an abridged history of the association, drawn up by the secretary. It commences thus:

“The society was organized by a few plain individuals whose time was taken up during the day with the current occupations of life. Men of moderate capacities and attainments, they united to a little general knowledge a pretty large amount of ambition, for they determined not to be overlooked in the general herd of the living, and _not_ to sink into instant oblivion at death. They had no idea of having their individualities amalgamated with the myriads travelling with them to the grave—like drops of rain in a shower, undistinguishable from each other while falling, and never to be identifiable afterwards. They therefore cast about for the means of making some noise in the world, or of so performing their parts on its theatre, that if they could not secure the applause conferred on first rate actors, they would try to avoid the silence of contempt, that attends the entrance of poor ones, and the momentary shrug conferred on the exit of quiet ones.

“Impressed with these views, they concluded to form themselves into some kind of library or philosophical society, this appearing the most promising mode of acquiring notoriety. They hoped in this way to accomplish jointly what they could not do individually, viz. get up something in the shape of a BOOK, which should make them known while they lived, and remain a memorial of them after their decrease. It signified little how poor the performance might be, or how unfit they were to perform it, for they were aware that the more incapable an author is the more likely he is sometimes to be remembered; his unfitness being the very cause of his notoriety. They instanced the case of W. READ, an English baronet, who published a work on optics, and could neither write a line of it nor peruse one; or even tell when his book was upside down—a circumstance by which alone he is still remembered, and his name renewed in print.

“Then, as for the number of copies sold—should they be many or few—some stray ones would be almost sure to wander through a century, if not a longer period; and suppose the leaves _then_ distributed by grocers, as envelopes of tea, cheese, or soap; or pasted as linings in trunks; they might perchance call up some recollections of, or enquiries about, the authors. Nay, if a dozen copies only were printed, future bibliomaniacs would certainly treasure them up like Queen Anne’s farthings—or like the twenty-six volumes of sermons by WILLIAM DAVY, a Devonshire clergyman, of the last century, of which the first and only edition consisted of fourteen copies. A bookworm prizes one of these as a treasure; and hence, the members of the proposed association hoped some bookworms of the twentieth century would cluck over a few impressions of their work, as brooding hens over their callow young.

“The first thing was to agree on a plan, as success would depend principally upon the wisdom with which it was drawn up, and the energy and prudence with which it was carried out. Several meetings were held, and numerous measures suggested. Mr. Delf thought it would not be amiss to run over a host of institutions already established. Perhaps, (said he,) by modifying or by joining one of them, our objects might be attained. The idea was acted on, but none were found to be precisely what was wanted. Mr. Digwell remarked, that it would not answer at all to unite with any. We are (he observed) men of ordinary abilities, of humble pretensions, and never can attain distinction among abler persons. Instead of seeking initiation into Lyceums, Academies, and other bodies of the learned, among whom we can only be hewers of wood and drawers of water, lighters of lamps and riddlers of ashes—‘helps,’ not members of the family—we ought to establish ourselves on independent, unoccupied ground. Let us have a field of our own, however small it may be—one that borders on no other people’s property. [‘A pretty large field, that,’ observed Dr. Swallow.] I beg pardon; I meant one so clearly defined, so well enclosed, that there might be no danger of us trespassing on our neighbor’s grounds, or they hunting on ours.

“I am not prepared at this moment to say where such a field is, but I am persuaded it is to be had. One to which other associations have no claim—to which their ‘tracks’ do not lead. It would indeed be unworthy of us to attempt a location where the title might be disputed; and sure I am we could not start a new settlement in the vicinity of our predecessors without being abused as intruders, if not served with writs of ejectment.

_Plate 1_ _Primitive_

_Lith. of E. Jones 123 Fulton S^t. N.Y._
]

“Look at the hosts of regular associations for the promotion of _science_ in general, and others to extend its separate departments; the world is full of them; they swarm every where. It is the same with _literary_ societies: these are as common as ‘Common Schools,’ and excite about the same amount of interest. Academies of the _fine arts_, and institutions for _agricultural_ and _mechanic arts_, abound in every village. Their name is legion. So it is with _religious_, _moral_, and _active benevolent_ societies. The best, at any rate the most attractive, sites are all taken up—not a yard is left between those cultivated by national institutes, and such as are covered by parish associations for the gratuitous distribution of soup.”

[These sentiments were evidently approved, but as the evening was far advanced, a proposal was made to adjourn; when Mr. Jacob Christener rose and begged leave to say a few words.]

“The gentleman is right, Mr. Chairman, and I thank him for so clearly opening the way for a motion I have to make. He has strengthened my convictions of its propriety, and given me the confidence I lacked to bring it forward. It seems to me, sir, the only plan open to us is the one I am about to propose, and if we don’t lay hold of it, others will. It has hitherto been unthought of, but cannot long remain concealed. Reject it, and farewell to the happiness anticipated from our union while we live, and to the odor that is to exhale from our names after death. Adopt it, and this night we become the parents of a society whose auxiliaries will rise up in every land. In twelve months, we shall want a travelling agent, a foreign sec—”

[Here the speaker was interrupted with cries of “What is it?” “There’s no time for a preface to-night!” “Order!” &c.]

“Well, gentlemen, to be short, then: I propose that we organize ourselves into ‘_The Society of Literary and Scientific Chiffonniers_.’ [On this announcement, an explosion burst forth simultaneously from every mouth, except the speaker’s, and some good humored remarks were exchanged. When the excitement had a little subsided, he continued:] I was prepared for this; I expected as much; but hear me out, and then be as merry as you please. If a better plan be not brought forward—one equally original, and less open to objections—why, then it will be my turn to laugh.

“Here have we been engaged this evening five mortal hours, without agreeing on the character of the proposed association, chiefly from the difficulty of steering clear of those already established. We admit the latter are too numerous to allow an additional one of the same kind any chance of success. Why, then, excite a competition we lack means to carry on? It would be folly to attempt it; besides, we are agreed that no modification of any old institution can meet our wants. Now, the plan I propose is derived from and indebted to none. It crowds on and interferes with none, but gives to all a wide berth. There is no danger of our ever being amalgamated with any. Our identity will be preserved, for none will be in a hurry to adopt our designation or infringe on our labors.

“Let us be candid, at least among ourselves. We are, then, philosophical mendicants. We have no property of our own—not a scrap—and we confess inability to originate any. Whatever we get must come from other people; hence, as members of established societies, we could not succeed, or even be respected, for we have nothing to command respect; and I risk little in saying, if we made application for admission, nine-tenths of us would be blackballed. As well expect Chambers of Commerce to offer scavengers seats and votes at their boards; or extensive dealers in dry goods to receive the owners of apple stands into their firms. There are but two ways to realize anything—honestly and roguishly; or, as the saying is, ‘by hook or by crook.’ Now, as we disavow all ideas of hooks, (except the small and harmless ones by which chiffonniers raise moist matters into their baskets or bags,) we must, to succeed in any other society, give value for the property we acquire—but this we cannot do—or receive it as alms—which we won’t do. What, then, is left for us, but to pick up what others throw away? From my experience, gentlemen, I assert there is more to be thus got, than you are aware of. With industry, we can acquire wealth—a local habitation and a name—wealth that none will dispute with us; for it will consist of a mass of minute matters, which, individually considered, the owners will be ashamed to claim. If we cannot deal in webs and wholesale packages of fresh goods, we shall become extensive jobbers in fragments of old goods.

“Pray, who can interfere with our ranging the bye-paths and alleys, the cellars and garrets of science, in search of lumber—to pick up, as it were, bits of rags, bones, and glass, with other small matters, which the wealthy throw out, and the proud step over? None. On the contrary, we can rake at our leisure the kennels, and stir up heaps of cinders and street sweepings, without let or hindrance; and, depend upon it, we shall every now and then meet with a godsend, (as our prototypes often do, in the shape of a silver spoon or fork, thrown out in slops by slipshod scullions.) Yes, industrious chiffonniers, we shall bring many rare and lost things to light—things singularly _recherché_—curious and useful as those found in historical and antiquarian collections. If we are true to ourselves, the ‘Chiffonniers’ Repository’ will soon equal in interest any other.

“Our labors will be pleasant; we can carry off what we fancy, and leave what is disagreeable. They will be profitable. Many a chiffonnier has purchased the house in front of which he once looked out for chiffons, has changed conditions with its owner, thrown off his professional garb and stepped into the parlor, lounged as a gentleman on his own sofa, and listened to the warblings of his daughters at the piano! And who knows, Mr. Chairman, but we shall do so too—shall hold our meetings in stately buildings now belonging to other societies, compete with the wealthy Nestors of knowledge in their own halls, and perhaps at last turn them out of their own doors! [Cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’ interrupted the speaker.]

“Think, gentlemen, how interesting our meetings will be. When a member brings in his budget and displays his gatherings, who can sit still? Who can restrain his curiosity? Verily, not one of us! Then what original, erudite, and racy remarks will be made! Here, a speaker descanting on the value of spoons, or the history of gridirons; there, another relating the adventures of a stocking foot, which he proves once had a place in Queen Elizabeth’s or Madame Maintenon’s wardrobe. This member gives a lecture on the value of many simple and primitive devices which the world never thinks of; and that, shows the claims which the trammel and tinder-box have on the gratitude of mankind!

“Another word, and I have done: We shall have a jubilee once a year; for I propose that we offer a collection of chiffons at public sale, every spring or fall. Then will buyers of miscellanies crowd our marts, and bring us their wealth in exchange for our wares! We shall make a kind of Leipsic Fair of it! Gentlemen, our prospects are glorious; they brighten as we gaze at them. I feel animated by anticipations of success. I see that as Chiffonniers we shall ascend the rugged mount on which stands the temple of Fame, and get there before others who are now half way up. Bless us! what a welcome the old lady will give us to her abode! What a blast she will blow in honor of chiffonniering!—in praise of a new set of men who have cut a new path to her dwelling!”

[The speaker sat down amidst much acclamation.]

“The discussion here closed for the evening, and was resumed on the following one, when an extended and animated debate was kept up to a late hour. Various slight modifications of the plan suggested were brought forward. They will be understood from the style or title by which each speaker proposed to designate the body. The most striking were: ‘Odds and Ends Association,’ ‘Literary Rag Society,’ ‘Scientific Scrap ditto,’ ‘Miscellany Club,’ ‘Chiffonniers’ Institute,’ ‘Society for reviving the claims and preserving memorials of sundry Primitive Inventions,’ ‘Emporium of Philosophical Small Wares.’ The general feeling settled on the fourth and fifth. At the first ballot, the votes stood equally in favor of the Miscellanarians and the Chiffonniers—but on the second, the street rovers and rag pickers were triumphant.

“The Chiffonniers admitted ‘The Miscellany Club’ would be a more respectable designation; and the Miscellanarians conceded that ‘The Chiffonniers’ Institute’ was characteristic and select. By a subsequent and unanimous vote, the latter was changed to ‘_The Society of Literary and Scientific Chiffonniers_,’ as at first proposed.

“A constitution was next agreed on. It declares the objects of the society to be, the picking up of literary, philosophical, mechanical, or other fragments, from unusual or neglected sources, and to revive the claims of simple, and what are generally deemed insignificant, devices. It is the duty of each member to visit odd and out of the way places, open to him, in search of chiffons. Common subjects of discussion are excluded at the meetings. A paper on matches or walking-sticks would be applauded, while one on the strength or other properties of timber would be a signal for the author’s expulsion. A communication on costume would be received perhaps with indifference, but if confined to a single article of apparel, or to a fragment of one, would be hailed with acclamation. A lecture on any regular manufacture, as glass making, iron founding, earthen ware, the furniture of a parlor or kitchen, &c. would hardly be admissible; but one on a bottle, or part of one, on a caldron, a pipkin, a broken chair, or a cheese grater, would rejoice the hearts of the members. Every chiffonnier to prepare a paper or lecture on a chiffon, in his turn.

“At the first meeting under the constitution, the expressive apothegm ‘_Vive la Bagatelle_’ was selected as the Society’s motto. The author of the plan adopted was chosen President, but as Mr. Christener persisted in declining the chair, to which he was entitled, the late Dr. Nathan Swallow was elected, though not by a unanimous vote. No other member possessed such varied qualifications. His experience with men and matters was extensive, for he had dabbled in almost every thing, but succeeded in few.

“Had been every thing by starts, but nothing long.”

“How he came by his title is a vexed question, as he was never known to have studied medicine, nor to have dealt in drugs, except one which no longer holds a place in the pharmacopia. Alchemy was his favorite study, and he is said to have made a near approach to projection; _i. e._ to the composition of a powder which, thrown into certain ingredients, transmutes them to gold. Certain it is, he realized money by a secret of this kind, while others who tried it were ruined. One person of property lost his all in two years; and another was beggared in less time, and consigned, a hopeless maniac, to a lunatic asylum; but the history of modern as well as ancient alchemy is full of such things.

“He talked on all subjects, practical or theoretical, physical or metaphysical; on the properties of iron and whiskey, colors and calicoes, filial obedience and the philosopher’s stone; on the evils of theatres, and the performance of crack actors. He occasionally performed Falstaff, and without stuffing, for he was what the French call _chargé de cuisine_. Columbus himself was not more embued with the spirit of adventure. Within a fortnight of first hearing the terms geognosy, hornblende, serpentine, trilobite, and madrepore, in a conversation between two geologists, he had a person at work labeling a basket of minerals; and getting the names of a dozen by heart, boldly proposed to undertake the survey of a state. An extraordinary chiffonnier, he dashed without hesitancy into every opening where chiffons were likely to be had—he was not one of those who confine themselves to street sweepings, but was ever on the _qui vive_ for wholesale speculations. Dryden certainly must have dreamt of him when describing Buckingham, for

He was often in the course of one revolving moon,
Author, actor, artist, cook, chemist, and buffoon:

“And in another month as many more.

“Rich in Apician lore, he could enumerate the famous dishes of old, from those placed on the table of Heliogabalus to Spartan broth and Athenian porridge, and could name the ingredients of all. In modern cookery, he was more at home; nothing escaped his observation, and but little his palate. His taste was equal to Pollio’s; his knowledge of the mysteries of the kitchen surpassed that of M. Beaujeu. See him take his seat at a supper party; watch him draw a laden dish towards him, and you would shudder from a dread that his eyes were about to drop into his plate—as if attached like those of the chameleon to the ends of flexible tubes, so fearfully did they advance and recede. He was at one time known as ‘Spoonie,’ and ‘Eating Nat,’ for he had an appetite equal to Galba’s—a stomach capacious as that of Vitellius. His spoon, and he had one for his exclusive use, might apply to him, with a slight alteration, an epigram by Boileau:

Here lies my owner, and heaven knows,
Not less for mine than his repose.

“An excellent representative of the god of raillery and ridicule—that is, if Momus was a short and squab fellow of forty, with a droll leer, a shambling gait, and a touch of Silenus or Bacchus about him. Exceedingly facetious, the Doctor told stories equal to Matthews or Hackett, and rivaled Braham in singing. He was full of first rate though second hand wit. His physiognomy was prepossessing, though his friends used to joke him about a devil lurking in his eye, which, they said, appeared sly as Sancho’s, and mischievous as the solitary one in Ichabod Crane’s nag.

“His knowledge was said by his friends to have been universal. In science, an Arago; in philosophy, a Newton; in chemistry, a Farraday or Berzelius; in general knowledge, a Crichton. Well versed in Thaumaturgy, he certainly could beat conjurers at their own weapons. An adept in Metoposcopy, he saw at once the various points in human character, and by some mesmeric influence could always open a communication between himself and those in whose affairs he wished to take an interest.

“All great men have their enemies, and Doctor Swallow was not without his. He had to pay the usual penalty exacted by envious detractors. These insisted that he was a literary Bombastes, in veracity a Mandeville, in morals a Mephistopheles, in scheming a Machiavel, and in every thing except humbugging a humbug. A retailer of other men’s ideas, which (said they) he claimed as his own, and, like all liars, often forgot himself and claimed them in the presence of those from whom he received them—that his life was a lie. There is little doubt, that both parties were wrong. He never was the angel one made him, nor the devil the other called him; but, whatever he was, he was made President of the Society; and, all things considered, it was thought a better selection could not have been made; for, as an old chiffonnier, he had picked up more chiffons, and knew how to make more of them, than any other artist who lived by the hook.

“Popular with most of the members, nearly all consulted him on subjects they brought forward. Ever ready to give advice, and seldom more pleased than when asked for it. Though he never wrote a paper but one, and of the authorship of that some doubts have been raised, he was a judge of what would ‘take;’ or, what often amounts to the same thing, he had that reputation.

“When conducted to the chair, he rose with smiles playing round his lips and satisfaction sparkling in his eyes, and thus commenced his opening address: Gentlemen, I ... I know not how to thank you for this honor. I ... I ... d—n it, I cannot make a formal speech—I never could—unless I had it by heart. I tried once before at extempore, but it was no go; after getting rid of a few sentences, a kind of mental and physical lock-jaw seized me, and there I stood—my mouth wide open, and without the power to close it, or to call to mind what I meant to say. It was said I stood grinning like a Barbary ape, and in my efforts to articulate might have stood longer, if Medlar had not pulled me down by the skirt, while saying loud enough (hang him) for half the room to hear, ‘don’t make an ass of yourself, Nat.’ Gentlemen, that man is now here, and I never see him without thinking of the predicament I was in, and the ugly epithet he gave me. I cannot go on unless he goes out, and I am not sure even then. But, gentlemen, if I cannot thank you as I’d like to, I can treat you to something better—something to eat. Will not a member move an adjournment to my house, where we can discuss matters more at ease, and amuse ourselves at intervals with a cold cut and a drop of”—[Ere the proposition was finished, the meeting adjourned amidst cries of ‘Bravo!’ ‘Excellent!’ ‘A first rate speech, that, Doctor!’]

“Rëassembled at his dwelling, the party partook of a substantial supper, during which a curious conversation arose on variety of tastes for food. Mr. Milder, an amiable and highly intelligent young man, but rather odd in some of his views, thought it artificial; others, with the Doctor, contended that it was natural. Nature, it was said, never designed men to live on one kind of food; if she had, she would not have furnished them with so many. She moreover produces no one in sufficient quantities to supersede all others, nor has she distributed any one over the whole earth. That’s true, observed the Doctor; if we were designed to have but one dish, as pork, beef, mutton, or turkey, bread, cabbage, potatoes, or yams, I should like to know where _enough_ is to come from? The case is different with drink. Water may be the natural beverage of animals and men, for it is every where, and every where abundant; but not so with either animal or vegetable food. It was further observed by the advocates for variety, that we might as well read only one book as eat of one dish; for if material palates are originally moulded after one pattern, so are literary ones. But no, said they; Nature has made both to vary as much as the minds and persons or faces of men. The Doctor thought if men had but one dish for the body and another for the mind, it would save a world of trouble to booksellers and keepers of eating houses; yet, even with those people, he was sure things were better as they are, because, said he, different tastes bring into action diverse talents, and so give employment to hosts of writers, and, what is better, to swarms of cooks. It is therefore right that what suits one stomach should not be the thing to tickle all others. Here is my friend, Sam Tortiller, imagines a connection between the bent of man’s genius and his favorite food; as if by knowing the general course of a person’s studies one could tell what he craves for his dinner, and _vice versa_. I don’t believe a word of it. A writer on morals may love pork, and an author of romances abhor it; but, to my knowledge, all pork eaters are not righteous men, nor those who let pigs alone composers of fiction. Professor Freeling often digests turkey, but it’s not every chemist who can afford to put that into his digester. Then there is Finelli, a lover of shell fish—but what then?—if the lady that poets call the Genius of Song sometimes visits an oyster cellar, she does not confine her favors to those who either chew or eschew clams, crabs, and lobsters. Mr. Milder, let me help you to a slice of this ham; I believe you have not tasted it.”

“Not any for me; I never eat any, Mr. President.”

“Not eat ham! Why, you are neither a Jew nor a Turk, I hope, to abominate those glorious animals that supply us with the richest of all relishes?”

“No; but I prefer hams from China, if I must eat any.”

“O! O! I thought you knew what’s good! Well! I can’t say this fine fellow ever ran through the streets of Canton; but, is the difference of flavor between your oriental favorites and ours very sensible?”

“Very.”

“Ah! I must get my friend, Captain Drinker, to bring over a Chinaman grunter, or a few hams; but, will these not spoil on the voyage?”

“No danger of that. The fact is, sir, I am not a consumer of animal food; the joints I allude too are _vegetable_ ones. They are described by La Compte and other travellers.”

“You are joking, (observed the Doctor, inquiringly;) Sam, here, says you are a terrible bore that way!”

“Not at all, (replied Mr. Milder;) I almost hope to see the day when no other hams will be used. You have heard of _wooden_ ones?”

“Yes! Carved blocks of wood, so neatly sewed up in hog skins, as to deceive the eyes of the keenest pork butchers! Yes; I have read of people boiling them, but I never heard of any having been _eaten_.”

“True; but even that is not so unlikely as you seem to think.”

“I pray heaven, (said the Doctor,) the practice may never become general; the chine of a two year old shote is with me a favorite dish. What reason have you for supposing it ever will, Mr. Milder?”

“Why, sir, you of course know that a few years ago, a German philosopher discovered the nutritious elements of wheaten bread in wooden meal—that he made wholsome cakes out of pine boards, and supported his wife and five children for seven weeks on dumplings kneaded of dough formed of fine sawdust and water. The paste, it is said, rose without leaven, and when cooked was really delicious—especially so, when lubricated with molasses, or sprinkled with the essence of sugar, extracted by Braçonnot from old rags and scrap paper. Now, an ingenious friend of mine has been engaged on a somewhat analogous subject for the last twelve months, and, from an experiment I witnessed yesterday, I have no hesitation in avowing my confidence in his assertion that he will shortly produce good palatable pork out of whitewood, and well seasoned hams from red cedar.”

[Much laughter, during which the Doctor observed, in a suppressed voice, to the gentleman at his right, “Sam, this fellow is a devil of a quiz; I cannot believe he is serious, and yet what a solemn phiz he puts on.”]

“Now, sir, (continued Mr. Milder,) where is there a man of feeling who would not rejoice at the success of my friend, in attempting to change the world from a shambles for gratifying the carnivorous appetites of our species—a slaughter house constantly flooded with gore and vibrating with the shrieks of expiring victims? For my part, sir, I never see a female cutting up raw flesh, her hands smeared with blood—now killing, plucking, embowelling, and at last, with perfect nonchalance, transfixing innocent fowls or sucking pigs on the spit, without shuddering at the disgusting employment—at the horrible effects of indulging unnatural appetites! O! how would the spirit of humanity exult at the abolition of animal diet—or even at the general introduction of vegetable hams! These would be a consummation in morals and science devoutly to be wished—to be prayed for; all Nature, sir, would rejoice at their manufacture—at any rate, sir, you will admit, all PIGS would—and well they might, as they would (to use a vulgar expression) then save their own bacon! Yes! Their days of mourning would then be over.

“And why should they not save it, sir, as well as we preserve ours? Has not a pig organs, dimensions, feelings, passions, affections? If struck, does it not cry? If wounded, does it not bleed? If imprisoned and in bonds, does it not struggle to be free? If driven to the shambles, does it not refuse to go? When slain, does it not suffer the pangs of death? In one word, sir, is not life as precious to pigs as to any of us? And would they not have cause to rejoice were they and their offspring no longer murdered ere living out half their days? Millions are slain in their infancy, and their parents in the vigor of life! Upwards of a century ago, not less than 52,500 sucking innocents were annually immolated in London alone!

Lovely buds—their mother’s pride!

[Here, as at every other pause made by the speaker, excessive laughter broke out afresh; but, unembarrassed, he continued:]

“There is something else, sir, in connection with this subject, which every lover of his country should deplore. Slavery is an unmitigated evil, and we are taught to admire the free States for shaking the incubus off; it is, however, a melancholy fact, that the citizens of what is called one of the most enlightened and liberal, are carrying to a horrible extent, a system almost equally atrocious. As if regretting their lost dominion over negroes, they seem determined to be revenged a hundred fold upon a race, between which and ours Blumenbach, in his remarks on varieties of complexion, has traced many analogies. Yes! The capital city of Ohio is rapidly rising into power, on the bodies of slaughtered swine! She is already known as ‘The Emporium of Pork’—a designation which wicked Nineveh or more wicked Gomorrah would have shrunk from. Her merchandise is flesh. Her bulletins are occupied with its sales, and as the market price rises and falls, so does the value of her real estate. Her merchants are butchers; her staple is stearine; her palaces are built with the price of blood, and illumined at night with the fat of her slain! All her lamps are replenished with lard! Like Babylon, ‘seated on many waters, and drunken with blood,’ so reclines Cincinnati, on a larger stream than the Euphrates, clothed in scarlet, and proudly calling herself ‘Queen of the West!’ But let her beware—for, depend upon it, sir, vengeance will not sleep forever; and when pigs get their rights, she will meet her deserts!”

[On Mr. Milder concluding his remarks, a shout of laughter arose that shook both floor and table. Some held their sides, and groaned with pain; others screeched as they, ever and anon, glanced at the imperturbable gravity of Mr. M. and the woful appearance of the President’s face.]

* * * * *

But, indulgent guest, I am trespassing too much on thy patience. I will therefore lay aside, for the present, this account of the Society, and the rather since the author presses hard on the late President. They never were friendly. The Doctor, like other men, had his faults; but he had good qualities as well. Peace to his ashes! He was one of my best customers in one respect though not in another; for he never was in a hurry to wipe out his scores, and, to speak truth, some he never wiped out. When my turn came round for a paper, I consulted him for a subject, and submitted to him what I wrote. Desirous of not disgracing my former profession of schoolmaster, I took particular pains; but the subject was new, and embarrassed me much. When I left the choice to him, I little imagined he would take a knife from the table, and insist that _it_ should be my text. However, I made out tolerably well; though he was sparing of praise. He was, in fact, not altogether pleased with my “Adventures of a Carving Knife;” but he made ample amends on another occasion, as will soon be perceived.

My next attempt was a higher flight—a composition half dramatic. There were passages in it of tragic interest: at least, _I_ thought so. The subject—an ancient pincushion, brought over in the Mayflower. I had a presentiment that I should take the Doctor by surprise—snatch him up, as by a hurricane, into the regions of romance, and extort his praise ere he had time to descend and recover his self-possession. And, sure enough, something even more than this took place.

By appointment, I met him at his own house. He was in a happy mood, having just risen from dinner. We retired to the parlor, and I handed him the MS. Drawing his arm-chair in front of the fire, and desiring me to take another, he made a remark about the high price of beef, and commenced reading the first paragraph; but he made such murdering work of the sense, running one sentence half way into another, and then stopping as if brought up by a period, that I wriggled in the chair, and felt my viscera squirming like eels in a bag. I stopped him to explain, but he ascribed every thing to what he called my illegible hand. I proposed to read it myself. To this, he consented; and, for the benefit of light, I stepped to the window, some distance behind him; a circumstance which increased my confidence, and left him free to enter into the spirit of the story, unembarrassed with external interruptions.

I had not got through the first chapter before he gave utterance to some short but flattering expressions. They encouraged me wonderfully, and ere the second was finished became more frequent; the words “rich!” “capital!” dropped from him several times. I felt elated, and went on trippingly to the end—borne along by the kindness of his manner, and quite lifted up with the confidence of having fairly gained his approbation. The reading did not occupy over fifteen minutes; and, when finished, I remained standing, ready, with pencil in hand, to make such corrections and alterations as he might suggest. He seemed to be balancing the merits of different parts; for he said, as if to himself, “that was overdone;” “the other excellent;” “capital!” He resembled the gentleman mentioned by Horace,

Who long imagin’d that he heard the tone
Of deep Tragedians on an empty stage,
And sat applauding, in ecstatic rage.

_Plate 2_ _Roman_

]

My feelings quickly overcame my politeness, and I cried “Come, Doctor, what is the sentence? Life or death?” (I had heard enough to know what it would be.) As I said this, I resumed my seat beside him, and thanked him for the kind attention he had given to the humble performance; but I had scarcely finished the last word ere my old friend gave a memorable proof of the intense interest he had taken in the story—of the fine sensibilities of his nature, and the depth of his feelings. Now, Sir Guest, what think you he did? Perhaps you say: ‘I suppose, Mr. Westman, his cheeks were streaming with tears—his passions, excited by the incidents of the story, had not recovered their natural tone! Or, did he spring from his seat and embrace the magician, who had such power to enchant him? Either would have been very natural.’

He did neither, sir; he was unable to rise.

‘Indeed! Why, what was the matter?’

His mental and bodily powers were prostrated.

‘What do you mean?’

He was dead! th—

‘_Dead!_ did you say, Mr. Westman?’

On my conscience, yes sir; that is, he was, as the saying goes, _dead asleep_! As for tears, his cheeks were as free from them as the back of my hand, and his face calm as an infant’s reposing on its mother’s breast.

‘You really surprise me!’

I was astonished myself sir.

‘And how did you act on making this strange discovery?’

I don’t exactly know what I did, sir—nor what I thought—nor how I felt. I was paralyzed—deprived of the powers of speech and motion. My respiration was thick, and at last suspended. I believe I sat gazing on him five minutes without breathing or moving a muscle, except those by which the lower jaw is dropped to its farthest extent, and such as push the eyes out of the head. There was no mistake about his slumbers; to satisfy myself that they were genuine, I remember stretching my face towards his till both were nearly in contact. His mouth was wide open, and I had a full view of the horrible cavern within. What I suffered, ere I had power to leave my seat, was dreadful. Impalement could hardly, I should think, surpass it. When at last I rose and stepped in front of him, heaven forgive me, for, though I say it myself, a quieter man does not breathe, I felt as much inclined to push the end of my cane down his gullet as ever I had to send any thing pleasant down my own.

On second thoughts, I took my hat, put the MS. in my pocket, and walked softly to the door of the room; when I heard him mutter something about “Betty ... sauce rich; veal ... overdone; rabbits ... excellent.” The brute, sir—pardon the uncivil word—was dreaming about his dinner; but that was not all, nor the worst; for it was now clear he had fallen asleep almost as soon as he sat down, and the expressions of approbation which I had foolishly taken to myself were in reality compliments to Betty’s skill in roasting and boiling! When this truth flashed on my mind, I felt keenly—my wrath rose, and Satan strongly urged me back to take leave of him by no gentle shake of his person or tweak of his proboscis—but either my good genius or his own interfered, and I hastened out of the house, without meeting one of the family. I am ashamed to say, I felt very unwell during the rest of the day, being greatly more affected than a sensible mart should have been; but our feelings are not in our power.

I mentioned the circumstance to a few members the same evening, and learned the Doctor had been in gay company all the morning, and was certainly half drunk at the time of my interview with him. I certainly did notice something strange in him, but my mind was wholly absorbed on the paper. We were anxious to know how he would face the matter out; for no one believed he would for a moment acknowledge being asleep. Within a few days, Medlar, Pickwell, and I, met him in the street; when,—would you believe it?—without the slightest indication of embarrassment, he began the following colloquy:

‘Neighbor Westman, further reflection has convinced me your last paper will never do. It will gain you neither credit with the members nor custom from their friends.’

_Further reflection_, did you say, Doctor!

‘There’s nothing in it, believe me, (said he,) neither life—’

Rather nettled, I abruptly asked _what_ he wanted in it.

‘I’ll tell you what I don’t want—(he replied;) a tale dull and monotonous from beginning to end—one without a grain of piquancy in it—flat and distasteful as buckwheat cakes without salt or sauce.’

Now I thought I had done better than could have been expected; but stop, did you hear a word of—

‘_Expected!_ (he cried out, as if wanting to hear nothing more;) I expect, and so will the members, something like the spices and pickles at your ordinaries, and which you know full well often help an insipid dish down. The paper has but one quality that can render it of any service.’

What may that be?

‘It might serve on occasion as a soporific.’

I believe I colored at this, and said sharply, Yes, I understand. It composed _you_ to sleep quick enough—or something else did.

‘No! not asleep; (said he, unabashed, as with a face of flint—absolutely staggering me with the audacious falsehood;) I remember feeling a little drowsy.’

Indeed! Do you recollect anything else?

‘No! nothing particular—ex—except that my strictures were perhaps too severe; but I did not wish to mislead you by being less pointed.’

_Your strictures, eh!_ Why, you made none, and for the best of reasons! Look ye, Doctor, you may, for aught I know, be able to catch authors napping when you’re awake, but not when you’re actually snoring. I’ve seen further into your head than you imagine.

Mr. Westman, (said he, in a bristling manner,) I hope you don’t mean to—to—t—t—t—’

Yes, I do! and what’s more Doctor, I felt so confoundedly queer that I had some difficulty in refraining from—

‘From what?’

Never mind; I’ve got over it now; but you don’t see another paper of mine, I promise you, unless you will go through it before dinner. “Further reflection,” as you say, has convinced me the last is yet defective. I’ll revise, and we’ll read it some evening.

‘Better put it in the fire, some morning, (he said, resentfully, as if caught in an unpleasant dilemma, and determined to get out with a bold face; then assuming a patronizing tone, added:) Believe me, neighbor, you, and others I wot of, will never succeed in life till you let scribbling alone.’

Then, Doctor, let me tell you tha—

‘Peace, (he interrupted,) I pray you, peace! I know you, and Medlar, and Fribble, and Delever, well. Your talents are good of their _kind_, and may be useful in their _place_.’

In their place! Where is that?

‘_In the kitchen!_ Confine your energies to your proper vocations, and you may do well. Stick to your fires and fuel, your andirons and hearths, spits and bellows, pots and pans, knives and forks—to your ladles and spoons—to—’

Enough! Enough! Egad, Doctor, you are right this time! (I exclaimed.) Yes, we will! We’ll write papers on all of them; and I’ll begin myself with THE SPOON.

On hearing this, he gazed intently on my face, and, as he turned on his heel, whispered in my ear, “Habbakuk, thou hast been handling thy decanters this morning!”

* * * * *

I have no more to add, except to appeal, courteous reader, to thy judgment. Let me, therefore, entreat thee not to peruse the following pages directly after dinner, lest Morpheus make his appearance, and thou shouldst sin, like the President of the Chiffonnier Society, by ascribing the imp’s visit to

HAB’K O. WESTMAN.

=The Spoon;=

ANCIENT AND MODERN.