TO THE EDITOR OFBENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.
Sir,—In submitting for your inspection, the poem which I now do myself the honour of forwarding to you, permit me to intimate to you the origin of its composition, and to indulge in one or two remarks.
The author is a particular friend of my own; a gentleman who, marrying at a rather advanced stage in the journey of life, was unexpectedly and agreeably presented with a small earnest of posterity in the shape of a son. Parental feelings, like many other good things, are better late than never; and it has often struck me that such feelings are much stronger, considerably more fervent, and, indeed, a great deal better when they do come late. Methinks the love of grandfather, grandmother, uncle, great-aunt, and a wholekitof cousins, is blended in the sexagenarian sire. It will be perceived, from the affecting apostrophe or invocation, that my friend commenced his poem with praiseworthy promptitude; and I do hope that its success will be more than commensurate with his expectations. The youth is now half-past six, in the morning of existence. I have, once only, had the pleasure of meeting him. He entered his father's study somewhat abruptly, mounted on a timber steed, which, I am advised, he is already perfectly able to manage; and, immediately he opened his mouth, with a raspberry-jam border to it, I perceived that he would, at no distant day, become not only a worthy member, but an undoubted ornament, of society. But this is from my present purpose.
Your Miscellany, sir, professes to furnish materials for the amusement and delight of the community; and hitherto you have acted up to your professions. But were it not as well, allow me to suggest, that you should combine instruction with amusement,—that you should clear the heart as well as purify the liver—that you shouldattend to the mind at the same time that you tickle the midriff? You must confess, when I remind you of it, that the rising generation has strong claims upon you, which I am sure you will be anxious, and indeed most happy, to allow. The Youth's New Vade-Mecum, then, is a compendious manual of instruction, which cannot fail of becoming permanently serviceable and efficient. Similar although I allow it to be, in many respects, to certain "Guides to Youth" and "Young Man's Best Companions" which have been published, yet I cannot but think that the precision with which the precepts are laid down in it, and the judicious manner in which they are conveyed, must cause it very shortly to supersede all other works of the same nature.
I enclose for your gratification the real name of the author, and I grant you the discretionary power of whispering it to any grateful parent (there may be many such) who would fain make the acquaintance and cultivate the friendship of their benefactor: and I have the honour to be, sir,
Your obedient, humble servant,
Charles Whitehead.
THE YOUTH'S NEW VADE-MECUM.
My son, whose infant head I now survey,Guiltless of hair, whilst mine, alas! is grey,—Whose feeble wailings through my bosom thrill,And cause my heart to shake my very frill,—Incline thine ear, quick summon all thy thought,And take this wisdom which my love has brought:Perpend these precepts; sift, compare, combine;And be my brain's results transferr'd to thine.Soon as thy judgment shall grow ripe and strong,Learn to distinguish between right and wrong:Yet ponder with deliberation slow,Whether thy judgment be yet ripe or no;For wrong, when look'd at in a different light,Behold! is oft discovered to be right,Andvice versâ—(such the schoolmen's phrase)—Right becomes wrong, so devious Reason's maze!Take only the best authors' mental food,For too much reading is by no means good;And, since opinions are not all correct,Thy books thyself must for thyself select.Accumulate ideas: yet despiseReputed wisdom,—folly oft is wise;And wisdom, if the mass be not kept cool,Mothers, and is the father of, a fool.Be virtuous and be happy: good! but, stop,—They sow the seed who never reap the crop;For virtue oft, which men so much exact,Like ancient china, is more precious crack'd;And happiness, forsooth, not over-nice,Sometimes enjoys a pot and pipe with vice.Get rich; 'tis well for mind and body's health:But never, never be the slave of wealth.The gain of riches is the spirit's loss;And, oh! my son, remember gold is dross.Be honest,—not as fools or bigots rave;Your honest man is often half a knave.Let Justice guide you; but still bear in mindThe goddess may mislead,—for she is blind.Hygeia's dictates let me now declare,For health must be your most especial care.Rise early, but beware the matin chill;'Tis fresh, but fatal,—healthy, but may kill:Nor leave thy couch, nor break the bonds of sleep,Till morning's beams from out the ocean leap;Lest, crawling, groping, stumbling on the stair,Your head descend, your heels aspire in air;As down the flight your body swiftly steals,Useless to know your head has sav'd your heels,Prone on your face with dislocated neck,You find that slumber which you sought to check.Early to bed, but not till nature call.Be moderate at meals, nor drink at all,Save when with friends you toast the faithful lass,And raise the sparkling, oft-repeated glass;Then, graver cares and worthless scruples sunk,Drink with the best, my son,—but ne'er get drunk.Bathe in cold water: cautious, and yet bold,Dive,—but the water must not betoocold:And still take care lest, as you gaily swim,Cramp should distort and dislocate each limb.When such the case, howe'er thy fancy urge,Postpone the bracing pastime, and emerge.Dangers on land as well as water teem,But now the bank is safer than the stream.Say you should chance be ill (for, after all,Men are but men on this terrestrial ball);Should sickness with her frightful train invade,Lose not a moment, but apply for aid.—Yet fancy oft, imagined symptoms sees,And nervous megrim simulates disease.—Lo! at our call—the cry of coward fear—A chemist and a cane-sucker appear:The one, tough roots from earth's intestines dug,Pounds with strong arm, dissolves the nauseous drug;The other, gazing with a portentous air,Surveys the foolish tongue that call'd him there;To dulcet tones that breath deceptive calm,Your cash expires in his diurnal palm,And, sick of physic you were forced to swill,Long-labell'd phials indicate the bill.As learning's bridge progresses arch by arch,So men, by gradual intellectual march,From savages to citizens advance.—Then gentlemen are taught to fence and dance;Whilst gay professors, with imposing show,Present the violin, and hand the bow.Dance gracefully, and move with perfect ease,Nor bend, nor keep inflexible, the knees;Crawl not, nor with your head the ceiling touch—That were to move too little; this too much.When first to Music's study you would come,In, and like charity, begin at home:For links of harmony you weave in vain,Whene'er you outrage ears you should enchain.Some have I known, with their vile sharps and flats,Whose fatal cat-gut wrought the death of cats;Yea, a swift doom the very strings provide,Their disembowell'd feline sires supplied!Fencing's a noble exercise; but thenceFlow dangers, may be told without offence.Still scrutinize, at your gymnastic toil,The button of your adversary's foil,Lest you strike off, at activecarteandtierce,That useful stay to tools which else will pierce;And all too late you feel, consign'd to Styx,Your life not worth the button you unfix.Swift let me call you to the sylvan grove,Where nightingales and blackbirds sing of love.Should love assail you, as it will, no doubt,Nor rudely fan the flame, nor blow it out:Sometimes, when smother'd, it the stronger grows;And sometimes, when you stir it, out it goes.Close in your breast a heart for beauty keep,Yet ne'er imagine beauty but skin-deep:Beauty is oft—a fact we must deplore—As deep as Garrick, and a great deal more.Let not your choice too short or tall appear,No hole her mouth, or slit from ear to ear;And, though 'tis well in daily life to greetThe man who struggles to make both ends meet,Yet sure the task can no great triumph win,Accomplish'd by a lady's nose and chin.Yet I, perchance, my pen and paper waste;These the exactions of an erring taste.But let your wife be modest, and yet free;Coy, but not bashful; active as the bee;And yet unlike that bee of busy wing,That "proffers honey, and yet bears a sting;"Not sad, but thoughtful; pensive, but not glum;Grave without gloom; and silent, but not dumb;Merry when mirth's in season, and yet sadWhen nought akin to pleasure's to be had.In all that you possess still let her share,Yet wear no vestments you yourself should wear.And for yourself,—since now must I conclude,—Be courteous, yet close; and plain, not rude;Open, but strict; and though reserv'd, yet frank;Treat all alike, yet pay respect to rank;Be dubious, e'en when reason would entice,And ne'er take unsolicited advice.So may my precepts sink into thy mind,And make the wisdom which thou canst not find;Until at length, so vast thy mental height,The world, beholding thee, shall take a sight;And men, in want of words to set thee higher,Shall with one voice cry "Walker!" and retire.
My son, whose infant head I now survey,Guiltless of hair, whilst mine, alas! is grey,—Whose feeble wailings through my bosom thrill,And cause my heart to shake my very frill,—Incline thine ear, quick summon all thy thought,And take this wisdom which my love has brought:Perpend these precepts; sift, compare, combine;And be my brain's results transferr'd to thine.
Soon as thy judgment shall grow ripe and strong,Learn to distinguish between right and wrong:Yet ponder with deliberation slow,Whether thy judgment be yet ripe or no;For wrong, when look'd at in a different light,Behold! is oft discovered to be right,Andvice versâ—(such the schoolmen's phrase)—Right becomes wrong, so devious Reason's maze!
Take only the best authors' mental food,For too much reading is by no means good;And, since opinions are not all correct,Thy books thyself must for thyself select.
Accumulate ideas: yet despiseReputed wisdom,—folly oft is wise;And wisdom, if the mass be not kept cool,Mothers, and is the father of, a fool.
Be virtuous and be happy: good! but, stop,—They sow the seed who never reap the crop;For virtue oft, which men so much exact,Like ancient china, is more precious crack'd;And happiness, forsooth, not over-nice,Sometimes enjoys a pot and pipe with vice.
Get rich; 'tis well for mind and body's health:But never, never be the slave of wealth.The gain of riches is the spirit's loss;And, oh! my son, remember gold is dross.
Be honest,—not as fools or bigots rave;Your honest man is often half a knave.Let Justice guide you; but still bear in mindThe goddess may mislead,—for she is blind.
Hygeia's dictates let me now declare,For health must be your most especial care.Rise early, but beware the matin chill;'Tis fresh, but fatal,—healthy, but may kill:Nor leave thy couch, nor break the bonds of sleep,Till morning's beams from out the ocean leap;Lest, crawling, groping, stumbling on the stair,Your head descend, your heels aspire in air;As down the flight your body swiftly steals,Useless to know your head has sav'd your heels,Prone on your face with dislocated neck,You find that slumber which you sought to check.
Early to bed, but not till nature call.Be moderate at meals, nor drink at all,Save when with friends you toast the faithful lass,And raise the sparkling, oft-repeated glass;Then, graver cares and worthless scruples sunk,Drink with the best, my son,—but ne'er get drunk.
Bathe in cold water: cautious, and yet bold,Dive,—but the water must not betoocold:And still take care lest, as you gaily swim,Cramp should distort and dislocate each limb.When such the case, howe'er thy fancy urge,Postpone the bracing pastime, and emerge.Dangers on land as well as water teem,But now the bank is safer than the stream.
Say you should chance be ill (for, after all,Men are but men on this terrestrial ball);Should sickness with her frightful train invade,Lose not a moment, but apply for aid.—Yet fancy oft, imagined symptoms sees,And nervous megrim simulates disease.—Lo! at our call—the cry of coward fear—A chemist and a cane-sucker appear:The one, tough roots from earth's intestines dug,Pounds with strong arm, dissolves the nauseous drug;The other, gazing with a portentous air,Surveys the foolish tongue that call'd him there;To dulcet tones that breath deceptive calm,Your cash expires in his diurnal palm,And, sick of physic you were forced to swill,Long-labell'd phials indicate the bill.
As learning's bridge progresses arch by arch,So men, by gradual intellectual march,From savages to citizens advance.—Then gentlemen are taught to fence and dance;Whilst gay professors, with imposing show,Present the violin, and hand the bow.
Dance gracefully, and move with perfect ease,Nor bend, nor keep inflexible, the knees;Crawl not, nor with your head the ceiling touch—That were to move too little; this too much.
When first to Music's study you would come,In, and like charity, begin at home:For links of harmony you weave in vain,Whene'er you outrage ears you should enchain.Some have I known, with their vile sharps and flats,Whose fatal cat-gut wrought the death of cats;Yea, a swift doom the very strings provide,Their disembowell'd feline sires supplied!
Fencing's a noble exercise; but thenceFlow dangers, may be told without offence.Still scrutinize, at your gymnastic toil,The button of your adversary's foil,Lest you strike off, at activecarteandtierce,That useful stay to tools which else will pierce;And all too late you feel, consign'd to Styx,Your life not worth the button you unfix.
Swift let me call you to the sylvan grove,Where nightingales and blackbirds sing of love.Should love assail you, as it will, no doubt,Nor rudely fan the flame, nor blow it out:Sometimes, when smother'd, it the stronger grows;And sometimes, when you stir it, out it goes.Close in your breast a heart for beauty keep,Yet ne'er imagine beauty but skin-deep:Beauty is oft—a fact we must deplore—As deep as Garrick, and a great deal more.
Let not your choice too short or tall appear,No hole her mouth, or slit from ear to ear;And, though 'tis well in daily life to greetThe man who struggles to make both ends meet,Yet sure the task can no great triumph win,Accomplish'd by a lady's nose and chin.Yet I, perchance, my pen and paper waste;These the exactions of an erring taste.
But let your wife be modest, and yet free;Coy, but not bashful; active as the bee;And yet unlike that bee of busy wing,That "proffers honey, and yet bears a sting;"Not sad, but thoughtful; pensive, but not glum;Grave without gloom; and silent, but not dumb;Merry when mirth's in season, and yet sadWhen nought akin to pleasure's to be had.In all that you possess still let her share,Yet wear no vestments you yourself should wear.
And for yourself,—since now must I conclude,—Be courteous, yet close; and plain, not rude;Open, but strict; and though reserv'd, yet frank;Treat all alike, yet pay respect to rank;Be dubious, e'en when reason would entice,And ne'er take unsolicited advice.So may my precepts sink into thy mind,And make the wisdom which thou canst not find;Until at length, so vast thy mental height,The world, beholding thee, shall take a sight;And men, in want of words to set thee higher,Shall with one voice cry "Walker!" and retire.
Everybody has heard of madrigals, and almost everybody has heard of the Madrigal Society; but everybody does not know what madrigals are, and almost everybody hasnotdined with the Madrigal Society. Not that that ancient and respectable body is an exclusive one,—keeping its good dinners for its own private eating, and its good music for its own private hearing: its freemasonry is extemporaneous, and a visitor is as welcome to the whole fraternity as to the individual who may introduce him.
The Madrigal Society is the very Royal Exchange of musical enthusiasm and good-fellowship, and certainly bears the palm away from its "fratelli rivali." Its component parts are better amalgamated, and the individuals composing them, appear to derive more thorough enjoyment from their attendance, than in any other unions we have seen of the same genus.
For example, at one (which shall be nameless) there is a line of demarcation between the professional and non-professional members; another is so numerous, that it is broken into fifty coteries, as in the boxes of a chop-house; and another enthusiastic little knot of vocal harmonists is so strongly impressed with the sense of one another's capabilities, that the speechifying, and toasting, and returning thanks take up a vast deal more time then the music.
Which of the thousand and one suggestedderivationsof thenamemadrigal is the right one, is a question upon which we most humbly beg to decline entering. Whether it owe its origin to some particular feature in the words to which all secularpart musicwas set at an early period; or whether, as some impertinent commentator has suggested, it be a compound of two English words, "mad" and "wriggle,"—the one having reference to the ecstatic state into which the listeners were thrown by their first performance, the other to —— But we dismiss this as unworthy our consideration, and cut the question altogether.
A madrigal may, we think, be best defined as a composition in general set to a quaint little poem on some amatory or pastoral subject, with parts for a number of voices; the majority being for four or five. An unceasing flow of these parts, a kind of "push-on-keep-moving" principle, appears one of its strongest characteristics; one voice taking up the strain ere another lays it down,—seldom moving inmassesor "plain-song" and with perhaps only one or two "closes" (sometimes none) until the end. In the conduct of all this, a very peculiar style of harmony is used. They are one and all imbued with a quaintness, which all who have heard madrigals must have felt, and could at once recognise; but which it is quite impossible to define in anything less than a treatise, six volumes quarto at the least,—a task upon which at present we have not the smallest intention of setting to work.
So much for a definition: now for a test. The best confirmation of the genuineness of a madrigal is, the fact of itsbearing the weight of a great body of voices; that is to say, instead of its producing its proper effect, each part being sung (as in a glee) by one voice, the number of singers may be increased to any extent. And this, afterall, is the true touchstone of first-rate choral writing. The "Creation" of Haydn, and "The Last Judgment" of Spohr, unquestionably produce their best effect in an orchestra of moderate proportions; but to a chorus of Handel, or a madrigal of Gibbons, perfect justice could only be done by a body of singers that would fill St. Paul's, or cover Salisbury Plain.
We have dined. The cloth vanishes,—there is a pause,—the party simultaneously rise from their chairs,—the waiters at last (thanks to a long course of training, mental and bodily,) show signs of standing still for the next five minutes,—perfect silence pervades the room,—when lo! a gentle murmur of high voices steals upon the ear,—the strain is quickly imitated a few notes lower,—the basses massively close up the harmonious phalanx, and we recognise the imperishable "Non nobis, Domine."
Sobered, not saddened, by the noblest of canons,—the most melodious of those ingenious complexities,—a movement takes place among the party. Do not suppose that thesingersare going to the bottom of the table, for in that casenobodywould be left at the top; or,vice versâ, to the top, for then the bottom would be deserted. You find your neighbour to the right, has migrated to the other end of the room, and yourvis-à-vishas established himself in his place. After being duly puzzled by so unexpected a move, it appears that, unlike other convivial assemblages, the order of precedency is observed hereafter, instead ofbeforedinner; and that you must shift your position according to your register, not of birth or baptism, but voice. "Order is Heaven's first law," and the high and low characters around you, class themselves accordingly, into altos, tenors, and basses.
This little preparatory bustle over, and everybody again seated, there is a brief pause, which we devote to speculations,—not on the character of our new right-hand man (above mentioned),—not on the contents of the minute-book which the president spreads open before him,—nor on the pile of tomes which almost exclude the bodily presence of the vice,—nor on the gentleman who is going to propose a new member,—but on the "dints" in the table before us. The tops of all tables at all taverns are, and have been from time immemorial, remarkable for an infinite number of indentations varying in size and conformation. This peculiarity is not indigenous to the aforesaid tables; they are supposed, at some distant period of their existence, to have had faces as unruffled as others of their kind; but the eternal succession of thumps from glasses, plates, knives and forks, approbatory of speech, sentiment, or song, furrows their physiognomy with deep, ineffaceable lines,—albeit neither of study, thought, nor sorrow.
The time has gone by for the autobiography of guineas, lap-dogs, sofas, and sedan-chairs; birds and beasts no longer sport their apophthegms to human ears; even the pot and kettle have done calling one another names; "The Confessions of a Dinner-table, written by himself," would stand no chance now; a second edition of the life of Mendoza would be as little likely to take the town. Dinner-tables, like boxers, must count their bruises in silence. Yon deeply-indented furrow, over which our wine is absolutely tottering, is evidently amementoof the days when the feet were regularly knocked off the wine-glasses, and they, like their holders later in the evening, losttheir power of standing alone; whendaylightunendurable andheel-tapsimpossible. No hand lacking the zeal of political excitement could have inflicted so uncompromising a gash as the one near it. Bees'-wax and turpentine have somewhat softened the sharpness of its outline; but its existence is identified with that of the table itself. And that succession of little "dibbs," evidently by the same hand,—what are they, but an unceasing monument to some by-gone beau, who thus tattooed his approval of the best of all possible toasts,—"The Ladies!"
But our speculations are leading us astray; more especially as the music-desks are before us, the books upon them, and "the boys" arrived. And hark! the pitch-pipe—none of your whipper-snapper German Æolians or waistcoat-pocket tuning-forks, but the veritable pitch-pipe which has been in use since the year 1740—sounds the note of preparation, and the order of the day begins in real earnest.
The Madrigal Society does not, as its name would seem to imply, confine itself exclusively to compositions which come under the designation of madrigal. The motett and the ballet, which are variations of the some genus, come in for a share of its notice.
On referring to the book before us, for the number just given out by the conductor, we find—a motett, Dr. Christopher Tye. The baton falls, and we launch into the unexplored ocean of song before us. What breadth in the harmonies! What stateliness in the progression of the parts!—and what a depth of feeling under the incrustation of these crabbed old modulations!
And now for a madrigal. Will it be "Lady, thine eye," or "Cynthia, thy song," or "Sweet honey-sucking bees?"—No: as we live, it is "Die not, fond man!"—the noblest of them all.
And now, another motett; and now—but stay! here is something unusual. The vice looks to the chair—the chair looks to the vice. The vice, like the sun over a mountain, shows his head above the wall of books before him, and prepares to make a speech. "Gentlemen, I beg to call your attention—" But we have forgotten the form, so we'll give the substance of his observations, which go to prove that he has received a madrigal, according to the rules of the society,—that is, anonymously,—which he has looked over, and deems worthy of a trial. The parts, which are of course not in the book, are distributed, and much good-natured speculation is afloat; for the madrigalians, though conservatives, are not exclusives. We begin:—there is a stoppage at the onset,—something was wrong in the parts,—it is corrected, and we start once more;—the precipice is passed in safety. Still it does not "go." There is no good reason why it should not; and so it is tried again; is better understood, and "goes" accordingly. A sealed paper is delivered to the chairman, who opens it with much solemnity, and announces the name of the composer, casting a most significant glance on an individual at one corner of the table, who, for the last quarter of an hour, has been engaged in the most unpleasing of all sedentary pursuits,—sitting upon thorns. We drink his health; the individual rises, and for upwards of a minute and some seconds, is supposed to occupy himself in making some observations germane to the present subject, but which, from his state of nervous trepidation, are quite inaudible.
The books are again in requisition. We draw on firms of centuries'standing, and our checks are duly honoured. The stately motett, the graceful madrigal, and the sprightly ballet alternate in rapid succession. What a contrast does this enthusiastic coterie present to the listless audience of the concert-room or opera! No mob of apathetical time-killers is here; but true and constant lovers of the divine art, joining "with heart and voice" in strains to them as fresh and beautiful as they were two hundred years ago!
Oh! how we might gossip about and speculate upon the old fellows who treasured up for us this legacy of fine things. Talk of love for their art!—!—think of Luca Marenjio, who wrote a thousand madrigals; and Dr. Tye, who set to music the whole of "The Acts of the Apostles!"
The human voice is the noblest of all instruments. In the madrigal it finds an exercise worthy of its powers. Music, as developed through the medium of the voice, assumes a far more elevated and poetical form than it ever presents through instrumental performance even of the very highest character. Music is less essentiallymusic, coming through throats of flesh and blood than throats of wood or metal; but it is something infinitely finer,—the unchecked emanation of the human heart,—the current fresh from the well-springs of all that is good and beautiful in man's nature.
The changeableness of fashion, the perishability of all instrumental music, is of itself sufficient evidence of this. Five-and-twenty years ago, the works of Pleyel were the delight of every musical coterie in Europe; now, there is not one amateur in fifty who ever heard a bar of his music. And as for the cart-loads of sonatas, gigues, pasacailles, serenatas, follias, fugues, concertantes, and "jewells" of Dr. Bull, Paradies, Scarlatti, Geminiani,—yes, even Handel and Mozart themselves!—they are regarded in about the same light as an Egyptian papyrus, or a loaf of bread from Herculaneum.
It is difficult indeed to conceive "The Jupiter Symphony," or the "Sonate Pathétique," food for the virtuoso; but assuredly "Dove sono," "The Hallelujah Chorus," and "St. Patrick's Day," are as imperishable as expression, grandeur, and sunshine themselves.
Sounds are thebodyof music, to which the voice gives immortality and asoul. To put the voice on the same level as an instrument, is to pit matter against mind,—"man against cat-gut."
There is a sense of personal enjoyment connected, too, with pure vocal music performed in this manner, which it is quite impossible to find in the theatre or concert-room. Our thoughts there, are perpetually brought back to some technical matter, and our imagination curbed by the audience, some individual association with the singers, or the "mise de théâtre;" but here, sitting at our ease around the table, with our "part" before us, joining in the harmony or not, as we please,—our only care that the madrigal shallgowell, our only interruption a glance now and then at the enthusiastic faces around us,—we feel truly "the power of sound," and that our pleasure is without alloy.
Hold! there is a slight drawback on our pleasure,—perfection is not to be found even in the Madrigal Society. Where are the ladies? Oh, Madrigalians! with what countenance can ye, month after month, and year after year, continue singing Fair Oriana's praise, and bewailing the cruelty of your Phillises, and Cynthias, and "Nymph ofDiana," when you thus close up the fountain of all your inspirations? Is your by-law, forbidding all speechifying, a tacit confession of fear lest some gallant visitor, fired with your own sweet songs, should spring on his legs and propose "The Ladies"? Is this the reason why ye only drink "The King," "The Queen," and—your noble selves? Shame on ye!—where are the ladies?
The truth must be spoken at all times. Old as the world is, it is not yet quite steady enough to "chaperon" the fair sex to meetings like those of the Madrigal Society. True; we have pretty well got rid of the six-bottle men, and gentlemen have ceased to return home in wheel-barrows: still something more must be done ere the most courteous of chairmen can with propriety propose a new member with a soprano voice, or the most zealous of secretaries second him.
To do our friends justice, they have made a step in this matter. At the annual festival, where the madrigals put on all their splendour, the ladiesareadmitted; but, alas! they are perched up in a gallery "all by themselves." And even this bird's-eye view of gentlemen eating and drinking, comes, like "the grotto," only once a-year.
But these knotty points should be agitated before dinner. Let us turn to our books once again,—sing "The Waits,"—"One fa la more,"—and then "Good-night!"
Little Cupid, one day, being wearied with play,Or weary of nothing to do,Exclaimed with a sigh, "Now why should not IGo shoot for a minute or two?"Then snatching his bow, tho' Venus cried "No,"(Oh! Love is a mischievous boy!)He set up a mark, in the midst of a park,And began his nice sport to enjoy.Each arrow he shot—I cannot tell whatWas the reason—fell short by a yard,Save one with gold head, which far better sped,And pierced thro' the heart of the card.MORAL.My story discovers this lesson to lovers:They will meet a reception but cold,And endeavour in vain Beauty's smiles to obtain,Unless Love tip his arrows with gold.
Little Cupid, one day, being wearied with play,Or weary of nothing to do,Exclaimed with a sigh, "Now why should not IGo shoot for a minute or two?"Then snatching his bow, tho' Venus cried "No,"(Oh! Love is a mischievous boy!)He set up a mark, in the midst of a park,And began his nice sport to enjoy.Each arrow he shot—I cannot tell whatWas the reason—fell short by a yard,Save one with gold head, which far better sped,And pierced thro' the heart of the card.
MORAL.My story discovers this lesson to lovers:They will meet a reception but cold,And endeavour in vain Beauty's smiles to obtain,Unless Love tip his arrows with gold.
TIME—NIGHT.
Let me consider a little where I am! My senses are beginning to clear at present, albeit my body is sticking in the mud, and seems to think of nothing less. This plunge, disagreeable as it is, has been of service to me: we should be thankful for everything, for they say "everything is for the best;" and, upon this principle, a tumble into a horse-pond may be a good. I shall, however, ascertain this better to-morrow (that is, if I ever get out of the mud,—of which I am doubtful). In the mean time I will, by way of passing the time, acknowledge my obligation. I am a regenerated creature! Thanks be to Heaven! I can see: before my tumble into these revivifying waters, my thoughts were wandering, and my sight was dazzled; now they are fixed, immoveably fixed,—to this horse-pond; and I only behold one moon instead of two.
I do not exactly know how I came hither. I spent last evening with Tom Rattlebrain, Ned Flighty, and Will Scamper; we had a famous supper, and resolved to make a night of it. The weather was hot, stormy, and goblinish; it led us to tell ghost-stories, which we did till our marrow froze, and our parched throats cried out, like the horse-leech's two daughters, "Give! give!" Purely to raise our courage and moisten our palates, we had a couple of bottles additionally. I recollect that after this we told some stories partaking more of the flesh than the spirit, and that at two o'clock in the morning I agreed to ride home on Daylight, hand in hand, like the fire-office insignia, with Scamper, who was mounted on Wildfire. I remember something of trying to force Daylight to cross that which I took to be a ferry. I recollect something of our dispute upon this subject, but faintly; I can only guess how the matter ended by the result,—for he is gone, and I amhere!
I suppose I must have struggled, flopped, and floundered about a good deal before I could have been so firmly wedged in the mud as I am at this moment. The water all around me is up to my chin, and the mud beneath me is up to my knees; I have sunk considerably above my calves. I really cut a very ridiculous figure!
The first thing I remember distinctly was seeing my lighted cigar floating, fizzing, and spitting peevishly upon the water. Poor thing! it did not relish regeneration. I put out my hand to catch it; but it fizzed angrily, and floated away from me. This "was the unkindest cut of all;" and when I saw its light go out, I felt as if abandoned by all the world.
It just occurs to me that I have another cause of thanksgiving: since one must sometimes fall into a horse-pond, I am grateful that it is an English one. In some countries, now, those devils of the air—the birds of prey—would keep wheeling, whirling, and shrieking above my head, complimenting each other upon the good supper prepared for them, and then coolly peck out my two eyes before my face!
This idea is suggested by a somewhat uncomfortable circumstance,which, notwithstanding my patience, I cannot but be sensible of. Something—I conjecture either an eel or a rat—is gnawing at the boot on my right leg; no other animals venture so deeply into the mud. I wish I could raise my foot.
If it be a rat, he will content himself with the leather, and gnaw away till it be gone; but the eel prefers a bit of meat, and in that case he is only busying himself to open his "pantry-door." Pray Heavens it be a rat!
I am a most enduring man. I remember suffering infinite misery a whole season at the house of a particular friend; I was lodged in the best bedroom, and a superb apartment it was. The bed was a magnificent one; but, to my cost, there was a flea in it,—"the last flea of summer!" Never shall I forget what I suffered from that single tormentor. I should have known it was only one, from the peculiar pungency of his bite, even if the invariable character of the mark had not also been a witness. The room had been for a long period unoccupied, save by this flea, the survivor of all his family and friends, who had died of starvation in the course of the summer. I bore it patiently enough for several nights, thinking that it was a tax to flea-manity which must be paid; but when, night after night, week after week, the same torture continued, I began to grow nervous and irritable. I sought after him diligently in the morning, but never found anything save his trail. Like Destiny, he was always to be felt, but never seen. In the night, scarcely had I torn the skin off my shoulder, ere I was imperiously called upon to apply the same remedy to my leg. I felt him hop across my hand as I raised it up; and so rapid were his movements, that he seemed to be jumping in every part of my body at once: like the Indian Apollo, he appeared to have the power of multiplying his person, and of being in fifty places at the same time. He was a single fiend "whose name was Legion." I started in anguish; shook my sheets and my shirt; called upon God, upon the devil; apostrophised the mistress of the house, and mentally sent the housemaid to the hottest place I could think of. It was all to no purpose; he seemed to have some extraordinary power of disgorging his prey and clearing his stomach, which, like Time, was always devouring,—never full. So rapidly did his constant consecutive meals of breakfast, luncheon, dinner, tea, and supper tread upon each other's heels, that I seemed to live twenty days in one tortured night. I longed to complain to the master of the house; but how tell him there was a flea in his best bed,—that bed in which he took such pride, and beheld with so much admiration? At length I met the housemaid on the stairs. She was as ugly as Repentance, crabbed as Chastity, and old as Mother Shipton: nevertheless I addressed her as "My dear little girl!" gave her a kiss and a piece of money, and entreated her to kill the fleas in my bed. The next day I met her, and she said, "There bean't no fleas in your bed as now, sir." Alas! I knew that,—there was but one; and he was a flea of Fate, beyond her power to destroy. Still the torture went on; still did I lie, night after night, miserable, feverish, sleepless, pinched, torn, and tortured in every part of my burning skin. At length, considering the enormous power possessed by my tormentor, his divisibility, his invisibility, his infallibility, I came at last to the conclusion, that it was no living flea that thus distractedand disturbed me, but the ghost of some starved tenant of former times, who was allowed this recreation to make amends for past sufferings. This idea once established, I knew that I had no hope; I had nothing for it but to fly: so I went to my friend, declared (to his astonishment) my intention, and, when hard pressed for my reason, painfully and reluctantly gave it. "A flea!" shouted he in a voice between displeasure and mirth, "a flea—and in that bed!—then you must have brought it!" Now was not this too much? I thought my heart would have broken. I, who had endured so much—I, who had suffered torture in silence for six long weeks, to be accused of having brought that alderman of fleas with me! It was beyond human nature to bear. I burst from his presence, packed up my clothes, and, though I am a very good-tempered man, have not seen that friend since. I can never forgive his accusation—I can never forget what I suffered! As I call to mind that burning sorrow, I take comfort in the knowledge that I am standing up to my neck in a horse-pond!
Thank you, gentle lady moon! I am grateful for any kind of attention, even though it should be of no use to me; but yours is. I wish I was a poet now!—I could make something of this scenery. I have read a good deal about "moonlight on the waters;" but I never was so near its dancing beams before. The devil take this rat—how he nibbles! My boots are new—a hole in them at least! There's a villanous odour that comes over me from some part of the horse-pond, "at which my nose is in great indignation." It strikes me also, from something uncomfortable in my stomach, that in my plunge I must have swallowed a good allowance of Mark Anthony's liquor. (SeeShakspeare'sAnthony and Cleopatra, Act 1, scene 4.) The bare idea is enough to make me faint;—only who would be fool enough to faint in a horse-pond?
I have been in my life several times taken in, besides to-night, by these waters.
Thank you again, dear gracious moon! She's very bright just now. There is a large tract of blue in the heavens over which, for at least the next twenty minutes, she may travel without being "capped by a cloud;" so I shall have time to look around me. I am nearly in the centre of the pond; the water is perfectly tranquil, except when it bobs against my chin, disturbed by the movement of my head. Lord help me! suppose I should die here!—as, if nobody come to my assistance, I certainly shall.
On my first ascertaining the character of my position, recollecting that horse-ponds are generally in the neighbourhood of towns or farms, I hallooed so lustily that I found my voice grow husky; so I determined to reserve it for a better occasion—I mean in case any persons should approach—Heaven send them! This would be a comfortless bed to die in!
A huge frog has just discovered me; and he sits amongst the weeds below the opposite bank, croaking out his speculations as to what I can be. He stares earnestly; so do I. He takes my eye for a challenge—he is a frog of courage, however, for he plunges into the water, swims towards me, and plants himself directly opposite to my face. He croaks; I answer very naturally, for the water has qualified my voice. The frog stares again: "The voice is the voiceof Esau, but the form is Jacob's." Now he very gravely swims entirely round my head, and then again plants himself in front. I laugh aloud; he backs a little. I open my eyes very wide at him; he returns the compliment. My chin splashes the water about him; he takes fright and disappears.
Hark! there are certainly footsteps in the neighbourhood. Halloo!—ough!—ah!—mercy upon me! my voice is quite gone, and I shall be compelled to live in this horse-pond the remainder of my days. Who will feed me, I wonder: the rat will not be so civil to me as the ravens were to Elijah; and I have affronted the frog. Ha! the footsteps come nearer—and nearer. 'Tis a man—I see him—a groom—I'll call. Hallook!—ouk!—cro-ak!
"D—n your croaking soul!" quoth the vagabond; and he flings a huge stone at my head.
Despair and distraction! what shall I do? Die! No, that's cowardly: I'll live bravely; that is, if I can. The fellow is gone, and "I am all alone!" Alone! What do I hear? Voices—yes; they come—most sweet voices. A gentleman and the rascally groom aforesaid.
"You have not dragged this pond to-night," says the master.
"Indeed, sir, we did,—from one end of it to the other," replies the fellow: "see how the weeds are disturbed."
"You lie, you rascal! you did not, or you would have found me there," said I.
"Heighday!" cried the master; "what have we here?"
"A gentleman in distress."
"I should think so: but how came you in this pond?"
"I'll tell you when I am out."
"Help, all of you, fellows!" says the gentleman. "Now, sir, hold fast: I was in search of a drunken uncle who has escaped from his servants. Pull away, boys!—I expected to find him in this horse-pond, and I discover a sober gentleman in his place."
N.B. I did not think it necessary to rectify this latter mistake.
Max.
INSCRIPTION FOR A CEMETERY.
The grave must be the resting-placeOf all who come of Adam's race.What matters it, if few or moreThe years which our frail nature bore?If we upon the roll of FameLeft an imperishable name;Or, safe within some calm retreat,Escaped the turmoil and the heat,The stir, the struggle, and the strife,That make the sum of human life?Of all the family of man,Since first yon rolling spheres beganAmid the boundless realms of spaceTheir silent, dread, eternal race,There's little to be said beside,But that they lived, and that they died.Sooner or later, 'tis the doom}Of all, within the quiet tomb}To find a refuge, and a home.}
The grave must be the resting-placeOf all who come of Adam's race.What matters it, if few or moreThe years which our frail nature bore?If we upon the roll of FameLeft an imperishable name;Or, safe within some calm retreat,Escaped the turmoil and the heat,The stir, the struggle, and the strife,That make the sum of human life?Of all the family of man,Since first yon rolling spheres beganAmid the boundless realms of spaceTheir silent, dread, eternal race,There's little to be said beside,But that they lived, and that they died.Sooner or later, 'tis the doom}Of all, within the quiet tomb}To find a refuge, and a home.}
Or, Sketches of Naval Life during the War.
BY THE OLD SAILOR.
No. II.
THE WHITE SQUALL.
I was born in a cloud of sulphureous hue—Darkness my mother, and Flame my sire;The earth shook in terror, as forth to its viewI sprang from my throne like a monarch of fire!My brother, bold Thunder, hurraed as I sped!My subjects laugh'd wild, till the rain from their eyesRoll'd fast, as though torrents were dash'd overhead,Or an ocean had burst through the bounds of the skies!Charles Swain.
I was born in a cloud of sulphureous hue—Darkness my mother, and Flame my sire;The earth shook in terror, as forth to its viewI sprang from my throne like a monarch of fire!My brother, bold Thunder, hurraed as I sped!My subjects laugh'd wild, till the rain from their eyesRoll'd fast, as though torrents were dash'd overhead,Or an ocean had burst through the bounds of the skies!Charles Swain.
My last, left the gallant Spankaway with her three topmasts over the side; and a very natural question arises, "How did it happen?" Her commander was as smart an officer as ever lived; an excellent disciplinarian when on duty, a thoroughly brave man, but not much of a seaman;—he was of a happy turn of mind himself, and nothing afforded him greater pleasure than to see everybody else, happy around him. On service no one could be more strict; but he loved to see his officers surround his mahogany; and not one amongst them was more jovial than Lord Eustace Dash.
On the evening in question, Old Parallel had glanced at the glowing clouds in the west; but the invitation to the captain's cabin had driven the circumstances from his remembrance, and, whilst clinging toport, he thought but little of a storm at sea. Mr. Sinnitt was the lieutenant of the watch; but on such occasions, when there was no apprehension of danger, the mate was allowed to assume the command of the deck, and his superior joined his messmates over the flowing bowl.
The evening was delightfully serene, and groups of seamen clustered together; spinning yarns, conversing on things in general, or singing songs in a low tone, so as not to disturb the sacred character of the quarter-deck; where, however, the young gentleman left in charge was drawing round him a little knot of favourite youngsters, eager to take advantage of the relaxation of discipline. Some were attentively listening to the hilarity going on in the captain's cabin,—for the heat had rendered it necessary to open the skylights; others were paying equal attention to the vocal talents of honest Jack, who, if he did not possess quite so much grace or talent as his superiors, made ample atonement for the deficiency by his peculiar and characteristic humour. Here and there, the treasured grog was served out with scrupulous exactness, exciting many a longing and envious eye. As in communities on shore, every ship had its choice spirits,—its particular and especial jokers, songsters, and tale-tellers—and, not unfrequently, that pest to society, the plausible pettifogger, whose head, like that of a Philadelphy lawyer, was constantly filled with proclamations.