# The Knickerbocker/Volume 13/Number 5/Editorial Pot-Luck

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​Editorial 'Pot-Luck.'—Indulgent reader, will you sit down at our table, and 'take pot-luck' with us?—looking, with an eye of faith, to find something in the hash, from our own stores, or from those which have been 'sent in by the neighbors,' to stay your appetite withal! To drop similitude, we are about to resume the selections from our 'drawer,' among which we would crave permission to intersperse a few fragments from our note-book; the more that, being jotted down in half-indicated thoughts, they are not calculated to 'keep' for any great length of time; and there are a few pencillings scattered through the leaves, that we would not willingly let die. But first, let us do justice to a correspondent, whose early favor was inadvertently omitted from this department of our last number. Men, or the wonderful thinking principle,' which animates our mortality, are surveyed by him in a wide field of vision:
The simple flower which springs up in our path, charms us by its sweetness and fragility, and we learn to admire its wonderful mechanism. The rushing of the tornado, and the warring of the elements, we behold with thrilling emotions. Man, too, the lordly tenant of nature's heritage, is a miracle, aside from the ethereal spark which dwells within him. The curious structure of his frame; its wonderful combinations of levers and pulleys; the heart, that admirable forcing-pump, for driving the crimson life through every artery; and the chest, that secret laboratory, where nature, by her own. fires, compounds her simples, and distils her vital essences; all these are subjects fraught with deep interest, and open wide fields of inquiry. But after all, what are the wonders of physical nature, without A SOUL to scan and enjoy them? The thinking principle, that receives these pleasures, that appreciates their value, and dwells with rapture upon the infinite wisdom and benevolence traced in them by the finger of God? Subtle in its essence, intangible in its existence, it eludes our strictest analyses. We see its intelligence, and marvel at its controlling and grasping power. It is around us, and in us, the main-spring of our mortal horologe; and yet the question of its nature is more enigmatical than the riddle of the unshorn Nazarite to the Philistines. Philosophy has grasped it as a subject of the noblest investigation, and philosophers have traced its history, observed its habits, and scanned its operations. But wrapped in the solitude of its own mystery, the mind has deigned merely to give them demonstration of its action, while the inner chambers of its arcana have never been explored.
Wonderful alike in its nature, in its existence, and in its operation, it is at once the fountain of thought, and the receptacle of feeling. Voiceless as the solitude, it goes forth from its frail tabernacle, and gathers the rich fruits of science. It laves its ethereal pinions in Arethusa's silver stream, and kindles with the fires of the Castalian muse. It careers through the whole cycle of truth, and returning from the long journey, with its choicest pearls, garners up the rich treasures of knowledge. Soaring on the wing of thought, above the dull regions of sense, it visits other worlds, and other suns; and pausing midway in-its daring flight, sports like the lambent flame of the aurora borealis, on the broad play-ground of infinite space; and still rising, still expanding, it reaches the habitations of Jehovah, and in its wide embrace, takes the gauge and dimensions of the universe. But the mind is not more wonderful in its power than in its development. Feeble in its beginnings, as the twinkling star that heralds the approach of light, yet in its maturity it dazzles and burns with the vehemence of s mid-day sun. In its first outgoings, it is weak and fragile, as the tender vine, clasping its tendrils around every object for support; in its development, it towers with the majesty of the mountain oak, and defies the storm. Cast your eye upon that tender infant, nursed in the sweet Eden of maternal love; the impersonation of weakness, perhaps, and mental imbecility. How helpless!—how fragile! Yet who shall say, but that a gem of inestimable richness lies concealed in that feeble casket? Who shall say that the mind, which now beams faintly forth from those eyes, when expanded and matured, shall not prove a mind of magic power?—that the voice which now sobs in such ​tender accents, when strengthened by age, and nerved with intellectual energy, shall not prove as potent in hurling defiance at tyranny, as that of the far-famed orator of Athens,
Who shall say that the little boy, who to-day amuses himself by twirling a fire-brand, and watching the ribands formed by its revolutions, shall not to-morrow prove a Franklin, chaining the lightning which plays on the scowling cloud, and giving laws to the warring elements? Who shall say that the child, who to-day is stammering in the first rudiments of letters, shall not to-morrow prove a Milton, charming the world by the beauty of his descriptions, and by the lofty conceptions of his heaven-born muse? or a Shakspeare , harping on the key-string of passion, and swaying the tide of human feeling at his pleasure? or a Newton, bursting the obstructions cast by nature around our finite conceptions, and with a daring almost divine, carrying the line and plummet to the very outskirts of the Almighty's works? Franklin, Milton, Shakspeare, and Newton, were once infants in mind as well as in years; and that potency of intellect which they subsequently manifested, was but the gradual expansion of the humble germ which God implanted in the first buddings of their infant days. Mysterious in its essence, no calculus can define its powers, calculate its eccentricities, or determine its orbit! The laws of matter cannot control it. Spiritual in its nature, it seeks its own level in kindred spirituality. On the fervid wings of its aspiration, it struggles upward through obstacles of sense, and burns for ethereal joys. Earth is not its home. It is an exotic, transplanted from heaven, here to bud awhile, and unfold a few of its golden tints, just giving a glimpse of its loveliness, and then to fade and die. But there it will bloom, in perennial freshness! There it will display, in all their perfection, its magic hues, and waft its undying fragrance on the celestial breeze.
We derive the annexed lines from an esteemed friend, who composed them a short time since, partly doubtless as a relaxation from legislative duties and care, but mainly to oblige the popular vocalist, Mr. H. Russell, who has set them to music, which will soon be published:
Albany, April, 1839
Z. Barton Stout.
Now there may be some readers, who have outlived the memory of their youthful loves, or else have never had any, who consider all tales and songs of the tender passion as just so much 'nonsense' and 'trash.' Such men, (and women, if there be any,) are greatly to be pitied, and pity is akin to contempt. Keep ever alive, oh reader! your 'memories of the heart;' and be not ashamed to write or speak of that which ​springs from the divinity within us—for God is love. We admire the man who hesitates not to recall with raptures, even when descending the downhill of life, the first faint radiance of an early-kindled flame, and its steady advance to a consuming fire; the stolen interview, the secret billets, the longer letters; the watchings for the glimmer of light in her distant apartment, for fail many a night, when none but the pale stars were looking down upon the summer's sward or the winter's enow; and, thrice-blessed moment! when, all doubt vanished, all aspirations realized, that fond girl placed her soft, warm hand in his; when, with wild audacity, he clasped her to his bosom; when, for the first time, their lips were joined, and their two souls, like dew-drops, rushed into one. Of how many thousands will this be the experience, before these pages shall become forgotten records! How will even aversion melt to final pity, and ridicule be transformed into admiration, and admiration into love! 'Delicate girl,' wrote a keen observer of human nature, many years ago, 'delicate girl, just budding into womanly loveliness whose heart for the last ten minutes has been trembling behind the snowy walls of thy fair and beautiful bosom, hast thou never remarked and laughed at an admirer, for the mauvaise honte with which he hands to thee a book, or thy cup of half-watered sou-chong? Laugh not at him again, for he will assuredly be thy husband.' Yes! he will tremble for a few months more, as he stands beside thy music-stool, and join no others in the heartless mockery of their praise; but when every voice which has commended thy song, is hushed, and every note which thou hast clothed in ethereal music, is forgotten by all beside, to him it will be a theme to dream upon in his loneliness, and every look which thine eye vouchsafed to him, will be laid up as a sacred and a holy thing, in the inmost sanctuary of his secret soul. Thou wilt see, in a short time, that the tremulousness of his nerves is only observable, when his tongue is faltering in his address to thee; pity will enter into thy gentle heart, and thyself wilt sometimes turn the wrong page in thy book of songs, and strike the wrong note on thy piano, when thou knowest that his ears are drinking in thy voice, and his eyes following thy minutest action. Then will he, on some calm evening, when the sun is slowly sinking behind the west, tell thee that without thee he must indeed be miserable; that thou art the one sole light which has glowed and glittered upon 'life's dull stream.'
There follow a few pretty and fanciful lines, written, as we gather from a correspondent, by a child , who has not yet reached her thirteenth year. She is the daughter of Mr. Thomas Mathews, of the National Theatre, whose début, the last season, at that establishment, in the part of Apollo, elicited general applause:
THE ORIGIN OF THE SNOW DROP.
An ingenious machinist in France once obtained a patent for an automaton 'crieur,' that was well adapted for selling property of all descriptions. The machine performed every relative duty of the most experienced auctioneer, with significant and appropriate actions, without the wonted noise and nonsense. When set in motion, it called the ​attention of the company, by a triple rap of the hammer with one hand, while the other pointed to the conditions of sale. As soon as the lot was put up, the hammer was kept gracefully flourishing, while the head of the automaton nodded thankfully at every bidding. Now such a machine as this would supply an important desideratum in this metropolis of trade and commerce; and we hope the suggestion will meet the eye of some relative or friend of 'Jabez Doolittle, Esq., nigh Wallingford, Connecticut,' who may chance to encounter one, ready made, among the rubbish of his rat-traps, churns, apple-parers, pill-rollers, horse persuaders, shingle-splitters, and other inventions. There will be no difficulty, now, we may suppose, in gaining access to his shop; for he went away in a hurry, and left one end of it wide open, although 'no admittance' frowned on the other. Has the city reader ever passed along Chatham Square, and through the street from which it derives its name, without heating the eternal din of hammers closing bargains up, and the uproarious vociferations of the operators?—noises that, breaking upon the ear of a passer-by, who may be indulging the luxury of his own quiet thoughts, suddenly recall vivid ideas of Bedlam; an impression that is amply confirmed, by a glance at the shop's interior, where stands a lonely man, foaming at the mouth, sawing the air with his hand, and making the dirty counter before him to resound again with the noise of his mallet. The street 'crieur' is of another class. You shall see him, even of a cold winter morning, buttoned to the throat, with a waist-coat or a pair of unwhisperables whisking about on a long stick, which he holds in his hand, while he vociferates of the pedestrian auditory, who sometimes glance at him in passing, 'Twent'—'five! Thirt'—thirt'—thirt'-five, for them pants!' Much practice has made him an automaton, to all intents and purposes. But the most distinguished of auctioneers, is the vender of oil paintings; and the class has greatly multiplied, since it has been ascertained that at least an hundred 'original pictures,' on one and the same subject, and by the same renowned master, may be sold here from one auction mart. Goldsmith speaks of a man who, having disposed of a petrified lobster, which he had accidentally found, at a great bargain, straitway set about the manufacture of the article, and drove a wholesale trade in that unique line. The picture-vender acts upon this hint, and he succeeds equally well. He deals in bugs, well preserved; hum-bugs, of the first water. Hogarth, we remember, has a picture of Time, with a pipe in his mouth, whiffing smoky antiquity upon a fresh painting. Your modern picture-venders better understand the matter. We have recently read, in some of our periodicals, a brief account of the knowledge of art and the great artists which they display, but it did not come up to the reality. The great successor of Madame Malaprop, who flourished in England some ten or twelve years ago, could alone, were she among us, do justice to the auctioneer of modern paintings by the old masters. 'Here,' he exclaims, holding up a rather confused and mottled composition, 'is a splendid pictur', by a very ancient master of arts. You see the frame is old and worm-eaten, and there is the year '1528' on the back of it. It is the interior of a cathedral, in Spain, or else in Italy. They are a-worshippin' inside; the priest, up by the candles, is very much incensed with the smoke that the boys is a-whirlin' round his head; and the quire 's a-singin' a tedium: but look at your catalogues; it's all in them.' 'This pictur was exhibited fifty years in the Vacüum at Rome, where the pope keeps his celebrated bulls. What's bid for 't? Is five hundred dollars named, to start it? Five hundred do I hear?' This is struck down to a spectator at the farther end of the room, and another rises to view, with two naked figures in the fore-ground; backed by trees that are very, very green, and skies extremely blue. 'This gem of painting, gen'lemen, is a chef-dowver of De Buff, his celebrated 'Adam and Eve expulsed from Paradise.' Is three hundred dollars bid for this? It was sold for six hundred guineas in London! Is fifty dollars bid? Fifty—fifty—going! Yours, Mr. Suckedin.' This was followed by a painting which seemed to represent a street-view, 'Here, now, is treasure! It is a scene in the su-berbs of the city of Venice, that a gen'leman, who was here to see it this morning, called the 'Place Louis Quinzy,' named after a French officer in Napoleon's ​army, who caught cold a-travellin' in the same stage-coach at night with a wet nurse, and died of the quinzy sore-throat. I did n't hear of this, in time to put it in the catalogue; but they say the first thing a traveller does, when he gets to Venice, is to hire a horse, and ride out to look at it. How much for it?' The piece went for fifty dollars. 'You will find it,' said the auctioneer, 'a very cheap pictur'—and he did.
We remember to have seen an anecdote of an enthusiastic but ignorant lover of old paintings, of whose mania advantage was taken by every huckster of pictures for leagues around him; and his love of being deceived, may be gathered from the following colloquy with an amateur friend: 'Come up and see me to-morrow, my boy, and I'll show you a picture that is a picture—an undoubted original. I want your unbiassed judgment of it. Titian Smith was over to look at it, yesterday, and had the impudence to say that it was a copy—the ignorant ramus! By Jove! I'd like any other man to tell me so! Curse me, if I should n't be tempted to knock him down! But come up to-morrow, and give us your candid opinion of its merits. I'd like to know what you think of it.' There can be no doubt, we presume, that the painting was not considered a copy. An acquaintance of ours once encountered a different critic, in the person of an English gentleman, accomplished in a knowledge of the details of art, and the prominent features of all the great masters. He was invited, after dinner, to step up into the gallery of his host, which had been purchased without regard to the hole it made in a princely fortune. 'What do you think of 'em?' anxiously inquired the owner, from time to time, as his friend walked leisurely around the apartment, and surveyed, through his eye-glass, the canvass-hangings, in elaborately-carved frames, with which it was lined; 'what do you think of 'em, eh?' 'Upon my honor, my friend,' was the reply, 'I would n't give you a hundred dollars for the lot!' We think we have heard that the 'undoubted originals' were sold over again, at a great advance.
We are indebted for the ensuing lines, to a friend whose name was once frequently before the public, but who, of late, although we infer he has not ceased to write, has nevertheless hitherto ceased to publish. For the lesson inculcated, we need not ask the applause of the moral and christian reader:
GOD IN NATURE
​It has ever seemed strange, to our poor conception, how one encircled by the mystery of existence; under the deep, heavenly firmament; 'waited on by the four golden seasons, with their vicissitudes of contribution, could believe in the blind doctrine of chance, in creation, or annihilation after death. A kind correspondent once sent us from abroad, a new year's sermon by Edward Irving, that brilliant but transient light, who 'fell like a meteor from the bosom of splendor into the grave of thick night; like an eagle smitten down in a too near approach to the sun.' He heard the discourse delivered at Irving's chapel, when he was in the zenith of his glory; and declared that the appearance and manner of the speaker would never fade from his memory; his large flashing eye, that seemed to burn in his noble front; the black, flowing hair that swept his broad shoulders, and by contrast lighted up his pale features with the ghastly hue of death; his long arm and attenuate hand, employed in action, graceful, and yet so energetic, as to have the appearance of throwing his words, and the burning thoughts they embodied, into the very hearts of his hearers. Let the doubter of God's providence and power peruse the annexed extract. Its connection has not been preserved; but it will be, we think, sufficiently complete:
'Take up a handful of dust and ashes, and there behold the materials out of which the Lord God Almighty fashioned man—this living form of man, so quick and pregnant with all sensual and spiritual feeling. And if you would know the kindness which your father hath put forth in the works of his hands, look to the tribes, from the worm to the lion, all made of as good materials; in size, strength, fleetness, and durability, surpassing man. But, where is their counsel? where is their government? where is their knowledge? where is their religion? which of them has any fellowship with God, or reasonable intercourse with one another? The other creatures are but the outward endowments of man's senses, to clothe, to feed, to lay the lusty shoulder to his burden, to carry him about, to watch over him in sleep, and to minister in other ways to his entertainment.
'And what is the earth whereon you tread, and which spreads its flowery carpet beneath your feet? And what are its various fruits, with their varieties to sustain, to refresh, and to cherish human life, the corn, the wine, and the oil? And what the recurring seasons of divided time; the budding spring, the flowery summer, the joyful vintage, the lusty harvest; and the homely, well-provided winter? And what the cheerful outgoings of morn, and dewy eve, and balmy sleep, and blessed action? What are these all, but the sweet cradle and the blessed condition into which our Father hath brought us, his children? Is there nothing fatherly in all this; in the costly preparation and gladsome welcoming of our coming: and in the motherly boom of plentiful affection and food stored for us? and in the fruitful dwelling places to which we are born? Is it nothing, that the range of our mansion is to the starry heaven, and not cooped within the incumbrance of a narrow shell? Is it nothing, that the heavens drop down fatness upon us, and that the river of God's bounty watereth all the garden where we dwell; rather than that we should have griped the rock for our bed, or found our birth place in the oozy channels of the deep?
'Let us praise our heavenly Father, that he hath made us with more understanding than the beasts of the field, with more wisdom than the fowls of heaven; that he hath made us a little lower than the angels, and crowned us with glory and honor, and made as to have dominion over the works of his hands, and hath put all things under our feet; all sheep and oxen, yea, and the beasts of the field, and the fowls of the air, and the fish of the sea. 'Lord, what is man, that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man, that thou visitest him?' Look upon the treatment you have received at the hand of your Creator, and say if it doth not speak him more than fatherly in his love and carefulness? Our bread hath been provided, our water hath been sure; we have been protected from the summer's smiting heat, and from the winter's blasting cold. The damps of the night have not settled chill upon our raiment, nor hath the pestilence which wasteth at noonday blown its deadly blast across our path. The Lord hath been the length of our days, and the strength of our life, from our youth up to this day. He hath surrounded us with lovely children, to stand in our room when we are gone; and he hath given us a house and habitation among men, and he hath found us in the sight of men more favors than we have deserved. Hath be not hidden your faults from the knowledge of men? Hath he not been very tender to your reputation, which, by a turn of his providence, he could have blasted? Hath he not restrained the wrath of your enemies? No sword hath come up against us; no famine hath pinched our borders; no plague, nor pestilence, nor blasting winds have bitten us; no weapons formed against our liberties have ever prospered! Another year hath told out its months and seasons; but each day hath brought our necessary meals and luxurious entertainments; and each night hath brought its refreshment of dewy sleep; each sabbath hath its rest and blessed ministry of salvation. The heavens have dropped down fatness on our tabernacles. Very pleasant are our dwelling-places, and the places where our lines have fallen, be very good.'
'Poor Mino, whom we were the first to introduce to the public, that came afterward to admire him so much, has departed this life! Let us hope that, uncaged and free, he is now voyaging in more cloudless skies; for it is scarcely too much to believe, that he was not altogether of the earth, earthy. Just at this moment, as we gather from a friendly epistle, a wonderful ado is being made in London, over a loquacious canary-bird, which 'sees company' at the Cosmorama, in Regent-street, and articulates one or two appellations of endearment. He has, at the best, but a limited set of ideas, and a very small assortment of words to clothe them in. 'Would that Mino could be here, ​to awe him into silence!' says our correspondent; and we reiterate the aspiration. What is the 'dickey dear' of the London pet, to the conversation of our feathered protegé? The last time we were permitted to see him, was a day or two before his owner, in no amiable mood, had sent him into the country. Our good Friend had began to be so overrun with curious spectators, even to the annoying incumbrance of his premises with carriages, that he found it difficult to feed his songsters, and to sift and winnow his seeds. 'Good morning!' said Mino, with an irresistible cock of the eye, as we entered. Regarding us for a moment with a more serious look, as if fearful of having mistaken his man, he inquired, with evident trepidation, 'What's your name?' As we were about to answer, he recognised us as an old friend, and called out, arching his glossy neck, as he turned toward an adjoining apartment, 'Uncle John!—Uncle John! somebody's in the store!' And he added, in a self-accusing tone, 'That's a ve-ry ex-tra-or-dinary bird!'—meaning, doubtless, that it was very odd and stupid in him to make such a ridiculous blunder. And as we came away—after conversing with him for some time, during which he once or twice desired us to 'whistle, whistle!' thinking probably that a pleasant air might serve to rouse his spirits—he leaned over from his perch, and with a dewy eye, murmured mournfully, 'Poor Mino!—Good morning! good morning!' He evidently had a presentiment that we should never meet again; but seemed at the same time anxious that the pain inspired by his forebodings should be confined to his own bosom. Hence the pleasant parting salutation, that followed so quickly upon his prophetic exclamation; and, as if to remove all doubt of his cheerfulness and repose of spirit, he began to whistle the lively air of 'High Betty Martin.' 'So it was that we departed, and saw him no more.'
We are often reminded of these forcible and pathetic lines, by the great number of elegiac stanzas, which are transmitted to us from almost every section of the country; some upon distinguished men, who have filled a large space in the domestic circle, and in society; some upon the happy, the beautiful, and the young, who have gone down, in their bloom, to darkness and the worm; and some upon friends who sleep in the noiseless bed of rest, beyond the compassion of those who, when they were alive, could only weep for, and never help, them. How touching, how mournful, are these tributes! There is one now before us, from 'M. D.,' which sent moisture to the eye in the perusal; although they contain literary faults, which bar their publicity. The writer evidently feels the spirit of the motto he has chosen:
It is perhaps a trite remark, and one that may afford little relief to a sorrow-burdened spirit; but, stern mourner, gentle sufferer, have not the departed been taken from the evil to come? 'What,' says one, whose cup of worldly honor and applause was over-running as he wrote, 'what is this world? A dream within a dream. As we grow older, each step is an awakening. The youth awakes, as he thinks, from childhood; the full-grown man despises the pursuits of his youth as visionary; the old man looks on manhood as a feverish dream. The grave the last sleep? No! It is the last and final awakening.' The heart alone knoweth its own bitterness; and there are doubtless griefs that make one feel the impotency of consolation. But the lessons of sorrow, are they not sometimes fruitful of good? Hard, very hard, is it so to regard them, when the spirit is clothed in sackloth; yet with time, their influence with the reflecting ​is felt and acknowledged. 'Dear,' exclaimed an eloquent and fervent metropolitan divine, whom we heard some months since, and withal the water stood in his eyes as he spoke, 'dear are the fruits of earthly toil, and struggle, and affliction! I would not but have known sorrow. It gives an inexpresssible interest to the memory of the past. It consecrates, it endears, human experience. Amidst its dark tissues, the golden threads that are interwoven, shine brighter; and the splendor of virtue, and the radiance of joy, are heightened by the contrast. The future of man could not be drawn in full relief and beauty, but upon that dark ground. The Man of Sorrows was made to appeal to the heart of humanity, through all ages, in the voice of patient, meek, atoning agony; and the grand symbol of his religion is the instrument of agonizing crucifixion.'
Sir Walter Scott, in his diary, speaks of a Scottishman o' the Hielands,' who kept a case of razors for the use of those guests who unexpectedly spent the night in his house. One trial of the instruments abundantly sufficed. They never desired to stay with him over night but once. Now we can appreciate the moral of this anecdote right clearly, and so can an eccentric correspondent of ours, to whom we shall, of course, give no clue. He broke into our sanctum one morning, about a year ago, and being seated, took from his pocket a 'screed of verse,' which he said he had written in the short space of half an hour, and which he considered the best thing that ever came from his pen; and perhaps it was. It was a rude sketch of a country scene, correct enough, literally speaking, but without a spark of poetic life in its whole compass. 'I shall bring you,' said he, 'a piece as good as that, every time I come to see you, which I shall not fail to do, whenever I am in town.' A felicitous thought struck us. We handed him a long 'Baalam' poem, more dry and uninteresting even than his own, and desired him, as an especial favor, to peruse it, and pass judgment upon it, for our behoof; and we took care to add, that if his opinion cöincided with our own, we should be happy, owing to multifarious duties, to have him render us a similar service, whenever he did us the honor to call with his own productions. He commenced the article, and the perspiration trickled from his low and narrow forehead, as he read. Our notions of the piece, it is not necessary to say, were congenial with his own. Hence it is somewhat remarkable, that we have neither seen nor heard from him since. Exploring an old drawer, lately, we came across the verse in question. Its theme was kindred, in very many of its features, with a recent sketch from the eminent pen of Bryant, in the 'Democratic Review;' and it is for our really kind-hearted correspondent, that we quote a few lines, to show him the difference between poetry and mere forced rhythm, without life or nature. Our American Wordsworth is speaking of a fountain in the forest:
Simple, natural, beautiful are these stanzas. There is no apparent labor about them; but does the reader fancy that the poem from which they are taken, was 'written in ​half an hour, or that even this portion of it was entirely elaborated in that brief sрасе? Poetry, with very extraordinary exceptions, is not thus hastily engendered. The witty Smith, of the 'Rejected Addresses,' once said of Samuel Rogers, that it was his custom to take to his bed, after writing a few verses of his exquisite poetry; have straw flung before his door, and his knocker muffled; and to inquiries after his health, the servant was directed to answer, 'As well as could be expected!' This figment of the distinguished humorist is not without its lesson.
How true is it, that 'one half of the world know nothing of how the other half exist?' How many, as we write, are among the world's stricken and forsaken! Ever and anon, melancholy examples transpire in the public prints, but more suffer, with heroic fortitude, in silence and in secret. We remember reading, some ten or twelve years ago, when 'Burking' was in vogue, an account of a woman in some town in Scotland, whose husband died, leaving herself and four children in poverty. After he was buried, she was in an agony of fear, lest his body should be stolen from the grave. She was too poor to pay for a guard to watch the grave, and she resolved to perform the fearful task herself. Her children, the youngest of which was an infant upon the breast, were unable to contribute in the least toward their maintenance, and she was obliged to support the family by washing clothes. Every day, for the space of six weeks after her husband's burial, did she discharge her duty to the living, by toiling at her laborious occupation from day-break to sunset, while her nights were spent in the church-yard, tending her husband's grave. Unawed by the superstitious terrors which the strongest mind could scarcely fortify itself against, in such a place; heedless of the drifting snow, which sometimes fell in wreaths around her, or chilling night damps, drenching rains, and howling winds, did this affectionate creature, seated on a tombstone, by the side of her husband's grave, with an infant at her bosom, maintain her solitary vigils for forty-two successive nights, at the close of a stormy autumn. Sometimes, she said, in delivering her simple narrative, she was kept at the washing-green till night was setting in, and then she came straight to the kirk-yard, leaped over the dyke, and sat down on the grave-stone, till her children brought her dry clothes and her supper. After changing her raiment, she sat down with her cloak about her, folded her baby in her bosom, and kept her dreary watch as well as she could, until it was time to resume her labors in the morning. Now does not this devoted wife and mother better deserve a monument, than many a hero, who is deified because he has slain his scores of thousands?
Here ensues a brief sketch, from an admirable Salmagundi in the last number of Blackwood, entitled, 'Reflections on Punch, Morals, and Manners.' For simple pathos, something kindred with the above, in its effect upon our mind, we know not when we have seen its superior. The scene is in that part of Devonshire which borders on the county of Somerset. A gentleman who had not seen his nurse for some years, happening to be in village where she lived, called on her, when the following conversation took place:
Nurse. 'Lor a massy, Sir! is it you? Well, sure, I be cruel glad to zee ye! How is mistress, and the young ladies{mdash}}and maister?'
Master. 'All well, nurse, and desire to be kindly remembered to you. You are quite stout, I am glad to see—and how is your husband?'
Nurse. 'My husband! Oh, mayhap, Sir, you ha'nt a heared the news?'
Master. 'The news! No. I hope he is not dead?'
Nurse. 'Oh no, Sir, but he's dark.'
Master. 'Dark? what, blind! How did that happen?'
Nurse. 'Why, there now, Sir, I'll tell ye all about it. One morning—'t is so long ago as last apple-picking—I was a-gitting up, and I waked Jahn, and told un 't was time vor he to be upping too. But he was always lazy of a morning: zo a muttered some 'at and snoozed round agin. Zo, arter a bit, I spoke to un agin. 'Jahn,' zays I, 'what be snoozing there vor?—git up.' 'Zo,' zays he, 'what's the use of getting up bevore 'tis light?' 'Oh,' zays I, 'tis n't light, is it? Thee 'st know what's behind the door. I'll zoon tell thee whether 'tis light or no, you lazy veller.' 'Then,' zays he, turning his head, 'why 'tis zo dark as pitch.' Now that did provoke me—I'll tell yer honor the truth—and I beginned to wallop un a bit. But—Lor a massy—God forgive me! in a minute the blid gushed to my heart—and gi'd me zitch a turn, that I was vit to drap! Vor, instead of putting ​up his arms to keep off the stick, as a used to do, there was he, drawing 'em all abroad!—and a said 'Don't ye—don't ye—I can't zee! If 'tis light, I be dark!' 'Oh, zays I, 'my dear, you ben't, to be zure.' 'Ees,' says he, 'I be, zure enough.' Well, I was agushed—zo I put down the stick, and looked to his eyes, but I could 'nt zee nort in 'em.' 'Zo,' zays I, 'why there's nor in your eyes, Jahn; you'll be better by'm bye.' Zo I got un up, dressed un, and tookt un to the winder 'There,' zaid I, 'Jahn, can't you zee now?' But no, a zaid, a could 'nt. 'Then,' zays I, 'I know what 't is. 'Tis your zight's a-turned inward.' Zo I took't a pair of zizzers, not sharp-tapped ones, yer honor, and poked to his eyes to turn the zight outward agio—but I couldn't. Well, then I brought un down stairs into this here room, yer honor. 'Zo,' zays I, 'Jahn, can't ye zee in this room, neither?' and a zaid an, a could n't. Well, then I thought of the picturs—he was always cruel vond of picture—thinks a, pr'aps a may zee they; an I tookt 'em up to thin. 'There,' zays I, 'Jahn, don't ye zee the pictur?—'tis Taffy riding upon his goat.' But a zaid no, a couldn't. Zo then a tookt un up to t'other pictur. 'There'—Sir, he was always very vond of thin—and I pushed his nose close to un; 'there,' zays I, 'to be sure you see this pictur, can't ye? But a zaid no. 'Why,' zaid I, ''t is Joseph and his brethren; there they be—there he twelve of 'em—can't ye zee ne'er a one of 'em?' But a zaid no, could n't zee none of 'em. 'Then,' says I, ''tis a bad job your zight's a-turned inward.' Zo we pomsterred with un a bit, and then tried some doctor's trade, but it did n't do no good: and, at last, we was told there was a vine man at Exeter vor zitch things—zo we zent un up to he. Well—there—the Exeter doctor zeed us, and tookt his box of tools, and zarched about his eyes a bit; and, then a zent un home with this word, that he couldn't do un no good, and nobody else could do un no good.'
We bring our 'drawer' to a close, for the present, with the subjoined 'Lines on the Weather,' written in the north temperate zone. Their publication would be unseasonable at a later period, and typographical circumstances have prevented their appearance in preceding pages:
Thus much for our 'pot-luck.' Perhaps it will stand in some rank of praise, in its very humble class of dishes; but if, as is likely, there should be any disagreement concerning it, among readers and correspondents, they must 'settle the hash' among themselves.