over the church, a choleric old Dutchman remarked as follows:-"We've been to great droubles, and great deal 'spence, to build a house for God Almitis; and now, if he's a mind to dunder on His own house, and burn him up, let Him dunder away den! I sha'n't vote for de dunder-rod!” Years ago, one beautiful autumn day, I stood on Table Rock and gazed down upon the thundering waters and the awful abyss of the eternal Niagara. I was stunned- stupified--and seemed to lose all consciousness and all individuality-so much so that I came away disappointed and regretful, fancying that I was of a nature not to be moved by this sublimest of all the Creator's handiwork. And yet, the memory of that scene has never left me. Even now, at times, I hear that wild roar of waters, and see that terrific gulph, as plainly as when I stood above them. "The excess of feeling constituteth senselessness." I wrote this line the next day while attempting to describe the sensations of that hour, and it is one of the truest I ever wrote. If I were to be asked what principle I thought it were best for a young man to fix pre-eminently in his mind, in order to be prepared for his intercourse with the world at large, I think I should reply-(setting aside honesty, &c.)-Confide in no one-distrust every body! Those frank, unsuspecting mortals, who believe no one can do wrong, are perhaps the happiest, internally-but then, externally, they are forever in hot water. Speaking of hot water (as my beloved Ollapod-peace to his manes!would have said) reminds me of a story of a coffee-pot. I can vouch for its truth, as I know intimately the actors, and it also possesses the uncommon feature of never-having-been-told-before. It occurred in the family of a somewhat celebrated clergyman in Gotham, where of course the service of morning devotion was rigidly ahered to. My friend, the son, on one occasion overslept himself, and came down to breakfast while his mother was reading the chapter. He had risen in rather ill humour, and, regardless of what was going on, snatched up the coffee pot from before the fire. In so doing, he spilled some of its contents on the brightly burnished fender, which his mother-a pattern of neatness-perceiving on the instant, read as follows:-" And the Lord said unto Moses—put down that coffee pot!" It is needless to add that when the father attempted soon after to address the Throne of Grace, his first sentence terminated in an explosion of uncontrollable laughter. The truly generous man belongs to the class nondescript. He is a perfect paradox in himself, and is treated by the world paradoxically. He loves every body and hates himself, for doth he not oftentimes relieve the distresses of others at the certain expense of his own comfort and ease? At the same time, and for the same cause, he is both loved and despised:loved, until his heart has melted at the suffering which his kind impulses compel him to relieve, and then despised, because he was weak enough to sacrifice his own case to secure that of the objects of his benevolence.Surely, this is a strange world, when one cannot do a kind action without 1844. Passages from an Unpublished Auto-Biography. 531 being called hard names for it, or acquire the reputation of generosity, without having appended to it the disqualifying adjectives-"extravagant" and "reckless." I begin to admire the look-out-for-number-one notions of that man of this stamp, who, after enduring a case of unparalleled ingratitude, vowed that he would not do another kind action so long as he lived. I am led into these remarks by what has occurred to myself today. Meeting a superlatively dirty and ragged urchin in the Park, he besought me with the most piteous earnestness to assist him in raising the necessary amount for the purchase of a pair of shoes for his defenceless feet. Unable (from reasons unnecessary to mention) to contribute to his small collection any of the coin of the realm, I unhesitatingly pulled off my own gaiters, and having seen them snugly tied on his pedal extremities, without waiting to receive his thanks, I marched homeward in my stockings. As I was closing the Park gate, I unconsciously looked behind me, and detected my now whole-soled young gentleman in the act of performing a certain circumgyratory process, in which his thumb, finger, and nasal organ were most active, the movement evidently intended for my especial benefit. But, after all, it was probably "a way he had" of evincing his gratitude. I am going down in the world. Insult upon insult am I compelled to submit to. Shall I endure it longer? When the buttons of this old coat were new I never lacked companionship. I met a party of old friends today and they invited me to dine with them. But I dine no more at Delmonico's-and declined. They saw my reason, and an hour ago, while they were still over their cups, I received from one of them a somewhat bulky sealed package. Detaining the messenger, I hastily opened it, little doubting that I should find within some testimonial of their regard— some generous douceur, perhaps, delicately urged upon my acceptance.Conceive my surprise, my horror, on finding only a pig's head, bereft of every hair, muscle, and brain! I read the whole plot in a moment, and suppressing my indignation, with the utmost coolness I sat down to my table, and in five minutes sent their messenger back with a note to my quondam friend containing only the following lines: I thought you were playing me one of your prancs; To show that the head is quite guiltless of brains! * I should have been born in Italy! There is not an emotion or a passion in my whole nature that is not out of place in this staid and sober latitude. It seems to me that under the skies of the "sunny south" I should live, while here I but exist. Oh how my spirit hath revelled amid even the most formal descriptions of that beautiful land! How my heart hath throbbed, as if its eager pulses would batter down the walls of its frail tenement, while I have been lost amid the delightful creations with which that land is peopled! Italy is the country of love! There no "strong man armed" stands as *It was found among the relics of the deceased, labelled "Portrait of TW-- Esqr., Presented by himself."-EDITOR. a sentinel over the ever wayward heart. There no prying eye seeks to discover, no mildewed lip to criticise, the half delirious exhibitions of heaven-born passion. There, no over-grown monster, in the shape of Public Opinion, loosens its thousand tongues, to sting to death those whose words and actions are not weighed in a balance and measured with a line. There, Love is revealed fearlessly-there, it exists unmolested and uncontrolled. There it is borne, like the perfume of flowers, on the wings of every zephyr-inhaled with every breath-and becoming the very element of existence. It is no crime there to love, or to be loved. There, the laws of the human heart-implanted in it by the Being who made it, and whose own very nature is Love-are supreme. The magnates of the land cannot legislate them away, nor contract their exercise-nor can Public Opinion -that most senseless and most dastardly of all tribunals-ever destroy or weaken their innate powers. There one need not surround himself with a body-guard of Fears, lest eye, or lip, or tongue, or gesture betray admiration where miserable Public Opinion hath placed its cross of warning. Yes, I should have been born in Italy! And there, dear one, thou shouldst have been my idol-my beautiful improvisatrice-the bright Di vinity at whose shrine I might offer up all the passionate worship of my soul! Again have I seen her but she heeded not the gaze of devotion with which I regarded her. The rich, the titled, the elegant were around her and she had no eyes for me. In the solitude of my poor chamber let me adore her in secret. Perhaps when I am dead she may read my writings, Perhaps she may think of me when her eye rests on the address of THE HUMBLE POET TO HIS LADY-LOVE, I, Beloved! if this world were mine, I'd use it for a gift to thee: The golden stars that o'er us shine The jewels of thy dower should be. The elements I would command As slaves to do thy simplest will And only for reward demand II. No cloisteress ever robed her saint With half the glories thou shouldst wear: An angel's pen should fail to paint The splendours of thy regal chair. The lowliest guardian of thy seat! 1844. Passages from an Unpublished Auto-Biography. 533 III. But shouldst thou lift thy royal hand Should envy such a glorious fate. For me Death cannot come too soon! I am on my "last legs." I inhabit an attic and go out only when absolute necessity compels me. I wear a coat that is not only thread-bare, but that is past the skill of a tailor to re-juvenate. Poverty is my bosom friend, and Starvation and I meet as equals. Yet I cannot see that I am ashamed of my habiliments or my lodging. The Spirit, as the time draws nigh when she is to cast her shell, is glad to find rents and holes in her outer garments through which she may get glimpses of the world into which she is to emerge. It amuses me to watch, as I pass through the streets, the effect of my approach upon such of my former friends whom I chance to meet. I sometimes laugh myself into hysterics while witnessing the various expedients made use of to avoid me, and though it certainly is not particularly agreeable to be shunned as were the headsmen of old, yet the ludicrous often prevails over the painful, and I burst out into a regular guffaw, which must have a peculiarly unique effect upon the individual whose actions have occasioned such an explosion. Some of them, to be sure, walk stif fly and statelily up, and, as they pass me without the semblance of recognition, look as innocently into my face, as a cat might do into the face of her mistress had she not just regaled herself with a dish of her freshest cream. This seems to be the cut direct. In some who pass me without a recognition, but more demurely than the first, I think I can perceive the hand brought suddenly down over the pocket nearest me, as though they fancied that I meditated an immediate descent into that interesting locality. Others increase their pace on arriving within a few yards of me, and, seeming to perceive some one in the distance whom they particularly wish to overtake, or else fearing that they shall be too late for the cars, pass me almost on a run. Others are suddenly smitten with a desire to consult their watches, and frequently tear their pockets in their efforts to get them out soon enough. Others discover most wonderful curiosities in the windows of a Baker's shop or a coffin-warehouse, or peer with the intensest earnestness over the heterogeneous mass on a market-stand or the mouldy volumes of a Book-stall. All these, of course, do not perceive me at all. They have eyes, but they see not." Others again, more modest, recognise me from a distance, as we approach from opposite directions, and then comes the "tug of war" to see which shall soonest reach the corner. my friend wins the race, he darts with energy down the cross street, or, if he is too late for that, the open door of an oyster-cellar affords a hope of safety, and he dives down the steep stairs at the imminent risk of his neck. Others, again, who are in a too dangerous proximity, suddenly clap their hands into their pockets, and, with the air of one who has forgotten some If thing, wheel right about and retrace their steps with desperate rapidity.But what care I for their cuts direct or indirect! Will I regard them in my six by two cell? I have not left my room for a week. With the little life there is left let me make a desperate struggle, and let the last words my pen shall trace, be as a warning to those who may find them. I die of starvation. I need food, medicine, attendance-I have neither. I might have had all. Why rejected I the friendly counsel? Why joined I not the glorious Or New York, Oct. 28, 1844. LINES TO A YOUNG WIDOW. BY CAROLINE M. SAWYER, OF NEW YORK. SORROWING Wife of our departed-- Pensive as a widowed dove, I, 'tis true, a passing stranger, Though unmet by other eyes, To my distant home I hie me- Joys long miss'd will soon be mine, Comes not back to them and thee! I shall see thee sadly fold them To thy young and anguished breast, *The reader will easily supply the hiatus. The writing ended thus abruptly on the scrap containing the last words of the poor defunct.-[EDITOR. |