Chapter 6

But a change takes place; a light, graceful, low-crowned hat, with a brim wide enough for shelter or for shade, begins to appear as a fashion;--and how is it received? The clergyman thinks it would be very unclerical for him to wear it, though it may be as black, and is as modest, as the rest of his apparel. The young doctor timidly tries it on, and in his first walk meets the wealthy hypochondriac, his favorite patient, and the one who is trying to introduce him to practice, who seriously advises him, as a friend, not to wear that new-fangled thing,--if the poor hat had only been ugly, there would have been nothing bad in its _new-fangled_ quality,--as all his respectable patients will leave him if he dresses so like a fool. The young lawyer gets one, because he heard an old lady speak of "those impudent-looking hats," and he is in hopes that impudence, which he understands is all-important in his profession, and which he is conscious of not possessing, may come with the hat. A lady goes out with her son, who is just old enough to have gained a coat, and is looking for his first hat. The mother has taste and judgment, and the youth has yet some unperverted affinity with graceful forms left, and so they choose and buy one of these comfortable and elegant chapeaux. Just before they reach home, they meet one of their best friends, a person whom the lady regards most kindly, and the young man admires and respects, and _he_ greets him with, "Why, Tom! have _you_ got one of those rowdy hats?" And so the stiff, stove-pipe monstrosity keeps its place, and the only pleasant, sensible, graceful, becoming hat that the nineteenth century has known, is called all sorts of bad names, and quiet gentlemen are afraid to wear it.

Has it not been the fate of the shawl, too, the most simple and elegant wrapper, and comfortable withal, that a man can throw around him, to be scouted and flouted?

Yes, Deformed! Come on next winter with a white surtout in your hand that must fit so tightly that your victims can but just screw themselves into it, with a stiff, square collar touching the ears, and seven capes, one over the other, "small by degrees and beautifully less," and all respectable gentlemen will accept it, and virtuously frown down, as dandies or rowdies, those who will not sacrifice their shawls to the ugly idol.

A GROWL.

I know it is generally considered decidedly boorish to utter complaints against the ladies. But I am for the present a bachelor, and in that capacity claim freedom of speech as my peculiar privilege. In virtue of my unhappy position, then, I proceed to utter the first of a series of savage growls, wishing the ladies to understand me as fully in earnest in this; that when I growl _loud_, I must be supposed to _mean_ what I growl.

For a month past, single gentlemen of every description have suffered in common with other fancy stocks, and have remained hopelessly below par. Those nice, trim, poetical, and polite young beaux, who, when no great undertaking agitates the female mind, are treated with kindness, and sometimes with distinction, by young ladies of discretion, are now, as it were, ruthlessly thrust and bolted out of the pale of feminine society by an awful demon who reigns supreme,--the Genius of Dress-making. The other evening, I pulled sixteen different bell-handles, in a gentlemanly manner, without obtaining admission into any house for the purpose of making a call; and when I succeeded in making an entrance at the seventeenth door by falsely representing myself as the agent of a dry-goods dealer, with a large box of patterns under my arm, I found the ladies in close conference with three dress-makers, studying a fashion-plate with an assiduity worthy of a better cause. A friend of mine, who has hitherto enjoyed the privilege of dining every day with six ladies, and has derived from their society great pleasure and profit, informed me yesterday, with a tear in each eye, that he had left the house for ever, the conversation being always turned upon topics with which he is utterly unacquainted, and conducted in a language which is about as intelligible to him as the most abstruse Japanese or the most classic Law-Latin.

If we are so fortunate as to obtain, by any stratagem, admission to hall or anteroom, in the mansions of our fair friends, our olfactories are regaled with a fragrance which we instinctively associate with tailors' shops, and which, I am informed, does in fact arise from the contact of woollen substances with hot flat-irons. As we advance, our ears are greeted by the resounding clash of scissors. Entering upon the field of action, our eyes are dazzled by a thousand fragments of rich and brilliant hues, and our personal safety endangered by swiftly flying needles and unsuspected pins. Gossip is at an end, for the thread must be continually bitten off. Dancing is child's play, a folly of the past. The piano is converted into a table, or an ironing-board. No games can be suggested but Thread-my-needle, and Thimble-rig. No books are at hand but Harper, with the fashion-plate at the end; the newspapers of the day are cut into uncouth shapes; and conversation (when conducted in English) hangs the unsuccessful Bloomer reform upon the gibbet of ridicule.

Now, if we would prevent utter disunion in society, something like a compromise must be effected, and to the ladies belongs the laboring oar. I use a metaphor which implies that they must do something they are little accustomed to do; they must make some concession. We have done all we could do, and I will make one statement which will convince the world that we bachelors are not obstinate without good reason. I confess (though it is not without some slight degree of shame that I own it), that I have, during the last week, consumed the greater part of every day in ineffectual study, trying to perfect myself in the terminology of the science of Fashion. I have listened attentively, and have gathered into a retentive memory sundry technicalities; but in vain have I submitted these terms of a strange dialect to the strictest etymological research. In vain have I conversed upon this subject with the most intelligent dry-goods dealers. In learning the few idiomatic phrases they employ, I have experienced only the satisfaction which young students in Greek literature feel, when they have, with infinite labor, mastered the _alphabet_ of that rich and copious language.

But there is hope. Experience tells us, this state of things cannot last for ever. A few weeks, and our sufferings shall be rewarded, our forbearance repaid. Then shall gay streamers, pendent from rejuvenated bonnets, float, as of yore, across our promenades, and on the shoulders of Earth's fairest daughters the variegated mantle be again displayed. The streets, now deserted by the fair, will ere long glitter with the brilliant throng, and our sidewalks be swept once more by the gracefully flowing silk. Taper fingers shall condescendingly be extended to us, the smile of beauty beam on us, and witty speech banish our resentful remembrance of incomprehensible jargon.

TO JENNY LIND,

ON HEARING HER SING THE ARIA "ON MIGHTY PENS," FROM "THE CREATION."

When Haydn first conceived that air divine, The voice that thrilled his inward ear was thine. The Lark, that even now to heaven's gate springs, And near the sky her earth-born carol sings, Poured on his ear a higher, purer note, And heavenly rapture seemed to swell her throat. To him, from groves of Paradise, the Dove Breathed Eden's innocence and Eden's love; And seraph-taught seemed the enchanting lay The Nightingale poured forth at close of day; For yet nor sin nor sorrow had its birth, To touch, as now, the sweetest sounds of earth. Yes! as upon his inner sense was borne The melody of that primeval morn, And all his soul was music,--O, to him The voice of Nature was an angel's hymn! But was there, _then_, one human voice that brought Unto his outward ear his own rapt thought, In tones, interpreting in worthy guise The varied notes of Eden's melodies?-- O, happier we! for unto us 'tis given To hear, through thee, the strains he caught from heaven.

December 1, 1851.

MY HERBARIUM.

Poor, dry, musty flowers! Who would believe you ever danced in the wind, drank in the evening dews, and spread sweet fragrance on the air? A touch now breaks your brittle leaves. Your odors are like attic herbs, or green tea, or mouldy books. Your forms are bent and flattened into every ugly and distorted shape. Your lovely colors are faded,--white changed to black, yellow to dirty white, gorgeous scarlet to brick color, purple to muddy brown. Poor things! Who drew you from your native woods and brooks, to press you flat, and dry your moisture up, and paste you down helplessly upon your backs, such mocking shadows of your former grace and beauty?

Ah! sorrowfully do I confess it! It was I. In my early years I searched the woods and meadows, scaled rocks, forded bogs, and scrutinized each shady thicket, with murderous intent. I bore my drooping victims home, and sacrificed them relentlessly to science. With my own hand I turned the screw that crushed out all that was lovely and graceful and delicate about them. How I wearied myself over that flower-press! How anxiously I watched over the stiff stalks and shrivelled leaves,--all that was left! How perseveringly I changed and dried the papers, jammed my fingers between the heavy boards, and blistered my hands with that obstinate screw! And how cordially I hated it all! I liked the fun of gathering the flowers, the triumph of finding new specimens, and the excitement of hazardous scrambles; but as for the rest it was drudgery, which I went through only from a stern sense of duty. Now, thanks to the busy little fingers that passed over these leaves, I have a fund of amusement laid up for me; for every page has its story, and each mutilated flower is the centre of a beautiful picture. Here the ludicrous and the pathetic are so exquisitely blended, that I laugh with a regretful feeling at my heart, and sigh even when smiles are on my face. The first few pages are light and joyous, full of a child's warm impulses and ready zeal, and enlivened here and there by some roguish caprice. That was the time when, in my simplicity, I loved dandelions and buttercups, and could see beauty even in the common white-weed of the fields. Ah! here they are, arranged in whimsical positions,--Clover and Sorrel, Violets and Blue-eyed Grass, Peppergrass and Dock (O, how hard that was to press!), Mouse-Ear and Yarrow, Shepherd's Purse, Buttercups, and full-blown Dandelion, Succory, and Chickweed, and Gill-run-over-the-ground,--with their homeliest names written in sprawling characters, all down hill, beneath them. I did not aspire to botanical names in those days. I thought nothing was unfit for my new Herbarium. Such was my zeal, that I believe I should have filled it entirely in a few days, if I had not been counselled to make a judicious selection. I had a faculty for bringing home plants impossible to press, and insisting upon making the experiment. I slept for a week with my bed-post tilted up on a huge book, wherein reposed a water-lily, obstinately refusing to lie flat. All kinds of woody plants, too, were my delight, though they invariably came out of the press as they went in, except that the leaves were in every variety of unnatural position. I never grew weary, either, of gathering stately and graceful green ferns, and finding them all "cockled up," as the phrase went, when I got home. I believe I made some experiments on a horsechestnut blossom once; but as it is not to be found in my Herbarium, I am inclined to think they were unsuccessful. How happy children are with any new possession! I thought there never was any thing quite equal to my new book. All the girls had them, with neat marbled covers, and white paper within, and each one was determined to make hers the best of the whole. When pasting day came, there was an intense excitement. We all daubed our little fingers to our heart's content, and our faces too, as to that. I remember perfectly the sensation of smiling, after the paste stiffened. We spattered our desks, and pasted the wrong side of the flowers, and stuck the leaves together, and got every thing a little one-sided, and, in short, became so worried and heated and vexed, that we did not hunt for any more flowers for a long time after the first pasting day.

In the mean while my ideas had undergone a change. I had become much more ambitious. A hew page brings flowers of a higher order, and, beneath them, besides the common name, appears a sounding botanical title; ay, still more, the class and order are written in full. Poor things! How many of your species must have been pulled to pieces by inexperienced hands, to ascertain the exact number of stamens, and their relative positions! I feel, now, a tenderness for the shrinking, delicate wild flowers, that makes me hesitate even to pick them from their shady retreats; but _then_, such was my ardor for investigation, the more I loved them, and the more beautiful they seemed, the more eagerly I tore them to fragments. Let the ingenious student analyze bits of brass wire, and reduce to its simple elements as much gunpowder as he pleases, but I raise my voice against this wanton destruction of rare and beautiful flowers. No chemical process can ever restore _them_.

As I glance over this new page, I see a merry troop of little girls, crowding around their kind teacher, trying to restrain their superabundant spirits, and restless activity, till they may give them free scope in the woods. Passing up the street, they are joined by fresh recruits, who come dancing out of the houses, with baskets, and trowels, and tin boxes, and delightfully mysterious suppers packed away nicely, to be eaten in the most romantic place that can be found,--provided there is no danger of snakes, or ivy. Where they are going I should find it impossible to say, until I have consulted the new leaf just turned over. Here, side by side, are the wild Columbine and the cheerful little Bethlehem Star. They grew, I remember, upon Powder-House Hill, so named from the massive granite building upon its summit, which we never dared to go near, for fear of an explosion. The hill was rough, rocky, barren, and in some places quite steep. In the clefts of the rocks, generally far above our reach, the bright red columbines stood in groups, drooping their graceful heads. Some of the rocks were worn to a perfect polish by the feet of daring sliders. It was a dangerous pastime even to the most experienced. A loss of balance, a slight deviation from the beaten track, a trip in a hollow, or a momentary entanglement in your dress,--and you are lost! I declined joining in the diversion ever after the first attempt, which was nothing but a headlong plunge from top to bottom. But though I heroically stood aloof while the girls were enjoying the sport, and making the air ring with their laughter, I was sure, afterwards, to come upon the slippery places unintentionally, and take a slide whether I would or not. I had, I remember, a most unfortunate propensity for climbing and scrambling, choosing the worst paths, and daring the others to follow my lead on precarious footholds. It was unfortunate, because I seldom came forth from these trials unscathed. I was always tearing my dresses in clambering over fences, or bumping my head in creeping under. Where others cleared brooks with a light spring, I landed in the middle. I was sure to pick out spongy, oozy, slippery grass to stand upon, in marshy land, or was yet more likely to slump through over shoes in black mud. Banks always caved in beneath my feet, unexpectedly. Brambles seemed to enter into a conspiracy to lay violent hands on me, and hidden boughs lay in wait to trip me up. Moss and bark scaled off the trunks of fallen trees, bearing me with it when I was least on my guard, or the trunks themselves, solid enough to all appearance, crushed to powder beneath my unwary tread. Even the stone walls deserted me. I made use of one as a bridge, one day, to reach a golden cowslip that grew temptingly in a swamp; but a treacherous stone rolled off with me, and a perfect avalanche of huge rocks followed, splashing the muddy water all over me as I sat, helplessly, buoyed up by the tall grass. I regret to say, I forgot the cowslip.

THE OSTRICH.

Of the wild and wayward Ostrich, say, have ye never heard? Of the poor, distracted, lonely, outcast, and wandering bird? Which is not a bird of heaven, nor yet a beast of earth, But ever roveth, homeless,--a creature of strange birth. Wings hath it, but it flies not. And yet within its breast Are strange and sleepless drivings, so that it may not rest; Half-formed, half-conscious impulses, with its half-formed pinions given, Too strong for rest on earth, too weak to bear to heaven;-- And madly it beats its wings, but vainly, against its side, For the light wind rusheth through them, mocking them in its pride. Then, distraught, it hurries onward, the gates of heaven shut, Flying from what it knows not,--seeking it knows not what. While in the parching desert, amid the stones and sand, Its stone-like eggs are lying, here and there, on every hand, It wanders on, unheeding; and, with funereal gloom, Trembles in every breeze each torn, dishevelled plume. And when, with startled terror, it sees its foes around, It strives to rise above them, but clingeth to the ground. Then on it madly rusheth, with idly fluttering wings; The stones in showers behind it convulsively it flings; Onward, and ever onward,--the fleetest horses tire,-- But its strength grows less and less, their tramping ever nigher. The poor distracted thing! it feels its lonely birth; It may not rise to heaven, so it cometh to the earth; To the earth, as to a mother, since to the earth it must,-- Its head in her bosom nestled, its eye veiled with her dust. But she will not receive it. From earth and heaven outcast, The Ostrich dies, as it lived, unfriended to the last.

Of the wild and wayward Ostrich, say, have ye never heard? Of the poor, distracted, lonely, outcast, and wandering bird?

But not alone it wandereth. My spirit stirs in me, With a sort of half-fraternal and drawing sympathy; This lonely, restless spirit, that would rise from the heavy ground To the sky of light and love that stretcheth all around. But, with all its restless longings, it too must earth-bound stay, And, with wings half formed for soaring, here hold its weary way, Hungering for food of heaven, feeding on dust and stone, While about it lie unheeded, as it hasteth on alone, Its deeds of good or evil, a fruitful mystery; But it presseth on, nor recketh what their event may be. And when doubt and fear assail it, it may not rise above To the glorious, peaceful height of fear-outcasting love; But something draws it downward, breathes of its lower birth, Prompts it to seek a refuge in the blindness of the earth. And it hides its head in earthliness; at least it will not see The blow it cannot ward off; and the foe it may not flee. But something softly whispers that these wings shall grow to soar-- Heaven grant!--in the cloudless depths of love for evermore. It whispers that again these blinded eyes shall see; Heaven grant in their yearning gaze the long-sought home may be! It whispers each word and act shall to fruition spring; Heaven grant they may joy to man, and peace to the spirit bring!

Of the wild and wandering Ostrich, say, have ye never heard? The type of the restless soul of man, the weary, wingless bird.

COWS.

I admire cows in their proper places. They are undoubtedly useful animals; some may think them handsome and graceful: this is, as yet, an unsettled question. They certainly figure pretty extensively in all sketches of rural scenery, and may, therefore, be considered as picturesque objects; but I think that on canvas they take to themselves beauties which they do not possess in actual life. I do not object to see them at a distance, quietly grazing in a meadow by the brink of a winding stream, and all that sort of thing, provided the distance is very great, and a strong fence intervenes. For I would have you know, that I am a delicate young lady of nervous temperament and keen sensibilities, and have a mortal dread of cows. I am not used to the customs of country life, which place this animal on a level with domestic pets, and when my brother asked me to pat the side of one of these great, coarse brutes, I screamed at the mere idea. For I should be extremely unwilling to provoke one of them, because I have been told that, when heated with passion, as these beasts often are, it sometimes happens that the powder-horns on top of their heads explode, and spread ruin and desolation around. People here bestow a vast deal too much consideration on these unpleasant animals, for they are often seen--that is, those of them that are troubled with weak eyes--walking along the streets with boards over their faces, as a protection from the rays of the sun. I don't believe that is the real reason of the thing, though my brother assures me that it is. I think, myself, that it is intended as a keen satire upon those young ladies who wear veils in the streets; but I never will yield my point. I _will_ wear my veil, so long as I have a complexion worth protecting, and so long as there are gentlemen worth cutting. The Brighton Bridge Battery is a delightful promenade on a warm summer's day, it is _so_ shady; but it is closed, I may say, every Wednesday and Thursday, to accommodate these detestable pets of the public. It seems, as my brother informs me, that the drovers, from humane considerations, are in the habit of driving their cattle over to Brighton, (when the weather is pleasant,) and back again on the next day, in order that their health may be improved by the sea-air which blows up Charles River. Now I think that when the cow takes precedence of the lady, and usurps, to the utter exclusion of the latter, the most delightful promenade in Cambridge, it is time the city authorities should look to it; and so I told my brother. He considered for a moment, and then advised me not to bear it any longer, but to go upon Brighton Bridge, _in spite_ of the cows, and assert my independence. I followed his advice, as I always do, and, on one fine afternoon, took advantage of the pleasant weather to indulge in a solitary walk in that direction. As I was sauntering along on the wooden sidewalk, gazing at the noble ships which lay moored by their gaff-topsails to the abutments of the bridge, and viewing the honest sailors as they promenaded up and down the string-ladders at the command of their captains, my fears were aroused by a distant commotion. I hastily turned and looked over the railing into the street. A whole drove of infuriated cows, urged on by two fiendish boys and a savage dog, was rapidly approaching me from the Cambridge side. What should I do? I was too much fatigued to run, and I had never learned to swim. My plans were hastily formed. Flinging my red silk visite and sky-blue parasolette into the water, lest the gay colors should still more enrage the wild animals, I jumped over the outside railing towards the river, and hung by one arm over the angry flood during a moment of speechless agony! On they came, with lightning speed, in a whirlwind of dust. A rapid succession of earthquakes--bellowings--groans,--and all was over. I was safe. On inspection of the footmarks, I felt quite sure that some of them must have approached within ten yards of me, and only two railings had intervened between me and their fury.