Chapter 20

The audience having dispersed in a state like the afflatus of laughing-gas, the poet and a privileged clique proceeded to the house of the Baptist elder, to prolong the night with metaphysical wassail. From the froth of poetry, they rose to a contemplation of the old classics; Homer, Euripides, Sophocles, Virgil, rising grandly from their dust, ensphered in vibratory eloquence.

The elder, whose, education had been accomplished simply by a New Testament and three-inch rope, sat, or rather twisted through the rhapsody, as a dunce twists through his Greek roots, and at the first pause, drawing himself erect with the self-complacent air of a man who applies the clincher, ejaculated, with the Western twang: 'What do you think of Hi-awa_thy_?' The professor, giving him one look, to be sure of his sanity, and a second to be sure of his obtusity, answered gravely, above a convulsion of laughter: 'Hi-awathy was a genius!'

Athens has since then grown to be some town, with an aristocracy composed of a few old maids, who attain the distinction from being the oldest inhabitants, and a poet of its own. The latter has immortalized himself by a poem in the Chatterton obsolete style, on 'Ye Cobwebs in my Attick,' supposed to be an 'Allegory on my Brain,' and from having once astonished one of the very _élite_ of the aristocracy by requesting her to lend him her book, 'On the Dogs of Venice.' Her ladyship assured him that she was not in possession of the volume; but, on his insisting, conducted him to her library, (six shelves, one and a half by four,) where he seized upon a moth-eaten volume, illustrated on the front page by a man of obesity, clad in very flowing robes, and an immense crown, in the act of casting a ring into a black little stream ornamented by six rushes and two swans, with this inscription beneath: 'Venice wedding the Adriatic through the person of her Doge.' A wit having suggested to this votary of the muse that he should compose an epic on the royal canine of Venice, he is now zealously devoting himself to the task, as the literary public are respectfully invited to observe.

The Athenians were not long since electrified by the patriotic eloquence of an itinerant Methodist evangelist, who wound up a burst of rhapsodical patriotism with this, climax: 'If this glorious Union is dissolved, what will become of the American Eagle, that splendid bird with 'E Pluribus Unum' in his bill, the shafts of Peace in his talons, and 'Yankee Doodle' tied to his tail?'

One more _bon mot_, and I leave Athens to the plaudits of an appreciative public.

The Presbyterian divine, running his thin fingers through his thin hair, exclaimed, in a thin voice: 'Brethren! ye are the salts of the earth.' 'The salts,' though as old as the Gospel, have not yet lost their _freshness_.'

Exit Athens and fresh salt.

* * * * *

YE KNIGHT OF YE GOLDEN CYRCLE.

A veray parfit gentil knight, Thatte of ye Golden Cyrcle hight, One day yridden forth; But ne to finde a fayre mayde, He went on errants of his trade, To fight or filch ye North.

He was a wight of grisly fronte, And muckle berd ther was upon 't, His lockes farre down did laye: Ful wel he setten on his hors, Thatte fony felaws calléd Mors, For len it was and grai.

Ilk knight he hadde ne vizor on, His busynes were then undone, All time was for attack; More than, he hadde ne mail, either, But arméd with a revolvér, He like-_Wise_ chawed toback.

He sayde his was a mightie hond, Ne better in ye Southron lond To yearn anly battail: Mony a dewel hadde he fought, And put his foe alway to rout, Withouten ony fail.

Eke fro his sheld ther stroke the ee, These letters golden, 'F.F.V.,' Thatte mony a clerk did pain; Which guessed it, '_Forte Fuor Vi_!' The people giggled, 'l' your ey; It's Fume and Fight in Vain!'

Eftsoons hire cloke ye awful Night, Yspreaden roun ilk warrihour wight, Ye glasse of chivalrie; But nothing daunt, he kept his course, As well as mote his sorry hors, Farre to the North countrée.

And thus in darkesse all yclad, He hied him, gif he weren mad, O'er feld and eke through thicket; When 'Stop, by God!' some one began, 'You'er mine--'or any other man!'' Jesu! a Yankee picket!

'Gent knight, yclept of Golden Cyrcle! Why in the devil don't one dirk all? Where now's your chivalrie?' 'Goode sir,' quod he, 'twas ne for fight I hied me out ilk murkie night, It was for poulterie!'

'Wal, damn your 'poulterie'--and you! Such deed no generous knight would do! So I mote thee deter! I'll show thee, though, the _coop_, sir knight, Where _chickens_ such as thee are blight-- You are my prisoner!'

Mony maydens weren grieved-- Cleopatras, slouchy-sleeved-- Darksome maydes of work all; And mony felaws of much might Ydrink the hades of ye Knight Of ye grete Golden Cyrcle.

We much fear that it may be said of the chief cavalier of the Golden Circle, what the old German _lanzknecht_, in Rabelais, said of the Gascon adventurer: 'The knight pretends that he wants to fight, but is much more inclined to steal; therefore, good people, look out for your property.'

* * * * *

The following story, it is averred, can be vouched for, to any reasonable extent, by a large crowd of witnesses.

DEAR CONTINENTAL: Possibly you would not give 'a Continental dime' for that which I am about to pen. Possibly, too, you may damn it into the waste-basket. I have often _heard_ of a 'Continental damn'--it never occurred to me before what the article really was. Dante has, I know, provided a corner for those who were _in_-continentally condemned; but it was reserved for you to abridge the word, and so _make a vice of a virtue_!

I once lived in a village: to that village came an itinerant dramatic company; and that company advertised to play a grand moral temperance drama, entitled _Down the Hill_.

The principal actor called himself Eglantine Mowbray. I believe that the latter syllable of the last name was the only portion thereof to which he was really entitled. He _did_ bray.

The bills appeared, with the following heading:

UNPARALLELED ATTRACTION.

On Monday Evening,

THE YOUTHFUL ROSCUSS!

EGLANTINE MOWBRAY!!

Will appear in his great rôle,

DOWN THE HILL.

Our simple villagers _had_ seen circuses; but youthful Roscusses were entirely beyond their experience. Quite as unfamiliar was the word _rôle_, which, to their badly-lettered fancy, stood for movement, by 'turning on the surface, or with a circular motion, in which all parts of the surface are successively applied to a plane, 'as to roll a barrel or puncheon.' [You use Webster?]

So, when the 'show' opened, there was a large attendance, and in that vast multitude of two hundred and thirty men, women, and children, there was not one who did not anticipate an acrobatic performance.

The play pleased them, however. Temperance was rife among us in those days; it was 'in our midst,' as people ought _not_ to say, and the drunken disgraces of John the Inebriate were appreciated. Still, there was an evident feeling of unsatisfied anticipation, which grew with every act, and in all the house there was not a soul who did not murmur to his or her neighbor, 'I wonder when he's goin' to roll down-hill.'

The play terminated. The Inebriate died, under a strong pressure of delirium tremens, groaning and braying loud enough to scare away the fiends which gathered around. But, to the amazement of all parties upon the stage and behind the scenes, the fall of the curtain was accompanied by a thunder-roar of disgust, and the rain-like sound of numerous hisses.

The audience voted the play a humbug. The village was disgusted. Eglantine Mowbray stock went down to nothing.

But the manager was a shrewd fellow. He found out what was wanting, and resolved to remedy it. So, the next morning's posters announced that on that evening Mr. Eglantine Mowbray would perform, at the conclusion, his terrific and unparalleled feat of _rolling_ down the hill!

And he did. At the last moment, the Inebriate appeared, bottle in hand, agonizing and howling on the summit of a high rock, from which a slope, at an angle of forty-five degrees, went down to a mysterious craggy pit, thickly grown around with briers and shrubs, all bearing spiky thorns of the most fish-hooky and ten-penny nail description imaginable. The _flat_ or back-scene, suddenly lighted up from behind, presented, as a transparency, that terrible collection of devils which you may have witnessed in a popular engraving entitled, 'Delirium Tremens.' The Inebriate, taking one parting drink, staggered--fell--rolled over and over _down the hill_ into the abyss, from which flames burst forth, red, green, and blue, and the audience were wild with delight. Three times was Eglantine Mowbray compelled, by the rapturous encores, to roll down that hill into the fiery pit. No wonder that, at the last trial, there rose from the abyss a wild cry of 'I'll be _blessed_ if I do it again.'

MORAL.--When in country villages, don't talk about rôle-ing, unless you mean to do it!

* * * * *

Since the _gilet de matin_ has superseded the _robe de châmbre_, or dressing-gown, it is marvelous to see with what wrath the fast men, club-men, and other highly civilized forms of humanity, pursue the ancient garment. One of the most vigorous assaults on the gabardine in question, comes to us as

A FLING AT DRESSING-GOWNS.

My name is Albert Fling. I am an active, business, married man, that is, wedded to Mrs. Fling, and married to business. I had the misfortune, some time since, to break a leg; and before it was mended Madame Fling, hoping to soothe my hours of convalescence, caused to be made for me a dressing-gown, which, on due reflection, I believe was modeled after the latest style of strait-jacket. This belief is confirmed by the fact that when I put it on, I am at once confined to the house, 'get mad,' and am soberly convinced that if any of my friends were to see me walking in the street, clad in this apparel, they would instantly entertain ideas of my insanity.

In the hours of torture endured while wearing it, I have appealed to my dear wife to truly tell me where she first conceived the thought that there was a grain of comfort to be found in bearing it on my back? She has candidly answered that she first read about it in divers English novels and sundry American novels, the latter invariably a rehash of the first. In both of these varieties of the same species of books, the hero is represented as being very comfortable the instant he dons this garment, puts his feet in slippers, picks up a paper and--goes to sleep.

A friend of mine who has discovered that Shakspeare knew all about steam-engines, electric telegraphs, cotton-gins, the present rebellion, and gas-lights, assures me that dressing-gowns are distinctly alluded to in _The Tempest_:

'TRINCULO: O King Stephano! look, what a wardrobe here is for thee!

CALIBAN: Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.

Having thus proved its age, let us next prove that it is in its dotage, and is as much out of place in this nineteenth century as a monkey in a bed of tulips.

We find in the Egyptian temples paintings of priests dressed in these gowns: proof that they are antiquely heathenish. And as we always associate a man who wears one with Mr. Mantilini, this proves that they are foolish. _Ergo_, as they are old and foolish, they are in their dotage.

I have three several times, while wearing this gown, been mistaken for Madame Fling by people coming to the house. The first time I was shaving in my chamber: in bounced Miss X----, who believed, as it was rather late, that I had gone down-town. She threw up her hands, exclaiming:

'Good gracious, Fanny! do you shave?'

N.B.--Fanny is my wife's first name.

The second time I had brought the woodsaw and horse up from the cellar, and was exercising myself sawing up my winter's wood, in the summer-kitchen, according to Doctor Howl's advice, when the Irishman from the grocery entered, bearing a bundle. My back was to him, and only seeing the gay and flowery gown, he exclaimed, in an awfully audible whisper to the cook:

'Shure yer mistriss has the power in her arms, jist!'

Think of my wife, my gentle Fanny, having it shouted around the neighborhood that her brute of a husband made her saw all their winter's wood--yes! and split it, and pile it too, and make all the fires, and so on and cetera, and oh! I _am_ glad my husband isn't such a monster!'

I turned on the Irishman, and when he saw my whiskers, he quailed!

The third time, I was blacking my boots, according to Dr. Howl's advice, 'expands the deltoid muscles, is of benefit to the metacarpis, stretches the larynx, opens the oilsophagers, and facilitates expectoration!' I had chosen what Fanny calls her conservatory for my field of operation--the conservatory has two dried fish-geraniums, and a dead dog-rose, in it, besides a bad-smelling cat-nip bush; when, who should come running in but the identical Miss X---- who caught me shaving.

'Poor Fanny,' said she, before I could turn round; 'do you have to black the boots of that odious brute?'

'Miss X----,' said I, turning toward her, folding my arms over my dressing-gown, spite of having a damp, unpolished boot on one arm and a wet blacking-brush in the other hand, for I wished to strike a position and awe at the same time; 'Miss X----, I am that odious brute himself!'

If you had observed her wilt, droop, stutter, fly!

My wife went to the sea-shore last summer. I kept the house open, and staid in town; cause, business. When she returned, Miss X----, who lives opposite, called to see her. In less than five minutes, my wife was a sad, moaning, desolate, injured, disconsolate, afflicted, etcet. woman.

'How-ow-ow c-could you d-do it, Al-lal-bert?' she ejaculated, flooding every word as it came out with tears.

'Do what?'

'Oh-woh! oh-woe-wooh-wa-ah!'

Miss X---- here thought proper to leave, casting from her eyes a small hardware-shop in the way of daggers at me, as much as to say, You are vicious, and I hate cheese! (theatrical for hate ye.)

Fanny, left to herself, revealed all to me. Miss X----, through the Venetian blinds, had seen a--_gown_ in my room, late at night.

'It is too true,' said I, 'too, too true.'

'Al-lal-al-bert! you will b-b-break my h-heart. I c-could tear the d-d-destroy-oy-yer of my p-p-peace to p-p-pieces!'

'Come on,' said I, 'you shall behold the destroyer of your peace. You shall tear her to pieces, or I'll be d--dashed if I don't. I am tired of the blasted thing.'

I grasped her hand, and led her to the back-chamber. 'There, against the wall.'

'It is--'said she.

'It is,' said I, 'my dressing-gown! I will never again put it on my shoulders, never. Here goes!' Rip it went from the tails up the back to the neck.

'Hold, Albert! I will send it to the wounded soldiers.'

'Never! they are men, bricks, warriors. Such female frippery as this shall never degrade them. Into the rag-bag with it, and sell it to the Jews for a pair of China sheep or a crockery shepherd. _Vamos_!'

The age for dressing-gowns has passed away, Rococo shams are hastening to decay!

* * * * *

He who writes a book on Boston should have something to say on the ladies at lectures, in the libraries, and at Loring's--at which latter celebrated institution for the dissemination of _belles lettres_ lettered belles do vastly congregate of Saturday, providing themselves with novel--no, we mean novelties [of course of a serious sort] for their Sunday reading. Which may serve as an introduction to the following characteristic of

YE BOSTON YOUNGE LADIE.

The Boston belle is a reader, and knoweth what hath lately appearyd in ye worlde of bookes as welle as in that of bonetts. Shee whispereth of Signore Brignoli and of Hinkley, and of ye Philharmonic, or of Zerrahn his concertes, and eftsoones of aeriall pleasures att parties and concertes, and anon flitteth to Robertus Browning his poetrie, or to Emerson hys laste discourse att ye Musicke Halle. Whan so be itt that twentie of ye sisterhode be gatheren together, lo! seven thereof wyll haue blonde tresses and nineteen be of fayre ruddie complexion, whych a man wolde gife hys lyfe to kisse--yea, and itt oftwhyles passeth that ye twentieth also hath more whyte and rudd in hir sweete face thann ye wolde see in other landes.

Ye Boston demoisselle weareth an waterproof guyascutus, [for so methinketh I haue hearde them calld,] and whan that itt rayneth or snoweth, shee rusheth forth as to a carnavall, and heedeth not yf ye powderie snowe-flakes falle on hir daintie littyl nose, or pile up like untoe a chancellor's wigg on hir hed. Arounde hir whyte necke shee ever bindeth a scarlett scarfe, to shewe thatt she ys an well-redd woman; and whan shee turneth homewardes, she aye beareth in one hande a pamflet, whyle the other holdeth a bouquet of flowres or a pacquette of sugirplummes or confitures. Whyles that she is yett younge and reckeless, and gif shee bee faste, and hathe naughte to beare homewards, lo! shee stiketh bothe tinie fistes intoe hir small syde-pockets, and propelleth onward mightilie independente, caring naught for nobodie. I haue herd from dyvers graue and reuerend menn, who oughte to know, [sith that ther wyves hadd tolde them,] that manie of these demoiselles do wear verie longe bootes, but howe long they may bee I knowe not.

Hee who walketh in Beacon streete on Sundaye, whan thatt the skies be fayre, seeth, after church out-letting, manie of these sweete maydens walking wyth ther cavalleros up and doune hille, talkyng of manie thynges. For ye Boston demoiselle is a notable talker, and doth itt welle, knowing manie thynges whereof ye firste is _de omnibus rebus_, ye seconde _et quibusdam aliis_, and ye third _alterum tantum_. He who complayneth thatt women know nothinge, and haue noe witte, hathe nott mett ye Boston Yonge Lady; if that he dothe, and telleth hir soe, he wyll probablie remember for manie dayes what shee saide in answere. For shee holdeth _dixi et solvavi animam meam_ to bee a goode rule, and thatt it is nott a goode thinge to goe away with wrathe pente up in ye boosum.

She worketh harde for ye armie; yea, she knitteth stockyngs and maketh shertes for ye contrabandes, whereof I haue scene one whiche a contrabande with his wyfe and children didde all were at once, so nobly greate was it. And shee belyveth in ye warre with alle hir braue little hearte and soule, for shee is Uncle Samuel hys oune daughter, if there ever was one, having greate loue for ye Union, alwaies hoping firstly for ye Union politicall, and secondlie for ye wedding union of hertes and ye union of handes, whych is nedeful, that ye countrie shall not perishe for lacke of sturdie urchins to growe upp into soldieres. And thatt theye aye all thus become goode wives and brave mothers, and bee bleste and happie in alle thynges, is ye heartes prayer of

CLERKE NICHOLAS.

* * * * *

The following extract from the Washington correspondence of the Philadelphia _Press_ is significant:

'As pertinent to these questions, let me ask if you have ever gone back to the time when most of the Breckinridge papers in the free States were in danger of being mobbed and torn out after the fall of Fort Sumter?

'I will not ask why these demonstrations occurred, but I will ask if you can point to any one of these journals that is not _now_ filled with strong denunciations of the Administration and its friends, and timid reproaches of the rebels in arms? Are they not all clamorous for the reörganization of the Democratic party? Are they not all against any combination of patriotic men under the name of a Union party? Their object is as plain as their early treason was notorious, and the end of their victory will be the recognition of the armed rebels, or their full forgiveness. The armed rebels are watching their movements with eagerness and joy.'

That they are doing so, is amply evidenced by the recent 'democratic' and treasonable movements in Washington. In time of war, and especially of such a war as this, there can be, as Mr. Douglas said, 'but patriots and traitors.' Away with all parties--till the enemy are ours, the only parties should be those of the North and South.

* * * * *

The municipal authorities at Nashville met Governor Johnson's appeal, urging them to take the oath of allegiance, by a prompt refusal--falling back 'for reasons' on State rights. There should be, in these times, but one way of dealing with all such State rights gentlemen--arrest as traitors, and trial under military law. This is no day for dilly-dallying and quibbling about 'State rights.' There is only one right in such cases--the right of the Union, and fidelity to it. This rebuff is generally spoken of by the press as 'the Nashville Snag.' There be such things as snag-extractors, and we trust that our Government is free enough from red-tape do-nothingism and circumlocution, to make short work of these insolent rebels, whatever they be.

_Boston, April 1st._

DEAR EDITOR: I jot down the following as one of the most melancholy results of this wicked and cruel war:

The Captain at our house believes in General Butler. The Lawyer don't. Such is the state of parties at our table. As I said before, the hand of brother is uplifted against brother, and either may become a fratri-cider--as the fellow did when he squeezed his brother to death in the press, among the apples.

The captain said, the other day, that Butler had a great deal of dash.

'U--m!' growled the lawyer; 'one kind of dash he certainly has--to perfection.'

'And what is that?'

'Balder-dash!' was the annihilating reply.

I report this for the special consideration of Governor Andrew.

Nor less illustrative of the terrible tendencies of civil war, is the following:

'We have a whole navy of gun-boats at Island Number Ten,' said the Colonel, reflectively.

'Yes,' was the unwary reply.

'Then how comes it that if the knave can take the Ten, a navy can't?'

Yours in grief,

CONSTANT READER.

* * * * *

The Legislature of Kentucky has, probably, by this time, made it a criminal offence for any person to join the K.G.C. As soon as the lists shall have been published of all those Northern men who have belonged to the order, the traitors will find themselves in quite as enviable a situation as though 'escaped convict' were branded on their foreheads.

* * * * * From one now far away in the South--albeit not on the Southern side--we have an ornithological reminiscence which may be of interest to those who endeavor to solve the problem, whether animals ever rise to reasoning.