Newspaper Page Text
44
THE COUNTRYMAN.
My (Sfoaifc.
“De omnibus rebus, et quibusdonn aliis
BY W. W 7 . TURNER.
Yol. 1. NOVEMBER 3, 1862. No. 1.
It is no creature of the imagination; no
poetical fiction ; no unsubstantial myth,
like most of the editor’s “ chairs,” “ draw
ers,” <fcc, that we read of, but a real, solid,
bona fide, oaken seat, of ample dimensions,
with a homely but comfortable cushion, a
foot-board, a writing-board large enough to
support a candle-stick and all the applian
ces for reading and writing, underneath
which is a box capable of containing a great
many magazines, newspapers, or any of
those nameless little conveniences that add
so much to the enjoyment of one disposed
to be contemplative or studious. It is the
chair in which my grand-father sat, for
many, many years before his death, the
board of which upheld his Bible, or other
book, in the box of which were stowed his
newspapers, his pipes, tobacco, &c. It is
hallowed, in my mind, by association with
him in his last days, and because he himself
gave it to me, the youngest-born of Wil
liam, his first-born.
It used to occupy a warm corner by the
fire-place in the old brick bouse, close to a
deep window, cut in the thick wall; and not
only the chair itself, but the broad win
dow-sill and the facing on each side, were
all filled w'ith little boxes, shelves, and
racks, containing every imaginable cmiosi-
ty that could amuse an old man or a boy,
from a fly-gun to a microscope. To my
childish imagination, it and its circumstan
ces constituted a store-house; a whole world
of interest and wonder. It was my highest
delight; the very acme of my happiness,
to visit my eccentric grand-parent and hang
around his knee, sit on the foot-board of
his chair, or sometimes be elevated even
to the book-board, and look ever what was
to me his vast museum, or listen to some
strange story, such as he loved to relate to
children.
Finally the chair was delivered to me,
when my grand-father had to abandon it
for a couch—his bed of death—and the
gift was to me, I think, because it was per
ceived that 1 had a peculiar veneration and
love for the old relic. I do most of my
reading and writing in it. In winter, hith
erto, it has occupied a place in my sanctum
sanctorum, and in summer it has stood in
the cool hall which runs across our house,
through which there is a constant draught
of fresh air. Almost everyone has Seen
chairs like it, -and those who have visited
us, during the warm season, within the last
half dozen years, have seen this identical
one, in its summer quarters.
To these, and to all the subscribers of
The Countryman, I send greeting, and ex
press the hope that they and I may live
to have frequent cosy chats together, du
ring the long evenings of the coming, and
many succeeding winters. I give fair warn
ing, however. Tbe motto that stands at
the head of my column, shall not belie me.
Probably the chief characteristic of my
sketches, paragraphs, or essays, will be dis
cursiveness. This is one of the privileges
of an editor, and such, de facto, I now be
come. I shall often be grave, for it is my
nature ; I licpe -to be sometimes gay; for
this my well-being requires. I shall try
sometimes to be instructive, tor this is one
chief end of writing; always to be entertain
ing, for few will read my productions other
wise. Doubtless I will frequently prove pro
sy,but at any rate,I will be sincere and hon
est. 1 may occasionally be charged with pro
lixity,but hope generally to say too little, ra
ther than too much. The former occupantof
this chair, an old, white-haired man, who
fought in the first revolutionary war, was not
opposed to serious, instructive conversation,
on the one hand—for he was a Christian—
nor, on the other hand, did he fail to en
courage cheerfulness and even boisterous
hilarity, so long as it was harmless—for he
was a true philosopher.
I am to be editor only of this corner
of the paper. Mr. J. A. Turner is still ed
itor, and proprietor of The Countryman.
I am responsible, though, and not lie, for
everything that appears in my department,
and the reader will please not to saddle ei
ther, with the sins of the other.
That men, grown up children, like all
other children, are pleased with new toys,
has been said long ago, and it receives new
illustrations everyday. However many
and various, however costly and beautiful,
those already possessed, a new plaything is
ever sought after,and alway r s rather admired
than the old ones,whetlior it be more or much
less valuable. Are there any human means
of satisfying mortals, either in business,
pleasure, or ambition ? Alas ! none ! Sol
omon wrote : “ There are three things that
are never satisfied, y 7 ea, four things say not,
it is enough.” He by no means intended,
nor did he, exhaust the list, for lie said
nothing of the cormorants that 1 have men
tioned.
We see the statesman, who has in his
walk earned never-fading laurels, eagerly
seizing the sword, and pleased beyond
measure, with his new bauble. The sol
dier, all his life long accustomed to camp,
wlic has deserved and received the plaudits
of his countrymen, for deeds in arms, lays
down lfis weapon to grasp the badge of civil
office, while both, the warrior and the pol
itician in the evening of their days, often sigh
for something they’ never before sought after,
literary fame, and grieve because they 7 can
not acquire it, like the child who, holding
his hands full of luscious apples and seeing
one more beautiful and tempting than all
the rest, wept because he could not possess
that also.
“ Nemo, quam sibi sortem
Seu ratio dederit, sen fors objecerit, ilia
Contentus meat, laudet diversa sequentes."
After citing such high examples, I fear
to continue, , lest I incur the imputa
tion of vanity, but n'importe. We all
have our share of it. Small things
may be compared with great. Besides,
when I commenced I had no idea of get
ting into such elevated regions, and now all
that remains for me is to come down again.
I cannot throw away what I have written,
nor will I lose sight of the object in pursuit
of w hich I set out. I too am pleased with
mv new toy, the editorial pen. My r Grand-
Father’s Chair is as easy, as comfortable, in
every respect as honorable as any, blit
still, never till now, was it converted into
a chair editorial, and it is delighted at its
unexpected metamorphosis.
And this in spite of the fact that I
have been scribbling occasionally, ever
since I was a boy 7 . How well do 1 remem
ber the first time 1 sent a contribution to a
newspaper ! It consisted of some stanzas
signed Juventus, and was mailed to the
Temperance Banner, then edited by good
old uncle Ben. Brantly. With what anxi
ety did I watch for the next number of the
paper, and how great w 7 as my disappoint
ment at finding that my verses had not ap
peared. But another number came, and
with a thrill such as none but an author ev
er experiences; a thrill which all who write
feel once, and once only, during their lives,
I read my dear lines actually in print.
Since then, my poor writings have borne
the imprimatur of first-class publishing
houses, yet nothing of that kind has ever
given me half so much pleasure as the fan
cied success of this my first effort.
But, “ when w r e dip too deep in pleasure,
we always stir a sediment that renders it
impure and noxious.” I clipped a little too
deep on the occasion referred to above, by
letting my brother and teacher into the se
cret, and at the same time telling them that
uncle Ben. bad printed me Inventus instead
of Juventus. The pleasure of simply
knowing that my verses had been published