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A SHAKSPERLAN FRAUD THE COLLIER
EMENDATIONS.
All readers of Shakspeare will recollect the
excitement created by the publication,in 1852,
of Mr. John Payne Collier’s edition of Shak
speare, corrected from marginal notes, said
to have been found in a copy of the folio edi
tion of 1632, purchased by him in 1849. This
famous volume was purchased by the late Duke of
Devonshire. Mr. N. E. S. A.» Hamilton, of the
department of MSS. in the British Museum,
writes a long letter to the London Times, saying
that the present Duke has allowed him to exam
ine the book, and ho has made discoveries that
go to show that the pretended old marginal al
terations, notes, and stage directions are of quite
recent date. The water mark of the leaves
pasted inside the cover, in a crown surmounting
the letters “G. R.” ( Georgius Rex,) and the
Dutch lion within a paling, with the legend “pro
patria," showing that the binding of the book
was sometime during the reign of one of the
Georges. He says that there is evidence to show
that the corrections, though intended to resem
ble a hand of the middle of the seventeenth
century, could not have been written on the
margins of the volume after it was bound, and
consequently, not, at the earliest, until towards
the middle of the eighteenth. He then enters
into quite a minute description of the alterations,
an examination of which has satisfied him that
they are of modem work.* There is an infinite
number of faint pencil marks and corrections,
in obedience to which the supposed old collector
has made his emendations. “These pencil cor
rections,” says Mr. Hamilton, “have not even
the pretence of antiquity in character or spell
ing, but are written in a bold hand of the pres
ent century.” He describes a number of these
instances, and comes to the conclusion that the
“emendations, as they are called, of this folio
copy of Shakspeare, have been made in the mar
gins within the present century. He promises
to lay the result of his examinations more fully
before the public in another form."
—
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
LETTERS FROM MY LOO CABIN-RO. 2.
(CONTINUED FROM LETTER NO. I. I'AGE 51)
Amidst the conviviality of Mr. Ligrive and
his friends, the cumbrous Dutch clock at the
neighboring tavern struck the hour of twelve.
“Well, Reck, my dear fellow,” exclaimed Tom
Draper, jumping up from the table, around which
the party had been jovially spending the eve
ning, “you know the old Puritans kept sober
hours, and a descendant should not depart
therefrom. Here’s for the ‘stirrup cup, ’as Sandy
McGuire says. Come, gentlemen, fill up, and
let us be going. Hi, Bolton! what’s the mat
ter?”
This last remark was addressed to a short,
thick-set, good-natured individual, who had im
bibed so freely of Master Ligrive’s good cheer, as
to become, as a common phrase has it, “decided
ly tight,” an usual custom with him, I must
say, on such occasions, and had fallen asleep in
his chair. Mr. Robert Bolton had been at one
time engrossing clerk, or scribo in some capa
city, to the Legislature, and often prided him
self on his former relations with that very res
pectable body. He was on the seedy order of
gentlemen, now, however, but still a good-na
tured, social fellow, and the subject of many a
jest.
“I think Bob is already filled up,” Charley
Ferrell said, laughing.
“And used up, too," returned Tom, “wake
him, Ned.”
“Wake up, Bob, you unmannerly fellow!” cried
Ned Kingston, shaking him, “how canyon sleep
over such good cheer? Wake up!” and he and
Charley lifted their drowsy friend to his feet.
“Order, gentlemen, order!” hic-cupped the
old clerk, rousing himself, “order, as they used
to cry out in the Legislature when any one be
haved like he was drunk.”
“Well,'then, come to order yourself, for you
are drunk, certain said Charley, “hold your
glass and let me fill it for you.”
“Isay, Reck, do you allow a gentleman to be
insulted in your house?” asked Bolton with a
serio-comic expression, as he held out his glass,
and leaned against the table.
“You know Charley is a very candid spoken
gentleman,” remarked Ligrive, smiling.
“And, Bob, ‘when the wine is in, the truth
will out,’ is an old saying,” said Tom Draper,
laughing.
“It is one of Charley’s periodical deliveries,”
joined in Kingston.
“Gentlemen,” Bolton resumed with comic gra
vity, “the habits of getting drunk, and of tell
ing the truth, depend very considerably on one’s
associations; you will perceive I have been
quite as unfortunate in the one case, as my friend
has been in the other.”
“Somebody knock me on the back!” cried
Charley Ferrell, making a gesture as if choking,
“Bolton will be the death of me, sometime or
other, for I never can swallow one of his wise
saws, especially if well steeped in brandy.”
“Come, fellows,” said Draper, “a truce to this
nonsense—empty your glass to the good luck
of our friend Reck, and let us break up.”
And setting the example, it was quickly fol
lowed, and the party prepared to depart.
“I’ve lost my gloves, boys,” cried Ned King
ston, looking hurriedly about, “hold on a minute
till I find them—hore, Sancho, with the light.”
“What sort o’ glub, Mas' Ned?” asked San
cho.
“Buckskin, with fur tips—a present from a
lady—l would’nt lose them for five dollars.”
“Bah! hear the vanity of that fellow, will
you ?” exclaimed Charley Ferrell, laughing. “It
must have been a very questionable lady, that
you hold her favors so cheap.”
“Dey in Mas’ Bolton’s hat, sah,” observed
Sancho.
“Heigh, Bob, has Dapper Tom learned you to
‘cabbage’ ?”
“What’s—that—you—say?” drawled out
Bolton.
“Take oft'your hat —you’ve stolen my gloves.”
“No, no, Mas’ Ned,” interposed Sancho, “you
drap ’em in Mas’ Bolton’s hat by mistake.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Bob, but I’ll see you
home, for fear you have some felonious inten
tions."
“Ah, Ned," said Ligrive, laughing, “you don’t
appreciate my friend Bolton; ho is certainly a
very honest fellow, for he always shotvs what he
takes."
A general laugh succeeded the remark, and
Bolton declared there was a conspiracy to ruin
his reputation, and should consider whether or
not to forswear their company for the future.
“Shall we see you out to-morrow, Ligrive ?”
asked Tom Draper, as he started down the stairs.
“No, I am going into the country for a few
days. But remember, gentlemen, to hold your
selves to your promise. I will let you know
when I am ready.”
“Very well,” responded his friends, as they
passed into the street.
It was quite evident that Mr. Recklaw Li
grive’s feelings were considerably improved by
the passages of the evening, though he did not
mingle as heartily in the conversation as was
mmwmMM w ie&b xm wmmnmm.
his wont. But it did not in the least alter his
determination to revenge himself; by some trick,
upon his persecutors, for the ridicule they had
heaped upon him. Some people are nearly in
sensible to ridicule; but a very large majority
can forgive almost any other injury more readily;
and it is astonishing what efforts, persons most
sensitive to this species of merriment will often
make to hide its effect upon them. I cannot
say, however, that this was precisely the case
with Ligrive; wild, dashing, frolicksome fellow
as he was, his exposure to the mirth of his fel
low's seemed suddenly to settle him down, with
the total loss of his desire for any further public
notoriety. But his pride called for redress—
and in the hours of his seclusion he had fully
matured his plan for obtaining it; and his deter
mination now was, to put it into execution as
speedily as possible.
There was another subject too, which keenly
exercised his feelings, and which has been inci
dentally hinted at. I allude to his strong at
tachment to the beautiful and amiable daughter
of the w’idow De Quincev. The thought of hav
ing himself presented to her mind as an object of
ridicule, produced a painful, heart-aching sensa
tion, whenever it occurred to him. And certain
it was, he had not the courage to visit her; and
he even preferred to avoid a meeting at all, until
he should ascertain her feelings, or public sen
timent and taste decide finally in his favor.—
This was one of his reasons for going into the
country—but strange ta say, it led directly to
what lie wished to avoid.
The drive out to Col. Peytou’s, (an uncle on
the side of hi 3 mother,) was peculiarly pleasant
and delightful after his days of seclusion in town.
The cool, bracing air of an October morning re
freshed and vivified his spirits, while the scenes
on either side of the road as he passed, were
cheering, in the manifest indications ofbountiful
crops to the planters. Broad fields stretched
away for hundreds of acres, now gay with.the
ripened corn hanging upon the naked stalks;
and here and there, in such spotsas it was found
convenient to place them, rose the dome-like
crests of huge stacks of fodder. Now and then
a field of cotton appeared, still green and luxu
riant ; amidst the broad and tender leaves of the
plants could be seen its beautiful white •bell
shaped blooms of the preceding night, and the
matured bolls thickly opening their snow-white
fleece of untold wealth, to the hand of industry.
Gangs of laborers, both white and black, were
busily engaged iu picking cotton; and occasion
ally a drove of farm horses could be seen luxu
riating on the fine pasturage of peas and grass,
in some field where the com had been early
gathered. These were true aud peculiar South
ern scenes—seemingly, as they really were,
peaceful, plentiful, and prosperous; and cold
and callous indeed must have been the heart
that could not be enlivened by tli&m. Upon
our friend, they exercised the happy effect to
relieve him in a good degree of painful solici
tude, and fully strengthened him to bear with
little concern the events of the past, and making
him buoyantly hopeful for the future.
Turning up the broad avenue which led from
the public road, to his Uncle’s residence, he was
soon discerned by some of the little negroes who
are generally on the watch for visitors, and the
wide gate was thrown open some time before he
reached it. A servant was ready to take his
horse, and he ascended the steps just as his Uncle
came out on the piazza to welcome him. Col. Pey
ton was a stout, hearty, fine looking man of
forty-five, frank and cordial in his manners, and
a generous, intelligent and liberal-minded gen
tleman ; his sunburnt features showed that he
was no carpet farmer; but it was by no means
a drawback to his good looks.
“Ha, Reck, my boy, I am glad to see you,”
was his salutation to his nephew,—“hope you
are well.”
“Thank you, Uncle, quite so.”
“Where the deuce have you kept yourself?"
“Well, I’ve been rather closely confined ”
he would have added something else, but his
Uncle interrupted him.
“Oh, yes—ha, ha—l heard they had you
treed."
Master Recklaw crimsoned a little, though a
smile passed over his face. The Colonel was
quick to detect the slight confusion, and not
wishing to annoy his nephew, continued,
“But never mind it—all will rub off when dry
—would have been devilish glad, though, to
have seen the new style.”
“It is quite simple and convenient”
As they passed into the sitting room Mrs.
Peyton, with whom Ligrive was ever a favorite,
met them. She was a very pretty, round, plump
little woman of thirty-five, and but for a rather
quiet gravity of countenance, she would have
appeared much younger.
“You have been quite a truant, lately, Reck
law,” she observed, extending her hand.
“Not from desire, my dear Aunt,” he replied,
gallantly raising her hand to his lips—a custom
much in vogue at that time, among intimate
friends of the opposite sexes.
“But you are looking so well," he continued,
handing Mrs. Peyton to her scat, and drawing a
chair for himself, “I need scarcely ask after your
health.”
“Oh, I am enjoying excellent health.”
“Emily never appears to have time to be sick,”
smilingly remarked the Colonel of his wife, “and
yet I scarcely know how her constitution stands
so much fatigue. She manages her own dairy,
personally overseers the work of the garden and
the flower yard, supervises her kitchen and
house, up stairs and down stairs, besides attend
ing to the spinning, weaving, and making up the
negroes’ clothes.”
“I am fully knowing to Aunt’s industry,” re
marked Ligrive, “tut I fear she imposes too much
on herself.”
“Oh no! it is the secret of my good health,”
Mrs. Peyton answered; “my mother taught me
these things when I was a girl—often remark
ing that if I ever married and had a house of
my own, I would know how to keep it.”
“But it must sometimes be very harassing, as
well as destroying to a good temper.”
“I do not see why it should, though I suppose
it is as one takes it. But a reasonably contented
mind, with a true womanly love for domestic
life, and a plenty to do, and a will to do it, are
are rather promoters of health and
ness.”
“It is even so with you, Aunt, I must confess
—and I wish I may be so lucky as to get such a
wife ; but it seems to me that most of the girls
and married ladies, too, cannot labor for the want
of a constitution.”
“Yes, and their want of a constitution, my
dear Recklaw,” returned Mrs. Peyton,” is owing
often to their want of a will to work. A little
more sun and out-door exercise would do them
good.”
“You need not argue with your Aunt, Reck,
on domestic matters,” interposed Col. Peyton,
“her practice will outdo your theory.”
“Oh. Ido not altogether dispute the trueness
of her points; but I think she is rather too
much of the Spartan. 1 can’t say I have much
fancy for rough, sun-burnt girls.”
“They need not become rough, sun-burnt girls
as you say, by attention to household duties,”
persisted Mrs. Peyton. “I am no advocate for
keeping them shut up in the house to make
them look delicate, and learn nothing. They may
make pretty wives, to be sure, but sorry house
keepers.”
“Well, it is probably a weakness peculiar to
our generation,” Mr. Ligrive replied, laughing
ly, “for I somewhat resemble my Uncle, the
Colonel here, in prefering a fair and beautiful
woman for a wife.”
“Yes, very likely,” dryly remarked Mrs. Pey
ton ; though a pleasant smile was resting upon
her features.
“It is even the case, my good nephew,” said
the Colonel; and after a slight pause, added,
“Beaut}- soon decays,” is an old copy that has
descended from one shool-boy generation to
another, time out of mind, and we have found
it often but too true- Beauty in a woman, how
ever, is always an agreeable accompaniment to
her other charms and virtues. But an amiable,
home-loving disposition is even more to lie de
sired. If you live to be as old as I am, my dear
Recklaw, and become a married man, you will
doubtless think then, as Ido now, that the wo
man who makes home the most pleasant and
happy, is by far the most beautiful.”
“Oh, I do not doubt it—and I must beg Aunt
to help me make a wise choice. It is said that
women are better judges of each other than
men are.”
“Very possible—provided you can get an
honest judgment out of them," replied the Col
onel, casting a mischievous glance at his wife.
Mrs. Peyton only noticed it by a look of playful
reproach, and remarked:
•‘But if rumor is to be believed, you have al
ready made a choice.”
“Well, I cannot deny but I have a preference,”
admitted Ligrive, with some little embarrass
ment ; "I will crave your opinion, dear Aunt.”
“In the mean time.” interrupted the Colonel,
rising and reaching his hat, “I have some tilings
to show you, Recklaw. It is now 10 o'clock,
your Aunt will excuse you for a couple of hours,”
and, bowing, the two passed out to the rear of
the house, and through the garden, down in the
direction of the stables.
—
LADIES’ SWIMMING SCHOOL IN PARIS.
Quarnier's Swimming School for Ladies opened
in the month of May, and it is difficult to imag
ine a more novel or prettier scene than it pre
sents on a warm afternoon. Neither at concert
race, nor ball, in Paris, have I beheld so many
beautiful faces as at this school; one reason,
perhaps, being that many girls from ten to fif
teen are visitors to the bath, who are excluded,
by their age, from sharing in public amusements.
The costume is generally of some dark ma
terial, gaily trimmed with red or blue worsted
binding, which does not lose its color. The up
per part of the dress resembles a boy's blouse;
the lower, a pair of trousers. It is all iu one,
and a tunic is sewn to the waist, and falls to the
knee. Some of the girls go in without any kind
of head dress beyond their own fine hair, neat
ly plaited; others wear nets of gay colors, or a
slight netted scarlet or blue scarf, gracefully ar
ranged.
A basin of about 150 or 100 feet long, .and
about 25 or 30 feet Inroad, surrounded by a
broad platform, enclosed by the dressing-rooms
and screened alike from the sun and from pub
lic observation by an awning stretched over all.
The machine is so arranged that the powerful
current of the Seine rushes through it; it is, in
fact, a large cage sunk to the required depth.
That part of the basin which is from four to
five feet deep, is crossed by abridge; and the
smaller portion thus indicated is used by those
who wish to bathe only, or who are not sufficient
ly good swimmers to exercise, as yet, in the
larger one. But the large basin is tke centre of
attraction. At the end where the water is deep
est, flights of steps lead down for those who
like to swim smoothly and quietly off; but far
the greater number prefer leaping in either from
the platform, or from the little fanciful construc
tion, half arch, half temple, raised at the end of
it, which gives a descent any height you please
—between ten and thirty feet—to the surface of
the water
Fearless, gay, and graceful, they plunge be
neath the flood to reappear almost instantly,
gliding down the stream without any apparent
effort; floating, swimming on the back, 4c., vary
the amusements, which more than a hundred la
dies may sometimes be seen sharing together,
their evolutions being watched and stimulated
by as many lookers-on —their mothers and fe
male friends who are seated around. Little did I
think, when I inscribed myself on M. Quarnier’s
list, that I should be hung on a hook at the end
of a line, and then thrown into the water with
directions to imitate a frog to the best of my abi
lity ; it was even so.
O dear, how helpless you feel! how you wish
you had never thought of learning to swim!—
But you are ashamed to say so; you know you
cannot bo drowned: the man adjusts his line so
nicely to the level of the water, you feel quite
sure of that. So he counts, “one, two, three,"
and you perform froggy awkwardly enough;
putting out your hands when you ought to keep
them in, stretching your arms when they ought
to be close to vour body, kicking in anything
but measured cadence, and getting a good
mouthful, notwithstanding you, silly creature,
stiffen your neck, and try to keep your head up
by that means. Thus ends the first lesson.
After two or three lessons more, you swim off
from the steps at the end where the water is
deepest, the man on the platform proceeding you
with a pole, as you attempt to make your way
down the large basin. This large basin is con
stantly watched, either by Quarnier himself or
by the swimming master. These are the only
individuals of the male sex ever present. Ma
dame Quarnier, as may be expected, is a perfect
swimmer, and takes an active interest in all the
proceedings.
—— —
NOSES AND EYES.
Speaking of noses and other features, Mr.
Emerson, in a recent lecture on Manners, shows
his appreciation of them :
“ Every part of a man’s person testifies to his
predominant feelings and sentiments; but the
‘eye, as the window of the soul, is the best index
of the prevailing emotion. It speaks of sick
ness or health, sorrow or joy, purity or guilt.—
There are eyes all innocence, as well as organs
out of which restless gnomes and demons peer.
‘ Some eyes threaten like a loaded and leveled
pistol, aud others are as insulting as hissing or
kicking; some have no more expression than
blueberries, while others are ps deep as a well
which you can fall into.’ Then there are noses
of mark. The nasal organs of Julius Ciesar and
William Pitt were sure indices of their strong
will and resistless sway among men."
—
Big Strawberry. —The Pacific (Cal.) Sentinel
acknowledges having received from a Mr. Sawin
a large strawberry, of Chile variety, which was
grown in his garden at Santa Cruz. It measured
eight inches in circumference, and is said by the
Sentinel to be the largest strawberry on record.
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE EVILS AND DANGERS OF POETIC ASPI
RATIONS nr A WOMAN.
BY 8. C. g,
I have a sad story of a friend of mine ts tell
you, Mr. Editor —but I must tell it, hoping that
some poor sister, tempted to commit the like sin,
may take warning, and thus save from wreck
her own. and her family’s' happiness. The story
is “o’er true,” and “pity ’tis, ’tis true 1”
Some dozen years ago, the friend whose pros
trate genius claims my mournful elegy, graduat
ed to the satisfaction of her friends; aud soon
after, settled in a quiet country spot, and began
to discharge a woman's duties ; that is, took care
of her ‘gude mon,’ and his ‘canny cot.’
Home was the well spring of delight to her
affectionate heart, but it was not till her bosom
cradled a youthful son of Liberty, (all United
States babies of the masculine Render are such)
that her happiness was complete ; and then, re
joicing in much joy, she made the air vocal with
her lullabies,
But time brings changes. One after another
of these young scions learned to shoot their bud
ding ideas around the maternal stock, till there
are now, —well I won't say how many—but
enough to quite circle my friend's expansive crin
oline.
If “a babe in a house is a well spring of plea
sure, a messenger of peace and love,” it should
follow as logical consequence, that half a dozen
babies multiply, in proportion to their number,
the sources of happiness in said house. But alas 1
people in their ingratitude are apt to consider
them “too much of a good thing,” and as a sur
feit is often as fatal to health as starvation, w-e
find a family where there are many children
oftener resembling a Babel, than the home of
“peace and love.” However, I don't mean to say
that this was the case with my friend’s young
brood. They were clever enough, tho’, like all
such incumbrances, demanding her constant care
and attention. Still she found time to perfect
herself in housewifery accomplishments. She
could sew with neatness and dispatch: wash and
iron, if need be, in a superior manner; kept a
fine garden ; raised fruits of the choicest varie
ties ; made superior light bread, and understood
the art of cooking generally; churned the sweet
est of butter, and prepared the other edibles
that graced her bountiful table, in a manner to
satisfy the most fastidious palate. She could,
moreover —and this was her chief pride and de
light—beat the neighborhood on a pot of ‘ley
soap.’
“You may'talk,” said she to a peddler of pat
ent soaps, “of your soap that gets clothes clean
without rubbing; it is only fit. in my opinion,
todinge everything on the clothes-line. I would
not give one pound of my ley soap, for a dozen
of your watery soda stuff” And she was right.
With such a manager at the head of affairs,
things were bound to prosper. Her husband
loudly boasted of her excellencies to his less
fortunate compeers, and her friends wondered
how she could get along so well with her many
duties. Here I would fain end my unvarnished
tale, but my demonstration would fall through ;
for you would impatiently inquire, What has
this to do with poetry ? Well, I hasten to the
end.
A year or so ago, this notable housewife had
the happiness of pleasing her spouse by some
extradisplay of good management, and receiv
ed for her reward an affectionate embrace and
some pleasant words of praise. Little did said
spouse dream what were the consequences of
his praise and satisfaction. Seized with a sud
den fit of inspiration, she scratched off in pencil,
on her account book, the following lines :
“Do I love thee ? Ask the rose
If she loves the South wind's kiss,
Fresh from newly flowered groves,
With their breathings soft and rich !
Ask the violet in her bower,
If she loves the golden ray.
Stealing, like an anient lover,
"Neath the leaves that hide the day !
‘•These, to them, are life and gladness.
Thus thy smile is love to me;
Ne'er a thought with me of sadness.
While I'm cherished still by thee!"
The little woman was delighted with her first
effort to express herself in the language of sen
timent ; for her time had hitherto been so en
grossed with preparing bodily comforts, that it
is a wonder she had not forgotten all about love,
and roses, and violets, and all such delicate ma
terial. When she read the lines to her husbaud,
after he had sipped his fragrant mocha, and
made a dainty repast of hot rolls, golden butter,
rich curd,, and strawberries fairly smothered in
the sweetest of cream, how could his criticisms
be but a half dozen grateful kisses on her
smiling lips ? Soon after this, her liege lord’
being absent from home on business, her heart
was set a-dreamiug after the following fashion:
‘■Come tome, darling, come tome;
Pillow my head with thy breast!
Whisper once more, thou art dear to mcl
Give to thy loving one rest!
Call me‘sweet wife,' and ‘my darling'
Fold me in tender embrace:
Thus the bright clouds of the evening
Woo the young moon to their nest 1
One kiss for me, dearest; I love thee !
One rapturous kiss—nay, two!
Ah! then I shall know lam dear to thee—
What bliss more lasting and'true?”
Os course her wish was granted when, on his
return, she presented her petition with diffidence
aud blushes. And this should have satisfied
my friend. But who can set bounds to a wo
man’s ambition ? It is true as it is sad, that
after this, she took up the idea that she might
“contribute her mite to Southern literature,” and
sometimes, as the milkmaid in the spelling book,
she actually caught herself calculating the pro
fits likely to accrue from her recently discovered
talent. (But this confidentially.)
Everything now furnished her with a senti
ment which her genius might have expanded
into a poem, but for the numerous accidents
w-hieh continually severed the thread of thought.
Seeing her cherub baby, one night, lying on the
floor, smiling sleepily at the shadows on the
wall, she exclaimed:
“Darling Charlie! I would paint thee
Prone u|>on the floor.
Watching shadows, flitting shadows,
Gliding by the door.”
Just then, a pin happening to stick Charlie,
the poetic inspiration evaporated in the mother’s
fright, leaving only an unfinished claim to im
mortality.
As she was one afternoon seated in her
shaded porch, busily plying her needle, the
darling daughter of the house came bounding
towards her, with a handful of freshly-culled
roses, aud she thought:
“Who so blithe, and so cheerio.
So bonnie and dearie,
So wee and so winsome.
As dear little daughter ?”
But alas, for poetic sentiment about children,
particularly after a rain. The “dear little
daughter,” dashed in her glee right into the mud
puddle which her poetic mamma had suffered to
remain near tho steps, bespattering clean pan
talettes, bespattering snowy apron, and utterly
dissipating for the moment mamma’s sentimental
tenderness. Such are a few of the interruptions
to her aspiring muse. Sometimes, when in the
very skies of fancy’s wide domain; when she
sees stars kissing the dreaming flowers, and
‘‘zephyrs bearing Love’s incense on their scented
wings, she is roused from her pleasant musings
by the clock striking ticehe, and dinner not near
ready!
Formerly, noon was her dinner hour, but
latterly it is, more frequently than not, a half
hour or so later; and as her husband is as
punctual as General Washington used to be, he
becomes moody under this unwelcome impinge
ment upon his business hours, and his estimate
of the value of poetic talents in a woman, and
especially in a wife, is by no means heightened.
Still, he should remember, that such things do
often happen where the housekeeper is not a
poetess, and so make considerate allowances.
In addition to this, however, he told me con
fidentially that his suppers were late, and not
well served; that the buttons on his shirts were
missing; the children getting more and more
ragged; and, in a word, everything in helter
skelter condition about the house, and all “be
cause of poetry; it must be that, for it was not
so until lately. It was in vain to suggest, that
her cares wero daily multiplying, and probably
that there, possibly, was the cause of some of
her duties being neglected. lie actually grew
so jealous of Poetry that I feared a family rup
ture. and mourned over its probable conse
quences. Can it be, thought I, that my friend is so
infatuated with this new employment as to give
up all her past joys for the sake of a little
rhyme ? Can it be that her stockings, formerly
so immaculately white, are becoming blue !
I longed to remonstrate and expostulate with
my friend, showing her the unreasonableness of
her conduct. But I was silent; for, knowing
the pertinacy of women when opposed in a fa
vorite undertaking, I feared to make matters
worse by interference; so I waited, hoping ever
that something would “turn up” to arrest the
disease “Cacoetlies Scribendi ” with which she
was evidently afflicted, and restore to her pro
per domestic sphere an erring sister who was
once so useful in it.
And now I must tell you, that my hopes have
been realized. Something has turned up,* and
this was the way of it «
Ever since the announcement of the prizes
offered by the publisher of the Field and Fire
side, for the best essays, poems, &c., the disease
of my friend began to assume a more malignant
type. She determined to compete for the prizes
proposed for the best literary essay, and the
longer poem. Nothing else occupied her
thoughts. Her subject for the poem was a
biblio-historical one; and she read diligently, not
only her Bible, but every profane history that
could shed light on her subject. She really
studied with ardor. The metre selected was
blank verse, ten syllables to the line; and so
anxious was she lest redundant syllables should
mar the symmetry of her verse, that, even at
the breakfast table, you might see her counting
her fingers between every mouthful of broiled
chicken, and absently muttering her last inspira
tion. “One, two, three, four, six; four
more to complete the line; seven, eight, nine,
ten; ” and an approving nod which seemed to
say “that will do,” indicated her poetical con
tentment. Such extraordinary concentration of
her faculties could not fail to produce some
thing; and in four weeks from the selection of
her subject, she turned off three hundred and
fifty lines in blank verse.
She felt sure of success, for the prize being of
fered for a poem not less than sixty lines, it oc
curred to her that one of three hundred and fifty
could hardly fail to win it. On the day that she
completed her self-imposed task, she arrayed
herself with care, ordered a nice supper, and
waited with impatience for the evening, that she
might read the poem to her husband, and con
sult with him as to what she should do with her
prize money—when she got it.
But the most skillful plans are often doomed to
lie thwarted. It so happened on that memora
ble evening. The- biscuits came in awfully
scorched ; the butter (churned in the afternoon)
was white and spongy : the curd but partially
pressed, and the cream sour; a state of things
quite unheard of during the first decade of her
married life.
But, like a true heroine, she hid her disap
pointment beneath a smiling face, and silently
hoped her husband was not hungry. But she
counted without her guest. He was hungry,
exceedingly hungry, and everybody knows how
savage a hungry man can be ; but he, good, pa
tient man, said nothing, though in liis inmost
heart he muttered “Poetry 1” as a deep sigh
heaved from his disappointed diaphragm. A mal
ediction, I suspect, followed ; but it was deep,
not loud.
Women are proverbially patient and persever
ing under difficulties, and my friend, thinking to
atone for her poor supper by “a feast of reason
and a flow of soul,” arranged her little table,
placed on it a bright sperm candle, and com
menced to read aloud the poem upon which she
had labored so assiduously for four whole weeks.
An ominous silence prevailed at every pause
of her voice, yet fancying that it might be the el
oquent silence of admiration, she read on to the
end, and then ventured to ask : “What do you
think of it, dear?” Something strangely like a
snore saluted her ears as they waited his reply,
and when the conviction that it really was so,
came upon her, as it soon did, she could not help
exclaiming rather petulantly, “Well, I think that
will do !” This exclamation, which must be un
derstood as indicating her opinion 'of her hus
band’s conduct, and not the poem, roused the
sleeping critic, and in a drowsy tone he said,
“Eh ! did you ask me how it would do ? Well,
I suppose it’s about like the rest of the poetry
these days. It’s all trash, to my notion. I’d ra
ther have a nice broiled chicken for my break
fast, than to listen to the best poem I ever heard,
except from Shakspearc; nobody ever wrote
poetry but him, and its no uso for the rest of you
to try ! Heigh ho! It’s bed-time 1 I’m sleepy—”
My friends, you who are embarking for the
port of fame with Poet flying from your mast-head,
and the figure of a Muse carved on your prow,
could you have borne this with a patient spirit,
and still felt that within your soul repbsed cour
age to sustain you under such a reverse, and
bear you on in your chosen career? Could you,
even, after this, enduro to see your favorite crea
tions of fancy dissected by some un poetic editor,
and every deformity made bare ? If so, sail on ;
you are called to be children of the Muses, and
my best wishes are with you'; but, as for my
friend, she bows to the fate which she cannot
overcome, and henceforth and forever is deter- -
mined
To hush Ambition's whisperings of fame;
And nip its hopes e'en in the very bud.
-
A Laconic Correspondence. —Everybody has
heard oftho famous letters that passed between
the adverse chiefs of Tir Connell and Tyrone,
the most laconic correspondence in history:
t “Pay me my tribute, or if you don’t
“ O’Donnell .”
“I owe you no tribute, and if I did
“O’AWff.”
99