Newspaper Page Text
seventeenth, and then to 68.25 in the eighteenth.
It must be remembered that these figures were
deduced from the cases of those only who at
tained the age of thirty years.
Turning next to that class, which devoted it
self to the fine arts —subdivided into engineers,
Ac., sculptors, painters, engravers, musicians,
vocalists, and actors—he found that, as might
have been expected, from the sedentary nature
of their occupations, the engravers stood lowest
on the list Next came painters, who were
much confined within doors, but whose employ
ment was less sedentary. Engineers, architects,
and surveyors, who combined the sedentary
pursuits of the draughtsman, with active super
intendence out of doors, gave a higher average
of life. With them ranked musicians; and
even actors and vocalists seemed to have some
advantage over engravers and painters. All
this class, like the scientific class, showed a pro
gressive improvement, during the three centu
ries above referred to. Comparing generally
the classes devoted to literature, ecience, and
art, it appeared that scientific men had the most
favorable duration of life; those engaged in
literature stood lowest on the list. It would
seem, however, from the tables, that though the
pursuits of literature were destructive to life in
its early periods, they were favorable in its
more advanced stages. There were more old
men among authors than among artists. — Boston
Transcript.
Mr. J. B. Cumming’s Address.
11 THE DUTIES OF THE YOUNG CITIZEN.’
We have before us a pamphlet of two dozen
pages, entitled: “ Address delivered before the De
mosthenian and Phi Kappa Societies of the Uni
versity of Georgia, in the College Chapel, at Ath
ens, August 4th, 1859, by Joseph B. Cumming,
Esq." %
Fearing that this remarkable production would
not, in the pamphlet form in which it has reached
us, enjoy the wide circulation which it deserves,
we had set apart several columns of the present
number of our paper, for extracts, which we pro
posed to select from it: and we sat down this
morning, pencil in hand, to make our selections
for publication. Having reached the last page,
we threw down the pencil, and took up our scis
sors to make the necessary clippings for the
compositors. But we had no need of scissors.
Every page was marked. Well, we are not dis
posed to revise the decision which was thus un
wittingly made. The Address shall be published
entire. It shall have all the publicity that our
Journal can afford, with all the recommendation
that our pen can give. Let every one read it
It is an admirable, and, as we have said above,
a really remarkable production, worthy—we
writp it deliberately—worthy in thought and
style of a man of twice, we had almost said of
thrice his years. It treats of the duties of the
Young American citizen. Oh, that ‘ Young Amer .
ica' would read and be instructed.
Mr. Cumming is a young man of some
twenty-three years of age; and it was, we be
lieve, upon the occasion of this Address,
that he made his debut as a man and an Ameri
can citizen, upon the arena of life militant. It
is only since the delivery of this Address, about
two weeks ago, that he was admitted to the Bar
of the Middle District of this State as an Attor
ney at Law. He has made a debut that may
well be called promising; promising of success,
professional and political, for himself, and of em
inent usefulness to the State. May he advance
steadily, bravely, faithfully, upon tho path he
has so well indicated to the young men he was ad
dressing I But we fear that he has ouly half real
ized the difficulties of doing so. Theory and prac
tice 1 Alas, how many faint by the way, and fall
wofully short in the attempt through life-to
make the perfect theory with which they started,
coincide with practice. "Who, in all tho South
ern States, that shall read this address, will not
be able instantly to point to an unscrupulous,
reckless demagogue, devoured by “ personal am
bition,” who has already sacrificed upon its altar,
honor and principle, and who is ready to sacri
fice country, and his very soul ? Yet he com
menced life with as fair and, perhaps, as honest
ly prepared a programme as this of yours, Mr.
Cumming. “ But we hope better things of you,
though we thus speak.” Made virtute esto!
Gentlemen of the Demosthenian and Phi Kappa
Societies:
With well warranted misgivings I appear be
fore you. Apart from any purely personal ap
prehension, I fear that I am about to convict you
of a mistake in departing from your usual course
in appointing your annual orator Hitherto it
has been your custom to look aVound among
your fellow-citizens of this and her sister States,
and singling out some one distinguished in the
forum, in the legislature or in literature, or some
one, at least, who could preach to you from the
mount of superior experience; to bestow upon
him an honor, which he has been glad to accept.
Such men have not considered that the honor,
which, by your partiality, I enjoy this day, was
an ungraceful wreath twined among their other
laurels. Even the sages, who, having in their
due time served the Republic, had sought the
repose which their country reluctantly yielded
them—even they have in times past hearkened
to your invitation in their serene retreats, and at
your bidding have come up once more to the
assemblies of the people. Surely an honor so
illustrious and so illustrated, no one should
rashly accept, and that I have done so I have
diligently sought an excuse in every circum
stance of your kind appointment; and though
the earnest consideration of these circumstances
has failed in this purpose, at any rate it has sug
gested a subject upon which to address you.
I have considered that such a departure from
established precedents is a sure intimation, that,
for once, you desire to have something else than
the lessons of wisdom; otherwise you would
have sought some one like those whom I have
known to precede me in this honorable office,
who, “ thrice-schooled in all the events of human
life,” could tell you of the duties to be performed
almost to the final hour of man's accountability.
I have considered that your invitation almost
conveyed with it the instruction to select some
theme, such as your sympathy could rest upon
—such as were likely to engage the thoughts of
one, whose experience was bounded by the same
circle which circumscribes your' own—whose
view embraced no more familiar objects than
those which meet your vision. And that theme,
those objects, which do, or ought mostconspicu
XBK 80XTXBK&JS EXELJI JOD XX&EBXBS.
ously, to meet our mental vision from our pres
ent stand-point, are the duties of the young cit
izen.
As the world now stands, there are few coun
tries where this would not be a subject of most
unprofitable discussion. In most of the States
even of Christendom, the duty of the citizen,
young or old, is so simplified, his country can
receive from him so little exercise of his will, so
little employment of his thoughts, that the sin
gle word obey expresses the sum of his obliga
tions.
But we, in this respect, have turned back to
antique times, to the younger days of humanity,
before the honest thought and free act of the
citizen were compressed into the slender func
tions of the subject With us, every citizen is a
free agent, and it behooves all, young and old,
to know their appropriate duties, that they may
approach the general good in harmonious pro
gress.
What, then, are the duties which rise before
the young citizen ? Undoubtedly certain servi
ces have been recognized in all times, if not as
peculiar, at least as most appropriate, to the
younger members of a State. As the despoilers
of the dead have wandered over every battle
field of the world the night after the conflict,
and have turned the faces of the slain to the
light of the moon, it has been the countenance
of youth which has oftenest met their view. H'
the classic mythology were true, that the ghosts
of the unburied dead wander around their former
tenements, then legions of the spirits of youth,
invisible to mortal eyes, would be flitting over
the surface of the ocean. And when, in verifi
cation of the teaching of a true faith, the dead
shall rise again in their natural bodies, then will
be recognized the ranks of young men who fell,
where, when they fell,reigned the solemnity of the
virgin forest To fight the battles of their coun
try, to seek her interests on the ocean, and, in
these latter times, to extend her dominion into
the wilderness, whether of nature or of barbar
ism—these services, requiring the strong arm
and the stout heart, have ever fallen to the lot
of the younger citizen. And another duty is his
—not because it requires the ardor of youth or
the vigorous muscles of early manhood —not
one, whose perfoaraanee will elevate him to the
dazzling distinction of many others—not one,
which even the Romans, mindful of the achieve
ments of their citizens, rewarded with crown of
laurel or of oak —but one which he may claim
in right of his courage and in right of his ability
to perform it. If I were confined in the search
for one who had well done his duty, to the
range of a limited experience; if I were com
pelled to find him among those early dead,
whom some of us have lamented, and all of us
might have lamented, so excellent was their ca
reer, so recent their departure; I would not seek
him among the hundreds of young men, who,
in the memory of all of us, have fallen on the
hills and plains of Mexico; nor among the
smaller but less heroic band of those, who, here
and there, in the quiet of the Western wilder
ness, while upholding the rights of their coun
try, have fallen, pierced with the noiseless arrow
of the Indian. I would have to go to the courts
dedicated to the departed, and show you on an
humble monument there a brief history of dead
ly pestilence, point a little higher on the monu
ment to unpretending tracings of the sculptor’s
chisel, and leave you te recognise in them the
memorials of the “good Samaritan” no more
than of the good citizen. These are but exam
ples. Not only in the occasional wars of human
passions and the never-ending contentions of
the ocean: not ouly among the lurking enemies
of the wilderness, and the unseen dangers of
the pestilence, but everywhere that the country
demands courage rather than deliberation, devo
tion rather than wisdom, there is the muster
ground of her younger citizens.
But I meant not to lose even this much time
in speaking to you, gentlemen, of those duties
of tho citizen which require courage, ardor and
enthusiasm. lam not before the inhabitants of
a modern Sybaris. lam not before an assembly
of young men, sunk in material interests to the
smothering of generous qualities. lam not ad
dressing those, to whom tyranny has proscribed
the religion of patriotism. I remember well
what have been your studies and contemplations
during this last Olympiad. I know how often
within those walls, from which you have just is
sued, bringing with you these suggestive ban
ners, you have made your vows of devotion to
your country. I remember what themes there
occupy the hours of debate and inquiry; how
often the sentiments of patriots are embodied in
your words; how often your hearts have beat
with the desire to be in a grander arena, bat
tling with error, battling with enemies of every
kind which assail your country; how impatient
you have become that the hour would ar
rive, when you might go forth to do vigorous
warfare in behalf of your country; how you
have sometimes almost wished some gulf would
open, that you, Curtius like, might leap into its
depths, all for the sako of your country. I know
that it is to such citizens that I speak, and it is
for such that I have fashioned my remarks. I
would convince you that there is something no
bler in the virtues of the young citizen than this
impelling generosity, that there is a quietness
more useful than this burning eagerness, that
there is a patriotism more self-sacrificing than
that of Curtius. I confess, that when my thoughts
are busy with the ideal of the youthful citizen,
they dwell less often on that Roman youth than
on a Roman statue. There is in a distant gal
lery of ancient art an effigy of “Eternal Re
pose.” The figure is not one of an old man,
whose limbs are shrunken, whose muscles di
minished, whoso eye is dim—not a figure ex
pressive of hopeless lassitude, not a figure sug
gestive of that repose which departed strength
compels. But the “Geniusof Repose” has as
sumed the semblance of a young man. His well
turned limbs, his firm muscles, his attitude, not
supine, not even recumbent, but gently reclining,
suggest no thought of weakness or decay. He
seems so ready for action, he seems to await so
gentle a summons to spring forth, vigorous, in
stinct with life, that we wonder why it is that
his repose should be “eternal," unless it be in
the interest of beauty ; for indeed that form is
most beautiful.
As themes like the present have occupied my
thoughts, and my eyes have rested upon this
statue, it has seemed to me most symbolical of
what should be the normal state of the young
citizen, most expressive of a quality which, for
lack of a better name, I shall call “ the virtue of
repose, ” —a quality, which in the young citizen,
is more dignified, more useful, and (in the young
citizen of such aspirations as I attribute to you)
more self-sacrificing than any degree of patriotic
eagerness. Nobler, as dignified repose is no
bler than imperfect action. • More dignified, as
he who quietly awaits the battle, well armed and
strong, is more dignified than he who goes forth
unarmed and presumptuous.
But if this is too much of metaphor and ab
straction, too little of the earnest life which lies
before us; too much of the distant halls, where
stand the pulseless beauties of fiction, too little
of this, where our hearts are stirred with se
rious realities, let us return to this very scene to
watch the progress hence of two of this reunion.
A young man leaves his alma mater with ea
gerness for action. Fortunately for his country,
she is not often engaged in wars where his ar
dor would find appropriate employment But
he sees other enemies assailing her. She is
beset by factions, she is betrayed by dema
gogues, she is plundered by knaves, she is fallen
among thieves and sorely wounded. His
thoughts are full of attacking the enemy, of un
masking false friends, of rebuking the careless.
His imagination is excited at the thought of pub
lic assemblies, where he shall denounce her en
emies, of the contentions and the triumphs of a
public career; and he starts out eagerly, aye
franticly, to make ‘‘ashort cut” to the high
places of influence. Let him be granted all sin
cerity of motive; let him be granted a generous
fearlessness devoting him to the sile of truth at
any hazard. Still what has made him a leader
of the people ? By what warrant does he stand
forth to instruct and rebuke ? IThat years of
experience, what traces of thought, what lines
of dignity, stamped upon his brow, mark him
as schooled to discover error and proclaim the
truth? Is there anything in his training here
which renders thought and experience superflu
ous? or has some mysterious hand appeared to
him, while he sojourned within these walls, as
to Ezekiel in the wilderness, giving him a roll
of inspiration from which he is to read and in
struct the nation ? What is there in his inten
tions but presumption,- what in his hopes but
folly, what in his attempts but failure ?—I had
almost added, what in our thoughts of him but
contempt?
But another leaves at the same time this
sphere of preparation. He yields not to his
contemporary in patriotism, not even in ambi
tion. He has the same generous desire to main
tain the truth, the same earnestness in behalf of
his country, the same iadignation against her
enemies. But with justef ideas of the qualifi
cations of the public man, with an appreciation
that the great principles of truth, which govern
a nation, must be sought pn the serene heights
of knowledge—that he who would rule a peo
ple must be experienced and dignified; must
bring with him to his task the lessons of wis
dom, the deliberation of age, and in its calmness,
unruffled by ambition, proof against the temp
tations of power; that he must bring something
more than earnestness, something more than
courage, something more than enthusiasm; that
he must have some mono acquaintance with
truth than the mere aspiratiqn after it, some
more knowledge of falsehood than the mere
loathing for it; that he must be acquainted witlr
the events of his country's history, learned in the
truths of the ancients, above all, disciplined in
those truths, which from the flight of years drop
quietly into the breast of every man —apprecia-
ting that such is the man to rise in the councils
and assemblies of the people, the youthful citi
zen modestly declines a career which he is not
yet ready to enter. Is not this one more com
mendable, more admirable, more dignified in his
modest retreat, than ho who rushes to certain
and inglorious discomfiture? Let the soft
music of approving words follow his retiring
footsteps. Let our hopes of future good hover
over his retreat. Let him anticipate the time
“when he will come again,” our hopes realities,
and the music changed to a loud “All Hail,” in
welcome of a worthy citizen.
But I have said useful is this quality in the
younger citizen. If he shall have done no more
than make room for a fitter man, then has the
act been useful to his country. But why must
his retirement from the view of his fellow-citi
zens be one of ease? He is not to go whither
the sounds of the eternal warfare between good
and evil may not come. He does not retire to
such Tartarean shades that the world of men
will be hidden from his view. He does not
withdraw where he may not see the progress of
events, the workings of parties, the triumph or
defeat of principle. He may be every day,
every hour, reminded of his country, be renew
ing his vows to his country, aye, and tiiat very
day, that very hour, be serving her. Let him
think for a moment how the country is served;
and if aspirations alter public life occupy his
immagination, let him think by what manner of
public men she is truly served. Let him not
look to our national halls for the ideal of the
public man. Let him not seek it m public as
semblies because many public men are there.
Let him not listen to tho loud voices which va
por there. Let him not heed the noisy wrang
ling of men and factions. Let him not be misled
by the self-report of some worthy patriot, enumer
ating his useful deeds and his virtuous emotions.
Let him close his eyes and his ears against such
sights and sounds as these. Let him turn from
such false models, and seek somewhere else the
true ideal of the public man. Let him think
whether a loud voice, rather than true eloquence,
be not cultivated in these assemblies; whether
personal ambition, rather than a love of truth,
be not the motive of these men ; whether the
learning of these pursuits be not a knowledge
of trickery, rather than the product of exalted
wisdom. Let him seek elsewhere than among
these men tho true ideal of the public man.
Let him examine well less doubtful models.
The first efforts of Cicero convinced him,
though years of cultivation had produced great
fruit in his mind, that there was too much of
feeling and too little of truth in his eloquence ;
that his voice was too strong-and his thought too
weak; that there was too* much of the fire of
youth, too little of the calmness of study. Back
then he retreats into the retirement, whence his
ambition and his patriotism had for a moment
impelled him, and years after he had passed that
age, which we have reached, found him iu
Athens, studying philosophy and literature,
journeying in Asia Minor, gathering from the
wisdom of sages as he went, lingering in
Rhodes, ever in the contemplation of truth. It
was emerging from this retirement that he stood
forth the Cicero whom we admire, and who
served his country. Demosthenes spent the
early years of his life iu even deeper retirement
and in more arduous studies, before he thought
himself prepared to engage as a leader iu the
affairs of his country. And so it has ever been.
Wherever you find a man prominent in the
peaceful annals of his country, one who has
served her as well as distinguished himself,
whose patriotism is undimmed by a shadow of
demagogueism—look well at that man. He has
begun his public career with a degree of discip
line in study, of practice in the search of truth,
which are impossible in the first days of early
manhood.
Seek then, I say, your ideal of the public man
elsewhere than in those assemblies with which
you are most familiar. Wander up and down
the fields of history, search the realms of con
templation, descend into the depths of your
own mind. Try your creation by your reason,
measure it by well-approved standards, subject
it to the test of a sensitive honor. If your ideal,
so created, be. as I doubt not it will be, an im
age of beauty; if it be imposing, complete,
symmetrical; if, being such an image of humau
ity, it is unlike the most of those whose places
you may desire to occupy, (as, alas 1 for them, it
will be) you will recognise in it qualities which,
as yet, you have not. You would feel that you
must attain to that perfect stature in a freer at
mosphere than that of the college, and in the
course of years which yet are future. You
would see that the dignity, the serenity, the pu
rity of your ideal drew not their strength from
the uncongenial, the heated, dusty air of public
life, but from the etherially serene atmosphere
of retirement
[to be continued.]
[For tho Sonthern Field ond Fireside.)
CHARLES LAMB’S SUPPERS, AND DR.
HOLMES’ BREAKFASTS.
One of the most gifted of Authors, in a beau
tiful biographical notice of his friend, has placed
side by side in well managed contrast, two scenes
of “ social enjoyment” The one, where all the
most charming, the most gifted of high bred En
glish society gather at dinner around the hos
pitable board of the wealthiest, the most win
ning and distinguished of English noblemen.—
The other, where, in tho lowly parlor of a hard
worked clerk, a band of rare intellects, com
posed mostly of the aristocracy of talent assem
ble at ten o'clock at night, to partake of a sup
per, so simple in all its appointments, so almost
frugal, that one can scarce restrain a smile at the
mention of its delicacies, —“ Cold roast lamb, or
boiled beef,” not even that highly appreciated
morsel, “ roast pig,” “ hot potatoes, and porter;”
truly, as we should count it, in these days of
much luxury, a plowman's meal. And yet, in this
simple parlor, as in the nobleman’s saloon, assem
bled once a week, the wit, the talent, the ge
nius of great old England. What matter wheth
er such intellects gather around a board where
“ every appliance of physical luxury, which the
most delicate art can supply, attends on each,"
where “ every faint wish which luxury creates,
is anticipated,” where “ the choicest wines are
enhanced in their liberal but temperate use, by
the vista, opened in Lord Holland's tales of bac
chanalian evenings at Brooke’s, with Fox and
Sheridan, when potations, deeper and more se
rious, rewarded the Statesman’s toils, and short
ened his days;” or, whether in the old fash
ioned parlor, with its worn furniture, “ its clean
swept hearth,” its air of “hearty English wel
come,” its social whist table, Charles Lamb, the
gentle host, welcomed with a cordial smile and
nod, such men as Hazlitt Montague, and Lloyd,
and was, sometimes, made more than happy, by
the presence of his dearest friends, Words
worth arid Coleridge. What matter, that in
stead of luxury, and silver, and rare wines,
“ Becky—under the direction of the kindest and
most sensible of women, laid the cloth upon a
side table, to receive the heaps of smoking pota
toes, the joint of cold meat, the vast jug of por
ter,” which was to refresh the jaded author or
the overtasked actor :—what matter, when in
neither circle, were the creature comforts the at
traction ; they came in, to be sure, and were en
joyed as accessories, a starving body seldom
producing a frolicsome mind, but they were not
the magnet; Lord Holland and Charles Lamb, the
respective hosts of the dinner and supper. The
charm of mind and mirth, these drew the wits
of the ago together, when wines and rare viands,
beef and porter, would have proved unavailing.
In both circles perfect freedom prevailed, jokes
and puns flew about, and were enjoyed as keen
ly as graver dissertations. In each, “ literature
and art supplied the favorite topics, and in each,
whatever the topic, it was always discussed by
those best entitled to talk about it, no others
having a chance of being heard.”
These “two scenes of rarest human enjoy
ment,” have passsd away : —naught now re
mains to us of them, but the vivid picturing to
our imaginations of what they were, we cannot
call it a memory; but, just about the time that
these suppers, on the other side of the Atlantic,
ceased, preparations were being made here,
among ourselves, for another repast, a “ Break
fast,” which, if we may, without presumption,
we would like to contrast with tlie suppers just
passing away. As compared, they seem to us
as youth to age. Is it fanciful to feel as if these
suppers, these breakfasts, were but lively rep
resentations of the states of society, the differ
ent orders of mind enjoying each ?—Of the old
world as of an old man, with his depth of know
ledge, his stores of wisdom, his boundless ex
perience, his grandeur, his brilliancy, but, his
overtaxed powers, calling to his aid the comforts
of an evening fireside, the coziness of a whist
table and hot punch and a bottle and fresh
glasses to start anew, and give a preternatural
br.lliancy to his flow of ideas ?—Of the new world,
iu his youth and strength, starting at dawn from
the delicious and refreshing sleep of boyhood,
and rushing out to the hill tops, “ to welcome
the new born day,” and to drink in bliss and in
spiration, from the breath of morning, and the
smile of God ; then returning to the “ Breakfast
table,” with his heart overflowing with love,
his brain teeming with n.erry thoughts, and a
song upon his lips, brightening up with gay sal
lies the gravity of the old mau, and showing an
earnestness of purpose, and a depth of feeling
and philosophy which were with him, either in
tuitive perceptions, or, had been learned, un
consciously, from the open book of nature ?
Not that we dislike the suppers; far from it;
they have been to us, always, cherished fancies,
gatherings that we would dearly have liked to
have been iu, to have seen, to have enjoyed; and
although, with good Mary Lamb, we must cast a
disapproving glance “ as the second tumbler is
mixed,” and rather shrink from the noise of the
spoons, and the rattling of the glasses, and think
“ Coleridge's gentle voice, undulating in music,”
would have been more ravishing without such
accompaniments; still, they must have been glo
rious meetings ; such a host would, make any
gathering charming, for, such a host must draw
congenial spirits around him ; and the breakfast
which has just been served up, seems to us as a
most delightful sequence to the suppers past. —
And such a breakfast as it is 1 A long time ago
was the cloth laid, but it was worth waiting for,
and now we gather around, and with the Auto
crat by our side, how we do cujoy it 1 One or
two of the last night’s guests are with us, and
we delight to meet them. There is that “ Prin
cess of a Schoolmistress,” about whom Charles
Lamb expatiated to Bernard Barton, after this
fashion : “ 1 have a picture of a Schoolmistress —
a Princess of a Schoolmistress. She wields a rod,
more lor show than use. She sits in an old Mo
nastic Chapel, with a Madonna over her head,
looking just as serious, as thoughtful, as pure,
as gentle, as herself.”
Aud this morning we walk to the breakfast
table, aud there she sits, and we welcome her as
the Madonna Schoolmistress of Lamb, almost
the same as the one to whom the Autocrat in
troduces, us as “ The pale Schoolmistress,” and
sayß of her,There are meek, slight women,
who have weighed all that this planetary life
can give, and hold it like a bauble in the palm of
their sleuder hands. This was one of them,
Fortune had left her. Sorrow had baptized her.
The routine of labor was before her, yet aa I
looked upon her tranquil face gradually regain-,
inga cheerfulness which was almost sprightly. I
saw that eye, and lip, and every shifting linea
ment, were made for love.",',- •, *
Last night, toa we thought that there was a
■# r ?~^ r 7"^ 3-v
satire, almost an ill nature, in the generally ge- /
nial current of Lamb’s humor, when he spoke of
a “ Poor relation, especially a female one, as one 1
of the greatest evils under the sun,” and said,
“ you may do something with the male, pass *
him off tolerably, but in her, there is no disguise;
there can be none in female poverty. Her garb 1 .
is something between a gentlewoman and a beg
gar, yet the former, evidently, predominates.—
No woman dresses below herself from sheer ca* 1
price. She is most provokingly humble, and os
tentatiously sensible to her inferiority,”—and 1
at breakfast we opened our eyes wide, as
the Autocrat introduced “an angular female in <
oxidated black bombazine, ” and we laughed out
right, when, as she snubbed a boarder with the
declaration that “Buckwheat was skerce and
high,” the Autocrat said (aside) that “ she was
only a poor relation, sponging on the landlady, ]
and as she paid nothing for her board, must be
ready to stand by the guns and repel boarders.”
But we must not be misunderstood; we do
not charge, we do not mean to charge, our bril- I
liant countryman with plagiarism, in re-intro
ducing to us at breakfast, the charming School
mistress whom Lamb admired, nor for making
the poor relation so real, that each angle stands
vividly out, —any more than we would charge 1
him with a base imitation of Coleridge, because,
last night we sat spell bound with Lamb and i
Hazlitt, and a room full of kindred spirits, as
the magician poured forth a stream of eloquence I
and beauty, which entranced us with its musical
sound, even when we could not understand it;
and, at the breakfast table to-day, he, the Auto- 1
crat, compelled us to sit even more spell-bound,
listening with the Professor and the Schoolmis - |
tress, and the Divinity student, as he poured
fortu that glorious passage, about our brains be- i
ing seventy-year clocks; listening and gazing
until we felt grand all over, as if we had origins- l
ted the idea. Charge him with plagiarism 1 Oh
no. With Professor Reed, we can say, “We
have no sympathy with the spirit which f
delights in detecting plagiarism, in the
casual and innocent coincidences which >
every student knows are frequently occurring ”
Who would think of charging any such thing (
against a talker who could say such tender,
beautiful things, as all that about the sense of i
smell?
Do, you remember what he says about the
peaches which were put to ripen on the closet f
shelves, where bundles of sweet marjoram and
lavender were laid to dry, and which staid there V
“in the dark, thinking of the sunshine they
had lost, until, like the hearts of saints that ,
dream of Heaven in their sorrow, they grew
fragrant as the breath of angels ?" Was ever i
anything finer I even in old Jeremy Taylor. Oh,
no ! No charge against any man who has told
us so exquisitely of the old gentleman who said 1
—“ He was fond of poetry when he was a boy;
his mother taught him to say many little pieces ; t
he remembered one beautiful hymn; and the "
old gentleman began in a clear, loud voice, for (
bis years:
* The epacionn firmament on high t
With all the bine ethereal iky 1
And spangled Heavens’
“He stopped as if startled by our silence, and
a faint flush ran up beneath the thin white hairs
that fell upon his cheek. As I looked round, I
was reminded of a show I once saw at the Mu- i
seum— * The sleeping Beauty,’ I think they
called it. The old man’s sudden breaking out (
in this way, turned every face towards him, and
each kept his posture as if changed to stone.— l
Our Celtic Bridget, framed for action, not emo
tion, was about to deposit a plate upon the table,
when I saw the coarse arm stretched by my )
shoulder, arrested, motionless as the arm of a
terracotta Caryatid. She could not set the plate Jj
down, while the old gentleman was speaking.”
No wonder, for we plead guilty to a choking sen- ,
sation in the throat, a kind or garroted feeling,
and great dimness of the eyes. All that we i
meant to express was, a strong sense of enjoy
ment, at finding in two such minds any, even
little verbal similitudes, which can make us like /
either, more, just as we are drawn irresistibly to
a stranger, who, even in a chance expression of 1
face, or tone of voice, reminds us of one known '
and loved from childhood. So when, in our own ,
brilliant and gifted Holmes, we find traces of
that genial, tender humor which has charmed l
the world in Charles Lamb, we admire him all
the more. We feel almost at times bewildered,
as if the Supper of years ago, and the Break- f
fast of to-day, were one; as if the gentle, loving,
devoted brother, the tried friend, the humorist, y
whose wit, like summer lightning, irradiated, but <
never scathed, had come back to us, in the per- (
son of our own Holmes; had come back to us,
bringing with him a greater brightness, a more \
vivid realization of the true and the beautiful;
had, without losing any portion of his genial
and mirthful humanity, brought back a deeper, f
more far seeing philosophy ; as if Wordsworth
and Southey had stretched out their arms to em- y
brace the Autocrat, and had given him a por
tion of their poetic fire, and had taught him to c
write (as Lamb never could) such exquisite ver
ses as “ The Chambered Nautillus,” “ The Old &
Man’s Dream,” “ The Two Armies,” and “ The
Voiceless;” as ifj in fact, he had been wandering
among bright angels, had taken the talker Cole- I
ridge for lys bosom friend, and had come back
from the contact, all heart and soul, and fancy y
and imagination, to reproduce for our benefit,
the brilliant images; nay, almost the very peo
ple, who charmed and dazzled, and instructed a
world, years ago. {
Lamb and Holmes! £like, and yet so unlike.
The one, saving up, as it were, the remnants of
time, drawing around him, as all good and /
great men should do, the young aspirants
just starting into life, keeping them ever near, in y
social and unreserved intercourse, teaching them
great good, warning them, it may be, by a view
of little frailties in themselves, from great wrong;
then passing away as a father from loving chil-
dren, or a brother from a baud of brethren, and
leaving, in even the recollection of a social eve
ning, a memory of joy and pleasure and regret. ;
And Holmes, the living Autocrat, of whom
one hardly dares to speak, in that he is alive ; ,
who comes to us with the freshness of morning i
upon his lips. There are no stale odors of the
weed about his “Breakfast table,” no headaches
and redness of the eyes from the second glass of
last night; but all is racy, fresh, and vigorous ; '
he draws into his charmed circle, to listen and
admire, and profit, wise men and good men, j
professors and poets, and Divinity students;
wins over and charms till they love him, even .
such as “ little Benjamin Franklin,” “ and the
young man whom they call John.” Long may
he be spared to us ; a Host, who will never
need tb seek for guests for his “ Breafast Table,” ,
—an Autocrat, under whose reign democrats be
come submissive!
A correspondent writing from Niagara Falls, ■ '
says that where the Suspension Bridge origi
nally sagged two or three inches under the
weight ofa train, it now sags nearly twenty
inches. The general impression in the neigh
borhood is that this great work will one of these
days give way and fall into the river. Visitors >
now walk over the bridge, instead of crossing
in the trajps as formerly.
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139