Newspaper Page Text
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[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE WHITTINGTON CLUB.
NO. 8.
[Scene.—A Summer-house (lately finished) in Whit
tington's garden. It is lighted by a single bright
jet of gas. A centre-table tnay be teen, furnished
with a bottle of Burgundy and glasses. Present,
Whittington and hit sri/6.]
Mrs. Whittington. —What can have befallen
our friend ? He is almost an hour behind his
usual time.
Whittington. — Some editorial engagement
probably; you know the town is full of strang
ers, and gentlemen of Bishop’s “ guild ” are sure
to be overrun by visitors. While we wait for
him, I wish, Sophie, you would tell me what you
think of “ Owen Meredith’s” poetry. His book,
I observe, has been inysur hands all the morn
mg. •
Mrs. Whittington. —l think that ‘Meredith,’or
rather young Bulwer Lytton—for that is his
real narae-r-possesses considerable genius, and
greaWiay, prodigious command of expression.
A versatile, inexhaustible fluency is, at present,
his chief characteristic.
Whittington. —Then, I suppose, that he is
more wordy than imaginative, as common fault
enough; in fact, the special and dangerous fault
of our recent poets.
Whittington. —Yes, he is diffuse; for exam
ple, the works of “Owen Meredith” (I will caU
him by his nom de plume) are already equal to,
if they do not surpass in bulk, those of Tenny
son. But, at the same time, there are abundant
evidences in his writings of imagination, fancy,
and exquisite feeling. In these respects, he is
vastly superior to Alexander Smith, and others
of that school. When the natural redundances
of youthful passion and sentiment shall have
been pruned by superior Art, and the workings
of a maturer judgment, Owen Meredith will
undoubtedly take high rank in his profession.—
As it is, the volume before me contains a great
deal of genuine poetry, rich in thought and sin
gularly attractive in the beauty of its language
and the harmonious sweetness of its ryhthm.
[ Enter Bishop, hastily ]. —Oh I I am so glad to
find you in this pleasant retreat; I’ve have a
hard day’s work of it, and my office is abomi
nably close.
Whittington. —You are hot I see, and, of
course, thirsty ; a bumper of burgundy, if you
please,—my dear! hand me the ice. Now,
Bishop I there’s something to give you new life
and spirit 1 *
[The Editor of "Tut. Bee” quaffs hit trine with a
sigh of satisfaction, “ long drawn out.”]
Whittington. —Now, sir! you must stand on
your defence I this is the first occasion upon
which any member of the Club has proved a
laggard:—Culprit! have you aught to shy why
summary sentence should not be pronounced
against you ?
Bishop. —May it please your honor, I have
much to say! I was just about completing my
afternoon’s duties, when a card was brought me,
bearing, in large printed letters, the name of
F. Augustus Huntington. A very tall, thin, long
f*oed gentleman, with little black eyes, and an
.-■St ise beard, closely followed the card, and,
*" ag at the door, made me a profound bow.
*• gged him jo be seated.
‘Thank you!’ he said, in a small squeak,
which it would have been absurd to call a voice.
I never heard such low, cracked, abortive, and
yet hoarse tones. Ah 1 I thought, the poor
nvo» i» ...fi-nm. tho worst effects of hrrab
chitis. - , ,
•I’*» X~ remarked, ‘to perceive that
you have a bad cold; the dust! and the change
able weather no doubt —'
‘ No, sir,’ replied my visitor, placidly, 1 no,
sir I it's my natural voice.’ By a superhumau
effort, I turned the conversation to other topics.
‘Like yourself, sir, I am an editor, and cri
tic- lam also a poet; but, probably, you know
my name, and have seen my productions. In
my native district, sir, in Arkansas, they call
me The Star of tho West! By the way, here’s
my last published poem—permit me —,’ and,
with the coolest air in the world, this charming
gentleman proceeded to read sixteen stanzas, of
eight lines each, addressed to An Unknown Fe
male in Distress. These were followed by Im
promptu Lines in a Lager Beer Saloon, and
some lines designed to be witty, On my Uncles
old Brown Wig!
‘ Now, sir, what’s your opinion of those
pieces?’ inquired Mr. F. Augustus, confidently.
‘No imitation, observe; but all fresh, racy, indi
vidual 1’
‘They certainly are unlike anything I have
ever listened to before,’ said I.
‘Ahl you are right! TnE West, Mr. —,
Mr. —, what’s-your-name?—Bishop— The West
is the only place for originality; we take it In
with our mother’s milk; we inhale it with every
breath of our native air; and besides, sir, in
my own case, I determined at an early age, not
to destroy the native vigor of my intellect and
fancy, by studying any of the so-called classi
cal authors.’
1 You refer to the ancients.’
‘To the ancients, and the moderns; as a
general rule I read nobody's writings! Why
should I? when my own bram is teeming with
thoughts that demand constant vigilance and
attention. Sir, the glow of one fresh and spark
ling conception is worth a hundred musty plays
ol Shakspeare, or Homer! What they know of
‘ the march of mind ?’ of the new-born genius
of American progress ?’
At this moment, you may be sure, I was
speechless. Well, the persistent, intolerable ass,
(whose conversation I have not exaggerated,)
remained in ray sanctum for two mortal hours,
and concluded by informing me he designed stay
ing in C a fortnight, and would caU at my
office as frequently as possible! He found it a
quiet place, and, with my permission, would
make it his literary headquarters.
Whittington. —The impudent varlet’. I have
no patience with such charlatans. T&ese are
the persons who, in all ages, have disgusted the
populace with literature. Pretentious, shallow,
egotistical, they intrude themselves so persist
ently upon the notice of the public, that soon
the masses really begin to confound them with
the genuine litterateurs, who, being self-respect
ful, are not given to stentorian “blowing of
their own trumpets.”
Mrs. Whittington. —Do you not think that
this class of pseudo-literary men, and women, is
alarmingly on the increase in America?
W hittington. —Assuredly I do; the vast num
ber of inferior magazines and newspapers, pro
fessing to be wholly or in part literary, is a
standing encouragement to the vanity of these
scribblers; anything, however mean and desti
tute of merit, is gladly accepted by them, and
published. Thus,'a low standard of taste is
established, and every third-rate rhymster, and
fifth-rate essayist or critic, deems himself war
ranted in imposing his wretched lucubrations
•upon a long-suffering community. * * *
* * What are those handsome books yon
have been unwrapping so carefully, Hal ?
Bishop. —An edition, in four volumes, of Twos.
Carlyle's essays, from a northern publishing
skx sovxssxx mu us xhubhus.
house. Pray took at the tinted paper and rich
binding 1
Whittington. —A model of typographical ex
cellence and beauty! It is an edition to delight
the heart of the bibliopolist! Weill Carlyle de
serves to have his thoughts embodied in a band
some material form. v
Bishop. —You admire him, then ?
Whittington. —lndeed, I do, and most sincere
ly. I admire his genius, and above all, his con
scientiousness. Until Carlyle had reached the
comparatively mature age of twenty-seven, he
did not venture to come before the public as an
author. Up to that period, he had been storing
his mind with various knowledge; and when, at
length, he appeared as an essayist, it was read
ily acknowledged by appreciative readers that a
true, deep Thinker had come forward to delight
and instruct the world.
Bishop. —But, Frank ! is not h\n style abomina
ble ; so bad, is fact, as seriously to interfere with
his general success ?
Whittington. —Undoubtedly; and yet, the su
perior genious and learning of the man are
shown in nothing more conclusively, than in the
immense influence he haß gained over the minds
of men of taste, notwithstanding his style (for
I believe it to have been elaborately cultivated).
Carlyle has displayed the one marked weakness
from which even the greatest are seldom alto
gether free! Examine his earlier criticisms, or
biographies, and you will find that they are
composed, for the most part, in a natural, forci
ble, and easy strain. As he devoted himself
more enthusiastically to the German language
and literature, he appears to have deserted the
vigorous and simple Anglo-Saxon of his fath
ers, until in his “ Sartor Resartus," the previous
eccentricity of his manner rushes into utter
lawlessness. What he had once said of John
Paul Richter, now became eminently applicable
to Carlyle’s own mode of writing. “ Not that
Richter,” he observed (I have the paragraph
here in my note-book), “is iguorantof grammar,
or disdains the sciences of spelling or parsing,
but lie exercises both in a certain latitudinarian
spirit, deals with amazing liberality in parenthe
ses, dashes, and subsidiary clauses, invents hun
dreds of new words, alters old ones, or, by hy
phen, chains and pairs and packs them together
into most jarring combination ; in short, produces
sentences of the most heterogeneous, lumbering,
interminable kind 1 ” Ac. That Carlyle per
ceiving. as at one period lie must have done, the
errors of such a style, should subsequently be
led to imitate and adopt it, is much to be regret
ted ; but still, as I said before, his well-digested
learning and truly original intellect, nothing
seems able to obscure. His sentences are
heavy, no less with meaning than with words;
brilliant fancies and trains of suggestive thought
look out upon us from every one of his pages;
and if often it is a labor to read him, that labor
is amply regarded.
Bishop. —l think that, upon the whole, your
estimate of Carlyle is just. Os course, among
his numerous works you have your preferences?
Whittington.-Yes, among his biographies, I like
best the pathetic and beautiful Life of John Ster
ling ; among his critical essays, the papers upon
Burns and Johnson. As for his histories,they are to
me the least agreeable works of the kind in our
literature. I acknowledge their occasional great
power, especially in characterization, and the
portrayal of scenes of grandeur and excitement,
(as, for instance, his terrific picture of the attack
on the Bastile), but there is a disconnectedness,
almost incoherence, in his histories, viewed ar
fistioally, which, it is Uifi&oult for me to compre
-1 . 1, _i. 0
Bishop. —May it not be owing to the fact that,
with all his unquestionable talent, Carlyle’s
power is spasmodic ? Not only are his different
essays unequal in merit, but different parts of
the same essay vary to a remarkable degree, as
regards the forces both of style and thought.
Now, when he comes to write any elaborate
work, like his “French Revolution," or, his
more recent “ History of Frederick the Great,”
his want of this calm, consecutive strength is
conspicuously exhibited. To speak the truth,
Whittihgton, I am inclined to think that Carlyle
is as raud! overrated now, as at an earlier period
of his career lie was underrated and contemned.
Indiscriminate praise of the man and of his
works, has become fashionable; and hundreds
who never read his books, purchase and extrav
agantly commend them.
Whittington. —You are right; the silly but
terflies, at home only among the tawdriest
flowers of literature, (and of such what we term
the “ reading public" is largely composed), could
hardly be induced to explore the deep, rough
recesses of Carlyle’s philosophy; or, if they
should attempt it, I picture them as fluttering
wearily among the mazes of his speculation, and
the involutions of his thoughts and sentences,
pining to escape from a region to them so deso
late and rugged. * * * *
Bishop, —From Carlyle to Jackson is a long
and sudden leap, but I have just received the
two first volumes of Barton's Life of the latter, and
I wish to know your opinion of tho work, pro
vided you are ready to give one.
Whittington. —Yes; I was honored by the
author with a copy of this biography sometime
ago, and have read it with unusual care. Mr.
Parton’s Life of Aaron Burr had prepared me
to expect an admirable production, the moment
I learned his design of writiDg another biograph
ical work so woU adapted to his peculiar powers
as the life of Andrew Jackson. My anticipations
were high, but they have not been disappointed.
Bishop. —Let me ask, by the way, whether
you adopt Parton’s view of the character of
Aaron Burr. If he is right on that subject cer
tainly the rest of the world are all outrageously
wrong.
Whittington. —And so, I believe, they are,
and ever have been! Never was a man of
brilliant talents like Burr, and possesssed of
many qualities uot only engaging but noble —a
gentleman, patriot, and scholar, so hunted down
in life, and after death, by falsehood, calumny,
and every form of malignant persecution. I
tell you, Bishop, my blood boils when I reflect
upon the indignities to which Burr was sub
jected both at home and abroad; and chiefly be
cause at a desperate turn in his fartunes, (origi
nating in the hatred of uuscrupulous rivals), he
became a Filibuster! To call him, with any
proper construction of the term, a traitor to the
United States Government, is, in my opinion,
absurd! What a solemu farce was his trial
at Richmond, in which the part of prosecutor,
although he did not appear in the front of the
soene), was enacted by President Jefferson!—
On that occasion the great originator and ex
pounder of Democracy seems to have been ac
tuaUy frightened out of his wits; lie lost his
foresight, his courage, his discretion, his hu
manity—everything; appearing, at the same
moment, ia the somewhat contradictory and
oonfusing lights of a trembling poltroon and a
blood-thirsty purtisau. The lives of the wisest
and purest meu seldom fail to present one
dark blot, at least. The conduct of Jefferson
during the trial of Aaron Burr, is the blsck spot
on the otherwise stainless consistency of Ids ua
reer. * * * But you were inquiring what
I thought of the " Life of Jackson.” It displays
in its style, and the ge ral treatment of the
topic, all of Mr. Parton’s haracteristic merits.
Bishop. —And what, tevour mind, are those
merits ? •
Whittington.— A capatv for exhaustive re
search, and lucid synthea, combined with the
liveliest fancy and most fiial captivating hu
mor. He infuses into dlsils intrinsically dull,
the fire of his own vivacit; and to events of im
portance, and anecdotes -itertaining in them
selves, he adds a new foe and significance.—
The genius of the racontet united to a discrimi
nating judgment—the peer, at once, to gener
alize ably and to combinfudiciously; unfalter
ing industry, scholarly t*e. and to crown the
whole, a spirit of courreous impaitiality. —
Such are the high andmusual endowments
brought by Mr. Parton tolie preparation of this
great work. A trustwoiiy life of Jackson has
long been needed; and »w we feel confident
that the right man has itiertaken the task.—
Here, as in his acccoul of Burr, Mr. Parton
never hesitates to tell i —the truth, and the
whole truth, although byo doing he may run
counter to aU of our prevms and long-cherish
ed prejudices. His picke of Jackson is faith
ful and life-like, decisiveti outline, and rich in
coloring. No one necenrv detail has been
omitted, and there is a irtain harmony about
the whole portrait truly smirable.
Bishop. —What concepon of our popular he
ro is. upon the whole, to»e derived from these
volumes ?
Whittington. —The coeeption of a man of
stern, indomitable, all buomnipotent WILL; of
profound, but irregular auctions; relentless in
his pride, and unconqumble in his self-assu
rance ; tender and true s the Douglas of the
old Scotch ballad, to thte whom he esteemed
his friends; implacable, smetimes even cruel, to
his enemies; a being of lolent prejudices, and
tremendous passions, ail yet, when circum
stances favored the moot by no means d.eaf to
“thestiU, sad music ofiumanity.” Woe to
him who ventured to era this Lion upon any
path of his ambition, inttest or duty; such an
adversary was sure to be rampled down, crush
ed—most probably, oxteriinated. But, thrice
happy tho individual win through faithful ser
vices and disinterested ovotion, won his way
fairly to Jackson’s heart. Henceforth, in this
world of sham and falsebod, he might bo cer
tain of possessing one truj unwavering, constant
ally. But even then , lie uust aot remit his defe
rential attentions. Jacfeon could love, and
love deepiy, but in ond sense he stood aloof
from mankind—he stoodvloof to be worshipped.
I believe that the ceatraldea of his soul, around
which all others rev ilvet, was the idea of his
own immeasurable persnal superiority. He
conferred his favori in kingly fashion; if he
blessed you, it was t e beiefaction of a monarch
to his loyal subjec*—tto largess of royalty
equally generous an conlescending!
Bishop. —ls this i ork of Parton is such as
you describo it, I pi laurre it has thrown light
upon many obscure ointi, and confuted various
errors, hitherto exis ing h reference to Jack
son’s career.
Whittington. —Cei ainl; it has; you will be
especially struck by lis iccount (in vol. Ist) of
the famous Dickensc i duel. The lies that have
gained currency upoi the subject of that unfor
tunate combat, are blyonc conception or calcu
lation. Even at the tire sent period, the general
opinion is, that Dickinson was tho most arro
gant of bullies, in all respects a rascal and a
blackguard. Mr. Pdrton clearly proves that
such was not the cucc. t- **— ~ — >«»
to this young man’s death,
(minutely narrated by Mr. Parton,) we find
much that is infinitely discreditable to Jackson,
and although the final insult preceded from
Dickenson, we may justly hold it problematical
whether, all things considered; Jackson vas not
quite as blamable as his 'adversary. Tbsn, as
to the conduct of the parties on the gnund,
the popular version of the matter is shown to
be wholly erroneous. If Dickenson exhibited
undue ease, and confidence of demeanor, it is
certain that Jackson, on his part, manifested a
species of determination verging closely on fe
rocity. «~
Bishop. —Well, your criticism on this work
has made me anxious to peruse it. I suppose
there will be another volume before it is com
pleted ?
Whittington. —Of course, for the second vol
ume closes just upon the threshold of tbe bitter
Presidential contest of 1823-4. * But, enough
on this topic. * * * Sophie, my dear,
I will say, you are a model of patience. Here
have Bishop and I been engrossing the conver
sation, for Heaven Knows how long, yet you
actually look amiable, if not contented. For
the last week you have been enjoying what the
poet Gray calls an “earthly Elysium,” i. e. I’ve
seen you reclining for hours together upon a so
fa, with a novel in your hand. You ought,
therefore, as the collegians say, to “ be well up"
in the line of fiction.
Mrs. Whittington. —So, indeed, I am! I have
read three entire novels in about six days:
“Against Wind and Tide,” by Holme Lee; “Ju
lian Home,” a tale of English school and col
lege life; and lastly, “ The Mission, or, Scenes
in Africa,” one of Capt. Marryatt’s clever nar
ratives of adventure, written for boys, but quite
interesting, nevertheless, even to an ancient
married lady!
Bishop. —l see, by tbe English papers, that
the first work you mentioned, “Against Wind
and Tide,” has been remarkably successful in
Great Britain.
Mrs. Whittington. —l should have felt some
surprise had it been otherwise, for the story is
vigorously told, and the chief characters enlist
the reader’s sympathies throughout. Under
circumstances of social degradation, guiltlessly
incurred, two brothers (the heroes of the tale)
are represented as struggUng against ‘ the wind
and tide’ of the world's bitter scorn and cease
less persecution. The difficulties, temptations,
and dangers which beset them, and the mode
in which—according to the temperament of
each—the brothers meet, and finally overcome
all obstacles to their success, are depicted in
variably in a spirited and graphic manner;
sometimes with the force and genius of a mas
ter mind.
Bishop. —What of the other ndvel, “Julian
Home”?
Mrs. Whittington. —Ah! that is a production
of a different kind; it is a lighter,and more cheer
ful book, than the narrative by Holme Lee, al
though, of course, its personages are treated to
their duo share of fictitious grief and danger.-*-
The ‘conclusion,’ however, is a little too fortu
nate. Everybody is made happy by marrying
just the individual he or she had long preferred,
and moreover, the scene closes in a general
‘shower of gold’ falling from tho most unexpected
sources, upon the very people who only needed
such a benefaction to render tlieir felicity oom
plete!
Bisltop.— Your pardon, Mrs. Whittington, but
while you are “in the vein,” may I not be for
some additional information? You can’t think
liow muoli lubor you ure sparing mo by these
hints about books I shall soon have to notice!
Mrs. Whittington. —Tljere is but one more
new publication of whiA I am able to speak!,
the work I referred to just now, called ** Scenes
in Africa,” by MarryatL It belongs to the “ il
lustrated ” series of Henry Bohn, and is among
the most spirited of its author’s many spirited
stories. We are introduced to a Sir Charles
Wilmot, an aged English Coronet, who had for
years been childless, but whose grand nephew,
Alexwder, is understood to be his heir. Sir
Charles, in the maturity of his manhood, had,
by the sudden death of his elder brother, with
out issue, been put in possession of the entailed
estates of his family. The news found him in
India, where he had long resided with his wife
and three daughters. It became necessary for
him to hasten at once to England. His family
sye, for the time, left behind. A few months
after, he wrote from London, requesting them
to return home by the first ship. A reply came
that his wife and two of his daughters had been
suddenly carried off by the cholera, and the
surviving child—only ten years old—was about to
Bail, in obedience to his wishes, in tbe Grosyenor,
East Indiaman, under the care of a gentleman
related to Sir Charles. Misfortunes are said
never ‘o come singly—and so, in this case, it
proved. The Grosvenor’s time of arrival had
elapsed, still she was not reported in the chan
nel. Weeks of anxiety passed away, but doubt
was, at least, ended by the intelligence that the
vessel had been wrecked on the east coast of
Africa, and that hearly the whole crew and pas
sengers had perished. Only two men belonging
to her had been saved; and from them, Sir
Charles learned the particulars of the disaster.
The detail of these convinced him that he was
now utterly childless. Subsequently, as intima
ted before, he adopted his grand-nephew, Alex
ander Wilmot, who becomes the hero of the
tale. When the youth is about twenty, he finds
his uncle, one morning, in a stale of intense ag
itation, on account of a newspaper paragraph
which had just met his eye, which confidently
assorted that “all those did not perish who were
supposed to do so when the Grosvernor was
wrecked, and that, moreover, from the testimony
of the natives, some of them and their descen
dants were still alive. To make a long story
short, I wiU state that young Wilmot procures,
after much pleading, his uncle's consent to visit
Africa, and endeavor, if possible, to ascertain
the truth in reference to this report. His ad
ventures in the interior of that barbarous coun
try, together with the final result of his mission
forms the material of the narative,which abounds
■ surds in animated pictures of scenery of bold
enterprise and of gallant endurance of hard
ship. The book is instructive as well as enter
taining. There are several chapters devoted
to Natural History and Science. NjThat is said
of the mineralogy and botany of the eastern
and southern portions of the African continent,
will generally he found, I think, interesting and
valuable, Ac., Ac.
——
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE NAMES WE BEAK.
(concluded from page 387, ante.)
We have, in a preceding article, commented
upon the peculiarities of meaning and derivation
in Christian or baptismal names.
We propose to conclude the subject by a brief
account of our surnames.
Two accounts are given of the origin of this
word. One authority pronounces it to be only
a corruption of sirename and surname. Another
«»jrmr>ir>gty derives the word from (French) n»r
--710)11] Avhioh is iVrtm +He T.otin (ftfcorc) SUll
nomen (name); i. e., a name superadded to the
baptismal name.
In ancient times, men had but oufi name, as
Noah, Ulysses, Romulus, 4c. Afterwards they
farther designated themselves a3 sons of their
respective parents, as “ Agamemnon, the son of
Atreus,” “Alexander, the son of Philip,” “ James,
the son of Alpheus.” This custom is still alive
in the term “ Fitz," prefixed to a name. Fitz is
merely a French corruption of the Latin filius
(a son), and “ Fitz Allen " is only the son of Allen,
Fitz Edward, the son of Edward, 4c. Similar to
this is the meaning of the Irish “ 0,", inasmuch
as O’Neil is the son of Neil, and of the Scotch
“ Mac," Macdonald being the son of Donald. The
Welsh surnominal adjunct was “Ap,” as David
Ap Howell, for David, the son of Uowell. Their
silly pride often induced them to give not only
their father’s, but their grandfather’s and great
grandfather’s name. A conceited fellow was
well-punished for this. Coming about midnight
when traveling, in the pouring rain, he thun
dered loudly at the door for admittance.
“ What would ye have 7” roared the landlord,
sticking his head out of the second-story win
dow.
“ A night’s lodging," was the reply.
“ And who are ye ?’’
“ David-ap-Griffith-ap-Evans-ap-Owens-ap-
Richard-ap-Reese I”.answered the Welshman.
“Heavens and earth 1” quoth the landlord,
“ I have but one spare bed, and you ask lodg
ing for a dozenand, closing his window, went
back to sleep again, leaving “ David-ap-Griffith
ap-Evans-ap-Owens-ap-Richard-ap-Reese,” in
the rain.
The most superficial observation of frequently
recurring surnames, will enable us to perceivo
that they have been taken from the most fa
miliar objects, from localities, from personal pe
culiarities, from trades and occupations, and
from a vast number of other sources too numer
ous to mention.
Such names for instance as HiU, Wood, For
est, Dale, Meadows, 4c., are unmistakably taken
from the natural objects which these words rep
resent.
The colors, too. havo been largely taxed to
furnish names, as we have White, Black, Brown,
Green, Red, Gray, and Dunn.
Os the names derived from occupations, we
have Cooks, who never enter a kitchen; Caipen
ters, who never build houses; Masons, who never
plaster walls; and Shepards, who have nothing
to do with sheep. Besides these, we have Ba
kers, who bake no bread; Brewers, who know
nothing about beer; MiUers, who grind no corn;
Butlers, who never enter the wine-cellar. There
are Gardners, who never plant peas; Weavers,
who have never seen a loom; Porters, who bear
no burdens; and Smiths, who never wield the
hammer.
A word, in passing, about this name of Smith.
It is well known that there are quite as many
people named Smith, as there are of any other
one name, except, perhaps, Jones. Illustrative
of this fact, is an anecdote of a fellow who went
to the Theatre and found it so crowded that he
could get no seat. He immediately lifted up his
voice, and shouted loudly, “ Mr. Smith’s houso
is on fire!” whereupon about one hundred
Smith’s sprang simultaneously to their feet, and
rushed out, to see about their houses, leaving
an abundant number of seats for the shrewd
alarmist.
Everybody may not know why this namo
is of such frequent occurrence. ’ It is attri
butable to the fact, that the terra “smith," is
derived from the Anglo-Saxon word smithian,
(to fabricate by hammering,) and it was applied
to all who struck with the hammer—to copper
smiths, goldsmiths, silversmiths, blacksmiths
as well as to braziers, wheelwrights, and join
ers; in short, all smiters were Smiths. The
prevalence of the name as an occupation gave
rise to the extensive use of it as a surname.
Jonss is the other most common of names,
and the reason of it is obvious. Jones is simply
the possessive case of John, L e. John's, and so
“Jones ." John, Wing.the most common of all
male proper names, has given rise to a great
many “Jones."
In a list of all the people bom in England,
from July Ist, 1837, to July Ist, 1838, there are
registered 5,588 births under the name of
Smith! Os the same name only 4,000 died,
making a clear gain of over 1,500 Smiths in one
year. Os the name of Jones, there were bom
5,353, of Brown, 2,336; of Taylor, 2,647.*
Sometimes the word has become obsolete,
from which the name was taken, and the only
record of it is in the name itself. Such a name
is Cobb, which is an old English word, meaning
a harbor—as the “cobb of Lyme Regis,” for
the harbor of Lyme Regis.
So, in Christian names, in surnames, and in
everyday speech, is our language a beautiful
mosaic, affording new and constantly phanging
views to the observant student of philology.
W. H. W.
University of Georgia.
* “Lower's English Surnames.”
am is i
PHYSICAL ANTIPATHIES.
Every person reckons among his acquaint
ances individuals who are peculiarly “ touchy”
upon certain points. In an ordinary way it is
plain-sailing enough with them ; but just ven
ture upon certain topics and they are “nowhere”
in a moment. Pressure upon some mental hid
den spring makes all sorts of secret drawers of
the mind shoot out suddenly, to the amazement
of the unconscious operator, and he will go
away with a firm conviction that there is some
screw loose in that particular quarter at least.—
Familiar as we are with mental peculiarities of
this kind, there is a parallel range of physical
ones, which are generally very little known.—
The physician who sounds the depths of our
bodies, and knows how oddly the mucous mem
brane of one individual behaves, and what ec
centricities are shown by the epidermis of anoth
er, is aware that this “ too, too solid flesh” can
have fads and fancies, tastes and dislikes, and
show them too, in a manner as decided and de
monstrative as though the mental instead of
the grosser organs were implicated. These phy
sical idiosyncracies sometimes put on such ex
traordinary features, that we fear, in relating
some of them, the reader will think thdt we are
romancing. For instance, he will readily assent
to the old saying, that “what is one man’s
meat is another man’s poison nevertheless, he
will doubt our good faith when we tell him of a
man being poisoned by a mutton chop. Dr.
Prout, in his valuable work on the stomach,
however, relates just such a case. This indi
vidual, with a contumacious stomach, could
not touch mutton in any form. It was at first
supposed that this dislike arose from caprice;
the meat was therefore disguised, and given to
him in some unknown form, but with the inva
riable result of producing violent vomiting and
diarrhcea; and from the severity of the effects,
which were those of a virulent poison, there can
be but little doubt that if the use of mutton had
been persisted in, his life would soon have, been
destroyed. Btrarige ana irrational as this be
havior may appear to be, yet it is only a rath
er exaggerated example of stomachic capricious
ness. Some persons cannot touch veal, others
are prostrated by a few grains of rice. We
happen to know an individual that is immediate
ly seized with all the symptoms of English
ctylera if he takes as much as a single grain of
rice. Such is his susceptibility to the presence
of this article of food that the most infinitesimal
portions are instantly detected. Thus, for in
stance, having been seized with illness imme
diately after drinking beer, it was discovered
that a grain or two had been introduced into
the bottle for the purpose of giving it a head.
Eggs are equally obnoxious to some individuals.
Mr. Erasmus Wilson relates the case of a pa
tient who was seized with a violent bowel com
plaint suddenly without any apparent cause.—
Knowing, however, his proclivity to violent gas
tric irritation from touching eggs, he at once
declared that he must have partaken of the ob
noxious food. It could not be traced, however,
until the cook acknowledged that she had
glazed a pastry of which be had partaken, with
the white of an egg.
Shell-fish is well known to disarrange tho di
gestive organs of some people. We happen to
be acquainted with a lady who unfortunately
partook of a lobster-salad for supper at a ball
with the inconvenient result of immediately
breaking out into a rash over the face, neck
and arms. For this reason, mussels, shrimps,
and cockles cannot be touched by many indi
viduals. In order to understand the immediate
and extraordinary effect thus produced upon the
skin in consequence of food irritating to tho
stomach, we must inform our reader that the
lining of the whole digestive apparatus is only
a continuation of the epidermis. Let us imag
ine a double night-cap. one end of which is
thrust into the other, and we have at once tho
true idea of the relation the epidermis, or out
side skin, has to the mucous membrane, or in
side skin, which lines the stomach and intestines.
With this explanation, it is easy to understand
how it is that an irritating poison coming in
contact with tho stomach immediately tells its
tale on the fair shoulders of the ball-room belle.
Results equally distressing, if not so unsight
ly, are produced in some individuals without
the introduction to the stomach of articles of
food or medicine. Floating particles in the air
are sometimes sufficient to produce all the symp
toms of spasmodic asthma. We once knew a
dispenser who could not stop in the room with
an unstoppered bottle of ipecacuanha. Even if
it were opened thirty or forty feet away out of
his sight, he was instantly aware of the fact, in
consequence of the sudden seizures to which he
was liable. We have heard of an old lady,
residing in Holbom, who at times was subject
ed to sickness and vomiting in the most sudden
and unaccountable manner. At last her phy
sician, suspecting some atmospheric influence,
made inquires, and found out that a room on
the ground floor, at the back of the house, was
used as a dispensary, whence the emanations
from the ipecacuanha penetrated to her apart
ments on the second-floor front.— [Zondon
paper.
The sale of the late Mr. Burton’s library is
determined on, and will probably take place
during next fall In belles-lettres literature, of
all kinds, the library is very rich, and of every
thing relating to the drama, in particular, Mr.
Burton was an enthusiastic collector. Many
rare Bhakspeefean volumes are included, and
among the» is a ojpy of tho first folio edition,
now about to be reprinted in London. The
market value of a good copy of this volume is
about $750.