Book: Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14, No. 84, October, 1864

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14, No. 84, October, 1864




Life will now become a flat, prosaic routine of matter-of-fact; and
sleep itself, erst so prolific of numerical configurations and
mysterious stimulants to lottery-adventure, will be disfurnished of its
figures and figments. People will cease to harp upon the one lucky
number suggested in a dream, and which forms the exception, while they
are scrupulously silent upon the ten thousand falsified dreams which
constitute the rule. Morpheus will stifle Cocker with a handful of
poppies, and our pillows will be no longer haunted by the book of
numbers.

And who, too, shall maintain the art and mystery of puffing in all its
pristine glory, when the lottery-professors shall have abandoned its
cultivation? They were the first, as they will assuredly be the last,
who fully developed the resources of that ingenious art,--who cajoled
and decoyed the most suspicious and wary reader into a perusal of their
advertisements by devices of endless variety and cunning,--who baited
their lurking schemes with midnight murders, ghost-stories, crim-cons,
bon-mots, balloons, dreadful catastrophes, and every diversity of joy
and sorrow, to catch newspaper-gudgeons. Ought not such talents to be
encouraged? Verily the abolitionists have much to answer for!

And now, having established the felicity of all those who gained
imaginary prizes, let us proceed to show that the equally numerous class
who were presented with real blanks have not less reason to consider
themselves happy. Most of us have cause to be thankful for that which is
bestowed; but we have all, probably, reason to be still more grateful
for that which is withheld, and more especially for our being denied the
sudden possession of riches. In the Litany, indeed, we Call upon the
Lord to deliver us "in all time of our wealth"; but how few of us are
sincere in deprecating such a calamity! Massinger's _Luke_, and Ben
Jonson's _Sir Epicure Mammon_, and Pope's _Sir Balaam_, and our own
daily observation, might convince us that the Devil "now tempts by
making rich, not making poor." We may read in the "Guardian" a
circumstantial account of a man who was utterly ruined by gaining a
capital prize; we may recollect what Dr. Johnson said to Garrick, when
the latter was making a display of his wealth at Hampton Court,--"Ah,
David! David! these are the things that make a death-bed terrible"; we
may recall the Scripture declaration as to the difficulty a rich man
finds in entering into the kingdom of heaven; and, combining all these
denunciations against opulence, let us heartily congratulate one another
upon our lucky escape from the calamity of a twenty or thirty thousand
pound prize! The fox in the fable, who accused the unattainable grapes
of sourness, was more of a philosopher than we are generally willing to
allow. He was an adept in that species of moral alchemy which turns
everything to gold, and converts disappointment itself into a ground of
resignation and content. Such we have shown to be the great lesson
inculcated by the Lottery, when rightly contemplated; and if we might
parody M. de Chateaubriand's jingling expression, "_Le Roi est mort:
vive le Roi_!" we should be tempted to exclaim, "The Lottery is no more:
long live the Lottery!"

* * * * *

The foregoing article, as the reader may possibly remember, was not
Lamb's only contribution to the "New Monthly Magazine." Indeed, it was
in that pleasant and popular periodical,--then at the height of its
popularity, with many of the most admired writers in Great Britain among
its contributors, and edited by the elegant and polished poet who sang
the "Pleasures of Hope,"--it was in this magazine that Elia's admirable
"Popular Fallacies" were first given to the world. (I fear, however,
that the exquisite grace, beauty, and polish of these delightful papers
were hardly appreciated by the readers of the "New Monthly.") And it was
for this publication that he undertook to write a novel. Although Elia
had but little fancy for novels himself, and in the writing of them
would not have done justice, perhaps, to his rare genius, yet,
nevertheless, I suspect that all admirers of "Rosamund Gray," if not all
readers of novels, regret that he did not complete the work of fiction
he began for the "New Monthly Magazine." Judging from the specimen that
was published, it would have been, had the author seen fit to finish it,
quite an original and very characteristic production. Here is the first
chapter of the story. Though advertised to be continued, this is all of
it that ever appeared.

* * * * *

REMINISCENCES OF JUKE JUDKINS, ESQ., OF BIRMINGHAM

I am the only son of a considerable brazier in Birmingham, who, dying in
1803, left me successor to the business, with no other incumbrance than
a sort of rent-charge, which I am enjoined to pay out of it, of
ninety-three pounds sterling _per annum_, to his widow, my mother, and
which the improving state of the concern, I bless God, has hitherto
enabled me to discharge with punctuality. (I say, I am enjoined to pay
the said sum, but not strictly obligated: that is to say, as the will is
worded, I believe the law would relieve me from the payment of it; but
the wishes of a dying parent should in some sort have the effect of
law.) So that, though the annual profits of my business, on an average
of the last three or four years, would appear to an indifferent
observer, who should inspect my shop-books, to amount to the sum of one
thousand three hundred and three pounds, odd shillings, the real
proceeds in that time have fallen short of that sum to the amount of the
aforesaid payment of ninety-three pounds sterling annually.

I was always my father's favorite. He took a delight, to the very last,
in recounting the little sagacious tricks and innocent artifices of my
childhood. One manifestation thereof I never heard him repeat without
tears of joy trickling down his cheeks. It seems, that, when I quitted
the parental roof, (August 27th, 1788,) being then six years and not
quite a month old, to proceed to the Free School at Warwick, where my
father was a sort of trustee, my mother--as mothers are usually
provident on these occasions--had stuffed the pockets of the coach,
which was to convey me and six more children of my own growth that were
going to be entered along with me at the same seminary, with a
prodigious quantity of gingerbread, which I remember my father said was
more than was needed: and so, indeed, it was; for, if I had been to eat
it all myself, it would have got stale and mouldly before it had been
half spent. The consideration whereof set me upon my contrivances how I
might secure to myself as much of the gingerbread as would keep good for
the next two or three days, and yet none of the rest in a manner be
wasted. I had a little pair of pocket-compasses, which I usually carried
about me for the purpose of making draughts and measurements, at which I
was always very ingenious, of the various engines and mechanical
inventions in which such a town as Birmingham abounded. By the means of
these, and a small penknife which my father had given me, I cut out the
one half of the cake, calculating that the remainder would reasonably
serve my turn; and subdividing it into many little slices, which were
curious to see for the neatness and niceness of their proportion, I sold
it out in so many pennyworths to my young companions as served us all
the way to Warwick, which is a distance of some twenty miles from this,
town: and very merry, I assure you, we made ourselves with it, feasting
all the way. By this honest stratagem, I put double the prime cost of
the gingerbread into my purse, and secured as much as I thought would
keep good and moist for my next two or three days' eating. When I told
this to my parents, on their first visit to me at Warwick, my father
(good man) patted me on the cheek, and stroked my head, and seemed as if
he could never make enough of me; but my mother unaccountably burst into
tears, and said "it was a very niggardly action," or some such
expression, and that "she would rather it would please God to take
me"--meaning, God help me, that I should die--"than that she should live
to see me grow up a _mean man_": which shows the difference of parent
from parent, and how some mothers are more harsh and intolerant to their
children than some fathers,--when we might expect quite the contrary. My
father, however, loaded me with presents from that time, which made me
the envy of my school-fellows. As I felt this growing disposition in
them, I naturally sought to avert it by all the means in my power; and
from that time I used to eat my little packages of fruit and other nice
things in a corner, so privately that I was never found out. Once, I
remember, I had a huge apple sent me, of that sort which they call
_cats'-heads_. I concealed this all day under my pillow; and at night,
but not before I had ascertained that my bed-fellow was sound
asleep,--which I did by pinching him rather smartly two or three times,
which he seemed to perceive no more than a dead person, though once or
twice he made a motion as if he would turn, which frightened me,--I say,
when I had made all sure, I fell to work upon my apple; and though it
was as big as an ordinary man's two fists, I made shift to get through
it before it was time to get up. And a more delicious feast I never
made,--thinking all night what a good parent I had (I mean my father) to
send me so many nice things, when the poor lad that lay by me had no
parent or friend in the world to send him anything nice; and thinking of
his desolate condition, I munched and munched as silently as I could,
that I might not set him a-longing, if he overheard me. And yet, for all
this considerateness and attention to other people's feelings; I was
never much a favorite with my school-fellows; which I have often
wondered at, seeing that I never defrauded any one of them of the value
of a halfpenny, or told stories of them to their master, as some little
lying boys would do, but was ready to do any of them all the services in
my power that were consistent with my own well-doing. I think nobody can
be expected to go further than that.--But I am detaining my reader too
long in the recording of my juvenile days. It is time that I should go
forward to a season when it became natural that I should have some
thoughts of marrying, and, as they say, settling in the world.
Nevertheless, my reflections on what I may call the boyish period of my
life may have their use to some readers. It is pleasant to trace the man
in the boy, to observe shoots of generosity in those young years, and to
watch the progress of liberal sentiments, and what I may call a genteel
way of thinking, which is discernible in some children at a very early
age, and usually lays the foundation of all that is praiseworthy in the
manly character afterwards.

With the warmest inclinations towards that way of life, and a serious
conviction of its superior advantages over a single one, it has been the
strange infelicity of my lot never to have entered into the respectable
estate of matrimony. Yet I was once very near it. I courted a young
woman in my twenty-seventh year,--for so early I began to feel symptoms
of the tender passion! She was well to do in the world, as they call
it, but yet not such a fortune as, all things considered, perhaps I
might have pretended to. It was not my own choice altogether; but my
mother very strongly pressed me to it. She was always putting it to me,
that I "had comings-in sufficient,--that I need not stand upon a
portion"; though the young woman, to do her justice, had considerable
expectations, which yet did not quite come up to my mark, as I told you
before. She had this saying always in her mouth: that I "had money
enough; that it was time I enlarged my housekeeping, and to show a
spirit befitting my circumstances." In short, what with her
importunities, and my own desires _in part_ cooeperating,--for, as I
said, I was not yet quite twenty-seven, a time when the youthful
feelings may be pardoned, if they show a little impetuosity,--I
resolved, I say, upon all these considerations, to set about the
business of courting in right earnest. I was a young man then, and
having a spice of romance in my character, (as the reader doubtless has
observed long ago,) such as that sex is apt to be taken with, I had
reason in no long time to think my addresses were anything but
disagreeable.

Certainly the happiest part of a young man's life is the time when he is
going a-courting. All the generous impulses are then awake, and he feels
a double existence in participating his hopes and wishes with another
being. Return yet again for a brief moment, ye visionary views,
transient enchantments! ye moonlight rambles with Cleora in the Silent
Walk at Vauxhall,--(N.B.--About a mile from Birmingham, and resembling
the gardens of that name near London, only that the price of admission
is lower,)--when the nightingale has suspended her notes in June to
listen to our loving discourses, while the moon was overhead! (for we
generally used to take our tea at Cleora's mother's before we set out,
not so much to save expenses as to avoid the publicity of a repast in
the gardens,--coming in much about the time of half-price, as they call
it)--ye soft intercommunions of soul, when, exchanging mutual vows, we
prattled of coming felicities! The loving disputes we have had under
those trees, when this house (planning our future settlement) was
rejected, because, though cheap, it was dull, and the other house was
given up, because, though agreeably situated, it was too
high-rented,--one was too much in the heart of the town, another was too
far from business. These minutiae will seem impertinent to the aged and
the prudent. I write them only to the young. Young lovers, and
passionate as being young, (such were Cleora and I then,) alone can
understand me. After some weeks wasted, as I may now call it, in this
sort of amorous colloquy, we at length fixed upon the house in the High
Street, No. 203, just vacated by the death of Mr. Hutton of this town,
for our future residence. I had till that time lived in lodgings (only
renting a shop for business) to be near to my mother,--near, I say: not
in the same house with her, for that would have been to introduce
confusion into our housekeeping, which it was desirable to keep
separate. Oh, the loving wrangles, the endearing differences I had with
Cleora, before we could quite make up our minds to the house that was to
receive us!--I pretending, for argument's sake, that the rent was too
high, and she insisting that the taxes were moderate in proportion, and
love at last reconciling us in the same choice. I think at that time,
moderately speaking, she might have had anything out of me for asking. I
do not, nor shall ever, regret that my character at that time was marked
with a tinge of prodigality. Age comes fast enough upon us, and, in its
good time, will prune away all that is inconvenient in these excesses.
Perhaps it is right that it should do so. Matters, as I said, were
ripening to a conclusion between us, only the house was yet not
absolutely taken. Some necessary arrangements, which the ardor of my
youthful impetuosity could hardly brook at that time (love and youth
will be precipitate)--some preliminary arrangements, I say, with the
landlord, respecting fixtures,--very necessary things to be considered
in a young man about to settle in the world, though not very accordant
with the impatient state of my then passions,--some obstacles about the
valuation of the fixtures,--had hitherto precluded (and I shall always
think providentially) my final closes with his offer, when one of those
accidents, which, unimportant in themselves, often arise to give a turn
to the most serious intentions of our life, intervened, and put an end
at once to my projects of wiving and of housekeeping.

I was never much given to theatrical entertainments,--that is, at no
time of my life was I ever what they call a regular play-goer; but on
some occasion of a benefit-night, which was expected to be very
productive, and indeed turned out so, Cleora expressing a desire to be
present, I could do no less than offer, as I did very willingly, to
squire her and her mother to the pit. At that time it was not customary
in our town for tradesfolk, except some of the very topping ones, to
sit, as they now do, in the boxes. At the time appointed I waited upon
the ladies, who had brought with them a young man, a distant relation,
whom it seems they had invited to be of the party. This a little
disconcerted me, as I had about me barely silver enough to pay for our
three selves at the door, and did not at first know that their relation
had proposed paying for himself. However, to do the young man justice,
he not only paid for himself, but for the old lady besides,--leaving me
only to pay for two, as it were. In our passage to the theatre, the
notice of Cleora was attracted to some orange-wenches that stood about
the doors vending their commodities. She was leaning on my arm; and I
could feel her every now and then giving me a nudge, as it is called,
which I afterwards discovered were hints that I should buy some oranges.
It seems, it is a custom at Birmingham, and perhaps in other places,
when a gentleman treats ladies to the play, especially when a full night
is expected, and that the house will be inconveniently warm, to provide
them with this kind of fruit, oranges being esteemed for their cooling
property. But how could I guess at that, never having treated ladies to
a play before, and being, as I said, quite a novice at these kind of
entertainments? At last she spoke plain out, and begged that I would buy
some of "those oranges," pointing to a particular barrow. But when I
came to examine the fruit, I did not think that the quality of it was
answerable to the price. In this way I handled several baskets of them;
but something in them all displeased me. Some had thin rinds, and some
were plainly over-ripe, which is as great a fault as not being ripe
enough; and I could not (what they call) make a bargain. While I stood
haggling with the women, secretly determining to put off my purchase
till I should get within the theatre, where I expected we should have
better choice, the young man, the cousin, (who, it seems, had left us
without my missing him,) came running to us with his pockets stuffed out
with oranges, inside and out, as they say. It seems, not liking the look
of the barrow-fruit any more than myself, he had slipped away to an
eminent fruiterer's, about three doors distant, which I never had the
sense to think of, and had laid out a matter of two shillings in some of
the best St. Michael's, I think, I ever tasted. What a little hinge, as
I said before, the most important affairs in life may turn upon! The
mere inadvertence to the fact that there was an eminent fruiterer's
within three doors of us, though we had just passed it without the
thought once occurring to me, which he had taken advantage of, lost me
the affections of my Cleora. From that time she visibly cooled towards
me, and her partiality was as visibly transferred to this cousin. I was
long unable to account for this change in her behavior; when one day,
accidentally discoursing of oranges to my mother, alone, she let drop a
sort of reproach to me, as if I had offended Cleora by my _nearness_, as
she called it, that evening. Even now, when Cleora has been wedded some
years to that same officious relation, as I may call him, I can hardly
be persuaded that such a trifle could have been the motive to her
inconstancy; for could she suppose that I would sacrifice my dearest
hopes in her to the paltry sum of two shillings, when I was going to
treat her to the play, and her mother too, (an expense of more than four
times that amount,) if the young man had not interfered to pay for the
latter, as I mentioned? But the caprices of the sex are past finding
out: and I begin to think my mother was in the right; for doubtless
women know women better than we can pretend to know them.

* * * * *

WORKS AND DAYS.

--"Ritorna a tua scienza!
Che vuol, quanto la cosa e piu perfetta,
Piu senta il bene, e cosi la doglienza."--DANTE.


Record, O Muse! and let the record stand,
That, when Bellona ravaged half the land,
When even these groves, from bloody fields afar,
Oft shook and shuddered at the sounds of war,
When the drum drowned the music of the flail,
And midnight marches broke the peace of Yale,
Then gathered here amid these vacant bowers
A band of scholars, men of various powers,
Various in motion, but with one desire,
Through wreck and war to watch the sacred fire,
The authentic fire that great forethoughted Mind
Stole from the gods for good of humankind.

Say, Terebinthia, from thy tree of pine,
Nymph of New England! Muse beyond the Nine!
Great Berkeley's goddess! giver oftentimes
Of strength to him, and now and then of rhymes,--
Whose tears were balsam to the Bishop's brain,
To cheer, but not infuriate his vein,--
Tell me, sad virgin, who came after terms
In these dry fields to stir the slumbering germs?

Their names were few,--but Agassiz was one,
And Peirce, the lord of numbers, and alone:
Arithmeticians many more will be,
But when another to outrival thee?
Then those Professors,--Philadelphian pair,
Winlock, the wise, and watchful as a hare,
Bright Benjamin that bears the golden name,
(Apthorp the quick,) Augustus of the same,
And that strict student, evermore exact,
One of the Wymans,--both such men of fact,--
If observation with extensive view
More such observers can observe, they're few.

Ye sacred shades where Silliman made gray
Those hairs that greet him eighty-five to-day!
Good names be these! good names to stand with his,--
Fit to record with Yale's old histories,
When sage Timotheus woke the Western lyre
That Hillhouse touched, and Percival with fire!

Declare now, Clio! 'mid this gifted band,
Who held the reins?--what scientific hand?
Did He preside? did Franklin's honored heir
With wonted influence possess the chair?
No: bowed with cares, a servant of the State,
In loftier fields he held his watch sedate:
Bache could not come,--for us a mighty void!
Yet well for him,--for he was best employed
High on his tented mountain's breezy slope,
Might but those maidens meet him--Health and Hope!

Yet wouldst thou know who stood superior there,
Where all seemed equal, this I may declare:--
Of all the wise that wandered from the East
Or West or South to sit in solemn feast,
Two men did mostly fascinate the Muse,
Differing in genius, but with equal views:
One measuring heaven, in starry lore supreme;
The other lighting, like the morning beam,
Old Ocean's bed, or his fresh Alpine snows,
Reading the laws whereby the glacier grows,
Or life, through some half-intimated plan,
Rose from a star-fish to the race of man:
Choose thine own monarch! either well might reign!
I knew but one before,--and now but twain.

Now shut the gates,--the fields have drunk enough
The time demands a Muse of sterner stuff;
No more one bard, exempt from vulgar throng,
May sing through Roman towns the Ascraean song,
Or court in Learning's elmy bowers relief
From individual shame or general grief:
Silence is music to a soul outworn
With the wild clangor of the warlike horn,
The paltry fife, the brain-benumbing drum.
When, white Astraea! will thy kingdom come,--
The chaster period that our boyhood saw,--
Arts above arms, and without conquest, Law,--
Rights well maintained without the strength of steel
And milder manners for the gentle weal,--
That Freedom's promise may not come to blight,
And Wisdom fail, and Knowledge end in night?

NEW HAVEN, _August 8_.

* * * * *

PAUL JONES AND DENIS DUVAL.


Ingham and his wife have a habit of coming in to spend the evening with
us, unless we go there, or unless we both go to Haliburton's, or unless
there is something better to do elsewhere.

We talk, or we play besique, or Mrs. Haliburton sings, or we sit on the
stoup and hear the crickets sing; but when there is a new Trollope or
Thackeray,--alas, there will never be another new Thackeray!--all else
has always been set aside till we have read that aloud.

When I began the last sentence of the last Thackeray that ever was
written, Ingham jumped out of his seat, and cried,--

"There, I said I remembered this _Duval_, and you made fun of me. Go
on,--and I will tell you all about him, when you have done."

So I read on to the sudden end:--

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.