The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 6, May, 1836

Although science and literature are articles generally in very bad odor, if not actually contraband in such assemblages, (bodies and not minds being the thing to be fed,) still both are now and then introduced, and rare work are made of them by the would be scholars. To the real scholar--the well educated gentleman, there cannot well be any more severe trial of his politeness and self-command, than is afforded by their ridiculous attempts to display their taste and erudition. But the farce, incomparably the best of the whole, will usually be enacted by the little party politicians, who almost always constitute a considerable portion of a dinner party in these times. With these the settling of their dinners is quite a secondary affair to the settling of our national affairs, a most important part of which duty they most patriotically take upon themselves. _Ex necessitate rei_, their vehement volubility, their ardent zeal, constantly blazes out with an intensity of heat in full proportion to the self-imputed share of each in our national concerns. With this volcanic fire burning in their bosoms, cotemporaneously with so large a portion of the government of fifteen millions of human beings pressing on their shoulders--gigantic though they be--it is truly amazing with what alacrity and perseverance they at the same time talk, eat, and decide on the most difficult problems in political science--the most complex and really doubtful measures of national policy and legislation--when their whole outfit for so arduous a work consists, in all human probability, of a few hours of weekly reading in some party newspaper, edited by some man equally conceited, ignorant, and opinionated with themselves.

All this while, although the entertainer and a portion of his guests may be well qualified to sustain conversation both highly improving and interesting, _fashion_ has vetoed the attempt--and they must either be silent, or join in the usual frivolous, desultory, and useless verbosity generally uttered on such occasions. Alas! that man, made after God's own image, and endowed with the noble gifts of speech, intellect, judgment, and taste, should so often and so deplorably abuse them.

When satiated with the dinner party, should you still wish to see more of the Would Be's, hasten to the Soirée or the Squeeze, and you will _there_ find fresh and most titillating food for your _moral_ palate, if you will pardon the figure. All that is most exquisitely ridiculous, either in attitude, gesture, or language, may, not unfrequently, be there witnessed in its most comic, most laugh-provoking form. There you may often witness nearly every possible disguise under which vulgarity apes gentility--every imaginable grimace and gesticulation that can be mistaken for graceful ease of manner--and every style of conversation or casual remark which "the Would Be's" may imagine best calculated to substitute their counterfeit currency for _that_ which is genuine and acceptable to all. In these motley assemblages {365} you may prepare to behold, among other sights, the now universally prevalent walk for fashionable ladies, in its highest style. This consists in a kind of indescribable twitching of the body, alternately to the right and left, which the gazing green-horns, not in the secret that _fashion commands it_, would surely mistake for the annoyance occasioned by certain pins in their dresses having worked out of place, and would accordingly commiserate rather than admire the supposed sufferers.

But to cap the climax of these abortive contests against nature, you must move about until you come to the _rocking-chairs_, those articles which, in bygone times, were used only by our decrepid old ladies, or the nurses of infant children; but which, in our more refined age, are now deemed indispensable appendages of every room for entertaining company. When you come to one of these former depositories for nearly superannuated women and nurses of infants, instead of similar occupants to those of the olden time, you will find them sometimes occupied by those of "the woman kind" who are making their first fishing parties after "_a tang-lang_,"[1] and who have been taught to believe that a well turned ankle and pretty foot are very pretty things, the sight of which it would be quite unreasonable and selfish that the possessor should monopolize. But generally, the operatives in these quasi-cradles for decrepitude and helpless infancy, will be found to be youths of the male sex scarcely of age, and surrounded often by ladies old enough to be their mothers, and wanting seats--but wanting them in vain. These exquisite young gentlemen will always be found, when thus self-motive, so entirely absorbed, as to have forgotten completely not only the established rule, even in our rudest society, of offering our seat to any standing lady, but almost their own personal identity, which is frequently any thing but prepossessing. Rocking away at rail road speed, self-satisfied beyond the power of language to describe, with head thrown back, and protruded chin, "bearded like the pard," as much as to say, "Ladies, did you ever behold so kissable a face?--pray come try it"--they rock on to the infinite amusement, pity, or contempt of all beholders.

[Footnote 1: "Tang-lang." For this term and the little story in which it is introduced, I am indebted to that admirable writer Oliver Goldsmith; but before I give the tale itself, I must beseech your readers not for a moment to suspect me of any such treasonable design against the fair sex, as to represent all young ladies, upon their first entrance into company, as fishing for tang-langs. My purpose is merely to supply them with a few very useful moral hints, in the highly entertaining language of an author, who being "old fashioned," may probably be little known to many of them. But now for the story.

"In a winding of the river Amidar, just before it falls into the Caspian sea, there lies an island unfrequented by the inhabitants of the continent. In this seclusion, blest with all that wild, uncultivated nature could bestow, lived a princess and her two daughters. She had been wrecked upon the coast while her children as yet were infants, who, of consequence, though grown up, were entirely unacquainted with man. Yet, inexperienced as the young ladies were in the opposite sex, both early discovered symptoms, the one of prudery, the other of being a coquet. The eldest was ever learning maxims of wisdom and discretion from her mamma, whilst the youngest employed all her hours in gazing at her own face in a neighboring fountain.

"Their usual amusement in this solitude was fishing. Their mother had taught them all the secrets of the art: she showed them which were the most likely places to throw out the line, what baits were most proper for the various seasons, and the best manner to draw up the finny prey, when they had hooked it. In this manner they spent their time, easy and innocent, till one day the princess being indisposed, desired them to go and catch her a sturgeon or a shark for supper, which she fancied might sit easy on her stomach. The daughters obeyed, and clapping on a goldfish, the usual bait on these occasions, went and sat upon one of the rocks, letting the gilded hooks glide down the stream.

"On the opposite shore, farther down at the mouth of the river lived a diver for pearls, a youth who, by long habit in his trade, was almost grown amphibious; so that he could remain whole hours at the bottom of the water, without ever fetching breath. He happened to be at that very instant diving, when the ladies were fishing with a gilded hook. Seeing therefore the bait, which to him had the appearance of real gold, he was resolved to seize the prize; but both hands being already filled with pearl-oysters, he found himself obliged to snap at it with his mouth; the consequence is easily imagined; the hook, before unperceived, was instantly fastened in his jaw; nor could he, with all his efforts or his floundering, get free.

"Sister, cries the youngest princess, I have certainly caught a monstrous fish; I never perceived anything struggle so at the end of my line before; come and help me to draw it in. They both now, therefore, assisted in fishing up the diver on shore; but nothing could equal their surprize upon seeing him. Bless my eyes! cries the prude, what have we got here? This is a very odd fish to be sure; I never saw any thing in my life look so queer; what eyes--what terrible claws--what a monstrous snout! I have read of this monster somewhere before, it certainly must be a tang-lang that eats women; let us throw it back into the sea where we found it.

"The diver in the mean time stood upon the beach, at the end of the line, with the hook in his mouth, using every art that he thought could best excite pity, and particularly looking extremely tender, which is usual in such circumstances. The coquet, therefore, in some measure influenced by the innocence of his looks, ventured to contradict her companion. Upon my word, sister, says she, I see nothing in the animal so very terrible as you are pleased to apprehend; I think it may serve well enough for a change. Always sharks, and sturgeons, and lobsters, and craw-fish, make me quite sick. I fancy a slice of this nicely grilled, and dressed up with shrimp sauce would be very pretty eating. I fancy too mamma would like a bit with pickles above all things in the world; and if it should not sit easy on her stomach, it will be time enough to discontinue it, when found disagreeable, you know. Horrid! cries the prude, would the girl be poisoned? I tell you it is a tang-lang; I have read of it in twenty places. It is every where described as the most pernicious animal that ever infested the ocean. I am certain it is the most insidious, ravenous creature in the world; and is certain destruction, if taken internally. The youngest sister was now, therefore, obliged to submit: both assisted in drawing the hook with some violence from the diver's jaw; and he, finding himself at liberty, bent his breast against the broad wave, and disappeared in an instant.

"Just at this juncture, the mother came down to the beach, to know the cause of her daughters' delay: they told her every circumstance, describing the monster they had caught. The old lady was one of the most discreet women in the world; she was called the black-eyed princess, from two black eyes she had received in her youth, being a little addicted to boxing in her liquor. Alas! my children, cries she, what have you done? The fish you caught was a man-fish, one of the most tame domestic animals in the world. We could have let him run and play about the garden, and he would have been twenty times more entertaining than our squirrel or monkey. If that be all, says the young coquet, we will fish for him again. If that be all, I'll hold three tooth-picks to one pound of snuff, I catch him whenever I please. Accordingly they threw in their lines once more, but with all their gliding, and paddling, and assiduity, they could never after catch the diver. In this state of solitude and disappointment they continued for many years, still fishing, but without success; till, at last, the Genius of the place, in pity to their distress, changed the prude into a shrimp, and the coquet into an oyster."]

But in tender mercy to your own patience and that of your readers, both of which I have so severely taxed, I will conclude for the present, and remain your friend,

OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.

{366}

ON THE DEATH OF CAMILLA.

BY L. A. WILMER.

'Tis past; the dear delusive dream hath fled, And with it all that made existence dear; Not she alone, but all my joys are dead, For all my joys could live alone with her. O, if the grave e'er claim'd affection's tear, Then, loved Camilla, on thy clay-cold bed Clothed with the verdure of the new-born year, Where each wild flower its fragrance loves to shed-- There will I kneel and weep, and wish myself were dead.

'Tis not for _her_ I weep--no, she is bless'd; A favor'd soul enfranchis'd from this sphere: A selfish sorrow riots in my breast; I mourn for woes that she can never share. She sighs no more--no more lets fall the tear, She who once sympathiz'd with every grief That tore this bosom, solac'd every care; She whose sweet presence made all sorrows brief, Ah, now no more to me can she afford relief.

Around this world--(a wilderness to me, Not Petrea's deserts more forlorn or dread) I cast my eyes, and wish in vain to see Those rays of hope the skies in mercy shed-- Each dear memorial of Camilla dead-- Her image, by the pencil's aid retain'd, The sainted lock that once adorn'd her head, These sad mementos of my grief, remain'd To tell me I have lost what ne'er can be regain'd.

On these I gaze, on these my soul I bend, Breathe all my prayers, and offer every sigh; With these my joys, my hopes, my wishes blend,-- For these I live--for these I fain would die; These subject for my every thought supply-- Her picture smiles, unconscious of my woe, Benevolence beams from that azure eye, From mine the tears of bitter anguish flow, And yet she smiles serene, nor seems my grief to know!

* * * * *

Still let imagination view the saint, The seraph now--Camilla I behold!-- Such as the pen or pencil may not paint, In hues which shall not seem austerely cold. To fancy's eye her beauties still unfold. What fancy pictures in her wildest mood, What thought alone, and earth no more can mould She was; with all to charm mankind endued, Eve in her perfect state, in her once more renew'd!

Chang'd is the scene! The coffin and the tomb Enfold that form where every grace combin'd! Death draws his veil--envelopes in his gloom The boast of earth--the wonder of mankind! She died--without reluctance, and resigned; Without reluctance, but one tear let fall In pity for the wretch she left behind, To curse existence on this earthly ball-- One thought she gave to him, and then the heavens had all.

Who that hath seen her but hath felt her worth? Who praise withholds, and hopes to be forgiven? Her presence banish'd every thought of earth, Subdued each wish unfit to dwell in heaven. From all of earth her hopes and thoughts were riven, She lived regardful of the skies alone; A saint, but not by superstition driven, Not by the vow monastic, to atone For sins that ne'er were hers,--for sins to her unknown!

Hers was religion from all dross refin'd, A soul communing with its parent--God; Grateful for benefits and aye resigned To every dispensation of His rod. Pure and immaculate, life's path she trod-- Envy grew pale and calumny was dumb! Till drooping, dying--this floriferous sod, And this plain marble, point her lowly tomb; Even here she still inspires a reverential gloom!

O lost to earth, yet ever bless'd,--farewell! This poor oblation to thy grave I bring; O spotless maid, that now in heav'n dost dwell Where choral saints and radiant angels sing The eternal praises of the Almighty king; While this sad cypress and funereal yew Unite their boughs, their gloom around me fling, Congenial glooms, that all my own renew; I still invoke thy shade, still pause to bid adieu!

SONNET.

Science! meet daughter of old Time thou art, Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes! Why prey'st thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture! whose wings are dull realities! How should he love thee, or how deem thee wise, Who would'st not leave him in his wandering, To seek for treasure in the jewell'd skies, Albeit he soar with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragg'd Diana from her car, And driv'n the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? The gentle Naiad from her fountain flood? The elfin from the green grass? and from me The summer dream beneath the shrubbery?

E. A. P.

THE LAKE.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale. _Percival_.

The way we travelled along the southern shore of Lake Michigan was somewhat singular. There being no road, we drove right on the strand, one wheel running in the water. Thus we travelled thirty miles, at the rate of two miles an hour. In the lake we saw a great many gulls rocking on the waves and occasionally flying up into the air, sailing in circles, and fanning their white plumage in the sunshine.

While thus slowly winding along the sandy margin of the lake we met a number of Pottowatimies on horseback in Indian file, men with rifles, women with papooses, and farther on we passed an Indian village--wigwams of mats comically shaped. This village stood {367} right on the shore of the lake; some Indian boys half-naked were playing in the sand, and an Indian girl of about fourteen was standing with arms folded looking towards the lake. There was, or I imagined there was, something in that scene, that attitude, that countenance of the Indian girl, touching and picturesque in the highest degree--a study for the painter.

Alas--these Indians! the dip of their paddle is unheard, the embers of the council-fire have gone out, and the bark of the Indian dog has ceased to echo in the forest. Their wigwams are burnt, the cry of the hunter has died away, the title to their lands is extinguished, the tribes, scattered like sheep, fade from the map of existence. The unhappy remnant are driven onward--onward to the ocean of the West. Such are the reflections that came into my mind, on seeing the beautiful Pottowatimie of Lake Michigan.

C. C.

THE HALL OF INCHOLESE.

BY J. N. McJILTON.

Host and guests still lingered there, But host and guests were dead. _Old Ballad_.

Venice is the very _outrance_--_gloria mundi_ of a place for fashion, fun and frolic. Does any one dispute it? Let him ask the San Marco, the Campanile, the iron bound building that borders one end of the Bridge of Sighs, or the Ducal Palace, that hangs like a wonder on the other. Let him ask the Arena de Mari, the Fontego de Tedeschi, or if he please, the moon-struck _Visionaire_, who gazed his sight away from Ponte de Sospiri, on the Otontala's sparkling fires, and if from each there be not proof, _plus quam sufficit_--why Vesuvius never illuminated Naples--that's all.

Well! Venice is a glorious place for fashion, fun and frolic; so have witnessed thousands--so witnessed Incholese.

Incholese was a foreigner--no matter whence, and many a jealous Venetian hated him to his heart's overflowing; the inimitable Pierre Bon-bon himself had not more sworn enemies, and no man that ever lived boasted more pretended friends, than did this celebrated operator on whiskey-punch and puddings.

His house fronted the Rialto, and overlooked the most superb and fashionably frequented streets in Venice. His hall, the famed "Hall of Incholese," resort of the exquisite, and gambler's heaven, was on the second floor, circular in shape, forty-five feet in diameter. Windows front and rear, framed with mirror-plates in place of plain glass, completed the range on either side, all decorated with damask hangings, rich and red, bordered with blue and yellow tasselated fringe, with gilt and bronze supporters. It seemed more like a Senate hall, or Ducal palace parlor, than a room in the private dwelling of a gentleman of leisure--of "elegant leisure," as it was termed by the _politesse_ of the _Republique_. A rich carpet covered the floor, with a figure in its centre of exactly the dimensions of the rotondo table, which had so repeatedly suffered under the weight of wine; to say nothing of the gold and silver lost and won upon its slab, sufficient to have made insolvent the wealthiest Crœsus in the land--in _any_ land. Over this table was suspended a chandelier the proud Autocrat of all the Russias might have coveted; and forming a square from the centre, were four others, less in size, but equal in brilliancy and value. Mirrors in metal frames, and paintings of exquisite and costly execution, filled up the interstices between the windows. Chairs--splendid chairs, sofas, ottomans, and extra wine tables, made up the furniture of the Hall of Incholese. This Hall however was not the sole magnificence of the huge pile it beautified. Other and splendid apartments, saloons, galleries, etc., filled up the wings, and contributed to the grandeur of the building. Yet, strange to say, the proprietor, owner and occupier of this vast establishment, had no wife, to share with him its elegances--to mingle her sweet voice in the strains of purchased melody and revel, that made the lofty edifice often ring to its foundation. He had no wife. And why? Let the sequel of his history rehearse.