 | Mosses from an old manse |  |
A SELECT PARTY.
A Man of Fancy made an entertainment at one of his castles in
the air, and invited a select number of distinguished personages
to favor him with their presence. The mansion, though less
splendid than many that have been situated in the same region,
was, nevertheless, of a magnificence such as is seldom witnessed
by those acquainted only with terrestrial architecture. Its strong
foundations and massive walls were quarried out of a ledge of
heavy and sombre clouds, which had hung brooding over the
earth, apparently as dense and ponderous as its own granite,
throughout a whole autumnal day. Perceiving that the general
effect was gloomy—so that the airy castle looked like a feudal
fortress, or a monastery of the middle ages, or a state-prison of
our own times, rather than the home of pleasure and repose which
he intended it to be—the owner, regardless of expense, resolved
to gild the exterior from top to bottom. Fortunately, there was
just then a flood of evening sunshine in the air. This being
gathered up and poured abundantly upon the roof and walls, imbued
them with a kind of solemn cheerfulness; while the cupolas
and pinnacles were made to glitter with the purest gold, and all
the hundred windows gleamed with a glad light, as if the edifice
itself were rejoicing in its heart. And now, if the people of the
lower world chanced to be looking upward, out of the turmoil of
their petty perplexities, they probably mistook the castle in the
air for a heap of sunset clouds, to which the magic of light and
shade had imparted the aspect of a fanatically constructed mansion.
imaginative faith. Had they been worthy to pass within its portal,
they would have recognized the truth, that the dominions
which the spirit conquers for itself among unrealities, become a
thousand times more real than the earth whereon they stamp their
feet, saying, “This is solid and substantial!—this may be called
a fact!”
At the appointed hour, the host stood in his great saloon to
receive the company. It was a vast and noble room, the vaulted
ceiling of which was supported by double rows of gigantic pillars,
that had been hewn entire out of masses of variegated
clouds. So brilliantly were they polished, and so exquisitely
wrought by the sculptor's skill, as to resemble the finest specimens
of emerald, porphyry, opal, and chrysolite, thus producing
a delicate richness of effect, which their immense size rendered
not incompatible with grandeur. To each of these pillars a
meteor was suspended. Thousands of these ethereal lustres are
continually wandering about the firmament, burning out to waste,
yet capable of imparting a useful radiance to any person who has
the art of converting them to domestic purposes. As managed in
the saloon, they are far more economical than ordinary lamp-light.
Such, however, was the intensity of their blaze, that it had been
found expedient to cover each meteor with a globe of evening mist,
thereby muffling the too potent glow, and soothing it into a mild
and comfortable splendor. It was like the brilliancy of a powerful,
yet chastened, imagination; a light which seemed to hide
whatever was unworthy to be noticed, and give effect to every
beautiful and noble attribute. The guests, therefore, as they
advanced up the centre of the saloon, appeared to better advantage
than ever before in their lives.
The first that entered, with old-fashioned punctuality, was a
venerable figure in the costume of by-gone days, with his white
hair flowing down over his shoulders, and a reverend beard upon
as he set it carefully upon the floor, re-echoed through the saloon
at every footstep. Recognizing at once this celebrated personage,
whom it had cost him a vast deal of trouble and research to discover,
the host advanced nearly three-fourths of the distance,
down between the pillars, to meet and welcome him.
“Venerable sir,” said the Man of Fancy, bending to the floor,
“the honor of this visit would never be forgotten, were my term
of existence to be as happily prolonged as your own.”
The old gentleman received the compliment with gracious condescension;
he then thrust up his spectacles over his forehead,
and appeared to take a critical survey of the saloon.
“Never, within my recollection,” observed he, “have I entered
a more spacious and noble hall. But are you sure that it
is built of solid materials, and that the structure will be permanent?”
“Oh, never fear, my venerable friend,” replied the host. “In
reference to a lifetime like your own, it is true, my castle may
well be called a temporary edifice. But it will endure long
enough to answer all the purposes for which it was erected.”
But we forget that the reader has not yet been made acquainted
with the guest. It was no other than that universally accredited
character, so constantly referred to in all seasons of intense cold
or heat—he that remembers the hot Sunday and the cold Friday
—the witness of a past age, whose negative reminiscences find
their way into every newspaper, yet whose antiquated and dusky
abode is so overshadowed by accumulated years, and crowded
back by modern edifices, that none but the Man of Fancy could
have discovered it—it was, in short, that twin-brother of Time,
and great-grandsire of mankind, and hand-and-glove associate
of all forgotten men and things, the Oldest Inhabitant! The host
would willingly have drawn him into conversation, but succeeded
only in eliciting a few remarks as to the oppressive atmosphere
guest had experienced about fourscore years ago. The old
gentleman, in fact, was a good deal overcome by his journey
among the clouds, which, to a frame so earth-encrusted by long
continuance in a lower region, was unavoidably more fatiguing
than to younger spirits. He was therefore conducted to an easy-chair,
well-cushioned, and stuffed with vaporous softness, and left
to take a little repose.
The Man of Fancy now discerned another guest, who stood
so quietly in the shadow of one of the pillars, that he might easily
have been overlooked.
“My dear sir,” exclaimed the host, grasping him warmly by
the hand, “allow me to greet you as the hero of the evening.
Pray do not take it as an empty compliment; for if there were
not another guest in my castle, it would be entirely pervaded with
your presence!”
“I thank you,” answered the unpretending stranger, “but,
though you happened to overlook me, I have not just arrived. I
came very early, and, with your permission, shall remain after
the rest of the company have retired.”
And who does the reader imagine was this unobtrusive guest?
It was the famous performer of acknowledged impossibilities; a
character of superhuman capacity and virtue, and, if his enemies
are to be credited, of no less remarkable weaknesses and defects.
With a generosity of which he alone sets us the example, we will
glance merely at his nobler attributes. He it is, then, who prefers
the interests of others to his own, and an humble station to
an exalted one. Careless of fashion, custom, the opinions of men,
and the influence of the press, he assimilates his life to the standard
of ideal rectitude, and thus proves himself the one independent
citizen of our free country. In point of ability, many people
declare him to be the only mathematician capable of squaring the
circle; the only mechanic acquainted with the principle of perpetual
water to run up hill; the only writer of the age whose genius is
equal to the production of an epic poem; and, finally—so various
are his accomplishments—the only professor of gymnastics who
has succeeded in jumping down his own throat. With all these
talents, however, he is so far from being considered a member of
good society, that it is the severest censure of any fashionable
assemblage, to affirm that this remarkable individual was present.
Public orators, lecturers, and theatrical performers, particularly
eschew his company. For especial reasons, we are not at liberty
to disclose his name, and shall mention only one other trait—a
most singular phenomenon in natural philosophy—that when he
happens to cast his eyes upon a looking-glass he beholds Nobody
reflected there!
Several other guests now made their appearance, and among
them, chattering with immense volubility, a brisk little gentleman
of universal vogue in private society, and not unknown in the
public journals, under the title of Monsieur On-Dit. The name
would seem to indicate a Frenchman; but whatever be his
country, he is thoroughly versed in all the languages of the day,
and can express himself quite as much to the purpose in English
as in any other tongue. No sooner were the ceremonies of salutation
over, than this talkative little person put his mouth to the
host's ear, and whispered three secrets of state, an important piece
of commercial intelligence, and a rich item of fashionable scandal.
He then assured the Man of Fancy that he would not fail to circulate
in the society of the lower world a minute description of
this magnificent castle in the air, and of the festivities at which
he had the honor to be a guest. So saying, Monsieur On-Dit
made his bow and hurried from one to another of the company,
with all of whom he seemed to be acquainted, and to possess some
topic of interest or amusement for every individual. Coming at
the easy chair, he applied his mouth to that venerable ear.
“What do you say?” cried the old gentleman, starting from
his nap, and putting up his hand to serve the purpose of an ear-trumpet.
Monsieur On-Dit bent forward again, and repeated his communication.
“Never, within my memory,” exclaimed the Oldest Inhabitant,
lifting his hands in astonishment, “has so remarkable an
incident been heard of!”
Now came in the Clerk of the Weather, who had been invited
out of deference to his official station, although the host was well
aware that his conversation was likely to contribute but little to
the general enjoyment. He soon, indeed, got into a corner with
his acquaintance of long ago, the Oldest Inhabitant, and began to
compare notes with him in reference to the great storms, gales
of wind, and other atmospherical facts that had occurred during
a century past. It rejoiced the Man of Fancy, that his venerable
and much respected guest had met with so congenial an associate.
Entreating them both to make themselves perfectly at home, he
now turned to receive the Wandering Jew. This personage,
however, had latterly grown so common, by mingling in all sorts
of society, and appearing at the beck of every entertainer, that
he could hardly be deemed a proper guest in a very exclusive
circle. Besides, being covered with dust from his continual wanderings
along the highways of the world, he really looked out of
place in a dress party, so that the host felt relieved of an incommodity,
when the restless individual in question, after a brief
stay, took his departure on a ramble towards Oregon.
The portal was now thronged by a crowd of shadowy people,
with whom the Man of Fancy had been acquainted in his visionary
youth. He had invited them hither for the sake of observing
how they would compare, whether advantageously or otherwise,
him. They were beings of crude imagination, such as glide before
a young man's eye, and pretend to be actual inhabitants of
the earth; the wise and witty, with whom he would hereafter
hold intercourse; the generous and heroic friends, whose devotion
would be requited with his own; the beautiful dream-woman,
who would become the help-mate of his human toils and sorrows,
and at once the source and partaker of his happiness. Alas! it
is not good for the full grown man to look too closely at these old
acquaintances, but rather to reverence them at a distance, through
the medium of years that have gathered duskily between. There
was something laughably untrue in their pompous stride and exaggerated
sentiment; they were neither human, nor tolerable
likenesses of humanity, but fantastic masquers, rendering heroism
and nature alike ridiculous by the grave absurdity of their pretensions
to such attributes. And as for the peerless dream-lady,
behold! there advanced up the saloon, with a movement like a
jointed-doll, a sort of wax figure of an angel—a creature as cold
as moonshine—an artifice in petticoats, with an intellect of pretty
phrases, and only the semblance of a heart—yet, in all these particulars,
the true type of a young man's imaginary mistress.
Hardly could the host's punctilious courtesy restrain a smile, as
he paid his respects to this unreality, and met the sentimental
glance with which the Dream sought to remind him of their former
love-passages.
“No, no, fair lady,” murmured he, betwixt sighing and
smiling; “my taste is changed! I have learned to love what
Nature makes, better than my own creations in the guise of womanhood.”
“Ah, false one!” shrieked the dream-lady, pretending to faint,
but dissolving into thin air, out of which came the deplorable
murmur of her voice—“your inconstancy has annihilated me!”
“So be it,” said the cruel Man of Fancy to himself—“and a
good riddance, too!”
Together with these shadows, and from the same region, there
had come an uninvited multitude of shapes, which, at any time
during his life, had tormented the Man of Fancy in his moods of
morbid melancholy, or had haunted him in the delirium of fever.
The walls of his castle in the air were not dense enough to keep
them out; nor would the strongest of earthly architecture have
availed to their exclusion. Here were those forms of dim terror,
which had beset him at the entrance of life, waging warfare with
his hopes. Here were strange uglinesses of earlier date, such as
haunt children in the night time. He was particularly startled
by the vision of a deformed old black woman, whom he imagined
as lurking in the garret of his native home, and who, when he
was an infant, had once come to his bedside and grinned at him,
in the crisis of a scarlet fever. This same black shadow, with
others almost as hideous, now glided among the pillars of the
magnificent saloon, grinning recognition, until the man shuddered
anew at the forgotten terrors of his childhood. It amused him,
however, to observe the black woman, with the mischievous
caprice peculiar to such beings, steal up to the chair of the Oldest
Inhabitant, and peep into his half-dreamy mind.
“Never within my memory,” muttered that venerable personage,
aghast, “did I see such a face!”
Almost immediately after the unrealities just described, arrived
a number of guests, whom incredulous readers may be inclined to
rank equally among creatures of imagination. The most noteworthy
were an incorruptible Patriot; a Scholar without pedantry;
a Priest without worldly ambition, and a Beautiful Woman without
pride or coquetry; a Married Pair, whose life had never been
disturbed by incongruity of feeling; a Reformer, untrammelled
by his theory; and a Poet, who felt no jealousy towards other
votaries of the lyre. In truth, however, the host was not one of
fatal flaw, such rarities in the world; and he had invited them to
his select party chiefly out of humble deference to the judgment
of society, which pronounces them almost impossible to be met
with.
“In my younger days,” observed the Oldest Inhabitant, “such
characters might be seen at the corner of every street.”
Be that as it might, these specimens of perfection proved to be
not half so entertaining companions as people with the ordinary
allowance of faults.
But now appeared a stranger, whom the host had no sooner recognized,
than, with an abundance of courtesy unlavished on any
other, he hastened down the whole length of the saloon, in order
to pay him emphatic honor. Yet he was a young man in poor
attire, with no insignia of rank or acknowledged eminence, nor
anything to distinguish him among the crowd except a high, white
forehead, beneath which a pair of deep-set eyes were glowing
with warm light. It was such a light as never illuminates the
earth, save when a great heart burns as the household fire of a
grand intellect. And who was he? Who, but the Master Genius,
for whom our country is looking anxiously into the mist of
time, as destined to fulfil the great mission of creating an American
literature, hewing it, as it were, out of the unwrought granite
of our intellectual quarries. From him, whether moulded in the
form of an epic poem, or assuming a guise altogether new, as the
spirit itself may determine, we are to receive our first great original
work, which shall do all that remains to be achieved for our
glory among the nations. How this child of a mighty destiny
had been discovered by the Man of Fancy, it is of little consequence
to mention. Suffice it, that he dwells as yet unhonored
among men, unrecognized by those who have known him from
his cradle;—the noble countenance, which should be distinguished
by a halo diffused around it, passes daily amid the throng of people,
—and none pay reverence to the worker of immortality. Nor
does it matter much to him, in his triumph over all the ages,
though a generation or two of his own times shall do themselves
the wrong to disregard him.
By this time, Monsieur On-Dit had caught up the stranger's
name and destiny, and was busily whispering the intelligence
among the other guests.
“Pshaw!” said one, “there can never be an American Genius.”
“Pish!” cried another, “we have already as good poets as any
in the world. For my part, I desire to see no better.”
And the Oldest Inhabitant, when it was proposed to introduce
him to the Master Genius, begged to be excused, observing, that a
man who had been honored with the acquaintance of Dwight,
Freneau, and Joel Barlow, might be allowed a little austerity of
taste.
The saloon was now fast filling up, by the arrival of other
remarkable characters; among whom were noticed Davy Jones,
the distinguished nautical personage, and a rude, carelessly
dressed, harum-scarum sort of elderly fellow, known by the
nickname of Old Harry. The latter, however, after being shown
to a dressing-room, re-appeared with his grey hair nicely combed,
his clothes brushed, a clean dicky on his neck, and altogether so
changed in aspect as to merit the more respectful appellation of
Venerable Henry. John Doe and Richard Roe came arm-in-arm,
accompanied by a Man of Straw, a fictitious endorser, and several
persons who had no existence except as voters in closely contested
elections. The celebrated Seatsfield, who now entered, was at
first supposed to belong to the same brotherhood, until he made it
apparent that he was a real man of flesh and blood, and had his
earthly domicile in Germany. Among the latest comers, as
future.
“Do you know him?—do you know him?” whispered Monsieur
On-Dit, who seemed to be acquainted with everybody.
“He is the representative of Posterity—the man of an age to
come!”
“And how came he here?” asked a figure who was evidently
the prototype of the fashion-plate in a magazine, and might be
taken to represent the vanities of the passing moment. “The
fellow infringes upon our rights by coming before his time.”
“But you forget where we are,” answered the Man of Fancy,
who overheard the remark; “the lower earth, it is true, will be
forbidden ground to him for many long years hence; but a castle
in the air is a sort of no-man's land, where Posterity may make
acquaintance with us on equal terms.”
No sooner was his identity known, than a throng of guests
gathered about Posterity, all expressing the most generous interest
in his welfare, and many boasting of the sacrifices which they
had made, or were willing to make, in his behalf. Some, with as
much secresy as possible, desired his judgment upon certain
copies of verses, or great manuscript rolls of prose; others accosted
him with the familiarity of old friends, taking it for granted
that he was perfectly cognizant of their names and characters.
At length, finding himself thus beset, Posterity was put quite beside
his patience.
“Gentlemen, my good friends,” cried he, breaking loose from
a misty poet, who strove to hold him by the button, “I pray you
to attend to your own business, and leave me to take care of
mine! I expect to owe you nothing, unless it be certain national
debts, and other incumbrances and impediments, physical and
moral, which I shall find it troublesome enough to remove from
my path. As to your verses, pray read them to your contemporaries.
Your names are as strange to me as your faces; and even
memory which one generation may retain of another, is but a poor
recompense to barter life for. Yet, if your heart is set on being
known to me, the surest, the only method, is, to live truly and
wisely for your own age, whereby, if the native force be in you,
you may likewise live for posterity!”
“It is nonsense,” murmured the Oldest Inhabitant, who, as a
man of the past, felt jealous that all notice should be withdrawn
from himself, to be lavished on the future,—“sheer nonsense, to
waste so much thought on what only is to be!”
To divert the minds of his guests, who were considerably
abashed by this little incident, the Man of Fancy led them through
several apartments of the castle, receiving their compliments upon
the taste and varied magnificence that were displayed in each.
One of these rooms was filled with moonlight, which did not enter
through the window, but was the aggregate of all the moonshine
that is scattered around the earth on a summer-night, while no
eyes are awake to enjoy its beauty. Airy spirits had gathered it
up, wherever they found it gleaming on the broad bosom of a
lake, or silvering the meanders of a stream, or glimmering among
the wind-stirred boughs of a wood, and had garnered it in one
spacious hall. Along the walls, illuminated by the mild intensity
of the moonshine, stood a multitude of ideal statues, the
original conceptions of the great works of ancient or modern art,
which the sculptors did but imperfectly succeed in putting into
marble. For it is not to be supposed that the pure idea of an
immortal creation ceases to exist; it is only necessary to know
where they are deposited, in order to obtain possession of them.
In the alcoves of another vast apartment was arranged a splendid
library, the volumes of which were inestimable, because they
consisted not of actual performances, but of the works which the
authors only planned, without ever finding the happy season to
achieve them. To take familiar instances, here were the untold
the Fairy Queen; the conclusion of Coleridge's Christabel; and
the whole of Dryden's projected Epic on the subject of King
Arthur. The shelves were crowded; for it would not be too
much to affirm that every author has imagined, and shaped out in
his thought, more and far better works than those which actually
proceeded from his pen. And here, likewise, were the unrealized
conceptions of youthful poets, who died of the very strength of
their own genius, before the world had caught one inspired murmur
from their lips.
When the peculiarities of the library and statue-gallery were
explained to the Oldest Inhabitant, he appeared infinitely perplexed,
and exclaimed, with more energy than usual, that he had
never heard of such a thing within his memory, and, moreover,
did not at all understand how it could be.
“But my brain, I think,” said the good old gentleman, “is getting
not so clear as it used to be. You young folks, I suppose,
can see your way through these strange matters. For my part I
give it up.”
“And so do I,” muttered the Old Harry. “It is enough to
puzzle the—ahem!”
Making as little reply as possible to these observations, the
Man of Fancy preceded the company to another noble saloon, the
pillars of which were solid golden sunbeams, taken out of the sky
in the first hour in the morning. Thus, as they retained all their
living lustre, the room was filled with the most cheerful radiance
imaginable, yet not too dazzling to be borne with comfort and
delight. The windows were beautifully adorned with curtains,
made of the many-colored clouds of sunrise, all imbued with
virgin light, and hanging in magnificent festoons from the ceiling
to the floor. Moreover, there were fragments of rainbows scattered
through the room; so that the guests, astonished at one
another, reciprocally saw their heads made glorious by the seven
grasp a rainbow in the air, and convert it to their own apparel and
adornment. But the morning light and scattered rainbows were
only a type and symbol of the real wonders of the apartment.
By an influence akin to magic, yet perfectly natural, whatever
means and opportunities of joy are neglected in the lower world,
had been carefully gathered up, and deposited in the saloon of
morning sunshine. As may well be conceived, therefore, there
was material enough to supply not merely a joyous evening, but
also a happy life-time, to more than as many people as that spacious
apartment could contain. The company seemed to renew
their youth; while that pattern and proverbial standard of innocence,
the Child Unborn, frolicked to and fro among them, communicating
his own unwrinkled gaiety to all who had the good
fortune to witness his gambols.
“My honored friends,” said the Man of Fancy, after they had
enjoyed themselves awhile, “I am now to request your presence
in the banqueting-hall, where a slight collation is awaiting you.”
“Ah, well said!” ejaculated a cadaverous figure, who had
been invited for no other reason than that he was pretty constantly
in the habit of dining with Duke Humphrey. “I was beginning
to wonder whether a castle in the air were provided with a
kitchen.”
It was curious, in truth, to see how instantaneously the guests
were diverted from the high moral enjoyments which they had
been tasting with so much apparent zest, by a suggestion of the
more solid as well as liquid delights of the festive board. They
thronged eagerly in the rear of the host, who now ushered them
into a lofty and extensive hall, from end to end of which was
arranged a table, glittering all over with innumerable dishes and
drinking-vessels of gold. It is an uncertain point, whether these
rich articles of plate were made for the occasion, out of molten
sunbeams, or recovered from the wrecks of Spanish galleons, that
table was overshadowed by a canopy, beneath which was placed
a chair of elaborate magnificence, which the host himself declined
to occupy, and besought his guests to assign it to the worthiest
among them. As a suitable homage to his incalculable antiquity
and eminent distinction, the post of honor was at first tendered to
the Oldest Inhabitant. He, however, eschewed it, and requested
the favor of a bowl of gruel at a side-table, where he could refresh
himself with a quiet nap. There was some little hesitation as to
the next candidate, until Posterity took the Master-Genius of our
country by the hand, and led him to the chair of state, beneath
the princely canopy. When once they beheld him in his true
place, the company acknowledged the justice of the selection by
a long thunder-roll of vehement applause.
Then was served up a banquet, combining, if not all the delicacies
of the season, yet all the rarities which careful purveyors
had met with in the flesh, fish, and vegetable markets of the land
of Nowhere. The bill of fare being unfortunately lost, we can
only mention a Phœnix, roasted in its own flames, cold potted
birds of Paradise, ice-creams from the Milky Way, and whip-syllabubs
and flummery from the Paradise of Fools, whereof
there was a very great consumption. As for drinkables, the
temperance-people contented themselves with water, as usual, but
it was the water of the Fountain of Youth; the ladies sipped
Nepenthe; the love-lorn, the care-worn, and the sorrow-stricken,
were supplied with brimming goblets of Lethe; and it was
shrewdly conjectured that a certain golden vase, from which only
the more distinguished guests were invited to partake, contained
nectar that had been mellowing ever since the days of classical
mythology. The cloth being removed, the company, as usual,
grew eloquent over their liquor, and delivered themselves of a
succession of brilliant speeches; the task of reporting which we
resign to the more adequate ability of Counsellor Gill, whose
to secure.
When the festivity of the banquet was at its most ethereal point,
the Clerk of the Weather was observed to steal from the table,
and thrust his head between the purple and golden curtains of one
of the windows.
“My fellow-guests,” he remarked aloud, after carefully noting
the signs of the night, “I advise such of you as live at a distance,
to be going as soon as possible; for a thunder-storm is certainly
at hand.”
“Mercy on me!” cried Mother Carey, who had left her brood
of chickens, and come hither in gossamer drapery, with pink silk
stockings, “How shall I ever get home?”
All now was confusion and hasty departure, with but little
superfluous leave-taking. The Oldest Inhabitant, however, true
to the rule of those long-past days in which his courtesy had been
studied, paused on the threshold of the meteor-lighted hall, to
express his vast satisfaction at the entertainment.
“Never, within my memory,” observed the gracious old gentleman,
“has it been my good fortune to spend a pleasanter
evening, or in more select society.”
The wind here took his breath away, whirled his three-cornered
hat into infinite space, and drowned what further compliments it
had been his purpose to bestow. Many of the company had
bespoken Will o' the Wisps to convoy them home; and the host,
in his general beneficence, had engaged the Man in the Moon,
with an immense horn lantern, to be the guide of such desolate
spinsters as could do no better for themselves. But a blast of the
rising tempest blew out all their lights in the twinkling of an eye.
How, in the darkness that ensued, the guests contrived to get
back to earth, or whether the greater part of them contrived to
get back at all, or are still wandering among clouds, mists, and
puffs of tempestuous wind, bruised by the beams and rafters of
are points that concern themselves, much more than the
writer or the public. People should think of these matters, before
they trust themselves on a pleasure-party into the realm of
Nowhere.
| Mosses from an old manse | |