THE CABINET.
(Rockaway beach, Sunday evening. The brigadier and
committee seated on their boot-legs, after walking two
miles, barefoot, on the hard sand.)
Brig.—Boots are durance vile, mi-boy! How much
we lose in not keeping our feet open to female assiduities!
Fancy one of those apostolic washings—a
sweet woman kneeling before you, and, with her hair
breathing perfumes over your ankles, performing it as
an office of tenderness and hospitality! Can patent
leather be weighed against desuetude so melancholy!
Com.—I am satisfied that the tender pink in your
toe-nails was intended by nature to be admired, my
dear brigadier! And there is nature's remonstrance—
eloquent in a corn—against the airless confinement of
boot and stocking! Why is a poet like a sandal?
Brig.—Philosophize, my dear boy, don't quibble!
Com.—Because he's a soul kept under with a thong!
Brig.—Willis, I love the sea!
Com.—So sung Barry Cornwall, “the open sea.”
As if Pharaoh had not yet passed over! To me the
sea seems, on the contrary, for ever slamming down
trap-doors of surf, and carefully covering the “treasures
of the deep” with cold water. I never saw anything
less “open!”
Brig.—There goes the sun down! as red as—what
shall I compare it to?
Com.—A wafer, sealing up this 17th of August for
the doomsday postoffice. Happy they who have not
forgotten the P. S. of repentance!
Brig.—Ah, mi-boy! that pious infancy of yours!
It oozes through the after-crust of your manhood in
drops of poetry! Pity you are less of a saint than
you were at seventeen!
Com.—Less of a saint I am not, though more of a
sinner I am! All I had seen at seventeen was beauty
and goodness, and with an innate sense of beauty and
goodness, I worshipped the Maker, my youth through,
with a poet's adoration! The heart melts and drops
upon its knees within a man, at any sudden revelation
of unusual loveliness; and I have worshipped God,
and loved one of his angelic creatures, with the white
quivering lip of the same rush of blood inward. If to
look often and adoringly “through nature up to nature's
God” be devotion, I am still devout. No sunset,
no morning's beauty, no rich and sudden sight of
loveliness in scenery, goes by without the renewal of
that worship in my heart that was once religion. I
praise God daily. Worldling as I am, and hardly as I
dare claim any virtue as a Christian, there is that
within me which sin and folly never reached or tainted.
The unprompted and irresistible thoughts, upsprings
in my mind in any scene of beauty, would seem
prayers, and pure ones, to many an humble Christian.
Pardon me for reading to you this inner leaf, my dear
brigadier!
Brig.—Thank you, on the contrary, for its philosophy,
my dear boy! Saints and worldlings have more
feelings in common than the pulpit admits. That I
believe.
Com.—The chasm between them in this world
should be narrowed, for they have many sympathies.
The bigot makes the separation unnaturally wide.
Who is the one man mentioned in Scripture as
“loved” by the Savior? The “young ruler” who
could not give up his “great possessions” “to inherit
eternal life!” Is not this tender interest in one “out
of the fold,” a lesson—a most unheeded lesson, to the
strict sect? I talk feelingly of this, for I have an admiration
of goodness and purity that has never separated
itself from my love of beauty. I love a simple
and unobtrusive piety, and am drawn irresistibly
toward the possessor. Yet this better part of my
nature is excluded with the rest, when I am denied
Christian sympathy. Come out of dream-land,
brigadier, and observe the tender violet in that upper
cloud!
Brig.—I was thinking whether the wave that falls
upon the beach is to be congratulated or pitied—comparing
its arrival, that is to say, with its “swell” time
upon the sea.
Com.—Congratulated, I should say. The hoary
locks with which it approaches the beach, though
they are breakers ahead when seen from the sea, are
beautiful when seen from the shore—as the head,
whitened with the dreaded troubles of life, grows
more beautiful in the eyes of angels, as it is more
whitened and troubled, approaching heaven! But
what hypocrites these shore-birds are, with their
whitest plumes turned earthward! See that dark-backed
snipe on the beach, with his white breast and
belly!
Brig.—Rather what knowledge of mankind they
have—preferring to keep their darker side for the
more forgiving eye of Heaven!
Com.—True—the better reading! Do you like
snipe?
Brig.—With a pork shirt they are fairish—that is,
if you can't get woodcock. But, mi-boy, it isn't you
that need ever eat snipe!
Com.—As how?
Brig.—(Pulling out the Sunday Mercury and reading)—“Willis,
it is said, has profited $5,000 by the
sale of the last edition of `Pencillings by the Way.”'
Com.—The mischief he has!—for “has” read would
be pleased to. Perhaps the editor of the Mercury
will be kind enough to fork over the difference between
fact and fiction! By-the-way, I have read the
book, myself, for the first time in eight years, and I
have been both amazed and amused with the difference
between what I saw then, and what I know now! And
I am going to give the public the same amazement
and amusement, by writing for the Mirror a review of
“Pencillings” with my new eyes—showing the interesting
difference between first impressions and after
familiarity.
Brig.—They'll want to read “Pencillings” over
again, mi-boy!
Com.—For a hasty pudding it has held out surprisingly
already. The fifth edition, embellished with
engravings, is still selling well in England, and in the
most stagnant literary month of the year we have sold
two editions, as you know. I am inclined to fear that
I shall be less known by my careful writings than by
this unrevised book—written between fatigue and
sleep, by roadsides and in most unstudylike places,
and republished, in the Mirror edition, exactly as first
written! There is a daguerreotypity in literal first
impressions, my dear general, and a man would write
an interesting letter, the first moment after seeing the
Colosseum for the first time, though a description from
memory, a month after, would be very stupid. Did
you ever feel posthumous, brigadier?
Brig.—No. I never was dead.
Com.—Nor I, except “in trespasses and sins”—but
a letter I received to-day has given me a most posthumous
sensation. It was sent me to publish, by a
lady who has lived several years abroad, and has lately
revisited Saratoga. It will “rub my brass” as the
maids say, to publish the passage about myself (quoted
from the letter of a German baron), but it may make
somebodies buy “Pencillings” to know that it has
passed abroad into a vade-mecum for travellers. So,
down modesty and swell pocket! Who knows but
that the “Sunday Mercury,” that “lighted on the
heaven-kissing hill” of $5,000, may be a better
prophet than historian! Set your heels comfortably
into the sand, general, and listen to this letter. There
are some sweet lines at the close, written by the same
lady after visiting the home of the young poetess Davidson,
whose precocious genius and premature death
have been so feelingly written upon:—
“When you and I, my dear sir, met so pleasantly
some weeks since at Saratoga, I forgot to give you an
extract from a letter which I had received from Germany.
No one can be insensible to deserved praise
from a far land, and I know you will read with gratification
these few lines from a distinguished friend of
mine: `I remember with pleasure our visit to your
splendid frigate, the United States, in the bay of Naples.
We met Mr. N. P. Willis on board, and after
his cruise I met him again at Lady Darley's. He will
not remember me, but if you ever see him, tell him
that a person who has visited almost all the spots
described in his “Pencillings by the Way,” feels the
greatest pleasure in reading his book at least twice a
year. It accompanies him regularly from Dresden to
his estates in the spring, and back to the city in the
autumn.'
“Not having seen Saratoga for many years, I was
curious to perceive what changes time had made. Of
course, its outward condition is greatly improved, and
the remarkable change of all is the transition of the
fashion and gayety from Congress hall to the United
States hotel. It would be unwise to compare this
latter establishment with any other that we have seen
in Europe, inasmuch as the whole order of arrangement
is entirely different; but this must be conceded,
that for a fortnight, no place in the world offers more
amusement. One may remain months at Carlsbad,
Baden-Baden, &c., without fatigue, in consequence
of the entirely independent manner of living; but
Saratoga must be taken, to be enjoyed, in homeopathic
doses of the beforementioned fourteen days. It is
really extraordinary how well-ordered and conducted
is the United States hotel, when we remember the
crowds that dwell within its four walls and its colonies;
and assuredly the brothers[2]
who bring about
this state of things, deserve great commendation.
Having been repeatedly told, since my return from a
long absence, that Saratoga had deteriorated, I confess
to having seen nothing of the sort. I had the
good fortune to meet some of the most remarkable
men of my country, and many of the fairest of its
daughters, and to enjoy their society. I hold that
Saratoga must be visited upon broad American principles—
no cliques (like will come to like)—but a gracious
word for all. At Carlsbad, and all other continental
watering-places, the government provides a
master of ceremonies, who introduces, regulates the
balls, &c. The voice of the people gives this position,
at the United States hotel, to a citizen of Baltimore,
and allow me to say, that those who look upon
him as a mere manager of balls, totally mistake his
character; for a kinder and better heart never beat
within a human breast than he possesses. Indeed, Baltimore
seems to have been singularly well represented
this year—the incomparable beauty of its women
eclipsing all, and the wit alone of one finished gentleman
of that town being sufficient to leaven a `mass
meeting.'
“I think the visits of clergymen to watering-places
a signal benefit, when they resemble the Rev. Dr.
Bethune, engaging in pleasing conversation with
young and old, whom he enlivened by his eloquence.
He never lost sight of the great aim of his existence—
their improvement. Ever surrounded by eager listeners,
he left them better, wiser. On the whole, I think
we must consider Saratoga as a great public good—a
neutral ground, where the south discovers that the
north is not a Mont Blanc, and the north perceives
that the south is not a Versuvius!
“My last visit at Saratoga was to the late home of the
gifted Davidsons. Their brother kindly accompanied
me, and presented me to his bereaved father. It
seemed, as I lingered amidst their remains, a very home
of shadows[3]
—a wondrous contrast to the surrounding
scenes. I considered myself quite fortunate in having
paid this visit, as Dr. Davidson leaves Saratoga
shortly, and the establishment will thereby be entirely
dismembered.
Com.—Theodore Fay, you, and I, supping together!
Brig.—You have a way of knowing opportunity
when you see it! I little dreamed of so long a lease
of you! Dear Theodore! how I should like to eat
that supper over again!
Com.—I am very glad it agreed with you (presuming
it is me and Theodore you want over again—not the
oysters!) They say Fay has grown fat, handsome
and diplomatic. When shall we have that sweet fellow
back among us?
Brig.—When they want the please for a green secretary,
who knows nothing of the court or court language.
As soon as a man has been long enough
attached to a legation to be presentable and useful,
they recall him! What is that other letter I brought
you?
Com.—From a lady at Fishkill, who is dazzled with
the upshoot of “Fanny Forester.” She thinks Fanny's
offhand piquancy is easy to do, and the letter
shows how much she is mistaken. I would fain say
an encouraging word, however, for she seems to have
the best of motives for wishing to be literary. Now,
is it kinder to discourage such beginners at once, or to
encourage them good-naturedly into a delusion?
Brig.—Always discourage, mi-boy, for if they have
genius, they will prosper
“like a thunder-cloud, against the wind,”
and if they have none, they are better stopped where
they are. How many heart-aching authoresses do we
know at this moment, who can write just well enough
to be wofully distressed with the reluctance of the
market! The only style saleable is the spicy but difficult
vein of bright Fanny Forester, and yet, to a
neophyte, that very woof seems the easiest woven!
A woman who is more intelligent than the people
around her, is very apt to believe that she might be
famous, and make money with her pen; and unless
“Fair politure walk all her body over,
And symmetry rejoice in every part,”
she endeavors in this way to compensate herself for
the lack of belleship. Better raise flowers and sell
bouquets, dear Rosalie Beverly!
Com.—The gray lace of twilight's star-broidered
veil has fallen over the sea, brigadier. Let us paddle
back through the surf-edge to the bathing-houses, boot,
and reappear to a world (I don't think) disconsolate
without us.
