Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XXIV, May 1852, Vol. IV

We close our long chat for the month with a little whimsicality of travel, which comes to us in the letter of a friend.

Major M'Gowd was of Irish extraction (which he denied) – had been in the English service (which he boasted), and is, or was two years ago, serving under the Austrian flag.

He was not a profound man; but, as majors go, a very good sort of major, and great disciplinarian – as the following will show:

You have seen the Austrian troops in review, and must have noticed the curious way in which their cloaks are carried around their necks, making the poor fellows look like the Vauxhall showman, looking out from the folds of a gigantic anaconda.

On one occasion, the major, being officer of the day, observed a soldier with his cloak lying loosely upon his arm.

"Where's your cloak, rascal?" was the major's peremptory demand.

"Here, sir," was the reply.

"What's the use of a cloak if it's not rolled up?" thundered the major; and the poor scamp was sent to the lock-up.

Thus much for the major's discipline. But like most old officers of no great depth of brain, the major had his standard joke, which had gone the rounds of a hundred mess-tables. Latterly, however, he had grown coy of a repetition, and seems to cherish a suspicion that he has not cut so good a figure in the story as he once imagined.

A little after-dinner mellowness, however, is sure to bring the major to his trump card, and in knowledge of this, Ned and myself (who had never heard his story), one day tempted the major's appetite with some very generous Tokay.

Major M'Gowd bore up, as most old officers are able to do, to a very late hour, and it was not till eleven that he seemed fairly kindled.

"Well, major, now for the story," said we.

"Ah, boys, it won't do" (the major looked smilingly through his glass), "it was really too bad."

"Out with it, major," and after as much refusing and urging as would seat half the girls in New York at the piano, the old gentleman opened:

"It's too bad, boys; it was the most cutting, sarcastic thing that perhaps ever was heard. You see, I was stationed at Uxbridge; you know Uxbridge, p'raps – situated on a hill. I was captain, then; young and foolish – very foolish. I wrote poetry. I couldn't do it now. I never have since; I wish I hadn't then. For, do you see, it was the most cruel, cutting thing – "

The major emptied his glass.

"Go on, major," said Ned, filling for him again.

"Ah, boys – sad work – it cut him down. I was young, as I said – stationed at Uxbridge – only a captain then, and wrote poetry. It was there the thing happened. It's not modest to say it, but really, a more cutting thing – fill up your glasses, my boys.

"I became acquainted with a family of the name of Porter – friends of the colonel; pray remember the name – Porter. There was a daughter, Miss Porter. Keep the name in mind, if you please. Uxbridge, as you know, is situated on a hill. About fifteen miles away was stationed another regiment. Now, a young officer of this regiment was very attentive to Miss Porter; don't forget the name, I beg of you.

"He was only a lieutenant, a second son – nothing but his pay to live on; and the old people did not fancy his attentions, being, as I said, second son, lieutenant; which was very sensible in them.

"They gave him a hint or two, which he didn't take. Finally they applied to me, Captain M'Gowd, at that time, begging me to use my influence in the matter. I had not the pleasure of acquaintance with the lieutenant; though, apart from his being second son, lieutenant, small pay, &c., I knew nothing in the world against the poor fellow.

"The more's the pity, boys; as I had no right to address him directly on the subject, I determined to hit him off in a few lines of poetry – those fatal, sarcastic lines!" sighed the major, finishing his glass.

"I had the reputation of being witty, and a poet; and though I say it myself – was uncommonly severe.

"They commenced in this way," (the major threw himself into attitude.)

"The other day to Uxbridge town —

"You recollect the circumstance – I was at Uxbridge – young and foolish – had made the acquaintance of the Porters (remember the name) – young lieutenant was attentive to Miss Porter (lively girl was Mary Jane); poor, second son, not agreeable to old people, who, as I told you, called on me to settle the matter. So I wrote the lines – terribly sarcastic:

"The other day to Uxbridge town —

now you're coming to it —

"A major (he was lieutenant, you know) of dragoons (he was in the infantry) came down (Uxbridge is on a hill). It was a very sarcastic thing, you see.

"The other day to Uxbridge townA major of dragoons came down —

now for the point, my boys,

"The reason why he came down here'Twas said he had —

You remember the name – Porter, and how I was at Uxbridge, situated on a hill, was Captain M'Gowd, then – young lieutenant, &c., devilish severe verses – but now mind – here they are:

"The other day to Uxbridge townA major of dragoons came down,The reason why he came down here'Twas said he had a love (remember the name) for – Beer!"

If you have never heard a maudlin, mess-table story, told over the sixth bottle, you have at the least, read one.

Editor's Drawer

The readers of the "Drawer" will be amused with a forcible picture, which we find in our collection, of the ups-and-downs of a strolling player's life. One would think such things enough to deter young men and women from entering upon so thorny a profession. "In one of the writer's professional excursions," runs our extract, "his manager finds himself in a woeful predicament. His pieces will not 'draw' in the quiet New England village where he had temporarily 'set up shop;' he and his company are literally starving; the men moodily pacing the stage; the women, who had kept up their spirits to the last, sitting silent and sorrowful; and the children, little sufferers! actually crying for food.

"I saw all this," says the manager, "and I began to feel very suicidal. It was night, and I looked about for a rope. At length I spied just what I wanted. A rope dangled at the prompt-side, and near a steep flight of stairs which led to a dressing room. 'That's it!' said I, with gloomy satisfaction: 'I'll mount those stairs, noose myself, and drop quietly off in the night; but first let me see whether it is firmly fastened or no.'

"I accordingly approached, gave a pull at the rope, when 'whish! whish!' I found I had set the rain a-going. And now a thought struck me. I leaped, danced, and shouted madly for joy.

"'Where did you get your liquor from?' shouted the 'walking-gentleman' of the company.

"'He's gone mad!' said Mrs. – , principal lady-actress of the corps. 'Poor fellow! – hunger has made him a maniac. Heaven shield us from a like fate!'

"'Hunger!' shouted I, 'we shall be hungry no more! Here's food from above (which was literally true), manna in the wilderness, and all that sort of thing. We'll feed on rain; we'll feed on rain!'

"I seized a hatchet, and mounting by a ladder, soon brought the rain-box tumbling to the ground.

"My meaning was now understood. An end of the box was pried off, and full a bushel of dried beans and peas were poured out, to the delight of all. Some were stewed immediately, and although rather hard, I never relished any thing more. But while the operation of cooking was going on below, we amused ourselves with parching some beans upon the sheet-iron – the 'thunder' of the theatre – set over an old furnace, and heated by rosin from the lightning-bellows.

"So we fed upon rain, cooked by thunder-and-lightning!"

There is nothing in the history of Irving's "Strolling Player" more characteristic of his class than the foregoing; and there is a verisimilitude about the story which does not permit us to doubt its authenticity. It is too natural not to be true.

Think of a patent-medicine vender rising at the head of his table, where were assembled some score or two of his customers, and proposing such a toast as the following:

"Gentlemen: allow me to propose you a sentiment. When I mention Health, you will all admit that I allude to the greatest of sublunary blessings. I am sure then that you will agree with me that we are all more or less interested in the toast that I am about to prescribe. I give you, gentlemen,

"Physic, and much good may it do us!"

This sentiment is "drunk with all the honors," when a professional Gallenic vocalist favors the company with the annexed song:

"A bumper of Febrifuge fill, fill for me,Give those who prefer it, Black Draught;But whatever the dose a strong one it must be,Though our last dose to-night shall be quaffed.And while influenza attacks high and low,And man's queerest feelings oppress him,Mouth-making, nose-holding, round, round let I go,Drink our Physic and Founder – ugh, bless him."

The reader may have heard a good deal from the poets concerning "The Language of Flowers;" but here is quite a new dialect of that description, in the shape of mottos for different fruits and vegetables in different months:

Motto for the Lilac in April: "Give me leave."For the Rose in June: "Well, I'm blowed!"For the Asparagus in July: "Cut and come again."For the Marrowfat Pea in August: "Shell out!"For the Apple in September: "Go it, my Pippins!"For the Cabbage in December: "My heart is sound: my heart is my own."

Now that "shads is come;" now that lamb has arrived, and green peas may soon be looked for; now that asparagus is coming in, and poultry is going out, listen to the Song of the Turkey, no longer seen hanging by the legs in the market, and rejoice with him at his emancipation:

"The season of Turkeys is over!The time of our danger is past:'Tis the turn of the wild-duck and plover,But the Turkey is safe, boys, at last!"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,No longer we've reason to fear;Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys,Let's trust to the chance of the year!"The oyster in vain now may mock us,Its sauce we can proudly disdain;No sausages vulgar shall shock us,We are free, we are free from their chain!"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,No longer we've reason to fear;Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys.Let's trust to the chance of the year!"What matters to you and to me, boys,That one whom we treasured when young,With a ticket, "Two dollars! look here!" boys,In a poulterer's window was hung!"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,No longer we've reason to fear;Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys,Let's trust to the chance of the year!"Then mourn not for friends that are eaten,A drum-stick for care and regret!Enough that, the future to sweeten,Our lives are not forfeited yet!"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,No longer we've reason to fear;Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys,Let's trust to the chance of the year!"

Somewhat curious, if true, is an anecdote which is declared to be authentic, and which we find among the disjecta membra of our ollapodrida:

Lieutenant Montgomery had seen much military service. The wars, however, were over; and he had nothing in the world to do but to lounge about, as best he could, on his half-pay. One day he was "taking his ease in his inn," when he observed a stranger, who was evidently a foreigner, gazing intently at him. The lieutenant appeared not to notice him, but shifted his position. After a short time the stranger shifted his position also, and still stared with unblemished, unabated gaze.

This was too much for Montgomery. He rose, and approaching his scrutinizing intruder, said:

"Do you know me, sir?"

"I think I do," answered the foreigner. (He was a Frenchman.)

"Have we ever met before?" continued Montgomery.

"I will not swear for it; but if we have – and I am almost sure we have," said the stranger, "you have a sabre-cut, a deep one, on your right wrist."

"I have," said Montgomery, turning back his sleeve, and displaying a very broad and ugly scar. "I didn't get this for nothing, for the brave fellow who made me a present of it I repaid with a gash across the skull!"

The Frenchman bent down his head, parted his hair with his hands, and said:

"You did: you may look at the receipt."

The next moment they were in each other's arms.

Now this story seems a little problematical; and yet it is vouched for on what ought to be considered reliable authority. In short, it is true in every respect.

Some ambitious juvenile once sung, with an aspiration "peculiar to our institutions,"

"I wish I was the PresidentOf these United States,I never would do nothingBut swing on all the gates."

He little knew the miseries, the ennui, the mental dyspepsia, which afflicts the wretch who has nothing to do. One of these unhappy mortals it is, who says, in the bitterness of his spirit:

"Sir, I have no books, and no internal resources. I can not draw, and if I could, there's nothing that I want to sketch. I don't play the flute, and if I did there's nobody that I should like to have listen to me. I never wrote a tragedy, but I think I am in that state of mind in which tragedies are written. Any thing lighter is out of the question. I whistle four hours a day, yawn five, smoke six, and sleep the rest of the twenty-four, with a running accompaniment of swearing to all these occupations except the last, and I'm not quite sure that I don't sometimes swear in my dreams.

"In one word, sir, I'm getting desperate, for the want of something to do."

There is a good deal of humor in the sudden contrast of sentiment and language exhibited in the verses below. They purport to be the tragi-comical tale of a deserted sailor-wife, who, with a baby in her arms, comes often to a rock that overlooks the main, to catch, if possible, a glimpse of a returning sail. At length, in despair, she throws her infant into the sea:

"A gush of tears fell fast and warm,As she cried, with dread emotion,Rest, baby! rest that fairy formBeneath the rush of ocean;'Tis calmer than the world's rude storm,And kinder – I've a notion!······"Now oft the simple country folkTo this sad spot repair,When wearied with their weekly yoke,They steal an hour from care;And they that have a pipe to smoke,They go and smoke it there!"When soon a little pearly barkSkims o'er the level brine,Whose sails, when it is not too dark,With misty brightness shine:Though they who these strange visions markHave sharper eyes than mine!"And, beauteous as the morn, is seenA baby on the prow,Deck'd in a robe of silver sheen,With corals round his brow —A style of head-dress not, I ween,Much worn by babies now!"

What somebody of the transcendental school of these latter days calls the "element of unexpectedness," is very forcibly exemplified by the writer from whom we have quoted.

We have often laughed over the following scene, but couldn't tell where it is recorded to save our reputation for "general knowledge." All that we do know is, that it is a clever sketch by a clever writer whoever he may be. The scene is a military station; and it should be premised that a certain surly, ill-tempered major, whose wife and sister are in the habit of visiting him at the barracks, gives orders, out of spite to subordinate officers, whose families have hitherto enjoyed the same privilege, that "no females are to be allowed in barracks after tattoo, under any pretense whatever:"

"It so happened that the morning after this announcement appeared in the order-book, an old lieutenant, who might have been the major's grandfather, and whom we used to call "The General," on account of his age and gray hairs, was the officer on duty. To the sergeant of the guard "the General" gave the necessary orders, with strict injunctions to have them obeyed to the letter.

"Shortly after tattoo, sundry ladies, as usual, presented themselves at the barrack-gate, and were, of course, refused admission; when, to the surprise of the sentinel on duty, the major's lady and sister-in-law made their appearance, and walked boldly to the wicket, with the intention of entering as usual. To their utter astonishment, the sentry refused them permission to pass. The sergeant was called, but that worthy was quite as much of a precisian as the ladies, and his conscience would not permit him to let them in.

"'Do you know who we are, sir?' asked the major's lady, with much asperity of voice and manner.

"'Oh, sartingly; I knows your ladyships wery well.'

"'And pray, what do you mean, sir, by this insolence?'

"'I means no imperance whatsomdever, marm; but my orders is partickler, to let no female ladies into this here barracks a'ter tattoo, upon no account whatever; and I means for to obey my orders without no mistake.'

"'Then you have the effrontery, do you, to refuse admittance to the lady of your commanding officer?' screamed the Honorable Mrs. Snooks.

"'And her sister!' joined in the second lady.

"'Most sartingly, marm,' replied the non-commissioned officer, with profound gravity: 'I knows my duty, marm.'

"'Good gracious, what assurance!' exclaimed both ladies in a breath.

"'No insurance at all, marm: if your ladyships was princesses, you couldn't come in after tattoo; my orders is partikler!'

"'Don't you know, stupid, that these orders can not be intended to apply to us?'

"'I doesn't know nuffin about that, my lady: all I know is, that orders is orders, and must be obeyed.'

"'Impudence!'

"'Imperance or no imperance, I must do my duty; and I can tell your ladyships if my superior officers was for to give me orders not to let in the major himself, I would be obligated for to keep him off at the p'int of the bay'net!'

"The officer of the guard was sent for, and the officer of the guard sent for the orderly-book, which, by the light of the guard-room lantern, was exhibited to the ladies by 'the General,' in justification of his apparent rudeness."

It might, doubtless, have been added, that the effect of such a lesson upon the major, was of a salutary nature; for the chalice was commended to his own lips, which he had prepared for others, in downright earnest.

These lines, from the pen of a Southern poet, are very tender and touching. They were printed some ten years since:

"My little girl sleeps on my arm all night,And seldom stirs, save when, with playful wile,I bid her rise and place her lips to mine,Which in her sleep she does. And sometimes then,Half-muttered in her slumbers, she affirmsHer love for me is boundless. And I takeThe little bud and close her in my arms;Assure her by my action – for my lipsYield me no utterance then – that in my heartShe is the treasured jewel. Tenderly,Hour after hour, without desire of sleep,I watch above that large amount of hope,Until the stars wane, and the yellow mornWalks forth into the night."

In the final disposition of his characters, Dickens excels any living author. There is no confusion – no infringement of the natural. In "Barnaby Rudge," for example, the old lethargic inn-keeper, Willett, retiring in his dotage, and with his ruling passion strong upon him, scoring up vast imaginary sums to imaginary customers, and the lament of the elder Weller at the death of good old Master Humphrey, are not only characteristic, they are perfect specimens of their kind. "And the sweet old creetur," says the elder Weller "has bolted. Him as had no wice, and was so free from temper that an infant might ha' drove 'im, has been took at last with that ere unawoidable fit of the staggers, as we must all come to, and gone off his feed forever!" "I see him," continues the old stage-coach driver, "I see him gettin' every journey more and more groggy. I says to Samivel, says I, 'Samivel, my boy, the Gray's a-going at the knees;' and now my predilection is fatally werified; and him as I could never do enough to serve or to show my likin' for, is up the great uniwersal spout o' natur'!"

It is poor Tom Hood, if we have not forgotten, who describes a species of "Statistical Fellows" as

– "A prying, spying, inquisitive clan,Who jot down the laboring classes' riches,And after poking in pot and pan,And routing garments in want of stitches,Have ascertained that a working manWears a pair and a half of average breeches!"

Of this kind was the "Scientific Ass-sociate" mentioned in the "Table Talk of the late John Boyle." The Professor is setting forth one of his "various important matters connected with every-day life." The learned gentleman spoke of shaving as follows:

"The mode of shaving differs in different individuals. Some are very close shavers; others are greater adepts at cutting unpleasant acquaintances than themselves. It is, however, most important that the art of shaving should be reduced to a nicety, so that a man can cut his beard with the same facility as he could cut his stick. It is also of consequence that an accurate calculation should be made of the number of shaving brushes and the number of half pounds of soap used in the course of the year by respectable shavers, for I have observed that some of them are very badly off for soap. There is also a very great variation in the price of labor. Some barbers undertake to shave well for threepence; others charge a much higher sum. This is probably the effect of competition; and I must say, that the Government deserves well of the country for not encouraging any monopoly. At the same time there is a looseness in the details of the profession, which I should like to see corrected. An accurate register ought to be kept of the number of individuals who shave themselves, and of those who shave daily, every other day, and once a week only. We can hardly contemplate the immense benefits which science would reap, if such matters as these were properly attended to!"

Who has not seen just such statistics as these dwelt upon with unction by your thorough "statist?"

Never forget this "Receipt of Domestic Economy." When you have paid a bill, always take, and keep, a receipt of the same:

"O, fling not the receipt away,Given by one who trusted thee;Mistakes will happen every day.However honest folks may be;And sad it is, oh, twice to pay,So cast not thy receipt away!"Ah, yes; if e'er in future hours,When we this bill have all forgot,They send it in again! ye powers!And swear that we have paid it not;How sweet to know, on such a day,We've never cast receipts away!"

The following is one of the pen-and-ink portraits that have found their way into the "Drawer." The sitter was a subject of our own Gotham.

"He was a Scotchman by birth, and had, without exception, the ugliest face I ever saw on a man's shoulders, or a monkey's either, for that matter. But by a perversity of taste, not unusual in the world, the man made a complete hobby of his 'mug,' homely as it was; and was full of the conceit that on fit occasions he could summon to it a look of terrible and dignified sarcasm, that was more efficacious than words or blows. He was rather insolent in his deportment, and was consequently continually getting into scrapes with some one or other, in which he invariably got the worst of it; because instead of lifting his hand, and giving blow for blow, he always trusted to the efficacy of his look. His various little mishaps he used to relate to his fellow-boarders at meal-times, always concluding his narrations with, 'But didn't I give the dirty rapscallions one o' my looks?' And then twisting his 'ugly mug' into a shape impossible to be described, he fancied he had convinced his hearers that his antagonists, whoever they were, would be in no hurry to meddle with him again!

"The last time I saw him, he was giving an account of an insult he had received the night before at some porter-house in the neighborhood, where a little fellow, who was a perfect stranger to him, had insisted upon drinking at his expense, and who, when he refused to pay for the liquor, had not only abused him most shamefully with his tongue, but had actually kicked him.

"'Kick you!' exclaimed a fellow-boarder.

"'Yes!' said he, growing warm with the recital; 'he kicked me here!' and he laid his hand on that portion of his valorous person that had come in contact with the stranger's boot.

"'And what did you say to that?' asked a second listener.