Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. V, No. XXV, June, 1852

"Say something smart to him, Mr. Jekyll," said the lady of the house, as soon as the doors were thrown open to give Lord Stowell admission; and Jekyll instantly advancing, took his friend by the hand, exclaiming, "I am glad to see the late

Sir William Scott {appear} at last."

{a peer}

I have been told, but upon no very good authority, that Lord Stowell used to account for the difference between his own rapid and unhesitating decision of cases brought before him, and his brother's slow and doubtful habits, by saying, "I try to see every side of a question at once; John likes to look at them all in turn – and then to begin again."

Even after his death, some men, themselves of considerable abilities, were inclined, without denying his merit, to place him, I think mistakenly, far below his brother. I remember once at the house of the late Sir Robert Peel, conversing with that gentleman on the characters of the two brothers, as we stood before their pictures. He differed greatly in his views from myself, and expressed his opinion of the superiority of Lord Eldon in a very decisive, perhaps, I might say, somewhat dogmatical manner. My own views, however, were afterward approved and confirmed by a greater man than any of the three. I had the good fortune, however, to agree with Sir Robert upon the merits of pictures better than upon the merits of men. After looking at the pictures of Eldon and Stowell, we turned to the full length portrait of Canning, by Sir Thomas Lawrence, and he asked me what I thought of it – mark, of the picture, not of the statesman. It represents Canning with the right arm raised, declaiming violently.

"I do not like it," I said.

"Nor I either," replied Peel.

"He looks like an actor," I added.

I shall never forget the tone in which he answered. "And so he does." There was a cutting bitterness in it which seemed to imply more than he thought fit to utter.

I have remarked through life that all men of cold and unimpassioned natures, imagine that those who show any touch of enthusiasm, are acting; yet every man has enthusiasm of some kind, and though but very slightly acquainted with Sir Robert Peel, one of the least impassioned men that ever lived, I have remarked him display, when speaking on subjects of art, a spark of that light divine, which, to be really serviceable to man, should be merely as a lamp in the hand of Reason.

I am truly ashamed to find how far I have wandered from the point. I intended to write of quite different matters, and have been led into a number of collateral anecdotes by merely having mentioned Lord Stowell's name, in order to show the difficulty of choosing among the different ways, of beginning either to write, or read a story. I believe I did not even finish my illustration; so let me say, before I proceed farther, that the noble Judge, I have alluded to, was accustomed always to begin a romance at the end; justifying it on legal grounds. He seemed to consider an author as an offender; and said that, as it was absolutely necessary act should be committed, before a man could be tried for it, the only way of arriving at truth, was, to begin at the catastrophe, and trace it back to its causes. There was a quiet, pleasant smile upon his face when he assigned this motive for his way of reading a book of interest, which indicated a good-humored jest at himself and at the public. But there can be no doubt that he always liked to begin a romance at the latter end. I find myself now at the close of my sheet, and therefore must put off to another occasion, the extraordinary story I set out to tell you, of "The Bride of Landeck." I dare say, I can finish it in one letter, if my mind can ever be brought to pursue one straightforward course, without being called off into collateral paths. But the proverbial garrulity of old age would not be half so bad without its discursiveness. The child hunts every butterfly, and turns aside to catch every wild flower; the second child pursues the butterflies, and culls the weeds of the mind. I recollect being in company for an hour with Coleridge, a few years before his death, and in that short period, he discoursed upon seven-and-thirty different subjects. But, on my life, I am beginning to tell you another anecdote; and yet I have only space to say,

I am yours truly,

P.

P.S. I will send you the story of "The Bride of Landeck," in my next. It will not occupy more than ten lines; but it is wonderfully interesting. I remember once – . But I can not begin another sheet, so good-by.

Editor's Drawer

Some years ago an English wag thus quizzed the style of Legal Examinations. The questions, it must be understood, open with "leading" or "introductory" queries, and then go on to "bankruptcy."

Question.– "Have you attended any, and, if any, what Law Lectures?"

Answer.– "I have attended to many legal lectures, where I have been admonished by police-magistrates for kicking up rows in the streets, pulling off handles of door-bells, knockers, &c."

COMMON LAW.

Question.– "What is a real action?"

Answer.– "An action brought in earnest, and not by way of a joke."

Question.– "What are original writs?"

Answer.– "Pot-hooks, hangers, and trammels."

EQUITY AND CONVEYANCING.

Question.– "What are a Bill and Answer?"

Answer.– "Ask my tailor."

Question.– "How would you file a Bill?"

Answer.– "I don't know; but I would lay a case before a blacksmith."

Question.– "What steps would you take to dissolve an injunction?"

Answer.– "I should put it into some very hot water, and let it remain there until it had melted."

Question.– "What are post-nuptial articles?"

Answer.– "Children."

CRIMINAL LAW AND BANKRUPTCY.

Question.– "What is Simple Larceny?"

Answer.– "Picking a pocket of a handkerchief, and leaving a purse of money behind."

Question.– "What is Grand Larceny?"

Answer.– "The Income Tax."

Question.– "How would you proceed to make a man a bankrupt?"

Answer.– "Induce him to take one of the theatres."

Question.– "How is the property of a bankrupt disposed of?"

Answer.– "The solicitors and other legal functionaries divide it among themselves!"

There is not only a good deal of humor, but some salutary satire in this burlesque examination. Many a victim can testify, for example, to the truth of the last answer. After all he was not so far wrong who said, that "Law was like a magical stream; once wet your foot in it, and you must needs walk on, until you are overwhelmed in the endless stormy waters."

The history of Beau Brummell is a fruitful one. There can hardly be a better lesson taught of the consequences of a useless life, than is taught by his brilliant yet melancholy career. His impudence was inimitable – it was appalling. His sayings were delivered in a way that was so deliberate, so imperturbably cool, that no person could do justice to it. And yet people of the first class, nobles of the realm, nay, royalty itself, "put up" with his sarcastic says, his impudent comments, without either retort or remonstrance. Here are a couple of specimens of his impudence, recorded by one who knew him well:

"Dining one day at a gentleman's house in Hampshire, where the Champagne was far from being good, he waited for a pause in the conversation, and then condemned it by raising his glass, and saying, in a voice loud enough to be heard by every one at the table:

"'John, bring me some more of that wild cider.'

"'Brummell,' said one of his club friends, on one occasion, 'you were not here yesterday; where did you dine?

"'Dine!' he replied; 'why, with a person of the name of R – . I believe he wishes me to notice him; hence the dinner: but to give the devil his due he desired that I would make up the party myself, so I asked A – , M – , P – , and a few others, and I assure you, the affair turned off quite uniquely. There was every delicacy in or out of season. The Sillery was perfect; and not a wish remained ungratified. But my dear fellow,' continued Brummell, musing, 'conceive my astonishment, when I tell you that R – himself had the assurance to sit down and dine with us!'"

The nonchalance, the total indifference which he could at any time assume, is well illustrated in the following anecdote:

"An acquaintance having, in a morning call, bored him dreadfully about some tour he had made in the north of England, inquired with great pertinacity of his impatient listener, which of the lakes he preferred?

"Brummell, quite tired of the man's tedious raptures, turned his head imploringly toward his valet, who was arranging something in the room, and said,

"'Robinson!'

"'Sir."

"'Which of the lakes do I admire?'

"'Windermere, sir,' replied that distinguished individual.

"'Ah, yes – Windermere,' replied Brummell; so it is – yes; Windermere!'"

An anecdote of him which is somewhat more familiar, but which possesses the same characteristics with the above, is one which represents him as saying, in reply to the remark of a lady, who, observing that at a dinner where they met, the great beau took no vegetables, asked him whether such was his general habit, and if he never ate any.

"Yes, my dear madam," he replied, "I once ate a pea!"

But the best thing told of Brummell, in this kind, is one which does not appear in Captain Jesse's "Life" of him, nor, to our knowledge, has it appeared in print. But it is undoubtedly authentic. It runs in this wise.

Being one day seated at one of the tables of his favorite club-house, near the fire-place, he was enjoying the perusal of the Times newspaper, when a stout, burly member entered, and walking up to the fire-place, turned his back to the grateful warmth, parted his coat-tails, and stood before the beau in the attitude of the Colossus of Rhodes. Presently he began to sneeze. Brummell looked up imploringly and with a gesture indicating great annoyance, removed a little further off.

Scarcely had he taken his new seat, before another burst of sneezing, louder than before, startled him from his temporary repose. He was looking reproachfully, but "more in sorrow than in anger," when a third explosion of sternutation, "mist" from the effects of which reached to where he sat, brought him to his feet: "Good Heavens!" he exclaimed; "we can't stand this! Waiter, it is raining! Bring us an umbrella!"

But this man, who was the very pattern in manners and dress of his time, who could even bully and satirize princes of the royal line with impunity, this example of an aimless life, met with a sad fate at last. His dissolute habits and enormous debts compelled him to flee from England, in the night, to a small town on the French coast, where, after being appointed, for a time, to the indifferent British consulate, he became again involved, by reason of his expensive habits and over-delicate tastes, and was at last confined in prison for debt. Just before he was incarcerated, the following anecdote is related of him:

"While promenading one day on the pier, an old associate of his, who had just arrived by the packet from England, met him unexpectedly in the street, and cordially shaking hands with him, said:

"'My dear Brummell, I am delighted to see you! Do you know we thought in London that you were dead! The report, I assure you, was in very general circulation when I left.'

"'Mere stock-jobbing, mere stock-jobbing!' was the beau's reply."

Stock-jobbing on such a profitless subject as a decayed, penniless dandy! The farce of brazen impudence and assurance could no farther go.

Not long after this, Brummell became partially insane; and the great inventor of STARCH was last seen shrieking from between his prison bars in the asylum, complaining that the pigeon given him for his dinner was "a skeleton;" that his mutton chops were "not larger than a penny-piece;" that his biscuits were "like a bad half-penny;" that he had "but six potatoes;" and that the cherries sent for his dessert were "positively unripe."

And so he continued to the very last. He had a horror of sealing his insane notes with a wafer; he babbled of primrose-colored gloves, eau-de-Cologne, and oil for his wigs, and patent-blacking for his boots.

But at last he died. Some charitable Englishman tried to get him into a private asylum, but no such institution would receive him. This good Samaritan was obliged to pay a person to be with him night and day; but still he, the refined, the recherché Beau Brummell, the "glass of fashion and the mould of form," the "observed of all observers," the companion and pet of royalty and the nobility, could not even be kept clean. He drew his last breath upon a straw mattress, rising occasionally from his humble pallet to welcome an imaginary prince, or noble earl, or stately duchess, to his wretched apartment, with no diminution of his mocking grace and studied courtesy of manner. Dandled, dreaded, deserted, doomed, demented, dying dandy!

"Many men of many minds," is a proverb somewhat musty, as many a youngster learning to write can bear witness; and for and against the "use of the weed" it is perhaps more applicable than to any one thing else. Many a reader of the "Drawer" will take a high-flavored Havana between his lips, press and draw it satisfactorily, while he peruses the following – while many a staid matron and careful housekeeper will regard the lines with great favor; bearing in mind all the time the smell of tobacco-smoke in the curtains, and in the clothes of their husbands, or their husbands' friends. But whether for or against, read

THE DISGUSTED WIFE TO HER HUSBAND

"You promised to leave off your smoking,The day I consented to wed;How little I thought you were joking,How fondly believed what you said!Then alas! how completely you sold me,With blandishments artful and vain;When you emptied your snuff-box, and told meYou never would fill it again!"Those fumes so oppressive from puffing,Say, what is the solace that flows?And whence the enjoyment of stuffingA parcel of dust in your nose?By the habits you thus are pursuing,There can be no pleasure conferred,How irrational, then, is so doing —Now, isn't it very absurd?"Cigars come to threepence each, nearly,And sixpence an ounce is your snuff;Consider how much, then, you yearlyMust waste on that horrible stuff!Why the sums in tobacco you spend, love,The wealth in your snuff-box you sink,Would procure me of dresses no end, love,And keep me in gloves – only think!"What's worse, for your person I tremble —'Tis going as fast as it can;Oh! how should you like to resembleA smoky and snuffy old man?Then resign, at the call of affection,The habits I can not endure;Or you'll spoil both your nose and complexion,And ruin your teeth, I am sure!"

Whatever may be said of smoking, it must be admitted to have been the cause of much pleasant writing; nor has it failed to be turned to profitable instruction in verse; as witness the lines on a pipe:

"The pipe that is so lily white,In which so many take delight,'Tis broke by the touch,Man's life is but such —Think of this when you're smoking tobacco!"

How admirably was this verse sung by the poor soldier in "St. Patrick's Eve," when he supposes he is smoking his last pipe!

There was an amusing account given some twenty years ago in an English periodical, of a footman to a gentleman in a provincial town (which was crowded with strangers on some week of rejoicing, or of some convention or other), being sent, as a favor, to cut the hair of a friend of his master's, who had "put up" at a neighboring inn. He had tried to shave a person once before, on an emergency, and cut his own thumb half-off through his cheek. His experience in hair-cutting was not much more fortunate; but let him tell his own story:

"The first sight of my new 'patient' set my nerves dancing in all directions. He was a large, tall, brawny, red-hot Irishman, with a head of hair bright orange, and curly as the wool of a negro.

"'Cut my hair!' he said, in a voice like the grating of wagon-wheels; 'and, you spalpeen, be handy wid ye, for it's these twenty-four hours that I'm after waiting for ye.'

"The stranger's hair was stiff as wire; of an inveterate tight round curl; and bushy to absolute frightfulness from excess of luxuriant growth. He had started from London with it rather too long; worn it uncombed on a three months' journey through Wales; and was waiting until he could arrive at some town where he could have it cut in the fashion.

"'Cut my hair! I say, you devil's baby!' said the rollicking, roystering Irishman, imbibing at the same time a large draught from a tumbler of brandy-and-water, which he was consuming while he dressed, and recommencing, in a horrible voice, to sing 'The Lads of Shillelagh,' a measure which my entrance had for a moment interrupted.

"I obeyed, but with a trembling hand. The very first sight of his head had discomposed all my faculties. I plunged into the operation of adjusting it as into a voyage over sea, without rudder or compass. I cut a bit here and a bit there, taking off very little at a time, for fear of losing my way; but the detestable round curl, rolling itself up at the very moment I let go the end, defeated every hope, every chance of regularity.

"'Thin the rest!' blasphemed the sufferer, 'for I'll not wait. Thin, it, and leave it.'

"This command put the finishing stroke to my perplexity. 'Thinning' was a process entirely beyond my skill; but a fresh execration, interrupting, 'The Lads of Shillelagh,' left me no longer any power of thought. I had seen the business of 'thinning' performed, although I did not at all comprehend it. I knew that the scissors were to be run through the hair from one side to another with a sort of snip – snip – snip, all the way, so I dashed on; snip – snip – snip – through the close, round, red curls, quite surprised at my own dexterity, for about a minute and a half; and then, taking up my comb, to collect the proceeds of the operation, more than three-fourths of the man's hair came off in my hands!

"What followed I have never exactly been clear in remembering. I think my victim must have felt the sudden chill occasioned by the departure of the thick-set hedge that constituted his head-gear. At all events, he put his hand to his head, and motioned as if he 'did address himself to rise.' I made a rush for the door, muttering something about being obliged to 'go for the heating-irons;' but as I turned round for a parting glance 'at that misguided man,' I saw discovery in his eye. Indeed, I see him in my mind's eye even now, with a countenance more in amazement than in anger, standing paralyzed, beside the chair upon, which he had been sitting, and rubbing his head with the left hand, as if doubting whether his right hand had not misinformed him; but at the moment when the thing occurred, I thought only of escape."

That extempore friseur was never caught afterward with a pair of "thinning-scissors" in his hand!

As we are nigh upon the season of immature fruits, it may not be amiss to give, as a "solemn warning," the following touching

SONNET

ON A YOUTH WHO DIED OF EXCESSIVE FRUIT-PIE

Currants have checked the current of my blood,And berries brought me to be buried here;Pears have pared off my body's hardihood,And plums and plumbers spare not one so spare.Fain would I feign my fall; so fair a fareLessens not fate, but 'tis a lesson good:Gilt will not long hide guilt; such thin-washed wareWears quickly, and its rude touch soon is rued.Grave on my grave some sentence grave and terse,That lies not, as it lies upon my clay;But in a gentle strain of unstrained verse,Prays all to pity a poor patty's prey;Rehearses I was fruit-full to my hearse,Tells that my days are told, and soon I'm toll'd away!

It will make any "Christian" laugh to read the account which follows, of the manner in which Eastern superstition was, on one occasion, overcome by a stubborn, matter-of-fact clockmaker, who was employed to repair the great clock in the tower of the Mosque at Tangier. He was from Genoa, and a Christian. How could the faithful followers of the Prophet manage to employ him? The clock was fixed in the wall of the tower, and it was of course a thing impossible to allow the "Kaffer" to defile GOD'S house of prayer by his sacrilegious steps. One proposed to abandon the clock altogether; another suggested the laying down of boards, over which the infidel might pass, without touching the sacred floor; but this was not held to be a sufficient safeguard; and it was finally decided to pull up that part of the pavement on which the "Kaffer" trod, and whitewash the walls over which he passed.

The Christian was now sent for, and was told what was required of him; and he was expressly commanded to take off his shoes and stockings, on entering the mosque.

"I shan't do it!" said the stout little watch-maker; "I never take them off when I enter the chapel of the most Holy Virgin, and I won't take them off in the house of your Prophet!"

They cursed in their hearts the watch-maker and all his race, and were in a state of vast perplexity. The "wise men" had met early in the morning: it was already noon, and yet, so far from having got over their difficulty, they were, in fact, exactly where they had been before breakfast; when a gray-haired muezzin, or priest, who had hitherto been silent, claimed permission to speak:

"If," said the venerable priest, "the mosque be out of repair, and lime and bricks have to be conveyed into the interior, for the use of the masons, do not asses carry those loads, and do they not enter with their shoes on?"

"You speak truly," was the general reply.

"And does the donkey," resumed the muezzin, "believe in the One God, or in Mohammed, the Prophet of God?"

"No, in truth – no," all replied.

"Then," said the muezzin, "let the Christian go in shod, as a donkey would do, and come out as a donkey!"

The argument of the muezzin was unanimously applauded. In the character of a donkey, therefore, did the Christian enter the great Mohammedan temple!

That was a capital burlesque which appeared in "Punch," about the time that Prince de Joinville bombarded Algiers, in the shape of a letter from a French soldier to his mother in Paris. It is brim full of good puns:

"Your kind letter, strange to say, found me alive. You ask me to send you an account of our Model Farm. The farm is surrounded by a stockade, and we mount not less than fifty forty-two pounders. These are constantly double-loaded with grape of the very best vintage. Thus our guns bear upon our fields, if nothing else does. Indeed, every thing about us may be said to be shooting, except the crops. Still, I do not despair. Two months ago we plowed two hundred Arabs into a field of four acres, and now find that they are coming up very nicely in turnips. The agricultural glory there is rotting like bone-dust.

"It is amazing to see how glory blesses us in this country. We feed the Gallic cock upon small-shot; and, strange to say, the hens lay nothing but bullets. Indeed, such is the violence of the Arabs, that we are compelled to stand to our guns at milking-time and feed the pigs with fixed bayonets. We are, however, exercising the milk-maids in platoon-firing, and trust they are quite able to take the field with the cows, now that the guns, which they are to carry, have been provided us.

"We yesterday held a court-martial on the sentinel who mounted guard at the ducks' house; a party of the enemy having scaled the wall at night, and carried off our only brood of ducklings. The drake and duck were found with their throats cut! Were there ever such barbarous villains as these Arabs? The sentinel was shot at six this morning, with all the honors. Although the villains stole our ducks, they fortunately missed the onions: I say fortunately, for they might have found at least a rope apiece.

"We are, however, preparing for a grand operation. We have deposited an immense quantity of gunpowder under the dunghill. We purpose to appear off our guard – shall suffer the enemy to scale our stockade, plant their banners on our dunghill, and then – as they think, in the moment of victory – blow them to atoms! Thus may true glory be obtained, like mushrooms, even from a dunghill!