ANECDOTE.
An Irish officer of dragoons, on the continent, on hearing that his mother had been married since he quitted Ireland, exclaimed—“By St. Patrick, there is that mother of mine married again, I hope she wont have a son older than me, for if she has I shall be cut out of my estate!”
THE FARRAGO.
Nº. III.
——“FULL MANY A PRANK
HE PLAYED, AND TRICKS MOST FANCIFUL AND STRANGE.”
MASSINGER.
Men of tenacious memory, who retain information a week old, may recollect, in my last number, a portrait of Meander.—
“A man so various, that he seem’d to be
“Not one, but all mankind’s epitome:
“Who, in the course of one revolving moon,
“Was poet, painter, lover, and buffoon;
“Then all for wenching, gambling, rhyming, drinking,
“Besides ten thousand freaks, that dy’d in thinking.”
Agreeably to a promissory note, given in a preceding essay, I now publish, from the diary of this fantastic wight, a selection, which, if judiciously improved, may sober giddy genius, may fix the volatile, and stimulate even Loungers.
MEANDER’s JOURNAL.
April 8, Monday.——Having lately quaffed plenteous draughts, of the dream of dissipation, I determine to bridle my fancy, to practice self-denial, to live soberly, and to study with ardor. That I may with ease discharge the various duties of the day, I propose, that “Strutting Chanticleer” and myself, should unroost at the same hour. With this resolve, I couple a determination, to study law with plodding diligence, and to make my profession, and a course of history, my capital objects.
Memorandum. Belles lettres must be considered a subaltern pursuit. If I rise at the dawn, and study jurisprudence till noon, I shall have the satisfaction to reflect, that I have discharged my legal duty for the day. This course, duly persisted in, will probably make me something more than a Tyro, in the language of the law. If I pour over my folios with the diligence I propose, I shall acquire, in Blackstone’s phrase, such a legal apprehension, that the obscurities, which at present confound me, will vanish, and my journey through the wilderness of law, will, paradventure become delectable.
Tuesday.—Overslept myself, did not rise till nine. Dressed, and went out, intending to go to the office; but, as the morning was uncommonly beautiful, I recollected an aphorism of Dr. Cheyne’s, that exercise should form part of a student’s religion. Accordingly, I rambled through the woods for two hours. The magic of rural scenes diverted Fancy, whom, on my return to the office, I wished to retire, that her elder sister, Judgment, might have an opportunity to hold a conference with the sage Blackstone: but, the sportive slut remained, dancing about, and I found my spirits so agitated, that, to calm them I took up a volume of plays, and read two acts in Centlivre’s Busy Body.
Afternoon, 2 o’clock.—Took up a folio, and began to read a British statute; meanwhile, I received a billet, importing that a couple of my college cronies were at a neighbouring inn, who wished me to make one of a select party. I complied. The sacrifices to Mercury and Bacchus, wore away the night, and it was day before I retired to the land of drowsy head, as Thompson quaintly expresses it.
Wednesday.—Rose at ten; sauntered to the office and gaped over my book. Low spirits and a dull morning, had raised such a fog around my brain, that I could hardly discern a sentiment. Opened a “dissertation on memory,” read till my own failed. I then threw away my book, and threw myself on the bed; I can’t tell how long I remained there, but, somebody shaking me by the shoulder, I opened my eyes and saw—the maid, who came to inform me it was 8 o’clock in the evening, and that coffee was ready.
Thursday.—Went out at seven, with a determination to attend to business; thought I might venture to call at a friend’s house; on my entrance saw a brace of beauties, whose smiles were so animating that they detained me, “charmed by witchery of eyes,” till noon. I returned to my lodgings, and finding my spirits too sublimated for serious study, I beguiled the remainder of the afternoon, by writing a sonnet to Laura.
Evening.—Lounged to my bookshelf, with an intent to open Blackstone, but made a mistake, and took down a volume of Hume’s History of England. Attention became quite engrossed by his narrative of the reign of Henry I. A versatile, brilliant genius, who blended in one bright assemblage, ambition, prudence, eloquence and enterprize; who received and merited, what I think, the most glorious of all titles, that of Beauclerc, or, the polite scholar. The formidable folios, which stood before me, seemed frowningly to ask, why I did not link to my ambition, that prudence, which formed part of Henry’s fame? The remorseful blush of a moment, tinged my cheek, and I boldly grasped a reporter; but, straightway recollecting, that I had recently supped, and that, after a full meal, application was pernicious to health, I adjourned the cause Prudence versus Meander, till morning.
Friday.—Rose at the dawn, which is the first time I have complied with my resolution, of unroosting with the cock. “Projecting many things, but accomplishing none,” is the motto to my coat of arms. Began my studies, nothing with nice care, the curious distinction in law, between general and special Tail; at length, I grew weary of my task, and thought with Shakespeare’s Horatio, that ’twere considering too curiously, to consider thus. Began to chat with my companions; we are, when indolent, ever advocates for relaxation; but, whether an attorney’s office is the place, where idling should be tolerated, is a question, which I do not wish to determine in the negative. Finished my morning studies with “Hafen Shawkenbergius’s tenth decad.”
Afternoon.—Did nothing very busily till four. Seized with a lethargic yawn, which lasted till seven, when a dish of coffee restored animation, and on the entrance of a friend, fell into general conversation; made a transition to the scenes of our boyish days, and till midnight, employed memory in conjuring up to view, the shades of our departed joys.
Saturday.—Slept but little, last night. My imagination was so busy in castle building, that she would not repose. Dreamed that Lord Coke threw his “Institute” at me. Rose at nine, looked abroad; and the atmosphere being dusky, and my spirits absent on furlough, felt unqualified for reading. For several days there has been a succession of gloomy skies. The best writers affirm that such weather is unfriendly to menial labour. The poet says
“While these dull fogs invade the head,
“Memory minds not what is read.”
Took up a magazine, which I carefully skimmed but obtained no cream. Cracked, in the Dean of St. Patrick’s phrase, a rotten nut, which cost me a tooth and repaid me with nothing but a worm.—Breakfasted; reflected on the occurrences of the week. In the drama of my life, procrastination, and indolence, are the principal actors. My resolutions flag, and my studies languish. I must strive to check the irregular sallies of fancy. I never shall be useful to others, till I have a better command of myself. Surely one, abiding in the bowers of ease, may improve, if industry be not wanting. Alfred could read and write, eight hours every day, though he fought fifty six pitched battles, and rescued a kingdom; and Chatterton, the ill-fated boyish bard, composed, though cramped by penury, poems of more invention than many a work which has been kept nine years and published at a period of the ripest maturity. When I fly from business, let ambition, therefore, think on, and practice these things. I determine, next week, to effect an entire revolution in my conduct, to form a new plan of study, and to adhere to it with pertinacity. As this week is on the eve of expiration, it would be superfluous to sit down to serious business. I therefore amused myself, by dipping into Akenside’s “Pleasures of Imagination;” read till five, visited a friend, and conversed with him till midnight; conversation turned on propriety of conduct, for which I was a strenuous advocate—* * * * * * *
Here the journal of Meander was abruptly closed. I was curious to learn in what manner he employed his week of reformation. On the ensuing Monday he grew weary of his books; instead of mounting Pegasus, and visiting Parnassus, he actually strode a hack-horse of mere mortal mould, and, in quest of diversion, commenced a journey. He was accompanied, not by the muses, but by a party of jocund revellers; and prior to my friend’s departure, the last words he was heard so say, or rather roar, were the burden of a well known anacreontic “dull thinking will make a man crazy.”
The character and journal of Meander scarcely need a commentary. There shall be none. I was not born in Holland, and only Dutchmen, are qualified to write notes. But I will make an apostrophe.
Ye tribe of Mercurealists! in the name of prudence, avoid eccentricity; expand not your fluttering pinions; trudge the foot-way path of life; dethrone Fancy and crown Common Sense. Let each one seek and fulfil his daily task, “one to his farm and another to his merchandize.”
ANECDOTES.
A worthy Clergyman belonging to a parish in New-England, had the misfortune to have a son of a flighty and wild disposition: altho’ many were the pious admonitions of the virtuous father to bring his son’s remissness into subordination with his own, he had to lament that his injunctions and assiduous endeavours were fruitless, and far from being productive of the desired end.—His son’s heart was so averse to solemnity, that he could not contain himself at the time of worship, and he was often so overstocked with frivolity and his mischievous humor, that his father often noticed it, while preaching, with much regret—and concluded upon harsher means than he had before used to bring his son to better subjection.—The next sabbath he confined him to his house, and proceeded to church with the rest of his family, consisting of his wife, two daughters, and his old negro Tone:—the service being nearly half performed, and the pastor speaking with much fervency to his crouded audience, his voice was all at once drowned by a sudden and tremendous burst of laughter, from all parts of the church, which confounded him.—This laughter was occasioned by the sudden entrance of his favorite old dog, who always placed himself next the pulpit door, in full view of the audience; he now appeared decorated in an old gown and wig powdered and tied on with much taste, which occasioned such loud peals of laughter, that he with difficulty obtained an explanation in ten or fifteen minutes. Old Tone, who seemed to be more in a state of reserve than any other, cried out from the gallery in great earnestness—“Massa, Massa! ony you look at our Tray, den you se what ma-ke dem laff!”—The parson opening the pulpit door, the old dog immediately ascended to him, and was so profuse with his caresses, that the pastor could scarcely dismiss his congregation.
Christina, the Swedish Queen, never wore a night-cap, but always wrapped her head in a napkin. In order to amuse her during her sleepless nights, after having been indisposed the preceding days, she ordered music to be performed near her bed, the curtain of which was entirely closed.
Transported at length with the pleasure she received from a particular passage in the music, she hastily put her head out of bed, and exclaimed. “How well he sings!” The poor Italian singers, who are in general not remarkable for bravery, were so much frightened by her voice, and the sudden appearance of such an extraordinary figure, that they became at once dumb and stupified, and the music immediately ceased.