HARLEQUIN DUCK. (Clangula Histrionica.)
The sub-genus, Clangula, embraces several species of ducks, small in size, but very active. They are found most abundantly in the northern parts of our continent, only appearing in the Middle States of the Union when they are driven from their habitations by the ice. The general characters of the sub-genus present a short and narrow bill; the feathers on the scapulars produced, pointed and apart from each other; the third quills passing over the primaries in the closed wing.
The first species which presents itself to our notice is the common Golden Eye, known to many of our gunners by the name of the Brass-Eyed Whistlers. The latter name it derives from the noisy whistling of its short wings, as it rises when flushed. It does not appear to possess any audible voice, and never utters a cry, or a quack, when disturbed. Easy of approach, they are nevertheless exceedingly difficult to kill, as they dive with such dexterity at the flash of a gun, or the twang of a bow, as to set at defiance the Aborigines, who have ascribed to them supernatural powers, and named them the Conjuring, or Spirit Duck. The Golden Eye has been the subject of much diversity of opinion among naturalists, and we therefore the more readily give place to Wilson’s accurate description of his plumage. The Golden Eye is nineteen inches long, and twenty-nine inches in extent, and weighs, on an average, about two pounds; the bill is black, short, rising considerably up in the forehead; the plumage of the head, and part of the neck, is somewhat humid, and of a dark green, with violet reflections, marked near the corner of the mouth with an oval spot of white; the irides are golden-yellow; rest of the neck, breast, and whole lower parts, white, except the flanks, which are dusky; back and wings, black; over the latter, a broad bed of white extends from the middle of the lesser coverts to the extremity of the secondaries; the exterior scapulars are also white; tail, hoary brown; tail-coverts, black; legs and toes, reddish-orange, webs very large, and of a dark purplish-brown; hind toe, and exterior edge of the inner one, broadly finned; sides of the bill, obliquely dentated; tongue covered above with a fine, thick, velvety down, of a whitish color. The full plumaged female is seventeen inches in length, and twenty seven inches in extent; bill, brown, orange near the tip; head, and part of the neck, brown, or very dark drab, bounded below by a ring of white, below that the neck is ash, tipped with white; rest of the lower part, white; wings dusky, six of the secondaries and their greater coverts, pure white, except the tips of the last, which are touched with dusky spots; rest of the wing coverts sinereous, mixed with whitish; back and scapulars, dusky, tipped with brown; feet, dull orange; across the vent a band of sinereous; tongue, covered with the same velvety down as the male. The young birds of the first season very much resemble the females, but may generally be distinguished by the white spot, or at least its rudiments, which marks the corner of the mouth, yet in some cases even this is variable, both old and young male birds occasionally wanting the spot.
Its flesh is well flavored, and it is equally common, in the winter season, in all the coasts of the United States. It is essentially a water bird, and walks with extreme difficulty. The birds known in the Carolinas by the name of Dippers, and in Pennsylvania and New Jersey by the appellation of Butter Box, belong to the Clangula, and are known by the specific name of Spirit Ducks, which they have acquired by successful evasions of the bullet and the arrow. They are even more difficult to bag than the Golden Eye, for when wounded with shot, they conceal themselves with great art beneath the water, remaining submerged to the bill until they fall into the jaws of a hungry pike, or are abandoned by the disappointed sportsman.
Of all the Clangulas, however, the most rare and most valued is the beautiful species whose representation we have given above. It is not unfrequently found off the coasts of New England, where the elegant crescents and circles of white which ornament its neck and breast have gained for it the proud title of The Lord, and, on the shores of Hudson’s Bay, the Painted Duck. It swims and dives well, has a whistling note, flies swift and to a great height, but always takes to the water on the report of a gun, as its most secure and natural element. Its flesh is extremely good, far superior, as game, to the Wild Duck.
SINGLETON SNIPPE.
WHO MARRIED FOR A LIVING.
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BY JOSEPH C. NEAL.
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“Used to be—”
We have, as a general rule, an aversion to this species of qualifying phraseology, in which so many are prone to indulge. It seems to argue a disposition like to that of Iago, who “was nothing if not critical;” and it indicates a tendency to spy out flaws and to look after defect—a disposition and a tendency at war, we think, with that rational scheme of happiness which derives its comfort from the reflection of the sunny side of things. “It was”—“she has been”—“he used to be”—and so forth, as if all merit were a reminiscence—if not past, at least passing away. Is that a pleasure? Would it not be quite as well to applaud the present aspect, and to be satisfied with the existing circumstance, instead of murmuring over the fact that once it was brighter?
But yet there is a difference—
Yes—decidedly—the matter here is beyond the possibility of a dispute.
There is a difference—lamentable enough you may term it, between the Singleton Snippe that was, and the Singleton Snippe that is.
The Singleton Snippe that was, is not now an existence; and the probabilities are that he never will be again. Nothing is stable in this world but instability; and the livery-stable of to-day is converted into something else on the morrow, never more to be a stable, unstable stable. And so with men as well as with horses—for this perpetual revolution of human affairs goeth not backwards, except when the rope breaks on an inclined plane, making it a down-hill sort of a business. Snippe is on the down-hill—rather.
The Singleton Snippe that is, stands picturesquely and pictorially before you—patiently, as it were, and on a monument.
And now, was there ever—we ask the question of those who remember Snippe in his primitive and natural state—was there ever a merrier fellow than the said Singleton Snippe, in the original, if we may term it so—before the said Singleton was translated into his present condition, and became tamed down from his erratic, independent eccentricities to the patient tolerance of the band-box and the bundle? Who, thus remembering and thus contrasting Singleton Snippe as he was, with the Singleton Snippe as he is now portrayed, could possibly believe that there are processes in life—chemistries and alchemies—which could bring the man of to-day so diametrically opposite to the same man of yesterday; and cause the Singleton Snippe of the past to differ with such strangeness from the Singleton Snippe of the current era? Two Snippes, as plain as may be; but legally and responsibly the same Snippe. There was Snippe the bold—Snippe the reckless—Snippe the gay and hilarious—scoffing, joking, jeering Snippe—Snippe that was always on hand for mischief or for fun—Snippe, with the cigar in his mouth, or the champagne glass in his grasp—yes, that very Snippe whom you have so often heard in the street, disturbing slumber by the loud and musical avowal of his deliberate determination not to “go home till morning,” as if it would, barring the advantage of the daylight, be any easier to him then, and whose existence was ever a scene of uproar and jollity, except in the repentant intervals of headache and exhaustion. And then, besides his ornamental purposes, he was such a useful member of society, this Singleton Snippe, in the consumption of the good things of this life at the restaurants and in the oyster saloons.
Was not that a Snippe—something like a Snippe?
But, alas for Snippe, the last representative of the illustrious firm of “Tom & Jerry.” Who is there now—now that Snippe is withdrawn as a partner from the establishment—to maintain the credit of the house? Snippe is snubbed—snubbed is Snippe. Well, well, well—let the watchmen—sweet voices of the night—rejoice in their boxes, if they will, over their pine kindlings, and their hot sheet-iron stoves—rejoice in their cosy slumbers, that the original Snippe no longer molests their ancient, solitary reign, by uncouth noises, preliminary, symphonious, and symptomatic to a row. And let the cabmen—want a cab, sir?—be merry, too, with rein in hand, or reclining against the friendly wall, that they are no more to be victimized by the practical jocularities of the school of Singleton Snippe. What relish have they for the gracefulnesses of existence—its little playful embellishments, that bead and dimple the dull surface of the pond into the varieties of playful fantasy.
Such as these would describe a boy of the superlative order of merit, as “one that goes straight home and never stops to play on the road;” and we all know that Singleton Snippe never went straight home in the whole course of his experience.
Home!
Home, it should be understood, so much vaunted by the poets, and so greatly delighted in by the antipodes to Snippe, is regarded in quite a different light—humdrummish—by the disciples of Snippeism. Home, according to them, is not so much a spot to retire to, as a place to escape from—a centre of rendezvous, no doubt, with the washerwoman, the bootblack, and other indispensable people of that sort. Snippe’s new clothes were always sent home; and long bills, provocative of long faces, were apt to follow them with the certainty of cause and effect. But to stay at home himself—what—Snippe?—He stay at home? He was called for occasionally at that point—his breakfast was taken there, when any degree of appetite remained from the preceding night; and a note would eventually reach its destination if left for him there. But it required a very unusual conjunction of circumstances to find Singleton Snippe at home more frequently than could be helped. Home, in Snippe’s estimation, was the embodiment of a yawn—he never heard of it without the most extended of gapes. He could not speak of it without opening his mouth to the extent of its volume; and Snippe’s mouth is not a diamond edition, but rather an octavo, if not rising to the dignity of a quarto, at least when he is drinking. “Home!” said he; “home’s a bore. What fun is there at home, except dozing over the fire, or snoring on a sofa?”
Home, indeed!—Talk to Snippe about staying at home, if you would risk a home-icide. To be sure, when too ill to run about, Singleton Snippe remained unwillingly at home, as if it were a hospital; and he staid at home once for the space of an evening, merely to try the experiment, when he was in health; but before he went to bed, Snippe had thoughts of sending for the Coroner, to sit upon his body, but changed his mind and brewed a jorum of punch, which, after he had shod the cat with walnut shells, somewhat reconciled him to the monotone of domestic enjoyment. But Snippe never stayed at home again, not he. Home is where the heart is; and Snippe’s heart was a traveler—a locomotive heart, perambulating; and it had no tendencies toward circumscription and confine. That put him out of heart altogether.
Wherever any thing was going on—“a fight or a foot-race,” according to popular phraseology, which thus distinguishes the desirable in the shape of spectacular entertainment—there was Snippe, with his hat set knowingly on one side, to indicate that if others felt out of their element on the occasion, he, Snippe, was perfectly at home under all circumstances—the more at home, the more singular the occasion, and the more strange the circumstance; and his hat was the more knowingly set on to indicate the extent of his superiority to vulgar prejudices. It was the hat of a practical philosopher—of a thorough bred man of the world, who could extract sport from any thing, and who did not care, so that the occurrence afforded excitement, whether other people thought it reprehensible or not. Yes, yes—there is much in a hat—talk of your physiognomy and your phrenology—what are they as indications of character, feeling, and disposition, compared to the “set” of one’s beaver? Look at courage, will you, with its hat drawn resolutely down upon its determined brow. Dare you dispute the way with such a hat as that? The meek one and the lowly, with his hat placed timidly on the back of his head, does not every bully practice imposition there? Hats turned up behind, indicate a scornful indifference to public opinion in all its phases—say what you will, who cares? While the hat turned up before, has in it a generous confidence, free from suspicion of contempt. Nay, more—when science has made a further progress, why should not the expression of the hat afford knowledge of the passing mood of mind in its wearer, the hat shifting and changing in position as the brain beneath forms new combinations of thought? Let the shop-boy answer; does he not discover at a glance, from the style in which his master wears his hat at the moment, whether he, the subordinate, is to be greeted with scoldings and reproaches, or with commendations and applause? Does not the hat paternal forbode the sunshine or the storm; and as the pedagogue approaches school, where is the trembling truant who does not discern “the morn’s disaster” from the cocking of that awful hat? There cannot be a doubt of it. The science of the hat yet remains to be developed; and deep down in the realms of ignorance are they who have not reflected yet upon the clue afforded by the hat to what is passing in the soul of him who wears it.
Thus, you could distinguish Singleton Snippe’s hat at a horse-race, at a riot, or at a fire—equally delighted was that hat at every species of uproar—in the street—the lobby—the bar-room, or wherever else that hat could spy out “fun,” the great staple of its existence, with this advantage, that it had an instinct of peril, and could extricate itself from danger without the slightest ruffling of its fur. Snippe was wise—Snippe preferred that all detriments should fall to the share of others, while the joke remained with him.
But at last, a change reached even unto the hat of Snippe—change comes to all; a change, singularly enough, that took all other change from the pockets of Snippe. He was obliged to discover that the mere entertainments of life are not a commodity to live upon, and that however pleasant it may be to amuse one’s self, the profits therefrom accruing, do not furnish continued means of delectation and delight. Snippe neglected his business, and consequently, his business, with a perversity peculiar to business, neglected Snippe—so that Snippe and Snippe’s business had a falling out.
“This will never do,” declared Snippe, after deep reflection on the subject of ways and means—“never do in the world.”
But yet it did do—did do for Singleton Snippe, and effectually broke him up in the mercantile way, which involved all other ways; and so Mr. Snippe resolved to make the most available market that presented itself for the retrieval of past error. Snippe resolved to marry—advantageously, of course. Snippe was not poetical—he had no vein of romance in his constitution; he could live very well by himself, if he only had the means for that purpose; but not having the means, unfortunate Snippe, he determined to live by somebody else, living of some sort being a matter of necessity in Snippe’s estimation, though no other person could discover what necessity there was for the living of Snippe. The world might revolve without a Snippe; and affairs generally would work smoothly enough, even if he were not present. Snippe labored under a delusion.
But still—not having much of philosophy in his composition to enable him to discover that, so for as the general economy of the universe is concerned, it was no matter whether Singleton Snippe obtained a living or not; and lacking the desire, if not also the ability, to work out that living by his own energies of head and hands, Snippe, according to his own theory, having too much of proper pride and of commendable self-respect to engage in toil, though some of the unenlightened gave it the less respectful designation of laziness, which, perhaps, is a nearer relative to the pride of the Snippes than is generally supposed—Snippe, as already intimated, made up his mind to marry as aforesaid—upon the mercantile principle—bartering Snippe as a valuable commodity, (without regard to the penal enactments against obtaining goods on false pretences) for a certain share of boarding and lodging, and of the other appliances required for the outfit and the sustenance of a gentleman of wit and leisure about town—Snippe offered to the highest bidder—Snippe put up, and Snippe knocked down—going—gone!
Now although there are many who would not have had Singleton Snippe about the premises, even as a gift, and would have rejected him had he been offered as a Christmas-box, yet there was a rich widow, having the experience of three or four husbands, who did not hesitate on the experiment of endeavoring to fashion our Snippe into the shape and form of a good and an available husband. Mrs. Dawkins was fully aware of the nature of his past life, and of the peculiarities of his present position. She likewise formed a shrewd guess as to the reasons which impelled him to seek her well-filled hand, and to sigh after her plethoric purse—Snippe in search of a living; but confident in her own skill—justly confident, as was proved by the result—to reduce the most rebellious into a proper state of submissiveness and docility, she yielded her blushing assent to become the blooming bride of Singleton Snippe, and to undertake the government of that insubordinate province, the state of man.
“I shall marry Mrs. Dawkins,” thought Snippe; but, alas! how mistakenly; “I shall marry her,” repeated he, “and, for a week or two, I’ll be as quiet as a lamb, sitting there by the fire a twiddling of my thumbs, and saying all sorts of sweet things about ‘lovey,’ and ‘ducky,’ and so forth. But as soon after that as possible, when I’ve found out how to get at the cash, then Mrs. Dawkins may make up her mind to be astonished a little. That dining-room of hers will do nice for suppers and card parties, and punch and cigars—we’ll have roaring times in that room, mind I tell you we will. I’ll have four dogs in the yard—two pinters, a poodle, and a setter; and they shall come into the parlor to sleep on the rug, and to hunt the cat whenever they want to. A couple of horses besides—I can’t do without horses—a fast trotter, for fun, and a pacer, for exercise; and a great many more things, which I can’t remember now. But Mrs. Dawkins has a deal to learn, I can tell her. There’s nothing humdrum about Singleton Snippe; and if she did henpeck my illustrious predecessors, she has got to find the difference in my case.”
So Snippe emphasized his hat plump upon his brow, and looked like the individual, not Franklin, that defied the lightning.
“And I shall marry Singleton Snippe,” also soliloquized Mrs. Dawkins, “who is described to me as one of the wildest of colts, and as being only in pursuit of my money. Well, I’m not afraid. A husband is a very convenient article to have about the house—to run errands, to call the coach, to quarrel with work-people, and to accompany me on my visits. Everybody ought to have a husband to complete the furniture; and as for his being a wild colt, as Mrs. Brummagem says, I should like to see the husband of mine who will venture to be disobedient to my will when he has to come to me for every thing he wants. I’ll teach Mr. Singleton Snippe to know his place in less than a week, or else Mr. Singleton Snippe is a very different person from the generality of men.”
Thus Singleton Snippe and Mrs. Dorothea Dawkins became one, on the programme above specified; and thus Mr. Singleton Snippe, whose last dollar was exhausted in the marriage fee, was enabled to obtain a living. Poor Snippe!
Glance, with tear in eye, if tears you have, at the portrait of the parties now first laid before the public—note it in your books, how sadly Singleton Snippe is metamorphosed from the untamed aspect that formerly distinguished him in the walks of men, and tell us whether Driesbach, Van Amburg, or Carter, ever effected a revolution so great as we find here presented. Observe the bandbox, and regard the umbrell’—see—above all—see how curiously and how securely Singleton Snippe’s hand is enfolded in that of Mrs. Singleton Snippe, that she may be sure of him, and that he may not slip from her side, and relapse into former habits—“safe bind, safe find,” is the matrimonial motto of Mrs. Singleton Snippe. Moreover, in vindication of our favorite theory of the expression of the beaver, mark ye the drooping aspect of Snippe’s chapeau, as if it had been placed there by Mrs. Snippe herself, to suit her own fancy, and to avoid the daring look of bachelor, which is her especial detestation.
Snippe is subdued—a child might safely play with him.
And now, curious psychologist and careful commentator on the world, would ye learn how results apparently so miraculous, were effected and brought about? Read, then, and be wiser.
Snippe has his living, for he is living yet, though he scarcely calls it living—but Mrs. Snippe firmly holds the key of the strong-box, and thus grasps the reins of authority. The Snippes are tamed as lions are—by the mollifying and reducing result of the system of short allowances. Wonderful are the effects thereof, triumphant over Snippes—no suppers, no cards, no punches, and no cigars. The dogs retreated before judicious applications of the broom-handle; and it was found a matter of impossibility to trot those horses up—the arm of cavalry formed no branch in the services of Singleton Snippe.
Foiled at other points, Mr. Snippe thought that he might at least be able to disport himself in the old routine, and to roam abroad with full pockets in the vivacious field of former exploit; and he endeavored one evening silently to reach his hat and coat, and to glide away.
“Hey, hey!—what’s that?—where, allow me to ask, are you going at this time of night, Mr. Snippe?” cried his lady in notes of ominous sharpness.
“Out,” responded Snippe, with a heart-broken expression, like an afflicted mouse.
“Out, indeed!—where’s out, I’d like to know?—where’s out, that you prefer it to the comfortable pleasures of your own fireside?”
“Out is nowhere’s in particular, but everywhere’s in general, to see what’s going on. Everybody goes out, Mrs. Snippe, after tea, they do.”
“No, Mr. Snippe, everybody don’t—do I go out, Mr. Snippe, without being able to say where I am going to? No, Mr. Snippe, you are not going out to frolic, and smoke, and drink, and riot round, upon my money. If you go out, I’ll go out too. But you’re not going out. Give me that hat, Mr. Snippe, and do you sit down there, quietly, like a sober, respectable man.”
And so, Mr. Snippe’s hat—wonder not at its dejection—was securely placed every evening under Mrs. Snippe’s most watchful eye; and Mr. Snippe, after a few unavailing efforts to the contrary, was compelled to yield the point, to stay quietly at home, his peculiar detestation, and to nurse the lap-dog, and to cherish the cat, instead of bringing poodle and setter into the drawing-room to discontent the feline favorite.
“I want a little money, Mrs. Snippe, if you please—some change.”
“And, pray, allow me to ask what you want it for, Mr. Snippe?”
“To pay for things, my dear.”
“Mr. Snippe, I tell you once for all, I’m not going to nurture you in your extravagance, I’m not. Money, indeed!—don’t I give you all you wish to eat, and all you want to wear? Let your bills be sent to me, Mr. Snippe, and I’ll save you all trouble on that score. What use have you for money? No, no—husbands are always extravagant, and should never be trusted with money. My money, Mr. Snippe—mine—jingling in your pockets, would only tempt you to your old follies, and lead you again to your worthless companions. I know well that husbands with money are never to be trusted out of one’s sight—never. I’ll take better care of you than that, Mr. Snippe, I will.”
If Singleton Snippe ever did escape, he was forthwith brought to the confessional, to give a full and faithful account of all that had occurred during his absence—where he had been—whom he had seen—what he had done, and every thing that had been said, eliciting remarks thereon, critical and hypercritical, from his careful guardian; and so also, when a little cash did come into his possession, he was compelled to produce it, and to account for every deficient cent.
No wonder, then, that Singleton Snippe underwent
“A sea change,
Into something quaint and strange.”
He married for a living, but while he lives, he is never sure whether it is himself or not, so different is the Singleton Snippe that is, from the Singleton Snippe that was.
If you would see and appreciate differences in this respect, it would not be amiss to call upon the Snippes, and to observe with what a subdued tranquilized expression, the once dashing, daring Snippe now sits with his feet tucked under his chair, to occupy as little room as possible, speaking only when he is spoken to, and confining his remarks to “Yes, Ma’m,” and “No, Ma’m.” Mrs. Snippe has “conquered a peace.”
THE OATH OF MARION.
A STORY OF THE REVOLUTION.
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BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.
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(Concluded from page 99.)