Noctes Amicæ.
Of tipsy drollery, a correspondent of the Evening Post (Mr. Bryant himself, we have no doubt), writes: "It is esteemed a mark of a vulgar mind, to divert one's self at the expense of a drunken man; yet we allow ourselves to be amused with representations of drunkenness on the stage and in comic narratives. Nobody is ashamed to laugh at Cassio in the play of Othello, when he has put an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains. The personation which the elder Wallack used to give us some years ago, of Dick Dashall, very drunk, but very gentlemanly, was one of the most irresistibly comic things ever known. I have a mind to give you a translation of a German ballad on a tipsy man, which has been set to music, and is often sung in Germany; it is rather droll in the original, and perhaps it has not lost all of its humor in being overset, as they call it, into English. Here it is:"
OUT OF THE TAVERN, ETC.
Out of the tavern I've just stepped to-night
Street! you are caught in a very bad plight.
Right hand and left hand are both out of place;
Street, you are drunk, 'tis a very clear case.
Moon, 'tis a very queer figure you cut;
One eye is staring while t'other is shut.
Tipsy, I see; and you're greatly to blame;
Old as you are 'tis a terrible shame.
Then the street lamps, what a scandalous sight!
None of them soberly standing upright.
Rocking and staggering; why, on my word,
Each of the lamps is drunk as a lord.
All is confusion; now isn't it odd?
I am the only thing sober abroad.
Sure it were rash with this crew to remain,
Better go into the tavern again.
This is parodied or stolen by the clever author of the Bon Gaultier Ballads, in one of his best pieces.
The famous Quaker Anthony Benezet, was accustomed to feed the rats in the area before his house in Philadelphia. An old friend who found him so engaged, expressed some surprise that he so kindly treated such pernicious vermin, saying, "They should rather be killed and out of the way." "Nay," said good Anthony, "I will not treat them so; thou wouldst make them thieves by maltreating and starving them, but I make them honest by feeding them, for being so fed, they never prey upon any goods of mine." This singular fact is very characteristic. When feeding rats, the benevolent philosopher used to stand in the area, and they would gather round his feet like chickens. One of the family once hung a collar about one of them, which was seen for years after, feeding in the group.
Des Cartes fought at the siege of Rochelle, and after a variety of adventures, established himself in Holland, where he composed most of his works. These abound in singular theories and curious speculations, and their spirit of independence aroused the same spirit wherever they were read. Scholars and theologians vied with each other in battling the new opinions. The followers of Aristotle and the followers of Locke arrayed themselves against him. His novelties even drew the attention of women from their fashions. "The ladies of quality here, of late," says a writer from Paris, in 1642, "addict themselves to the study of philosophy, as the men; the ladies esteeming their education defective, if they cannot confute Aristotle and his disciples. The pen has almost supplanted the exercise of the needle; and ladies' closets, formerly the shops of female baubles, toys, and vanities, are now turned to libraries and sanctuaries of learned works. There is a new star risen in the French horizon, whose influence excites the nobler females to this pursuit of human science. It is the renowned Monsieur Des Cartes, whose lustre far outshines the aged winking tapers of Peripatetic Philosophy, and has eclipsed the stagyrite, with all the ancient lights of Greece and Rome. 'Tis this matchless soul has drawn so many of the fairer sex to the schools. And they are more proud of the title—Cartesian—and of the capacity to defend his principles, than of their noble birth and blood."
We find in The Courts of Europe at the Close of the last Century, by Henry Swinburne, the following illustration of American manners:
"An English officer, Colonel A in a stage to New-York, and was extremely annoyed by a free and enlightened citizen's perpetually spitting across him, out of the window. He bore it patiently for some time, till at last he ventured to remonstrate, when the other said, 'Why, colonel, I estimate you're a-poking fun at me—that I do. Now, I'm not a-going to chaw my own bilge-water, not for no man. Besides, you need not look so thundering ugly. Why, I've practised all my life, and could squirt through the eye of a needle without touching the steel, let alone such a great saliva-box as that there window.' Colonel A at last his anger got up, and he spat bang in his companion's face, exclaiming, 'I beg you a thousand pardons, squire, but I've not practised as much as you have. No doubt, by the time we reach New-York, I shall be as great a dabster as you are.' The other rubbed his eye, and remained bouche close."
In support of the hydropathic practice, and in illustration of the effect of cold, we cite an anecdote Mignet tells of the celebrated French physician Broussais:
"Seized with a violent fever at Nimèguen, Broussais was attended by two of his friends, who each prescribed opposite remedies. Embarrassed by such contradictory opinions, he resolved to follow neither. Believing himself to be seriously in danger, he jumped out of bed in the midst of this raging fever, and almost naked sat down to his escrutoire to arrange his papers. It was in the month of January; the streets were covered with snow. While thus settling his affairs the fever abated, a sensation of freshness and comfort diffused itself throughout his frame. Amazed at this result, Broussais, like a bold theorist as he was, converted his casual forgetfulness into an experience. He boldly threw open the window, and for some time inspired the cold winter air that blew in upon him. Finding himself greatly benefited, he concluded that cool drink would be as refreshing to his stomach as cold air had been to his body. He deluged his stomach with cold lemonade, and in less than forty-eight hours he was well again!"
The following amusing anecdote is told in a work recently published in London of Tom Cooke, the actor and musician:
"At a trial in the Court of King's Bench, June, 1833, betwixt certain publishing tweedledums and tweedledees, as to the alleged piracy of an arrangement of the 'Old English Gentleman,'—an old English air, by the bye—Cooke was subpœnaed as a witness. On his cross-examination by Sir James Scarlet, afterwards Lord Abinger, for the opposite side, that learned counsel rather flippantly questioned him thus: 'Now, sir, you say that the two melodies are the same, but different; now what do you mean by that, sir?' To this Tom promptly answered, 'I said that the notes in the two copies were alike, but with a different accent, the one being in common time, the other in sixth-eight time; and, consequently, the position of the accented notes was different.' Sir James—'What is musical accent?' Cooke—'My terms are a guinea a lesson, sir.' (A loud laugh.) Sir James (rather ruffled)—'Never mind your terms here. I ask you what is musical accent. Can you see it?' Cooke—'No.' Sir James—'Can you feel it?' Cooke—'A musician can.' (Great laughter.) Sir James (very angry)—'Now, pray sir, don't beat about the bush, but explain to his lordship and the jury, who are supposed to know nothing about music, the meaning of what you call accent.' Cooke—'Accent in music, is a certain stress laid upon a particular note, in the same manner as you would lay a stress upon any given word for the purpose of being better understood. Thus, if I were to say, 'You are an ass—it rests on ass; but if I were to say, 'You are an ass—it rests on you, Sir James.' Reiterated shouts of laughter by the whole court, in which the bench itself joined, followed this repartee. Silence having been at length obtained, the Judge, with much seeming gravity, accosted the chop-fallen counsel thus: Lord Denman—'Are you satisfied, Sir James?' Sir James (deep red as he naturally was, to use poor Jack Reeve's own words, had become scarlet in more than name), in a great huff, said, 'The witness may go down!'"
A Portuguese paper gives some statistics which could only be obtained under the spy and secret police system. There are said to be in Portugal 872,634 married couples, of which the present condition is very nearly as follows:—"Women who have left their husbands for their lovers, 1,262. Husbands who have left their wives for other women, 2,361. Couples who have agreed to live separately, 33,120. Couples who live in open warfare, under the same roof, 13,263. Couples who cordially hate each other, but dissemble their aversion under the appearance of love, 162,320. Couples who live in a state of tranquil indifference, 510,132. Couples who are thought by their acquaintances to be happy, but are not themselves convinced of their own felicity, 1,102. Couples that are happy as compared with those that are confessedly unhappy, 131. Couples indisputably happy in each other, 0. Total, 872,634."
The first duel in New England, was fought with sword and dagger, between two servants. Neither of them was killed, but both were wounded. For this disgraceful offence, they were formally tried before the whole company (the first settlers), and sentenced to have their "heads and feet tied together, and so to be twenty-four hours, without meat or drink." Their bravery all exploded in a little while, and they plead piteously to be released, which was finally done by the Governor on their promising better behavior. "Such was the origin," says Dr. Morse, "and such, I may almost venture to say, was the termination of the odious practice of duelling in New England, for there have been very few fought there since."
We are told by Ariosto of a warrior who was so happily gifted that when his arms, his legs, or even his head, happened to be chopped off in battle, he could jump down from his horse and replace the dissevered member. Many modern humbugs are of this description; they are real polipi; chop them into a thousand pieces, and each piece will start up as brisk and as lively as ever. Metaphysical humbugs are the most difficult kind to deal with. Contending with them is like wrestling with spectres; there is not substance enough to catch hold of.
Lately, at a sitting of the Norwegian legislature at Christiana, a petition was presented from the world-known fiddler, Ole Bull, in which he solicited the creation of a national theatre in that town, to receive a subvention from the government, and to which a dramatic school was to be attached. The Assembly voted that the petition should be taken into consideration, and appointed a committee to draw up a report on it. M. Bull has already founded, at his own cost, a theatre in his native town, Bergen. M. Bull visits this country now in search only of pleasure.