It is fortunate for all minor matters—such as Jenny Lind, Kossuth, green-peas, strawberries, and Lola Montez—that our President-making comes only by quartettes of years. It is painful to think of the monotone of talk which would overtake the world, if Baltimore Conventions were held monthly or even yearly.
We are writing now in the eye of the time; and can give no guess as to what candidates will emerge from the Baltimore ballot-boxes; but when this shall come under our reader's eye, two names only will form the foci of his political fears and hopes. Without any predilections whatever, we most ardently wish that our reader may not be disappointed—however his hopes may tend: and if any editor in the land can "trim" to his readers' humor, with greater sincerity, and larger latitude, we should like to know it.
Ole Bull has been delighting the musical world, in his way, for the month last gone, and has made more converts to the violin, by the fullness of his faith, and the fervor of his action, than many preachers can win over, by like qualities, to any labor of love.
The truth is, there lies in this Scandinavian a heartiness of impulse, and an exuberance of soul, which makes the better part of what men call genius. You have a conviction—as you listen—that you are dependent for your delight upon no nice conformity with rules—no precision of compliance—no formulary excellence, but only and solely upon the spirit of the man, creeping over him to the very finger-tips, and making music and melody of very necessity.
There is a freshness, a wildness, a fierté in the harmonies that Ole Bull creates, which appeal not alone to your nice students of flats and sharps, but to every ear that ever heard a river flowing, or the soughing of pine woods. It is a make-piece—not of Donizetti's arias—but of that unceasing and musical hum which is going up every summer's day in the way of bee-chants, and bird-anthems, and which the soul-wakened Scandinavian has caught, and wrought and strung upon five bits of thread!
The papers (they are accountable for whatever may not be true in our stories) have told us strange, sad things of the musical hero's life. First, that he has been a great patron of the arts—nor is it easy to believe that he could be otherwise. Next, they have told us, that he is an earnest lover of such liberty as makes men think, and read, and till their own lands—nor is this hard to believe. Again they tell us that he has sometimes rendered himself obnoxious to the powers that be—that his estates, once very large, have been confiscated, and that he has come hitherward only for the sake of repairing his altered fortunes.
If the truth lie indeed so hardly upon him, we wish him even more success than his merit will be sure to win.
Among the on dits of the time, we must not pass by the good and ill-natured comments upon the new-passed Liquor Laws of Massachusetts and of Rhode Island. When the reader remembers that Nahant and Newport are within the limits of these two States, and that summer visitors to the favorite watering places are not unapt to call for a wine-card, and to moisten their roast lamb and peas (especially after an exhilarating sea-bath) with a cup of Heidseck, or of Longworth's sparkling Catawba, they may readily imagine the consternation that has crept over certain portions of the visiting world. We (meaning we as Editors) are of course without any preferences either for watering places or—for that matter—liquoring places. Yet we are curious to see how far the new system will favor the fullness and the gayety of the old summer resorts.
Persistent Newport visitors, who have grown old with their sherry and their port, are arranging for the transportation of "small stores," as a portion of their luggage; and are negotiating with the landlords their rates of "corkage." Whether this side-tax on the matter will not render host and guest obnoxious to the new-started laws, is a matter we commend to the serious attention of the hopeful lawyers of Newport.