Accordingly, in the next number of the Zuyderzee, appeared an "original article," sandwiched between the first part of "A Thrilling Romance of the Second Century," and a "Tale of the Flower Girl of the Fejee Islands," entitled "An Essay on the Greek Language, by Professor Relyat Siwel, LL.D."
In this interesting essay, Professor Relyat Siwel had attacked Mr. Karl Benson on a variety of subjects: first he had exposed him by showing that the initials "K. B.," at the foot of the editorial, did not mean "K. B.," but Karl Benson; and hence he ingeniously argued that Mr. Benson's signing himself "K. B.," when he was not "K. B.," was a fraud on the community. Having thus exposed the malice prepense of the unfortunate Benson, he intimated that the English participle in "ing" often had the meaning of the perfect; and hence that translating a Greek verb in the perfect by the participle aforesaid, was not such a very heinous offence after all. This bomb-shell was not, however, thrown into Mr. Benson's magazine without an immense amount of smoke and noise. He adopted the celebrated ironical Congressional style: "This eminent Greek scholar," "this pattern of classical criticism," "this prodigy of the English universities, who has had his own private tutor, must now be informed that the English participle in 'ing,'" &c., &c. Nor did the essay on the Greek language stop here. It savagely sneered at "K. B.'s" vanity at having been educated in an English university, and made the most cutting remarks on his criticisms in general. Such flowers of rhetoric as "literary scavenger," "purse-proud fop," "half-educated boy," &c., were thrown around as thickly as though the Flower Girl of the Fejee Islands herself had crossed the path of clerical criticism.
Great interest was excited by these little love passages in the different colleges in the country. The studious young citizens read the "criticism" and the "essay" with the most praiseworthy avidity. Karl had replied to the essay in a few majestic sentences in the Editor's Table, the effect of which was somewhat impaired by the real editor's saying in a note at the foot, that he wasn't going to have any more of this sort of thing in his magazine; and that as both parties had had their hearing, it must stop now. In his reply, Karl had offered to do something or other to the Greek language against Professor Relyat Siwel (President Blank being the judge), for a thousand dollars a side. Great was the enthusiasm produced by this offer. Several college periodicals announced it as a renovation of the art of criticism, and an innumerable quantity of young orators hinted it as the beacon blaze mentioned in Agamemnon, shining on Clytemnestra's battlements, and bringing joy to Argos. Some discussion was also induced necessarily as to how the classic contest was to "come off." A great many young gentlemen insisted that it was in the nature of a "set-to," and, for that reason, that Professor Relyat Siwel, being the smallest man, should be allowed to "choose his corner." Many, however, thought that it was in the nature of a steeple chase, and that as the Professor was the lightest weight, he ought to go it "leaded." This vexed question was at length put at rest by an inquisitive Sophomore's reading the foot-note referred to, in which it was discovered that the fun was over. This blow was followed by another, viz., a rumor that Professor Relyat Siwel felt it his duty to decline, for the reason that it was by no means certain that Plato had ever put up a thousand dollars, or any other amount whatever.
Karl hailed this decision of the Professor as a "back out," and after reading his reply to the essay several times in manuscript, and innumerable times in print, he came to a conclusion that the controversy contained the two great desiderata of all controversies, those for which ignorant men study, lazy men work, ministers quarrel, quiet old gentlemen write newspaper articles, ladies set their caps, and nations go to war—namely triumph and defeat. As he had had the "last word," of course his last arguments were unanswered—he was triumphant, and Professor Relyat Siwel beaten.
This comforting reflection did not reach so far as the colleges and universities, and within their peaceful walls was heard a voice of anger and regret. The quiet portion of the undergraduates (who intended to be clergymen and physicians) mourned the loss of the anticipated contest as a defeat of the cause of learning—one which it would probably survive, but still one in which it had been floored. The unquiet portion (who intended to be lawyers or statesmen) heard the news with virtuous indignation; by them the senior editor, with even the Zuyderzee itself, was anathematized. In the literary societies, where embryo lawyers are always largely in the majority, for the reason that fifteen-sixteenths of the young men of the United States intend, in early life, to be Cokes and Littletons, there were passed, by acclamation, most severe resolutions, expressive of deep regret, that in the nineteenth century, in a free country, in the empire state, in a city devoted to literature, an editor—one conducting a magazine professing to be favorable to the development of the nation's resources—should take upon himself, in defiance of public opinion, of the wishes of his patrons, of the interests of humanity, to stifle free discussion and the fame of the Attic sages. These resolutions were generally prefaced by a preamble setting forth that whereas the editor of a magazine known, as The Zuyderzee, had done so and so, therefore it was resolved, &c. In some cases, the societies resolved that they would not pay their subscriptions for The Zuyderzee (resolutions which it is due to them to say they religiously stood by), and in others they sent copies of the resolutions to the senior editor, who, however, survived the several shocks.
We left Ashburner and his host talking about Plautus and agriculture. The conversation lasted until they reached the river, and took their seats in a plainly painted and rather ordinary kind of skiff. Ashburner noticed it, and also remarked that instead of the picturesque boat-house of an English gentleman, Karl used a small wharf at which sloops loaded and unloaded their cargoes. Ashburner said something of this to Karl, and Karl said something of ice in the spring, freshets in the fall, and low water in the summer; but Harry Benson, as usual, put in his oar, and explained the matter more fully, and no doubt more truly: "You see, Ashburner," said he, "the fact is, we are not a sporting people; our gentlemen rarely ride, and our ladies never walk. In England, every one knows, or pretends to know, something of field sports, or riding, or yachting, or something or other of that sort; and then, too, your English girl thinks nothing of walking three or four miles; but it is not so here. The reason is, partly, that our rich men are business men, and our poor ones always engaged, and partly because our climate is so different from yours. I think the climate is the most effective cause of the two; you see the year begins (here at the north, I mean) with deep snows; at the south they have rain and mud; then, when spring and mild weather come, they last but a very little while, and we have the melting red-hot sort of days that you've been through already. To be sure our Indian-summer is the finest weather for exercise in the world, but then it only lasts a little while, and after it come the fall rains. It can't be denied, though," pursued Harry, after pausing a moment, "that we might all exercise a great deal more than we do, if we really wanted to. In Virginia, they ride and shoot a great deal more than we do here. But our girls' heads are busy with polkas rather than walks, and then the weather makes a good excuse for them. It can't be denied, though, Ashburner, that your countrymen, after being here a short time, exercise as little as we do ourselves; yet it's hard to say which has the most to do with their degeneracy—example or weather."
"But," said Ashburner, "I should not think that hot or cold weather could prevent a gentleman from having a light and handsome boat."
"Yes, it does," rejoined Harry, "not directly, but indirectly. The weather, business, and amusements, turn attention into other channels, and consequently our country gentleman does not keep his light skiff and picturesque boat-house, because there's nobody to row the one or admire the other. Now, here's Karl, who lives in the country, and continually talks about country air and country exercise, why, bless you! if I hadn't taught him to ride, he wouldn't exercise at all: he does not walk a mile a day; hasn't rowed across the river since he's lived here; wouldn't join in a cricket-match to save himself from apoplexy; in short, is as lazy a fellow as can possibly be found. Then our country girls are just the same. Once in a while they ride, but there are hundreds of them living in the country who have never been on horseback; and when they do know how, they ride rarely, because they've no one to ride with them,—a young lady's dashing off ten or twelve miles with only a servant after her would be thought highly improper. Then, the way we dress is perfectly ridiculous: nothing substantial—nothing useful; a girl's walking shoes are as thin as paper; an English nobleman wears heavier boots than one of our laborers. The truth is, we have a great deal too much of Paris refinement; we must get England to come over and uncivilize us. If we do live in a new country, we want to learn a few of the barbarous arts of riding, driving, walking, hunting, &c. It's a pity, too, that our young men, instead of being hale, hearty fellows, such as you have at the English universities, are generally a thin, hollow-chested, dyspeptic, consumptive-looking set—children at twenty, and old men at thirty."
Ashburner had noticed this before, and it had surprised him that in a land where, less than a century ago, the inhabitants were literally denizens of the wilderness, he should find fewer field sports and less attention paid to that class of amusements than in the oldest counties of England. As Harry said, the weather and business were probably chief causes of the evil, while the inundation of French fashions and ideas had helped to sustain it.
By the time Harry had concluded his lecture, and Karl had got in a general and particular remonstrance, the one on behalf of all country gentlemen, and the other on behalf of himself, they had nearly crossed the broad river, and the boat was rapidly gliding into a small bay surrounded by high wooded banks. The sun had gone down, and the stillness of a summer evening had settled upon the scene; the swallows skimmed along the smooth water, which the breeze no longer ruffled, and from the distant sloops that now seemed sleeping on the calm surface, Ashburner could plainly hear the voices of their crews. In a few moments the men stopped rowing, and in another moment the boat grated on the gravelly beach, and the party jumped out. Karl told the men when they would return, and then they began clambering up a narrow path which wound up the hill. Ashburner noticed a light skiff lying in the bay, painted and fitted up with more than ordinary taste, and with light oars that looked as though they were meant for a lady's hand. Soon the path brought the little party to the top of the hill, which opened on clear meadows, across which could be seen a plain white house, half hidden by the old trees that were grouped around it. The Bensons seemed well acquainted with every thing, for they led the way without hesitation, till they reached what seemed to be a carriage-way from the house to the public road, that could be seen not a great way off. Ashburner saw at a glance, as they approached the house, that there was a mingling of old things with new in a great deal that concerned it. While the edifice itself was old, and among old trees that told its age far better than the modern verandah which ran around it, or the white paint which covered it, the approach to it had been laid out with more modern taste. There could be seen the remnants of an old fence that had recently bounded a road, innocent of windings, and regardful only of distance. The trees along the carriage-way had not been set out long, and the clumps scattered here and there, with a good deal of taste, were but saplings, and more closely around the house were tall elms that had been growing many a long year, and told plainly of ancient times and ideas.