If the reader has had the fortune to travel in a canal-packet, in the summer solstice, he will readily recognize the faithfulness of the following picture:
‘At first, when you embark, all seems fair; the eleemosynary negro, who vexes his clarionet, and governs its tuneful ventiges, to pay for his passage, seems a very Apollo to your ear; the appointments of the boat appear ample; a populous town slowly glides from your view, and you feel quite comfortable and contented. As yet, you have not gone below. ‘Things above’ attract your attention—some pretty point of landscape, or distant steeple, shining among the summer trees. Anon, the scenery becomes tame, and you descend. A feeling comes over you as you draw your first breath in the cabin, which impels to the holding of your nose. The cabin is full; you have hit your head twice against the ceiling thereof, and stumbled sundry times against the seats at the side. Babies, vociferous babies, are playing with their mothers’ noses, or squalling in appalling concert. If you stir, your foot treads heavily upon the bulbous toes of some recumbent passenger; if you essay to sleep, the gabble of those around you, or the noisy gurgle of a lock, arouses you to consciousness; and then, if you are of that large class of persons in whom the old Adam is not entirely crucified, then you swear. Have you any desire for literary entertainment? Approach the table. There shall you find sundry tracts; a copy of the Temperance Recorder; Goldsmith’s Animated Nature, and Plutarch’s Lives. By and by dinner approaches: and oh! how awful the suspense between the hours of preparation and realization! Slowly, and one by one, the dishes appear. At long intervals, or spaces of separation from each other—say five for the whole length of the boat—you behold tumblers arranged, with two forlorn radishes in each. The butter lies like gravy in the plate; the malodorous passengers of the masculine gender draw nigh to the scanty board; the captain comes near, to act his oft-repeated part, as President of the day. Oh, gracious! ’tis a scene of enormous cry and scanty wool. It mendicants description. ••• But the grand charm and scene of a canal packet is in the evening. You go below, and there you behold a hot and motley assemblage. A kind of stillness begins to reign around. It seems as if a protracted meeting were about to commence. Clergymen, capitalists, long-sided merchants, who have come from far, green-horns, taking their first experience of the wonders of the deep on the canawl, all these are huddled together in wild and inexplicable confusion. By and by the captain takes his seat, and the roll of berths is called. Then, what confusion! Layer upon layer of humanity is suddenly shelved for the night; and in the preparation, what a world of bustle is required! Boots are released from a hundred feet, and their owners deposit them wherever they can. There was one man, Ollapod beheld him, who pulled off the boots of another person, thinking the while—mistaken individual!—that he was disrobing his own shrunken legs of their leathern integuments, so thick were the limbs and feet that steamed and moved round about. Another tourist, fat, oily and round who had bribed the steward for two chairs placed by the side of his berth, whereon to rest his abdomen, amused the assembly by calling out; ‘Here, waiter! bring me another pillow! I have got the ear-ache, and have put the first one into my ear!’ Thus wore the hours away. Sleep, you cannot. Feeble moschetoes, residents in the boat, whose health suffers from the noisome airs they are nightly compelled to breathe, do their worst to annoy you; and then, Phœbus Apollo! how the sleepers snore! There is every variety of this music, from the low wheeze of the asthmatic, to the stentorian grunt of the corpulent and profound. Nose after nose lifts up its tuneful oratory, until the place is vocal. Some communicative free-thinkers talk in their sleep, and altogether, they make a concerto and a diapason equal to that which Milton speaks of, when through the sonorous organ ‘from many a row of pipes, the sound-board breathes.’ At last, morning dawns; you ascend into pure air, with hair unkempt, body and spirit unrefreshed, and show yourself to the people of some populous town into which you are entering, as you wash your face in canal water on deck, from a hand basin! It is a scene, I say again, take it for all in all, that throws description upon the parish, and makes you a pauper in words. ‘Ohe jam satis!’
Let the old bachelor, who ‘longs but fears to marry,’ perpend the annexed invitation to matrimony:
‘Some of my contemporaries have supposed that the estate of a Benedict forbiddeth the resident therein to disport himself as aforetime, in the flowery fields of fancy, and to ambulate at random through the remembered groves of the academy, or the rich gardens of imaginative delight. Verily this is not so. To the right-minded man, all these enjoyments are increased; the ties that bind him to earth are strengthened and multiplied: he anticipates new affections and pleasures, which your cold individual, careering solus through a vale of tears, with no one to share with him his gouts of optical salt water, wots not of. As a beloved friend once said unto me: ‘When a good man weds, as when he dies, angels lead his spirit into a quiet land, full of holiness and peace; full of all pleasant sights, and ‘beautiful exceedingly.’ One’s dreams may not all be realized, for dreams never are; but the reality will differ from, and be a thousand fold sweeter, than any dreams; those shadowy and impalpable though gorgeous entities, that flit over the twilight of the soul, after the sun of judgment has set. I never hear of a friend having accomplished hymenization, without sending after him a world of good wishes and honest prayers. Amid the ambition, the selfishness, the heartless jostlinq with the world, which every son of Adam is obliged more or less to encounter, it is no common blessing to retire therefrom into the calm recesses of domestic existence, and to feel around your temples the airs that are wafted from fragrant wings of the Spirit of Peace, soft as the breath which curled the crystal light
——‘of Zion’s fountains,
When love, and hope, and joy were hers,
And beautiful upon her mountains,
The feet of angel messengers.’
No common boon is it—we speak in the rich sentence of a German writer—to enjoy ‘a look into a pure loving eye; a word without falseness, from a bride without guile; and close beside you in the still watches of the night, a soft-breathing breast, in which there is nothing but paradise, a sermon, and a midnight prayer!’
Here is a specimen of ‘the show-man’s trick,’ which, as old Matthews used to say, ‘made a great laugh at the time:’
‘It is diverting in the extreme to observe the pompous grandiloquence in the advertisements of the amusement-furnishing public, about Christmas and New-Year. Sublimity glares from the theatrical hand-bill, and the menagerie affiche. Curiosities, then, have a ‘most magnanimous value.’ I remember, not long ago, that I desired a lovely lady, a French countess, to accompany me to a Zoological Institute, to behold an American Eagle. I was pleased at the expressed wish which led me to make the invitation, and proud of the prospect of showing a living emblem of our country’s insignia to one who felt an interest in the subject. The bills of the institute set forth, that ‘the grand Columbia’s Eagle was the monarch of its tribe, measuring an unprecedented length from the tip of one wing to the other, in full plumage and vigor.’ The countess had never seen but one eagle, in the Jardin des Plantes at Paris, and that was a small one, and ungrown; so that her anticipations of novelty were as great as mine. We went, and with interesting expectancy, asked of the president of the institute, who was engaged in the noble pursuit of feeding a sick baboon with little slips of cold pork, to discover to us ‘Columbia’s eagle.’ He marshalled us to the other end of the institute, past the cages of lions, bears, libbards, and other animals—among which was a singular quadruped, with six legs—to the cage of the eagle. ‘There,’ he exclaimed, with professional monotony, ‘there is the proud bird of our country, that was caught in the West, and has been thought to have killed many animals in his life-time. He was five hours and twenty-three minutes in being put into the cage, so strong was his wings. Look at him clus. He’ll bear inspection. Jist obsarve the keen irish of his eye.’
‘An involuntary and hearty laugh from us both, followed the sight, and the announcement. It was a dismal looking bird, about the size of a goodly owl, with a crest-fallen aspect, the feathers of the tail and wings dwindled to a few ragged quills; and the shivering fowl, standing on one leg, looked with a vacant, spectral eye at his visitors. Nothing could be so perfectly burlesque, and we enjoyed it deeply and long. I shall never be deceived by show-bills again.’
The following must close our quotations. We venture to say that it describes a scene which many a reader has more than once witnessed:
‘Talking of a man’s making a hero of himself, reminds me of an old friend of mine, who is fond of telling long stories about fights and quarrels that he has had in his day, and who always makes his hearer his opponent for the time, so as to give effect to what he is saying. Not long ago I met him on ‘Change, at a business hour, when all the commercing multitudes of the city were together, and you could scarcely turn, for the people. The old fellow fixed his eye on me; there was a fatal fascination in it. Getting off without recognition, would have been unpardonable disrespect. In a moment, his finger was in my button-hole, and his rheumy optics glittering with the satisfaction of your true bore, when he has met with an unresisting subject. I listened to his common-places with the utmost apparent satisfaction. Directly, he began to speak of an altercation which he once had with an officer in the navy. He was relating the particulars. ‘Some words,’ said he, ‘occurred between him and me. Now you know that he is a much younger man than I am; in fact, about your age. Well, he ‘made use of an expression’ which I did not exactly like. Says I to him, says I, ‘What do you mean by that?’ ‘Why,’ says he to me, says he, ‘I mean just what I say.’ Then I began to burn. There was an impromptu elevation of my personal dandriff, which was unaccountable. I didn’t waste words on him; I just took him in this way,’ (here the old spooney suited the action to the word, by seizing the collar of my coat, before the assemblage,) ‘and says I to him, says I, ‘You infernal scoundrel, I will punish you for your insolence on the spot!’ and the manner in which I shook him (just in this way) was really a warning to a person similarly situated.’
‘I felt myself at this moment in a beautiful predicament; in the midst of a large congregation of business people; an old gray-headed man hanging, with an indignant look, at my coat-collar; and a host of persons looking on. The old fellow’s face grew redder every minute; but perceiving that he was observed, he lowered his voice in the detail, while he lifted it in the worst places of his colloquy. ‘You infernal scoundrel, and caitiff, and villain,’ says I, ‘what do you mean, to insult an elderly person like myself, in a public place like this?’ and then, said he, lowering his malapropos voice, ‘then I shook him, so.’
‘Here he pushed me to and fro, with his septuagenarian gripe on my collar, as if instead of a patient much bored friend, I was his deadly enemy. When he let go, I found myself in a ring of spectators. ‘Shame, shame! to insult an old man like him!’ was the general cry. ‘Young puppy!’ said an elderly merchant, whose good opinion was my heart’s desire, ‘what excuse have you for your conduct?’
‘Thus was I made a martyr to my good feelings. I have never recovered from the stigma of that interview. I have been pointed at in the street by persons who have said as I passed them, ‘That’s the young chap that insulted old General ——, at the Exchange!’
We should not omit to state that the publishers have done ample justice to the work. It is beautifully stereotyped and printed upon new type and fine white paper, and the numbers are enclosed in very neat and tasteful covers. The work we are glad to say meets with a liberal and constant sale.
Italy and the Italians. In a Series of Letters. By J. T. Headley. In one volume, pp. 64. New-York: I. S. Platt.