Gossip with Readers and Correspondents.—In an admirable paper upon 'The Poetry of the Bible,' written for the Knickerbocker some years since by Rev. William T. Brantley, President of the 'College of South Carolina,' there was an incidental allusion to the proofs of the authenticity of the Sacred Word, as contained in the fulfilment of the 'prophecies concerning the nations.' A dilapidated book-stall volume before us, with the title-page gone, and the author's name nowhere to be met with, (facts in themselves noteworthy in this connection,) thus illustrates the position of our valued correspondent: 'The primitive Christians regarded the Scriptures as their chief and dearest treasure; and often laid down their lives rather than deliver the sacred records to their enemies, who used every art of terror to seize and destroy them. Then, as now, different parties and sects existed, who all appealed to the Scriptures for proof of their several opinions; and these must have been so many checks upon each other, to the general exclusion of mistake and fraud. But aside from this, look at their predictions, in the case of the 'chosen and peculiar people.' The separation of the Israelites from the rest of mankind, not for their own sakes but for the sake of all, and their preservation amidst their enemies, what a display is it of the divine power! This great scheme of wisdom and goodness was carried on by its omnipotent Author 'with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm.' 'He sent a man before his people, even Joseph, who was sold to be a bond-servant. He increased his people exceedingly, and made them stronger than their enemies. He sent Moses his servant, and Aaron; and these showed his tokens among them, and wonders in the land of Ham. He sent darkness, and it was dark, and turned their waters into blood. Their land brought forth frogs, yea, even in their king's chambers. He gave them hail-stones for rain, and flames of fire in their land. He spake the word, and locusts came innumerable, and devoured the fruit of their ground. He smote all the first-born in their land, even the chief of all their strength. He brought forth his people from among them. He spread out a cloud to be a covering, and fire to give them light in the night season. He rebuked the Red Sea also, and it was dried up: so he led them through the deep as through a wilderness. At their desire he brought quails, and filled them with the bread of heaven. He opened the rock of stone, so that rivers ran in dry places. Yet within a while they forgot his works, and tempted God in the desert. Then the earth opened and swallowed up Dathan, and covered the congregation of Abiram. The plague also was great among them. Then, being chastised, they turned to their God. He led them over Jordan: the waters divided to let them pass. He discomfited their enemies. At His word the sun abode in the midst of Heaven; and the moon stood still, and hasted not to go down for a whole day; so He gave the kingdoms of Canaan to be an heritage unto his people; that all the nations of the world might know that the hand of the Lord is mighty, and that they might fear the Lord continually.' Such was the result of a scheme determined by divine goodness, planned by divine wisdom, foretold by divine knowledge, accomplished by divine power. 'The things of the earth were changed into things of the water, and the thing that did swim went upon the ground. The fire had power in the water contrary to his own virtue, and the water forgat his own kind to quench. Thus the elements were changed among themselves by a kind of harmony, as when one tune is changed upon an instrument of music, and the melody still remaineth.' How graphic also is the description of the 'gift of tongues,' conferred upon the Apostles! 'And they were all amazed, and marvelled, saying one to another: 'Behold, are not all these which speak, Galileans? And how hear we every man in our own tongue, wherein we were born? Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites, the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in Judea, and Cappadocia, in Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia in Egypt, and in the parts of Lybia about Cyrene. And strangers of Rome; Jews and proselytes, Cretes and Arabians; we do hear them speak in our tongues the wonderful works of God!' * * * Most likely many of our readers will remember this 'vexed question' in logic: 'It either rains or it does not rain: but it does not rain; therefore it rains.' This used to puzzle us hugely; as did also the mathematical problem, in simple equations, which ensues: 'A cat has one more tail than no cat; no cat has two tails; ergo, a cat has three tails!' The conclusion is irresistible. Here is something, however, which is of deeper import: 'Johnson studied law with Dobson, under the agreement that he should pay Dobson, when he (Johnson) gained his first cause. After a time Dobson got tired of waiting for the conditions of the contract, and sued Johnson for his pay. He reasoned thus: 'If I sue him I shall get paid at any rate, because if I gain the cause, I shall be paid by the decision of the court; if I lose it, I shall be paid by the conditions of the contract, for then Johnson will have gained his first cause; therefore I am safe.' Johnson, on the other hand, being prodigiously frightened, sought counsel, and was told to reason thus: 'Dobson reasons well, but there must be a flaw in his argument; because I and not he will gain the victory. If the suit goes in my favor, I shall gain it by the decision of the court; if it goes against me, I shall gain it by the terms of the contract, not having yet won my first cause. Of course I shall not have to pay him!' Vive la Logique! * * * This fine picture of the Arabian Desert is from the pen of the late lamented N. H. Carter, Esq., formerly editor of the New-York Statesman, a daily journal long since discontinued. We thank 'C. P. D.' for his offer, which is gladly accepted:
'No verdure smiles; no crystal fountains play,
To quench the arrows of the god of day;
No breezy lawns, no cool, meandering streams,
Allay the fervor of his torrid beams;
No whispering zephyrs fan the glowing skies,
But o'er long tracts the mournful siroc sighs.
Whose desolating march, whose withering breath,
Sweeps through the caravan with instant death.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
''Tis night: but here the sparkling heavens diffuse
No genial showers, no soft distilling dews:
In the hot sky, the stars of lustre shorn,
Burn o'er the pathway of the wanderer lorn,
And the red moon from Babelmandel's strand
Looks, as she climbs through pyramids of sand,
That, whirled aloft, and gilded by her light,
Blaze the lone beacons of the desert night!'
A correspondent, well known to our readers, in a note to the Editor, remarks as follows, upon the passage of our May 'Gossip' which touched upon Coleridge and his conversations: 'I am glad of your remarks on Coleridge and Wordsworth. I have been for years sick of the interminable cant about those two men. Their admirers have too long exalted them above all that is human. And would you know the reason? In discovering more depth, and pure humanity, and high inspiration, in their school of the prophets than the rest of the world have seen, they think the world will give them credit for deep penetration, high and refined sense, and a large share of the same or a kindred humanity and inspiration. Witness a sixty pages' laudation of Wordsworth, opening a number of the 'New-York Review,' by a writer who doubtless thought his own fame was thereby planted like an eternal light-house on the rock of his idol. Now I hope I am Christian enough to admire greatly the genius of Coleridge; and I am yet to find any thing in English or elsewhere more movingly and musically beautiful than 'Genevieve,' or more wizard-like and solemn than the 'Rime of the Antient Mariner.' I also plead not guilty to a contempt of 'Christabel' and 'Wallenstein.' Nor am I such a rebel to reason, or heretic in taste, as not to see surpassing beauty in many of Wordsworth's minor poems, and lofty grandeur in his 'Ode to Childhood,' and 'Stanzas on the Power of Sound,' and a high, philosophical, and musing mind in his great 'Excursion.' I have read him twice in the last two years, and my admiration has not at all diminished. But I choose to deny that he or Coleridge invented poetry, or carried it farther, or as far, as some others before and with them. I choose to deny that they have struck the great chord of humanity, unstruck before, or have sympathized more deeply or more sweetly with the joys and sorrows of the lowly million, than the great poets before them have done. I choose to assert, what has been abundantly proven, that they were both great egotists, eaten up by self, which the great poets have rarely been; and that Coleridge in particular often knew not what he meant himself, but between opium and metaphysics, frequently tied the tail of one idea to the head of another, and called the monstrous and unintelligible coalition a theory; a mixture of Platonism, Spinozaism, and the d——l knows what 'ism. And for believing this, the Coleridgeites and Wordsworthites, who are the most intolerant of bigots, would call me an earthy blockhead, and for expressing this, an ignorant, blaspheming fool. Why, I once had almost broken with a friend, because I would not admit that Wordsworth was superior to Byron, and that Byron stole almost all his beauties from him! And the secret was, that the poor fellow thought he had the Wordsworthian gift, and undeifying Wordsworth was undeifying him!' * * * Are not the circumstances narrated in the following communication from a truly veracious correspondent, 'very remarkable,' to say the least? Can their truth be doubted for a moment, however, by any intelligent reader? Yet 'it's curious, isn't it?' In a note to the Editor, our friend writes: 'I have an uncle 'down East,' a retired sea-captain, who having nothing else to do, frequently writes me long gossipping letters. Sometimes they are very amusing: an extract from one of them I now send you. The story appears almost incredible; but knowing my correspondent to be a strictly conscientious man, who would scorn to draw the long-bow on any occasion, I have no hesitation in believing every word of it, whether others are willing to credit it or not. I give it to you in his own language, for there is a strait-forward simplicity about it, that should command belief:'
* * * 'All these things, dear S——, happened in my younger days, of course. As I have still a white page before me, I will detail to you one of my youthful adventures. I had one night been to a convivial party, which did not break up until nearly morning, when, on arriving at my boarding-house, I found the doors closed. Not wishing to disturb the inmates at that unseasonable hour, I proceeded in search of temporary lodgings, not doubting but that I should get accommodated at some one of the numerous hotels. In this however I was disappointed; every place was shut as tight as an oyster. It happened to be a wet, drizzly night; and after wandering about the streets for some time, and getting pretty well soaked, I began to feel rather disagreeable. What added not a little to my discomfort, was the fact that within a few nights there had been committed several daring highway robberies, in the very heart of the city, in one of which the victim was murdered; and as a natural consequence, no watchman dared to venture out from his hiding-place; thus making my situation doubly lonesome. In this dilemma, finding all legitimate places closed against me, I began to consider the expediency of seeking shelter at least, if not sleep, in any place that might seem to offer it. While in this mood, I found myself abreast of the —— church; and leaning against the lightning-rod a moment, the query occurred to me: 'Why not 'shin up' this rod into the belfry? I have slept in worse places than that, no doubt, and can do so again.' Now I had been a great climber in my boyish days; and feats which to others seemed difficult, if not absolutely impossible, were to me often matters of mere pastime. I therefore hesitated but a moment in such an emergency, but slipping off my boots and swinging them round my neck, I commenced the ascent; and in less than five minutes I had mounted a hundred feet or more, and got safely into the belfry. My accommodations here were much better than I could have anticipated. Some carpenters had been to work a few days previously, repairing the railings on the outside of the tower, and had left a quantity of shavings, which lay scattered on the floor. Placing these together in a heap, I threw my weary limbs down upon them, and was soon in a deep slumber, but not a quiet one. My horizontal position enabled the fumes of wine to reach my head, which before they had been unable to do, in consequence of my extreme height, for you know I am six feet three, and I soon began to have all sorts of fantastic dreams. Strange wild shapes flitted around me, and loud unearthly sounds filled my ears. But prominent over all, was an incessant ding-dong of apparently distant bells, which reached me in every variety of volume and tone; now low and sweet, and anon loud, startling, and many-toned, as if the thousand steeples of Moscow were again pouring forth lamentations over the ruins of their beautiful city. Suddenly, a single stroke, that sent its vibrations through every limb, startled me from sleep; and lifting my head slightly, I at the instant received a blow upon the back of it that sent me quivering against the frame of the belfry. I lay stunned for some moments; and on recovering my consciousness, the bell of the steeple was just closing, with a strange jangle, the peal for seven o'clock in the morning!
'I now comprehended the whole. The edge of the bell, on its return revolution, had come in contact with my head at the instant I had lifted it, on being roused by the first stroke. I placed my hand upon the back of my scull, and the proof of that fact lay there too prominent to be denied. A bump had been raised as big as a hen's egg. I paid but little attention to it, however, as the pain was but slight, and I was moreover exceedingly anxious about the mode of extrication from my present unenviable predicament. Sliding down the lightning-rod of a meeting-house, in broad day-light, was not quite so pleasant a performance as 'shinning up' one at midnight. While considering this matter, in a sort of a 'quandary way,' as brother Jonas used to say, the scuttle-door slowly opened, and the sexton of the church made his appearance. He did not observe me, but went immediately to the bell, which he began to walk round, and to inspect very minutely. At last he stopped: 'It's just as I expected,' said he to himself: 'the bell's cracked! Now what upon airth could ha' done it? I am sure I felt it hit something hard.' Here I mechanically placed my hand to the back of my head, and coughed slightly. The man turned, and observing me, started back with affright. I immediately stepped forward, and told him my story in a few words, taking care to make it as lucid as possible by the aid of a little silver, and saying nothing, of course, about the bump on my head. The man appeared satisfied, and told me I could go down with him. Before starting, however, I bestowed a hasty glance upon the bell, and perceived that it was indeed cracked, longitudinally, from the flange to the crown, and that a lock of my hair was firmly inclosed in the crevice, just on the outer edge. This of course was enough to remove from my mind all doubt, had I had any, as to the cause of the mischief; but I said nothing, and followed the sexton down the scuttle. In a few moments I was once more in the streets, with my hat under my arm, for I found it impossible to place it any where near its true position on my head, in consequence of the new phrenological development already mentioned. But now, dear S——, comes the most wonderful part of my narrative. This little incident happened twenty years ago; and to my certain knowledge, since that date, the bell in that steeple has been replaced four times; and yet to this very day, whenever I pass within hearing of its tones, my ears begin to ring, my head violently to oscillate, and straitway I am seized with a stupor and dizziness that continue until I can get beyond the reach of its sound. You will recollect you once asked me why old Major N—— called me sometimes 'Captain Hardhead,' and sometimes 'Captain Waghead?' You have now the answer.'
The water stood in our eyes, reader, (and it will stand in yours if you have a heart to feel,) as we perused the subjoined eloquent passage of a letter from a friend to whom our readers have often been indebted for amusement, entertainment, and instruction. What a startling picture it presents of the first approaches of that 'hectic,' 'phthisic,' 'consumption,' or whatever be the favorite title of that most wily and fatal foe, who in one hand presents the insidious olive-branch, and in the other conceals his inevitable sword, cutting down youth in its blossom and manhood in its fruit! 'For very many years, from twelve to two have been my hours of retiring, and my exercise has been nothing, or nearly so, during the day. One result has been, that I have read one half of the Greek and Roman classics, and feasted largely in modern literature. A parallel result has been, that owing to corporeal sluggishness and nervousness, the curse of the sedentary, I have no doubt reaped less pleasure and profit than I might have done from half that assiduity coupled with a due regard to the wants of the body. The final result is, that an iron constitution is now largely disorganized; and from the constant presence of a dull, deep, stationary pain in my left side beneath the ribs, and fixed I fear upon the lungs, I begin to indulge in sad and deep forebodings. Often, when wakened by its painful urgency, I lie in the silence of the night, listening to my heart's deep beatings, and recall my early and yet unfulfilled dreams—dreams oh! how glorious!—and array before my unsated eyes this world, with all its lovely learning, and sweet poetry, and burning passion; and reflect how unfit I am to die, and try the conditions of a new existence, before I have fulfilled the duties and perused the mysteries of this, and then think of the wormy bed, and anticipate the hour when I shall lie there, closing my eyes to coloring and my ears to sound; the impatient longing I have sometimes felt for death is repaid by an indefinable horror; and between the tenderness of natural regret and the shudderings of unconquerable awe, passion masters pride, and both sink to meekness and humility in a flood of gushing tears!' * * * 'The Warning,' in its spirit at least, is borrowed. We are sorry to intimate this, but it is a fact, friend 'P.' You could not say that you have not read the poem which commences as follows, (if we rightly remember,) 'could you, now?' Guess not:
'All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call;
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul!'