He knew I was ruined—all gone to smash!
And he was a man of that stamp,
Would call you a scamp if you hadn't the cash—
Ay, a scamp!
His bonds and investments—not in such brains
As a poet makes up into verses;
His remarks—upon never so beautiful strains,
Were curses!
I called the next day, but the stool was removed,
And the delicate foot, with a twirl,
Walked off somewhere with the girl that I loved—
The girl!
Hang her! hang him! hang the whole planet!
The stars!—they do hang—well, hang every body,
And hang me, if I ain't a noddy —d ——n it!
A noddy!
'The blank-verse halts for it' in the lines entitled 'Mournful Memories.' Beside, the tendency of the sentiment is not, we think, a useful one. Were all the dangers or ills of life to present themselves to the imagination in a body, drawn up in battle array, the prospect would indeed be dreadful; but coming individually, they are far less formidable, and successively as they occur are conquered. Foreboded, their aspect is terrific; but seen in retrospect, they frequently excite present satisfaction and future fortitude. 'It is with human life as with the phases of nature, whose regular course is calm and orderly; tempests and troubles being but lapses from the accustomed sobriety with which Providence works out the destined end of all things.' * * * Much is said of the 'freedom' or 'licentiousness' of our public press; but we are far behind the press of London in this regard. Look for example at the comments in some of the London journals upon the recent marriage of the Hereditary Duke of Mecklenburg, a 'royal pensioner,' with the Princess Augusta of Cambridge. The produce of his dukedom is described by the 'Charivari' as consisting of 'nothing in particular; its revenue purely nominal.' The wedding is turned into the broadest ridicule. The Duke had an audience of himself in the morning in the glass of his dressing-case; his 'master of the wardrobe, who was also comptroller of the leather portmanteau and groom of the hat-box,' being the only person in attendance. 'He wore the white seam of the German order of princes, and was looking remarkably well—as all the annuitants of England contrive generally to look.' The ceremony was performed in the usual style of royalty. And when the prelate who performed the office came to the words 'With all my worldly goods I thee endow,' the Duke of Cambridge, who always thinks out loud, kept up a running accompaniment: 'Well, that's capital! worldly goods, indeed! I should like to see some of 'em!' and other pleasant observations; all which were taken to be a gush of fervent ejaculations from the father of the bride, invoking the happiness of the newly-married couple. The happy pair set out for Kew, to which place the Duke's Lord of the Luggage had already conveyed his carpet-bag! The trousseau of the Princess had been laid out at Cambridge House for the inspection of the bride's friends; 'but the illustrious bridegroom, with more modesty, laid out his trousseau on the bed in his private apartment, previous to packing.' Various articles are enumerated; among the rest, 'a splendid uniform for state occasions, consisting of the superb coat of an officer of the Blues, with Grenadier trowsers and a Lifeguards-man's helmet;' 'twelve false collars; nine pairs of cotton socks; two stocks, with long ends,' etc., etc. Such an invasion of aristocratic privacy may be termed 'licentiousness of the press' with as much truth, we conceive, as any of the gossipry of the American newspapers. * * * In looking lately over the 'Souvenirs Historiques' of Napoleon and Maria Louisa, by the Baron Meneval, his 'ancient secretary,' we were forcibly impressed with a passage which depicts the love of the Great Captain for his infant son. The child was brought every morning to his apartment:
'Yes: that cabinet, which saw the origin of so many mighty plans, so many vast and generous schemes of administration, was also witness to the effusions of a father's tenderness. How often have I seen the emperor keeping his son by him as if he were impatient to teach him the art of governing! Whether, seated by the chimney on his favorite sofa, he was engaged in reading an important document, or whether he went to his bureau to sign a despatch, every word of which required to be weighed, his son, seated on his knees, or pressed to his breast, was never a moment away from him. Sometimes, throwing aside the thoughts which occupied his mind, he would lie down on floor beside his beloved boy, playing with him like another child, attentive to every thing that could please or amuse him. The emperor had a sort of apparatus for trying military manœuvres: it consisted of plates of wood fashioned to represent battalions, regiments, and divisions. When he wanted to try some new combinations of troops, or some new evolution, he used to arrange these pieces on the carpet. While he was seriously occupied with the disposition of these pieces, working out some skilful manœuvre which might ensure the success of a battle, the child, lying at his side, would often overthrow his troops, and put into confusion his order of battle, perhaps at the most critical moment. But the emperor would recommence arranging his men with the utmost good humor.'
How different the scene with these mimic troops, from that presented by his human legions! No long columns of smoke streamed up from their line of march, indicating burning villages and fields trampled in the dust; no explosions of artillery; no thundering of cavalry; no steel clanging with steel in the desperate conflict of life for life; no smoke, nor darkness, nor infernal din; no groans of the dying; no piercing shouts, revealing the last fierce efforts of human nature, wrought up to the infuriated recklessness of revenge and despair. None of these! Not greater was the difference between that infant and his sire! Yet it is a pleasant feature in the character of Napoleon, his love of children. 'He entered,' says Miss Balcombe, who knew him so intimately at St. Helena, 'into all the feelings of young people, and when with them was a mere child, and a most amusing one. I think his love of children, and the delight he felt in their society; and that too at the most calamitous period of his life, when a cold and unattachable nature would have been abandoned to the indulgence of selfish misery; in itself speaks volumes for his goodness of heart.' * * * Ah! yes; we understand your insinuation, dear Sir, and 'possibly may wish that we had let you alone.' And yet, here is your letter before us, requesting 'an opinion of the merits of your piece, in the entertaining gossip of the Editor's Table!' How does that read? Our correspondent, if his ability were equal to his inclination, would doubtless make us feel the truth of this scrap of advice from one who was a judge of human nature: 'Let no man despise the opinion of blockheads. In every society they form the majority, and are generally the most powerful and influential. Laugh not at their laborious disquisitions on the weather, and their wonderful discoveries of things which every one knows. If you offend a fool, you turn the whole muddy port of his composition into rancid vinegar, and not all the efforts you can make will abate its sourness.' One word here to correspondents generally. We have no pleasure in rejecting a communication, privately or publicly. Often have we sat, with a 'dubious' paper in hand, hesitating for an hour whether to 'print or burn;' thinking of the fervent wishes of the writer, and the labor that he had bestowed upon his production. Every part, every period, had perhaps been considered and re-considered, with unremitting anxiety. He had revised, corrected, expunged, again produced and again erased, with endless iteration. Points and commas themselves perhaps had been settled with repeated and jealous solicitude. All this may be, and yet one's article be indifferent, or unsuited to our pages. Give us credit for candor, gentlemen, as well as for plain-speaking * * * Here are two clever epigrams; the first from a contributor to whom the reader has heretofore been indebted for several caustic tersities in its kind; the second from a friend who does not 'confess the cape' of authorship:
'Why is a belle, attired for public gaze,
Like to a ship? She 'goes about' in stays.'
We can enlighten the ignorance of our Port-Chester friend. Ladies in this meridian eschew 'stays,' as he calls them. They are passée, out of date, 'things that were.' 'Hence we view the gr-e-ät necessity there is' of being au fait to the latest fashion. The ensuing purports to have been written on a 'Yankee Belle.' 'Guess not,' though; 'tisn't the way of Yankee belles: