The long, majestic march, and energy divine,’—
the smart antithesis of Martial—the luscious flow of Ovid, and the delicate indelicacy of Terence, and the ‘curiosa felicitas’ of Catullus—(the phrase was first applied to Horace.) But we are exhausting our critical knowledge, and thy patience—suffice it to say, that, strown in elegant confusion, lie a motley assemblage—Milton and the Comic Almanac—Coleridge and the President’s Message—Kent’s Commentaries between the two volumes of Rienzi—Shakspeare and John Bunyan—the Yale Literary Magazine and Tristram Shandy, open at the page whence we extracted our motto.
Item. Stretching along the back side of the room, is a sofa, of most dyspeptic virtues—hard by, is an arm-chair, expansive enough for an alderman—and next, beneath a mirror, stands a dressing table, which, besides the appliances of adscititious beauty, eau de cologne, and “thine incomparable oil, Macassar,” supports a load of cups and spoons, and other paraphernalia for the fruition of that rich beverage,
‘Which Jove now drinks, since Hebe spilt his nectar,
And Juno swears most bravely does affect her.’
At the same time, on the coals, is sweating and snoring a huge pot, (the conica tridentata of naturalists,) like an uneasy slumberer, ‘flagrantis atroce horâ caniculæ’—that is, about fly-time. Pray, reader, remark my classic taste, which I have thus thrice developed for your amusement.
We have thus slightly touched upon some of the most striking phenomena which meet your eye. The living appurtenances of the room demand a more careful and individual notice.
Close to one side of the stove, with his feet on the fender, and his body ‘squat like a toad,’ in the easy embrace of an arm chair, sits a singular personage, known to thee, at least, reader, by the fanciful cognomen of Apple-Dumpling. He bears upon his plump visage and stout frame, the impress of sensuality, struggling with, and almost triumphing over, a good natural portion of intellect and refinement. As you see him now, with a cigar in his mouth, and a volume of Lamb’s in his hand—equally relishing the beauties of both—gazing now and then, with pleasant anticipation gleaming in his eye, upon the bubbling, hissing fountain, at his feet—and again with intellectual delight, joining in the keen raillery of his companions—from this short sketch, we say, you may divine his character. His personal appearance is no less queer than his mental organization. He is beneath the middle height, but owing to an odd habit, which he has, of bobbing his head up and down, like a startled bullfrog, his height is incessantly vibrating, between five feet, and five feet six. His hair seems constantly electrified, and points in all directions, like glory in the primer. A low forehead, thick lips, and a dull face, redeemed only by the brightness of his eye, are the only peculiarities, which deserve our notice. The worst thing about Apple is, that he is an inveterate punster, and plumes himself on his proficiency in this execrable art. You can always tell when to expect his artillery of wit. He gives utterance to a sudden, energetic whiff, and knocks the ashes fiercely from his cigar, whilst from his kindling eye there darts a quick premonitory flash. He is frequently placed under our satirical dissecting knife, and is, certainly, at times very ridiculous—yet, with all his oddities and failings, we love Apple, ‘even as the apple of our eye,’ and should as soon think of throwing away our coffee-pot, as of excluding him from our Quartette. Note with careful eye the individual next him. He is an exquisite in personal appearance and mental conformation. What ‘Poor Yorick’ said of Dr. Slop and his pony, ‘that he never saw a better fit in his life,’ might with equal propriety be predicated of this gentleman’s mind and body. ‘Il Pulito’—for such is his appellative, drawn from his own favorite Italian—possesses all the accomplishments of person and intellect, which are essential to the perfection of a fine gentleman in this most fastidious age. He has a very general knowledge of ancient literature, and can talk fluently about French, Spanish, Italian, and what not; but should one descend to particulars, he is most wofully ignorant, or, as he calls it, forgetful. Dante, and Tasso, and Schiller, and Richter, are names ever on his lips; but of any just conception of their character, and their works, he is totally innocent. In truth, his high pretensions will hardly bear a strict examination, except in one particular. His knowledge of English literature is thorough and extensive. He has drunk deep of those well-springs of beauty and truth, the ‘Old English prose writers,’ lingered long about the haunts of our vernacular Castalia, and plunged over head and ears in the muddy pool of ‘transient literature.’ He is at no loss for an opinion—most commonly a correct one, too, upon Lord Bolingbroke, or Captain Marryatt—gentle Philip Sydney, or Porcupine Cobbett—the cacophonous Chaucer, or the sweetly sentimental ‘L. E. L.’ With such attainments, and a certain seductive grace in language and manners, Il Pulito is a most agreeable collaborateur in our nocturnal toils. Were we to omit altogether a passing notice of his external recommendations, and a sly hint at some of his ‘labors of love,’ he would never forgive us! for on these he prides himself incontinently. I would not hint that all his self-complacency is absorbed in dress—yet he certainly peacocks himself, as the Italians say, when he throws back the collar of his coat, displaying thereby a fair round chest, from the middle of whose glossy, dipectoral envelope glitters the golden symbol of craniossal love. Dancing, music, drawing, and all the other equivocal graces of ‘the gentleman,’ are as ‘familiar things’ to him. He can give you a masterly criticism on a pretty foot, or a well turned arm, and has caused alarming symptoms of a disease of the heart in more than one of ‘Nature’s fair defects.’ I have often known the fellow fling his dark locks around his brow in clustering beauty, and saunter with unstudied carelessness among some half dozen of his fair acquaintance, while the graceful dignity of his carriage, the significance of his tone, and the eloquence of his eye, sent to the innocent young heart a disturbing thrill, and called to the cheek a warm flush of unconscious pleasure. Then, too, how perfect he is at turning a sonnet. Il Pulito is a fine tasteful fellow, with a slight touch of the dandy. In our coterie, however, he keeps his coxcombry, and his love affairs pretty much to himself; for we would be loth to admit any feminine sentimentalism, to mar our hearty, masculine hilarity.
On the opposite side of the stove sits the immortal Ego. Shall I describe him—i. e. myself? I will, and that, too, in a manner equally free from vanity and familiarity; for I have a respect for myself not much inferior to that of the polite Spaniard, who took off his hat whenever he spoke of or to himself. But to spare my feelings, which are like the sensitive Mimosa—oh! simile most original and sweet!—I must recur to the third person. His name is Nescio Quod. His face when alone is grave and thoughtful; in company, it is jolly and careless, yet crossed here and there by lines of serious reflection, which, on the whole, form the general expression of his countenance. He, as well as Il Pulito, has dipped into almost every thing, and gone deeply into some—he has read extensively and foolishly, and is, very naturally, infected with the itch of quoting. He is apt to mistake strangeness of expression for originality of thought, and when he has revived some obsolete phrase, or brought forth some new-coined word, to which there are already a dozen synonymes, he hugs himself as fondly as if he had struck out a brilliant witticism. He is vague and anomalous—every thing except wise—sometimes misanthrope, sometimes pedant, sometimes a musing poetico-philosopher, but always his own miscellaneous self. He is fond of books, as much from their generic nature, as from any specific merits they may possess, and has always some conclusive reason for thinking the last book presented to his notice, the best he ever saw in his life. Is the book an old one? ’Tis the voice of antiquity—a message from the past. Is the work fresh from the literary mint? It breathes of novelty—its odor is refreshing. He is a very fluent writer, and for this reason, though by no means the most elegant of the four, he has been selected to commit to paper the annals of our doings.
The last of our coterie is called by mortals—no matter what; among the Gods his name is Il Tristo. His soft hair hangs about his face “unkempt” and tangled. His eye is faded, his cheek colorless. Across his uneasy forehead flits momently, from dark to light, each shade of passion.