Dealings With The Dead Volume II Part 7

No. CIV.

Bull--I speak not of Ole, but of John--Bull, when the teazle of opposition has elevated the nap of his temper, is a pestilent fellow: whatever the amount--and there is enough--of the milk of human kindness within him, there is, then, but one way, known among men, of getting it out, and that is, by giving Bull a b.l.o.o.d.y nose; whereupon he comes to his senses directly, and to a just appreciation of himself and his neighbors. True indeed it is, Bull is remarkably oblivious; and it sometimes becomes necessary to give him another, which is invariably followed, by the same happy result.

_Qui haeret in cortice_ will never come at the milk of a cocoa nut. It is necessary to strip off its rough coat, and punch sundry holes in its _wooden walls_, and give it a regular cracking. It is precisely so with Bull. When the fit is upon him, Bull is terrible. He is the very Bull of Crete--the Bull of Claudian, in his rape of Proserpine--

Dictaeus quatiens mugitibus urbes Taurus--------------------------

Bull is a prodigious fellow; Nations tremble at his bellow.

There seems to have existed a strange, political hallucination, in regard to Bull and Jonathan. We are clearly, all of us, of one and the same family--a Bull-begotten people; and have a great deal of pleasure, in believing, that old madam Bull was the mother of us all. A goodly number of highly respectable Bulls came over the water, of old, and were well contented with the green pastures of the New World. They differed, upon some points, from the Bulls they had left behind. They did not believe, that there was a power or right, to bellow louder than the rest, vested in any particular Bull, which power came down from Bull to Bull, in unbroken succession, from the Bull of Bashan. Such a belief, in their opinion, would have been a terrible Bull. Well; all at once, the trans-atlantic Bulls began to call the cis-atlantic Bulls--_Jonathans_. A very good name it was--a great deal better than _Bulls_. There could be no objection to the name, in the abstract.

But, unfortunately, it was bestowed, as a diminutive, and in derision; and the old Bulls, ere long, began to beat their flanks with their tails, and paw up the earth, and look unutterable things, about Jonathan's cowardice; and they came over the water in droves, and began to roar awfully; and tore up the earth, under our very noses: and, after doing all, in our power to spare the world the miserable spectacle of a conflict, among Bulls, that were brothers, of the whole blood, we went to work, _ex necessitate_, with hoofs and horns; and tossed up such a terrible dust, at Lexington, and Concord, and Bunker's Hill, and Long Island, and White Plains, and upon the Lakes, and at Sheensborough, and Albany, and Brandywine, and Saratoga, and Bennington, and Germantown, and Rhode Island, and Briar's Creek, and Camden, and Broad River, and Guilford, and Hobkirk's Hill, and the Eutaw Springs, and York Town, and at fifty places beside, that the old Bulls were perfectly astonished; and so very severely gored withal, that their roaring sunk, at last, into something like Snug's, when he became fearful of frightening the ladies. The old Bulls--those that survived--went _back again_, like Sawney, out of the peach orchard; and the mammoth Bull, in London, publicly acknowledged, that we were as independent a set of Bulls, as ever he saw, or heard of.

No man, in his senses, marvels, that a contemptuous, and supercilious sentiment, towards us, in our days of small things, should have been indulged, by the vulgar and unphilosophical, among the English people. It is matter for surprise, nevertheless, that so much ignorance of the American character should have existed, in the higher ranks of British society--such disparaging estimates of men and _materiel_, on this side the water--such mistaken conceptions--such a general belief of almost universal pusillanimity, among men, who were not a whit the less Englishmen, than their revilers; as though there were something, particularly enervating, in breathing the bracing air of America, and listening to the thorough ba.s.s of the wild waters, breaking on our original walls of granite; and in struggling, with our h.o.r.n.y hands, along the precipices, for bread--such an awful miscalculation of probabilities, as resulted at last, in the loss to King George of thirteen inestimable jewels, of the fairest water.

The impressions, entertained of the Americans, by the English people, or a great majority of them, about that period, were truly amusing. It is scarcely worth while to comment on the abuse of us, by the early reviewers, and the taunting inquiry, long--long ago, what American had ever produced an epic?--Unluckily, Joel did, at last.--This question, thus early and impudently propounded, was quite as sensible, as it might be, to ask men, who, by dint of industry and thrift, are just getting plain shirts to their backs--who among them ever had lace ruffles? We have improved since that time; and _halmost hevery man in the ole population can hutter imself hin werry decent Henglish_.

Josiah Quincy, _then_ junior, father of the late President of Harvard University, has noted some curious facts, in his journal, as reported by Gordon, i. 438. In a conversation between him and Col. Barre, who, though he opposed the Stamp Act, in 1765, supported the Boston Port Bill, in 1774. Col. Barre said to Mr. Quincy--"About fourteen or fifteen years ago, I was through a considerable part of your country; for, in the expedition against Canada, my business caused me to pa.s.s by land, through Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, and Albany; and, when I returned again to this country, I was often speaking of America, and could not help speaking well of its climate, soil, and inhabitants; for you must know, sir, America was always a favorite with me. But, will you believe it, sir, yet I a.s.sure you it is true, more than two thirds of this island, at this time, thought the Americans were all negroes." Mr. Quincy replied that he did not in the least doubt it, for, if he was to judge by the late acts of Parliament, he should suppose, that a great majority of the people of Great Britain still thought so, for he found that their representatives still treated them as such.

The ministry had decided, that "_the punishment of a few of the worst sort of traitors, such as Hanc.o.c.k and his crew, might be sufficient to teach the rest their duty, in future_."--"Some men of rank in the army,"

says Gordon, i. 457, "treated all idea of resistance, by the Americans, with the utmost contempt. They are neither soldiers, nor ever can be made so, being naturally of a pusillanimous disposition, and utterly incapable of any sort of order or discipline; and by their laziness, uncleanliness, and radical defect of const.i.tution, they are disabled from going through the service of a campaign. Many ludicrous stories, to that purport, were told, greatly to the entertainment of the house."

Jonathan turned out, at the end of the Bull baiting, to have been neither a fool nor a coward: and the American Congress received a memorable compliment from Lord Chatham--"_For genuine sagacity, for singular moderation, for manly spirit, for sublime sentiments, and simplicity of language, for everything respectable and honorable, the Congress of Philadelphia shines unrivalled_."

In the war of 1812, Bull was the very identical Bull, that he had been before: Frenchmen were frogs; Yankees were cowards--there was n.o.body that could fight, on the land or the sea, but Bull.

"It has always," says that wittiest, and, I fear, wickedest of wags, William Cobbett, while addressing Lord Liverpool, "been the misfortune of England, that her rulers and her people have spoken and have thought contemptuously of the Americans. Was there a man in the country, who did not despise the American navy? Was there a public writer beside myself, who did not doom that navy to destruction in a month? Did not all parties exceedingly relish the description given, in a very august a.s.sembly, of '_half a dozen of fir frigates, with bits of striped bunting tied to their mast heads_'! Did not the Guerriere sail up and down the American coast, with her name, written on her flag, challenging those fir frigates? Did not the whole nation, with one voice exclaim at the affair of the _Little Belt_--'Only let Rogers come _within reach_ of one of our _frigates_!' If such was the opinion of the whole nation, with what justice is the Board of Admiralty blamed, for not sending out the means of combatting this extraordinary sort of foe? and for issuing a privilege to our frigates to run away from one of those _fir things with a bit of striped bunting at its mast head_? The result of the former war, while it enlightened n.o.body, added to the vindictiveness of hundreds of thousands; so that we have entered into this war with all our old stock of contempt, and a vastly increased stock of rancor. To think that the American republic is to be a great power is unsupportable. Of the effect of this contempt I know n.o.body, who has so much reason to repent, as the officers of his Majesty's navy. If they had triumphed, it would only have been over half a dozen _fir things, with bits of bunting at their mast heads_. They were sure to gain no reputation in the contest; and, if they failed, what was their lot? The worst of it is, they themselves did, in some measure, contribute to their own ill fate: for, of all men living, none spoke of poor Jonathan with so much contempt. There are some people, who are for taking the American commodores at their word, and ascribing their victories to the immediate intervention of Providence. Both Perry and McDonough begin their despatches by saying--"_Almighty G.o.d has given us a victory_."

This is keen political satire; and it is well, that it should come to neighbor Bull's ears, from the mouth of an Englishman. It is more gracefully administered thus. That it was entirely deserved, no one will doubt, who has any recollection of Bull's unmeasured and unmitigated impudence, during the war of 1812, in its earlier stages. May G.o.d of his infinite mercy grant, that Peace Societies may have these matters, hereafter, very much their own way; though I have a little misgiving, I confess, as to the expediency of any sudden, or very general conversion of swords into ploughshares, or spears into pruning hooks.

No. CV.

_Modus in rebus_--an admirable proverb, upon all common occasions--is inapplicable, of course, to musical matters. No doubt of it. The luxury of sweet sounds cannot be too dearly bought; and, for its procurement, mankind may go stark mad, without any diminution of their respectability.

Such I infer to be the popular philosophy of today--_while it is called today_. The moderns have been greatly perplexed, by the legends, which have come down to us, respecting the melody of swans. The _carmina cycnorum_ of Ovid, and the _Cantantes sublime ferent ad sidera cycni_, of Virgil, are perfectly incomprehensible by us. Cicero also, in his Tusculan Questions, i. 74, says, they die, _c.u.m cantu et voluptate_. Martial, xiii.

77, a.s.serts the matter, very positively--

_Dulcia defecta modulatur carmina lingua Cantator cycnus funeris ipse sui._

I no more believe in the power of a living or a dying swan to make melody of any kind, than I believe in the antiquated hum-bug of immediate emanc.i.p.ation. Pliny had no confidence in the story, and expresses himself to that effect, x. 23, _Olorum morte narratur flebilis cantus (falso, ut arbitror) aliquot experimentis_.

No mortal has done more than Shakspeare, among the moderns, to perpetuate this pleasant fancy--no bard, when weary of Pegasus, and preferring a drive to a ride, has harnessed his cygnets more frequently--or compelled them to sing more sweetly, in a dying hour. A single example may suffice.

When prince Henry is told, that his father, King John, sang, during his dying frenzy, he says--

"Tis strange, that death should sing-- I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death: And, from the organ pipe of frailty, sings His soul and body to their lasting rest."

One brief example more--Emilia, after the murder of her mistress--

"Hark! canst thou hear me? I will play the swan; And die in music."

In all this there lurks not one particle of sober prose--one syllable of truth. The most learned refutation of it may be found, in the Pseudodoxia of Sir Thomas Browne, ii. 517, Lond. 1835.

In the "_Memoires de l'Academie des Inscriptions_," M. Morin discusses the question very agreeably, why swans, that sang so delightfully, of old, sing so miserably, at the present day. Tame swans, he observes, are mutes: but the wild swan exerts its vocal powers, after a fashion of its own. He introduces the observations of the Abbe Arnaud, upon the performances of a couple of wild swans, which had located, upon the lagoons of Chantilly.

"One can hardly say," says the Abbe, "that the swans of Chantilly sing--they cry; but their cries are truly and constantly modulated. Their voice is not sweet; on the contrary, it is shrill, piercing, and rather disagreeable; I could compare it to nothing better than the sound of a clarionet, winded by a person unacquainted with the instrument." Nothing surely savors less of melody than this. So thought Buffon--"_Des sons bruyans de clarion, mais dont les tons aigus et peu diversifies sont neanmoins tres--eloignes de la tendre melodie et de la variete douce et brilliante du ramage de nos oiseaux chanteurs_." Nat. Hist. des Oisaux, ix. 25.

In his exposition of this error, imposed upon mankind, by the poets, Buffon expresses himself with singular beauty, in the concluding paragraph--"Nulle fiction en Histoire Naturelle, nulle fable chez les Anciens n'a ete plus celebree, plus repetee, plus accreditee; elle s'etoit emparee de l'imagination vive et sensible des Grecs; poetes, orateurs, philosophes meme l'ont adoptee, comme une verite trop agreable pour vouloir en douter. Il faut bien leur pardonner leurs fables; elles etoient aimables et touchantes; elles valoient bien de tristes, d'arides verites c'etoient de doux emblemes pour les ames sensibles. Les cygnes, sans doute, ne chantent point leur mort; mais toujours, en parlant du dernier essor et de derniers elans d'un beau genie pret a s'eteindre, on rappellera avec sentiment cette expression touchante--_c'est le chant du cygne!_" Ibid. 28.

It is not surprising, that these celebrated naturalists, Buffon and Morin, who discourse, so eloquently, of Grecian and Roman swans, should say nothing of Swedish nightingales, for, between their time and the present, numerous additions have been made to the catalogue of songsters.

The very thing, which the barber, Arkwright did, for all the spinning Jennies, in Lancashire, some seventy years ago, has been done by Jenny Lind, for all the singing Jennies upon earth, beside herself--they are cast into the shade.

She came here with an irresistible prestige. A singing woman has been a proverb, since the world began; and, of course, long before Ulysses dropped in, upon the island of Ogygia, and listened to Calypso; or fell into serious difficulty, among the Sirens. A singing woman, a Siren, has been frequently accounted, and with great propriety, a singing bird of evil omen. How grateful then must it be, to know, that, while lending their ears and their eyes to this incomparable songstress, our wives, our daughters, and our sisters have before them a pure, and virtuous, and gentle, and generous creature, as free, as poor, human nature can well be free, from life's alloy, and very much as she was, when created--_a little lower than the angels_.

Among other mythological matters, Pausanias relates, that the three Sirens, instigated by Juno, challenged the Muses to a trial of skill in singing. They were beaten, of course, for the Muses, being nine in number, there were three upon one. The victors, as the story goes, proceeded very deliberately, to pluck the golden feathers, from the wings of the vanquished, and converted them into crowns, for their own brows.

Now, it cannot be denied, that Jenny has vanquished us all, and made the golden feathers fly abundantly. But this is not Jenny's fault; for, whatever the wisdom or the folly, the affair was our own entirely. If, for the sake of distinction, any one has seen fit to pluck every golden feather from his back, and appear, like the featherless biped of Diogenes, and give the golden feathers to Jenny, to make her a crown; we have substantial facts, upon which to predict, that Jenny will make a better use of those golden feathers, than to fool them away, for a song. If Jenny plucks golden feathers, from the backs of the rich, she finds bare spots enough, for a large part of them all, upon the backs of the poor: and, as for the crown, for Jenny's brows, if she goes onward, as she has begun, investing her treasure _in Heaven_, and selecting the Lord for her paymaster, _there_ will be her coronation; and her crown a crown of Glory.

And, when she comes to lie down and die, let the two last lines of Johnson's imperishable epitaph, on Philips, be inscribed upon her tomb--

"Rest undisturb'd, beneath this marble shrine, Till angels wake thee, with a note like thine."

Orpheus was changed into a swan; Philomela into a nightingale; and Jenny, in due time, will be changed into an angel. Indeed, it is the opinion of some competent judges, that the metamorphosis has already commenced.

Music is such a delightful, soothing thing, that one grieves, to think its professors and amateurs are frequently so excessively irritable.

The disputes, between Handel and Senesino, and their respective partisans, disturbed all London, and finally broke up the Academy of Music, after it had been established, for nine years. The quarrels of Handel and Buononcini are said to have occasioned duels, among the amateurs; and the nation was filled, by these musical geniuses, with discord and uproar.

Good humor was, in some degree, restored, by the following epigram, so often ascribed to Swift, the two last lines of which, however, are alone to be found in the editions of his works, by Nicholls, and Scott:

"Some say, that signor Buononcini, Compar'd with Handel, is a ninny; Others aver to him, that Handel Does not deserve to hold a candle; Strange, all this difference should be, 'Twixt tweedle dum and tweedle dee."

This epigram cannot be attributed to that contempt for music, which is sometimes occasioned, by a const.i.tutional inability to appreciate its effect, upon the great ma.s.s of mankind. It undoubtedly sprang from a desire to put an end, by the power of ridicule, to these unmusical disturbances of the public peace.

Swift's musical pun, upon the accidental destruction of a fine Cremona fiddle, which was thrown down by a lady's mantua, has always been highly and deservedly commended; and recently, upon the very best authority, p.r.o.nounced the finest specimen extant of this species of wit--"Perhaps,"

says Sir Walter Scott, in his life of Swift, speaking of his puns, i. 467, "the application of the line of Virgil to the lady, who threw down with her mantua a Cremona fiddle, is the best ever made--

"Mantua vae miserae nimium vicina Cremonae!"

In every nation, and in every age, the power of music has been acknowledged by mankind. Now and then, the negative idiosyncracies of certain persons place this particular department of pleasure, beyond the sphere of their comprehension, as effectually as utter blindness denies the power of enjoying the finest specimens of the painter's art.

Occasionally, some pious divine, absolutely drunk with over-potent draughts of orthodoxy, like the friar, before Boccaccio, shakes his holy finger at this wicked world, and warns them to beware of the singing woman!

The vocal power of music is ascribed to the angels in Heaven; and my own personal knowledge has a.s.sured me, that it affords a melancholy solace, to the slave in bonds.