Chapter VI
Reading edition
Trenton—built above the head of navigation to encourage commerce—capital of the State—only wants a castle, a bay, a mountain, a sea, and a volcano, to bear a strong resemblance to the Bay of Naples[32]—supreme court sitting—fat chief justice—used to get asleep on the bench after dinner—gave judgment, I suppose, like Pilate’s wife, from his dreams—reminded me of Justice Bridlegoose deciding by a throw of a die, 83and of the oracle of the holy bottle[33]—attempted to kiss the chambermaid—boxed my ears till they rung like our theatre-bell—girl had lost one tooth—mem. all the American ladies prudes, and have bad teeth; Anacreon Moore’s opinion on the matter. State house—fine place to see the sturgeons jump up—query, whether sturgeons jump up by an impulse of the tail, or whether they bounce up from the bottom by the elasticity of their noses? Linkum Fidelius of the latter opinion—I too—sturgeon’s nose capital for tennis-balls—learnt that at school—went to a ball—negro wench principal musician! N. B. People of America have no fiddlers but females!—origin of the phrase, “fiddle of your heart”—reasons why men fiddle better than women; expedient of the Amazons, who were expert at the bow; waiter at the city tavern—good story of his—nothing to the purpose—never mind—fill up my book like Carr—make it sell. Saw a democrat get into a stage followed by his dog.[34] N. B. This town remarkable for dogs and democrats—superfine sentiment[35]—good story from Joe Miller—ode to a piggin of butter—pensive meditations on a mouse-hole—make a book as clear as a whistle!
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FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR.
I have observed a particular intimacy for these few days past between that dry wag, Will Wizard, and my cousin Pindar. The latter has taken his winter quarters at old Cockloft’s, in the corner room opposite mine, in order to be at hand and overlook the town. They hardly gave themselves time, on Sunday last, to wait for the family toast of “our absent friends,” before they adjourned to Pindar’s chamber. In the course of an hour my cousin’s enormous mandarin inkstand was sent down to be replenished. I began to be seriously alarmed, for I thought if they had exhausted its contents without exhausting their subject, there was no knowing where it would end.
On returning to tea, my cousin Pindar was observed to rub his hands, a sure sign that something tickled his fancy; he, however, maintained as mysterious a countenance as a Seventh Ward politician. As to Will Wizard, he took longer strides than usual, his inflexible phiz had an uncommonly knowing air, and a sagacious wink occasionally betrayed that he had more in his head than he chose to communicate. The whole family (who in truth are much given to wonder at everything) were sadly puzzled to conjecture what their two precious noddles had been bothering about.
In the evening, after I had retreated to my citadel, the elbow-chair, I was surprised by the abrupt entrance of these two worthies. My 85cousin opened the budget at once: he declared that it was as necessary for a modern poet to have an assistant, as for Don Quixote to have a Sancho—that it was the fashion for poets, nowadays, to write so ineffably obscure, that every line required a page of notes to explain its meaning, and render its “darkness visible”—that a modern poem could no more succeed without notes, than a paper kite could fly without a tail. In a word, Pegasus had become a most mulish animal, and would not budge a foot, unless he lumbered along a cart-load of quotations and explanations, and illustrations at his heels: he had therefore prevailed on Will Wizard to assist him occasionally as annotator and illustrator. As a specimen of their united labors, he handed me the following complimentary ode to that king of the buzzards, Dr. Christopher Costive, informing me that he had plenty more on hand whenever occasion required it. I had been rather surprised lately at the Doctor’s meddling with us, as he was sure of gaining more kicks than coppers in return; but I am told an ass loves to have his muzzle scratched with nettles. On expressing my surprise, Will informed me that it was all a sham battle; that he was very intimate with the Doctor, and could relate a thousand diverting anecdotes concerning him; and that the Doctor, finding we were in want of a butt, had generously volunteered himself as our target. I wish him joy of his bargain.
In the following poem it will be observed that, while my cousin Pindar tunes his pipe on the 86top of the page, Will Wizard worries away at his thorough bass below. The notes of a modern poem being like the sound of a French horn, bassoon, kettle-drum, and bass viol, in our orchestra, which make such a confounded racket, that they entirely drown the song; and no man, who has not the sublime ear of a connoisseur, can tell what the devil they’re playing.
FLUMMERY.
FROM THE MILL[36] OF PINDAR COCKLOFT, ESQ.
Being a Poem with Notes, or rather Notes with a Poem;[37] in the manner of
DOCTOR[38] CHRISTOPHER COSTIVE.
“Prick me Bull calf till he roars.”[39]
Falstaff.
The greatest[40] poet of our day,
From State of Maine to Louisiana;[41]
The hero who did ’sist upon’t,
He wou’dn’t be deputy to Mr. Hunt;[42]
Who rear’d a gallows for each elf, and
Did for hangman his own self stand.[43]
And made folks think it very odd, he
Should turn Jack Ketch to everybody,
The modern mounter of Pegasus,
The clumsy jolter of Jackasses,[44]
87Who, now the poet’s dray horse starts on,
Anon, the gibbet hurdle carts on,
Now o’er a poem dozes happy,
And next expertly draws the cap; he
Who cares not though the world should know it
That he’s half hangman, half a poet.[45]
Who gibbeted the knaves so knowing,
That kept Democracy a-going,
Hung his fac-simile famed Toney[46]
Pasquin, the friend of Mr. Honé.
Who drags like snail his filthy slime
Through many a ragged, hobbling rhyme,
Then calls his billingsgate—sarcastic!
His drabbling doggrel—Hudibrastic!
[Good lack, my friends, ’twould make you soon[47] laugh,
To see this jolter-headed moon-calf,
From Hudibras his honors steal
And break Sam Butler on the wheel.][48]
With other things that I might tell ye on
Performed by this rump-fed hellion[49]
—But not o’er long to dwell upon’t,
This man as big as an elephant,[50]
This sweetest witling of the age,[51]
This hero, hangman, critic, sage,[52]
This poet of five hundred pound[53]
Has come to grace our hapless town.
And when he entered, every goose
Began to cackle like the deuce;
The asses brayed to one another—
’Twas plain—the creatures smelt a brother.
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NOTES, BY WILLIAM WIZARD, ESQ.
GENERAL REMARK.
We have endeavored to copy the Doctor’s style and manner as correctly as possible throughout this charming poem; the rhymes are chiefly “filched” from his own labors, and jingle as harmoniously as sleigh bells—like him, we have sometimes risen and sometimes descended, with all his leaden profundity. Some poets sip in the Heliconian stream, others dabble in it. The Doctor exceeds them all—he has a true poetic DIVING-BELL—plunges boldly to the bottom, and there drabbles in the mud like a flounder. In the gallows part of his poem, the Doctor may truly be said to rise; and in our touch on the 96Helicon, we have almost equaled those profound sinkings of his genius, where the Doctor even descends below himself. We conclude with borrowing a speech from old Shakespeare—“Give me thy hand,” Doctor, “I am sorry I beat thee; but while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy head.”
NOTICE.
While in a “state militant,” waging war with folly and stupidity, and assailed on all sides by a combination of nincoms and numsculls, we are gratified to find that our careless effusions have received the approbation of men of wit and genius. We have expressed heretofore our contempt for the applause of the million, but we confess ourselves ambitious of the praises of the few; we have read, therefore, with infinite self-congratulation the encomiums passed on our productions by the learned and liberal editor of the “People’s Friend.” The attacks of that billingsgate droll, Dr. Costive, and his whole North River fraternity, could not give us greater delight. We also publish with pride the following Card from the authors of “The Echo,”[54] a work which we have commended to a conspicuous post in our library, and we do hereby shake its authors by the hand as a set of right merry wags, choice spirits, and, what we think better than all, genuine humorists.
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CARD.
“The authors of The Echo send a copy of it to the writers of Salmagundi, which they request them to accept, as a mark of the pleasure they have received from their Cervantic effusions.”
Now we are in the humor of card writing, we would acknowledge the reception of several effusions in prose and verse, which, though they do great credit to the writers, and would doubtless be both pleasing and instructive to the public, yet do not come exactly within the intention of our work; the authors, therefore, will excuse our not publishing them.
We have likewise received a note written in a French hand, but in villainous bad English. Will Wizard has been at much pains to decipher it, but in vain; it is as unintelligible as a Herculanean manuscript. He has discovered, however, that it is a vindication of dancing, together with a long eulogy on the pas de chat.
As a considerable part of this paper is taken up with a stupid subject, namely; the Doctor, and we do not wish that our readers should pay for “flummery” merely, we have directed our publisher to give them eight pages extra; this will account for the unusual size of the present number. We confess we borrowed this idea, among many others, from the Doctor, who lately finding 98that his readers were dissatisfied with the contents of his “weekly” paper, endeavored to put them in good humor by doubling the bulk; this he waggishly enough terms doubling the dose—O, the droll dog!
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