Part 1 — OLLAPODIANA.
Reading edition
NUMBER XXI.
We parted, good my reader, last at the Catskills—no? 'It was a summer's evening;' and with my shadow on the mountain mist, I ween, vanished in your thoughts the memory of me. Well, that was natural. A hazy, dream-like idea of my whereabout may have haunted you for a moment—but it passed. I cannot allow you to escape so easily. 'Lend us the loan' of your eye, for some twenty minutes; and if you are a home-bred and untravelled person, 'tis likely, as the valet says in Cinderella, that 'I may chance to make you stare!'
In discoursing of the territorial wonderments in question, which have been moulded by the hand of the Almighty, I cannot suppose that you who read my reveries will look with a compact, imaginative eye upon that which has forced its huge radius upon my own extended vision. I ask you, howbeit, to take my arm, and step forth with me from the piazza of the Mountain House. It is night. A few stars are peering from a dim azure field of western sky; the high-soaring breeze, the breath of heaven, makes a stilly music in the neighboring pines; the meek crest of Dian rolls along the blue depths of ether, tinting with silver lines the half dun, half fleecy clouds; they who are in the parlors make 'considerable' noise; there is an individual at the end of the portico discussing his quadrupled julep, and another devotedly sucking the end of a cane, as if it were full of mother's milk; he hummeth also an air from Il Pirata, and wonders, in the simplicity of his heart, 'why the devil that there steam-boat from Albany, doesn't begin to show its lights down on the Hudson.' His companion of the glass, however, is intent on the renewal thereof. Calling to him the chief 'help' of the place, he says: 'Is that other antifogmatic ready?'
'No, Sir.'
'Well, now, person, what's the reason? What was my last observation? Says I to you, says I, 'Make me a fourth of them beverages;' and moreover I added, 'Just you keep doing so; be constantly making them, till the order is countermanded.' Give us another; go!—vanish!—'disappear, and appear!''
The obsequious servant went; and returning with the desired, draught, observed, probably for the thousandth time: 'There! that's what I call the true currency; them's the ginooyne mint drops; HA—ha—ha!'—these separate divisions of his laughter coming out of his mouth at intervals of about half a minute each.
There is a bench near the verge of the Platform where, when you sit at evening, the hollow-sounding air comes up from the vast vale below, like the restless murmurs of the ocean. Anchor yourself here for a while, reader, with me. It being the evening of the national anniversary, a few patriotic individuals are extremely busy in piling up a huge pyramid of dried pine branches, barrels covered with tar, and kegs of spirits, to a height of some fifteen or twenty feet—perhaps higher. A bonfire is premeditated. You shall see anon, how the flames will rise. The preparations are completed; the fire is applied. Hear how it crackles and hisses! Slowly but spitefully it mounts from limb to limb, and from one combustible to another, until the whole welkin is a-blaze, and shaking as with thunder! It is a beautiful sight. The gush of unwonted radiance rolls in effulgent surges adown the vale. How the owl hoots with surprise at the interrupting light! Bird of wisdom, it is the Fourth! and you may well add your voice to swell the choral honors of the time. How the tall old pines, withered by the biting scathe of Eld, rise to the view, afar and near—white shafts, bottomed in darkness, and standing like the serried spears of an innumerable army! The groups around the beacon are gathered together, but are forced to enlarge the circle of their acquaintance, by the growing intensity of the increasing blaze. Some of them, being ladies, their white robes waving in the mountain breeze, and the light shining full upon them, present, you observe, a beautiful appearance. The pale pillars of the portico flash fitfully into view, now seen and gone, like columns of mist. The swarthy African who kindled the fire regards it with perspiring face and grinning ivories; and lo! the man who hath mastered the quintupled glass of metamorphosed eau-de-vie, standing by the towering pile of flame, and, reaching his hand on high, he smiteth therewith his sinister pap, with a most hollow sound—the knell, as it were, of his departing reason. In short, he is making an oration!
Listen to those voiceful currents of air, traversing the vast profound below the Platform! What a mighty circumference do they sweep! Over how many towns, and dwellings, and streams, and incommunicable woods! Murmurs of the dark, sources and awakeners of sublime imagination, swell from afar. You have thoughts of eternity and power here, which shall haunt you evermore. But we must be early stirrers in the morning. Let us to bed.
You can lie on your pillow at Catskill, and see the god of day look upon you from behind the pinnacles of the White Mountains in New-Hampshire, hundreds of miles away. Noble prospect! As the great orb heaves up in ineffable grandeur, he seems rising from beneath you, and you fancy that you have attained an elevation where may be seen the motion of the world. No intervening land to limit the view, you seem suspended in mid-air, without one obstacle to check the eye. The scene is indescribable. The chequered and interminable vale, sprinkled with groves, and lakes, and towns, and streams; the mountains afar off, swelling tumultuously heavenward, like waves of the ocean, some incarnadined with radiance, others purpled in shade; all these, to use the language of an auctioneer's advertisement, 'are too tedious to mention, but may be seen on the premises.' I know of but one picture which will give the reader an idea of this ethereal spot. It was the view which the angel Michael was polite enough, one summer morning, to point out to Adam, from the highest hill of Paradise:
'His eye might there command wherever stood City of old or modern fame, the seat Of mightiest empire, from the destined walls Of Cambalu, seat of Cathaïan Can, And Sarmachand by Oxus, Temir's throne, To Paquin of Sinæan kings; and thence To Agra and Labor of great Mogul Down to the golden Chersonese; or where The Persian in Ecbatan sat, or since In Hizpahan; or where the Russian Ksar In Mosco; or the Sultan in Bizance, Turchestan born; nor could his eye not ken The empire of Negus, to his utmost port, Erocco; and the less maritime kings Mombaza, and Quiloa, and Melind, And Sofala, thought Ophir, to the realm Of Congo and Angola, farthest south; Or thence from Niger flood to Atlas' mount, The kingdoms of Almanzor, Fez, and Suz, Morocco, and Algier, and Tremizen; On Europe thence, and where Rome was to sway The world; in spirit perhaps he also saw Rich Mexico, the seat of Montezume, (And Texas too, great Houston's seat—who knows?) And Cusco in Peru, the richer seat Of Atabalipa; and yet unspoiled Guiana, whose great city Geyron's sons Call El Dorado.'
Of the falls, sooth to say, little can be ejaculated in the eulogistic way. The cataract is only 'on hand' for a part of the time. It is kept in a dam, and let down for two shillings. The demand for the article has sometimes exceeded the supply, especially in dry weather. We quote the sales, as per register, while there, at perhaps some three hundred yards. Oh, Mercury! Scenery by the square foot! Sublimity by the quintal!
It looks to be a perilous enterprise, to descend the Catskills. You feel, as you commence the 'facilis descensus,' (what an unhackneyed phrase, to be sure!) very much the sort of sensation probably experienced by Parachute Cocking, whose end was so shocking. The wheels of the coach are shod with the preparation of iron slippers, which are essential to a hold-up; and as you bowl and grate along, with wilderness-chasms and a brawling stream mayhap on one hand, and horrid masses of stone seemingly ready to tumble upon you on the other—the far plain stretching like the sea beneath you, in the mists of the morning—your emotions are fidgetty. You are not afraid—not you, indeed! Catch you at such folly! No; but you wish most devoutly that you were some nine miles down, notwithstanding—and are looking eagerly for that consummation.
We paused just long enough at the base of the mountain, to water the cattle, and hear a bit of choice grammar from the landlord; a burly, big individual, 'careless of the objective case,' and studious of ease, in bags of tow-cloth, (trowsers by courtesy,) and a roundabout of the same material; the knees of the unmentionables apparently greened by kneeling humbly at the lactiferous udder of his only cow, day by day. He addressed 'the gentleman that driv' us down:'
'Well, Josh—I seen them rackets!'
'Wa'n't they almighty bright?' was the inquisitive reply.
This short colloquy had reference to a train of fire-works which were set off the evening before at the Mountain-House—long snaky trails of light, flashing in their zig-zag course through the darkness. It was beautiful to see those fiëry sentences written fitfully on the sky, fading one by one, like some Hebrew character—some Nebuchadnezzar scroll—in the dark profound, and showing, as the rocket fell and faded, that beneath the lowest deep to which it descended, there was one yet lower still, to which it swept 'plumb-down, a shower of fire.'
We presently rolled away, and were soon drawn up in front of the Hudson and the horse-boat, at the landing. The same unfortunate animals were peering forth from that aquatic vehicle; one of them dropping his hairy lip, with a melancholy expression, and the other strenuously endeavoring to remove a wisp of straw which had found a lodgment on his nose. The effort, however, was vain; his physical energies sank under the task; he gave it up, and was soon under way for the opposite shore, with his four-legged fellow traveller, and three bipeds, who were smoking segars.
It is right pleasant and joyous to see the number of juvenile patriots who are taken forth into the country, (whose glories for the first time, perhaps, are shed upon their town-addicted eyes,) on the great national holiday. To them, the flaunting honors of the landscape have a new beauty, and a joyous meaning; the sun hangs above them like a great ball of fire in the sky; the waters wear a glittering sheen; and the wide moving pulse of life beats with a universal thrill of happiness to them. I could not but note the number of urchins in the steamer, whom their 'paternal derivatives' were guiding around, and showing, to their vision at least, 'all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them.'
Well, to those who are disposed to glean philosophy from the mayhap less noticeable objects of this busy world, there are few sights more lovely than childhood. The little cherub who now sits at my knee, and tries, with tiny effort, to clutch the quill with which I am playing for you, good reader; whose capricious taste, varying from ink-stand to paper, and from that to books, and every other portable thing—all 'movables that I could tell you of'—he has in his little person those elements which constitute both the freshness of our sublunary mortality, and that glorious immortality which the mortal shall yet put on. Gazing upon his fair young brow, his peach-like cheek, and the depths of those violet eyes, I feel myself rejuvenated. That which bothered Nicodemus, is no marvel to me. I feel that I have a new existence; nor can I dispel the illusion. It is harder, indeed, to believe that he will ever be what I am, than that I am otherwise than he is now. I cannot imagine that he will ever become a pilosus adult, with harvests for the razor on that downy chin. Will those golden locks become the brown auburn? Will that forehead rise as a varied and shade-changing record of pleasure or care? Will the classic little lips, now colored as by the radiance of a ruby, ever be fitfully bitten in the glow of literary composition?—and will those sun-bright locks, which hang about his temples like the soft lining of a summer cloud, become meshes where hurried fingers shall thread themselves in play? By the mass, I cannot tell. But this I know. That which hath been, shall be: the lot of manhood, if he live, will be upon him; the charm—the obstacle—the triumphant fever—the glory, the success—the far-reaching thoughts,
——'That make them eagle wings To pierce the unborn years.'
I might 'prattle out of reason,' and fancy what, in defiance of precedent furnished by propinquity of blood, he possibly might be; an aldermanic personage, redolent of wines and soup—goodly in visage, benevolent in act, but strict in justice. I might fancy him with a most voluminous periphery, and a laugh that shakes the diaphragm, from the imo pectore to the vast circumference of the outer man. These things may be imagined, but not believed. Yet it is with others as with ourselves: 'We know what they are, but not what they may be.' Time adds to the novel thoughts of the child, the tricks and joyance of the urchin—the glow of increasing years, the passion of the swelling heart, when experience seems to school its energies. But in the flush of young existence, I can compare a child—the pride and delight of its mother and its kindred—to nothing else on earth, of its own form or image. It is like a young and beautiful bird—heard, perhaps, for once, in the days of our juvenescence, and remembered ever after, though never seen again. Its thoughts, like the rainbow-colored messenger discoursed of in the poetic entomology of La Martine,
'Born with the spring, and with the roses dying— Through the clear sky on Zephyr's pinion sailing; On the young flowret's open bosom lying— Perfume, and light, and the blue air inhaling; Shaking the thin dust from its wings, and fleeing, And soaring like a breath in boundless heaven: How like Desire, to which no rest is given! Which still uneasy, rifling every treasure, Returns at last above, to seek for purer pleasure.'
In truth, I do especially affect that delightful period in the life of every descendant of old Fig Leaves, in Eden, which may truly be called the April of the heart. How sweet are its smiles! And on the face of babyhood, 'the tears,' to use the dainty term of Sir Philip Sidney, 'come dropping down like raine in ye sunshine, and no heed being taken to wype them, they hang upon the cheekes and lippes, as upon cherries which the dropping tree bedeweth.' Halcyon season! Its pure thoughts and rich emotions come and go, like the painted waftage of a morning cloud; or most like that fulness of pearls which may be shaken from the matin spray. The night, to such, comes with its vesper hush and stillness, like the shadow of a shade. Sorrow is transient, and Hope ever new. Sabbath of the soul, fresh from its God! To the vision of these, how brightly the leaves move, and the breeze-crisped waters quiver! How their quick pulses bound, in the newness of existence, at that which is ancient and disdained of the common eye! To them, every color is prismatic, and wears the hue of Eden. With thoughts like these, however un-novel, I apostrophize 'My Boy:'
Thou hast a fair, unsullied cheek— A clear and dreaming eye, Whose bright and winning glances speak Of life's first revelry; And on thy brow no look of care Comes like a cloud, to cast a shadow there.
In feeling's early freshness blest— Thy wants and wishes few: Rich hopes are garnered in thy breast, As summer's morning dew Is found, like diamonds, in the rose— Nestling, midst folded leaves, in sweet repose.
Keep thus, in love, the heritage Of thy ephemeral spring; Keep its pure thoughts, till after age Weigh down thy spirit's wing; Keep the warm heart—the hate of sin. And heavenly peace will on thy soul break in.
And when the even-song of years Brings in its shadowy train The record of life's hopes and fears, Let it not be in vain, That backward on existence thou canst look, As on a pictured page or pleasant book.
In the wonder which we feel as to children growing old, we are apt to associate ourselves with them. When one who, in the hey-dey of his blood, and before the glow of the purpureum lumen of his 'better-most hours' has begun to diminish, is led to regard (and to hear, beside, for the fact rings often at his auricular portals,) that a vital extract is extant, he wonders if that 'embryon atom' will ever come to denominate the agent of his being as 'the old gentleman!' Of course, it must be impossible. Yet 'there is no mistake on some points.' In the course of his travels, Old Time effects many a marvel; but he pushes on with his agricultural implement, and streaming fore-lock; (nobody 'does him proud,' and he disdains the toupée,) until his oldest friends are metamorphosed, and his youngest begin to experience how 'tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis.' This reminds me of a song, which I like amazingly, because it contains such a mingling of truth, beauty, and melody:
I often think each tottering form That limps along in life's decline, Once bore a heart as young, as warm, As full of idle thoughts, as mine!
And each has had his dream of joy, His own unequalled, pure romance; Commencing, when the blushing boy First thrills at lovely woman's glance.
And each could tell his tale of youth— Would think its scenes of love evince More passion, more unearthly truth, Than any tale, before or since.
Yes! they could tell of tender lays At midnight penned, in classic shades, Of days more bright than modern days— Of maids more fair than living maids.
Of whispers in a willing ear, Of kisses on a blushing cheek— Each kiss, each whisper, far too dear, For modern lips to give or speak.
Of prospects, too, untimely crossed, Of passion slighted or betrayed— Of kindred spirits early lost, And buds that blossomed but to fade.
Of beaming eyes, and tresses gay, Elastic form and noble brow, And charms—that all have passed away, And left them—what we see them now!
And is it thus!—is human love So very light and frail a thing! And must Youth's brightest visions move For ever on Time's restless wing?
Must all the eyes that still are bright, And all the lips that talk of bliss, And all the forms so fair to sight, Hereafter only come to this?
Then what are Love's best visions worth, If we at length must lose them thus? If all we value most on earth, Ere long must fade away from us?
If that one being whom we take From all the world, and still recur To all she said, and for her sake Feel far from joy, when far from her;
If that one form which we adore, From youth to age, in bliss or pain, Soon withers and is seen no more— Why do we love—if love be vain!
In what strange contrast with a picture like this, does the beautiful Uhland place some of his nature-colored characters! How sweetly does he draw the picture of two devoted beings, practising palmistry, with palm to palm, and uttering a world of downy nonsense beneath the rolling moon:
'In a garden fair were roaming, Two lovers, hand in hand; Two pale and shadowy creatures, They sat in that flowery land.
On the lips, they kissed each other, On the cheeks so full and smooth; They were wrapt in close embracings— They were warm in the flush of youth.'
These are very apt verses to be made directly out of a man's head, ar'n't they? How the author must have been haunted with visions; all
'Sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, Or Cytherea's breath.'
I forgot to observe, that the postillion of whom I have spoken, was rather profane. He told a story of his experience some years before, with a divine, who was riding with him, on his professional seat, in the west, to attend a 'protracted meeting.' 'It was about 'lection time,' said he, 'and I had just gi'n in my vote. Of course, I was used with hospitality; and I was a leetle 'how-come-you-so?' as Miss Kimball says in her Tower. Well I driv on, at an uncommon rapid rate; (that's a fact;) and whensumever I threw out the mail-bags at a stoppin' place, I replenished the inner individual. At last I became, as the parson observed, 'manifestly inebriated;' and he ondertook for to lecter me! I said nothing, until he observed, or rather remarked, that 'he should not be surprised if I fell from my seat some day, and would be found with my head broke, and extravagantsated blood on the pious matter.''
'Well,' says I, 'I shouldn't be surprised; it would be just my d——d etarnal luck!''
'He didn't say no more all the trip. I shot him up.'
'But the election'—it was inquired—'did you succeed in that?'
'Oh, yes; and the man that we put in, made a fool of himself at Albany, into the Legislature, and there was a piece put into a book about him a'terwards.'
'Ah?—what was it?
'Here it is,' was the reply of my gentleman, as he drew from his pocket a worn fragment of a printed page.
'On the first day of the session, he was enabled to utter the beginning of a sentence, which would probably have had no end, if it had not been cut short, as it was, by the Speaker. On the presentation of some petitions, which he thought had a bearing on his favorite subject, the election by the people of public notaries, inspectors of beef and pork, sole-leather, and staves and heading, he got on his legs. 'When,' said he, 'Mr. Speaker, we consider the march of intellect in these united, as I may say confederated, states, and how the genius of liberty soars, in the vast expanse, stretching her eagle plumes from the Pacific Ocean to Long-Island Sound, gazing with eyes of fire upon the ruins of empires——' just at which point of aërial elevation, the Speaker brought down the metaphorical flight of the genius, and that of the aspiring orator together, by informing the latter that he should be happy to hear him when in order, but that there was now no question before the House!'[20]
'But what was the name of this man?' was a query following this eloquent extract.
'Smith, Sir, was his name; Smith, John Smith, of Smithopolis, and surrogate of Smith County. He was the first man in Smithville; was a blacksmith in his youth, a goldsmith a'terwards, and John Smith through all. A consistent man, Sir; no change with him; always upright, but always poor; unchanging, for he had nothing to change with! He was a distinguished man; had letters advertised in the post office; owned a blood horse; led the choir at church; read 'the Declaration' on every Fourth-of-July; made all the acquaintances he could; was exceedingly fussy on all occasions. In short, he was a very great man in a small way. His speech will stand as a memorial of his genius, when the Kattskill shall be troubled with the mildew of time, and the worms of decay!'
Well—the reign of autumn, for the present year, has come; and there will doubtless be the annual quotations of description in the newspaper market. Some of it will remain on first hands, and the rest will find a ready circulation. Meditation will vent itself upon apostrophe; poetry will be engendered; old songs will be re-sung. It is, in truth, a delicious season, and no one can be blamed for yielding himself up to its influences. When the first yellow surges of September sunlight seem to roll through the atmosphere; when the dust of the city street, as you look at some stately carriage, whose wheels are flashing toward the west, seems rising around them like an atmosphere, colored betwixt the hue of gold and crimson; when the mountains put on their beautiful garments, where tints of the rainbow mingle with the aërial blue of the sky; when the winds have a melancholy music in their tone, and the heaven above us is enrobed in surpassing purity and lustre—then, the dwellers in great capitals may perhaps conceive of the richness and fruition of the country; but they cannot approach the reality. The harvest moon has waned; the harvest home been held; the wheat is in the garner; the last peaches hang blushing on the topmost branches where they grew; the fragrant apples lie in fairy-colored mounds beneath the orchard trees, and the cheerful husbandman whistles at the cider-press. As September yields her withered sceptre into the grasp of October, the hills begin to invest themselves in those many-colored robes which are the livery of their new sovereign. As my observant friend, (a well-belovéd Epinetus,) who hath discoursed of matters outre-mer, so richly hymns it, then there comes
A mellow richness on the clustered trees; And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light, the pillared clouds, Morn, on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep crimsoned, And silver beech, the maple yellow leaved— Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the way-side a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves; the purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch hazel; while aloud, From cottage roofs, the warbling blue-bird sings.
To me, there is nothing of that dark solemnity about the autumnal season, which it has to the morbid or the foreboding. It comes, laden with plenty, and breathing of peace. There seems a sweet monition in every whisper of the gale, and the rustle of every painted leaf, which may speak a world of tranquillity to the contemplative mind. If there be sadness around and within, it is the sadness which is cherished, and the gloom that purifies; it is that doubtful twilight of the heart, which is succeeded at last by a glorious morning. We think with the serene and heavenly-minded Malcolm, of the distant, or the departed, who have gone before us to lay down their heads upon pillows of clay, and repose in the calm monotony of the tomb. Reflection asserts her sway, and the spirit expands into song:
Sweet Sabbath of the Year! When evening lights decay, Thy parting steps methinks I hear, Steal from the world away.
Amid thy silent bowers, 'Tis sad but sweet to dwell, Where falling leaves and fading flowers, Around me breathe farewell.
Along thy sun-set skies, Their glories melt in shade; And like the things we fondly prize, Seem lovelier as they fade.
A deep and crimson streak, The dying leaves disclose, As on Consumption's waning cheek, Mid ruin, blooms the rose.
The scene each vision brings Of beauty in decay; Of fair and early-faded things, Too exquisite to stay:
Of joys that come no more; Of flowers whose bloom is fled; Of farewells wept upon the shore; Of friends estranged, or dead!
Of all, that now may seem To memory's tearful eye The vanished beauty of a dream, O'er which we gaze and sigh!
And now, reader, Benedicite! 'Hail—and farewell!'
Decidedly thine,
Ollapod.