Kitabı oku: «The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 2, August, 1862», sayfa 7

During all this eager pursuit of acres there was never any manifestation of selfishness or of the ordinary repulsive characteristics of grasping avarice. It is true, he was exacting, punctual, and opinionated. He pursued his own course in all matters, but there was no misanthropy or harshness in his manner or deportment. He rarely gave for charitable or other purposes, for the reason that he would never sell any property he acquired, because he said it was not his; that he was only the steward or agent of God for certain great designs. His agency, however, did not include a power to sell. Hence he could not be induced by any offer or consideration to alienate any property he had once acquired. Abstemious to a fault, withholding himself from all the enjoyments and associations of the world, he devoted his time to the care of his large estate, to the suits in which such acquisitions constantly involved him, working for seventeen hours out of the twenty-four, the greater part of which labor consisted in writing the necessary documents relating to his titles, in corresponding with his lawyers and overseers. For the fifty years of his residence in New-Orleans, he never left the State, and rarely, if ever, passed beyond the limits of the corporation. It was well known that he was entirely wrapped up in some grand scheme of charity, the nature of which, however, was only known to a few lawyers, with whom he consulted in regard to the legality of his proposed dispositions, though none of them knew the mode and form in which those dispositions were to be made.

McDonogh's scheme was certainly a grand one. In the execution of it, a man of his character and mind might well feel and display the extraordinary zeal and enthusiasm that gave to his appearance, habits, and conduct the characteristics of a monomaniac. Without ever once turning aside for pleasure, ambition, curiosity, affection, or enmity, he steadily pursued his great design, until death released him from the severe servitude to which he had bound himself. But, save in this entire self-abnegation and social exclusion, Mr. McDonogh had none of the habits of the miser. He was not a usurer, a money-lender, or a speculator. He did not extort his riches from the distresses and weaknesses of his fellow-men. He acquired by legitimate purchase, by entries on public lands. He dealt altogether in land. Stocks, merchandise, and other personal securities were eschewed by him. The wonder is, how, with a comparatively small revenue, his property not being productive, and his favorite policy being to render his lands wild and unsuited for cultivation, he was able to go on every year expanding the area of his vast possessions. Such enormous accumulations are not surprising under the operation of compound interest on sums of money loaned; but when effected by purchases of unproductive lands, they constitute a puzzle which the most intimate of Mr. McDonogh's friends have found it difficult to unravel.

So much for the labor and practice of realities of the life of the millionaire. We must not conclude our sketch without rounding off the romance of that life which is the starting-point in the strange career pursued by him for forty years, with such ascetic severity and undeviating fidelity. What became of the betrothed of the gay and wealthy young American, from whom he had experienced the shock and disappointment that threw so much gloom over and produced such a thorough change in his future life? She had left with her gallant young husband, in bright hopes of a brilliant future. For some years their life in Paris was one of gayety, pleasure, and joyfulness. In the course of a few years, the dissipations of Paris began to pall upon the taste of the young couple. With unbounded wealth and means of enjoyment, they grew ennuyéed, discontented, and finally contentious. Jealousy, like a serpent, stole into their household, and involved the mind of the husband in her snaky embrace. Rumors reached his ear which nourished this passion, until it exploded in a violent and irreconcilable quarrel. One of the chief instigators of the young Count, in this quarrel with his high-spirited wife, was his own father, who, in the retirement of a chateau near Paris, grew daily more morose and misanthropic. He had heard that his son had been dishonored, and his rage and bitterness were unbounded. The son abandoned his wife's hotel, and repaired to his father's chateau, where the two lived in seclusion and gloom. After they had been separated for some time, the Countess was either enticed by lures thrown out by the elder Pontalba, or of her own accord resorted to the chateau, for the purpose of consulting the Count relative to certain dispositions of their joint property, or certain arrangements for the education of their children, of whom there were three. The son was not at home; but the father, receiving her in the hall, invited her into his study. In a few moments afterward, the servants in the chateau were aroused by the report of a pistol, followed by the scream of a woman, and by another report; then all was silent. Rushing toward the study of Mr. Pontalba, they forced the door open—it had been locked on the inside—and there a terrible spectacle was presented. The Countess lay on the floor, bathed in blood, which gushed in torrents from a large wound in her breast, whilst her dress was burning from the nearness of the shot by which the wound had evidently been inflicted. But a still ghastlier object lay near. It was the body of the elder Pontalba, her husband's father, who had blown off the top of his skull with a large dragoon's pistol, which he still grasped in his hand. Though insensible, it was discovered that the Countess was not quite dead. A surgeon was soon obtained, and on examination it was discovered that though her wound was a terrible one—three buck-shot and one large bullet having entered her breast—yet there was some hope for her. After incredible suffering and long confinement, she recovered; though to the day of her death she will feel the effects of the terrible wound, to which was added the mutilation of her hand, which caught the bullet.

The causes and circumstances of that tragedy were never unveiled to the world. Nor is there any great desire to penetrate the mystery. The Countess got well, and continued her fashionable life, appropriating a large portion of her great rental in New-Orleans to the purchase of property and the improvement of her elegant hotel in Paris. The Revolution of 1830 found the Countess a fierce Bourboniste, and produced such apprehension of confiscation, and danger to her life and liberty, that she concluded to return to New-Orleans. Here she found that her property had greatly augmented in value, and after a short sojourn in her native city, discovering that Louis Philippe's dynasty was an unproscriptive one, she returned to Paris, where she resided until the Revolution of 1848 again filled her with alarm for her large possessions. Beside, she was well known to be a conspicuous Legitimiste of the party of Henry V. Again she returned to New-Orleans, full of horror of Red Republicanism and Socialism, and with disgust for the fickleness of the French.

Directing her attention, with characteristic energy and ardor, to the improvement of her property which incloses Jackson Square, the principal public place in New-Orleans, she built some forty elegant houses, and then assuming the government of the municipality, she succeeded in inducing the authorities to cut down the old trees on the square, and to have it laid off in the parterre style. The 'Woodman spare that tree' sentiment strongly opposed this reform; but it was vain to resist the Countess. The trees obstructed the view of her fine rows of houses, and down they must come, and down they did come, very much to the improvement of the city, and to the full justification of the taste and good sense of the Countess.

After thus improving her property, and augmenting her resources, the Countess thought she might trust herself again in Paris, though a parvenu filled the throne which, in her view, was justly the property of the elder branch of the Bourbons.

But before she left, an incident occurred which must close this desultory sketch. It happened one day, while the Countess was in a notary's office, for the purpose of signing some deeds, that a tall, grave, and eccentric-looking old gentleman entered, and seeing the notary engaged, took his seat to wait his turn. After completing her signature of the deeds, the Countess, raising her eyes from the parchment, perceived that she was the object of close and keen observation of the eccentric old gentleman with the very brilliant and piercing eyes. A single glance served to bring that face and form distinctly back to her memory. Rushing up to the old gentleman, she threw her arms around his neck, in an affectionate embrace, exclaiming:

'Oh! Mr. McDonogh, is it you? I have not forgotten you during our long separation.' And after a pause, her emotions checking her utterance, she continued: 'We were once betrothed; it would have been better for both if we had married. Is it too late to repair that fatal error?'

For the first time for forty years, the old man was deeply affected by a tender and human feeling. The ancient love was aroused from the deep recess of his heart, where it had kin dormant and forgotten, and for a moment triumphed over the passion which had been growing and expanding for the half of his lifetime, until it had gained the entire mastery of his soul. Greatly moved by this penitence of his once-loved betrothed, Mr. McDonogh begged to be permitted to consult his better judgment, and tearing himself from the bewitchments of the Countess, he repaired instantly to the office of his lawyer. Walking in with the appearance of great excitement, he paced the office of the lawyer in an anxious and excited manner for some time, to the profound astonishment of his ancient counselor. At last the cause of this emotion was explained, when, turning to his lawyer, Mr. McDonogh confessed that he was under a great excitement, produced by meeting his old love, the Countess. 'And what would you think now, R–, if I were to marry her?'

'I should think,' replied the unsentimental counselor, 'that you had become crazy.'

'Ah?' replied the millionaire interrogatively, and then pausing thoughtfully, he continued: 'And you would think right—you would think right; so let us to business.'

HELTER-SKELTER PAPERS

In choosing a caption for the heterogeneous collection of reflections that are likely to be the result of the 'present writing,' the superscriber makes no apology for his title not being also a topic to any further extent than its consideration in this paragraph. The object held in view in giving any name to the succeeding lucubrations was merely to obtain a starting-point; it being conceded that the commencement of a tas of papers need have no greater influence on their course than the point of departure of a railroad-train exercises on its terminus and intermediate stopping-places. To resort then to my heading or its derivations for any indication of my purpose in what may follow, would be futile, and I am free to disclaim any premeditate purpose of governing my pen by either hilariter or celeriter, save as accident may determine. This, at least, gives hope of variety in the consequences of my present step; but whether spiciness will also ensue, will depend entirely on the humor of the writer and the complaisance of the reader hereof. So with no further introduction, the following children of my moods are presented for the kind consideration of those under whose eyes they may fall.

–Has a man a right to use an old pun in making a new joke? This was a question which arose in the Quidnuncs coterie the other evening, after Muggins had sent in the following, for the comic column of a weekly paper, the editor of which had returned it gratefully but firmly, on the score of superannuation: 'If Truth lie at the bottom of a well, why should we be surprised that so many kick the bucket before they are able to reach it?'

Slight sympathy was expressed for Muggins, but in my opinion that was owing rather to the depravity evinced in the particular attempt than to any condemnation of his conduct in making an old joke answer the purpose of a new one. I confess that I don't see why a good pun should be thrown aside after it has served as the soul of a single sentence. I am a supporter of the doctrine of Transmigration of Puns. For a true pun always has a humorous idea behind the verbal quip that is its prominent characteristic. And though the verbal quip may be 'old as the hills,' the joke may present a face fresh as that of a young maiden and bear a meaning merry as her eyes. Thus an adept in this art once renovated two veritable antiques:

'I tell thee, Binks, that the proposition is incontrovertible; any thing that is worth doing is worth being well done.'

'Well, then, brother Noggs, what hast thou to say to a beef-steak? Does not thy rule fail thee there?'

'Truly it doth, Binks; but thou wilt grant me that thine is a rare exception?'

'That will I, right readily.' And both laughed heartily, and went their ways.

–'Sir, you are treading on my favorite corn,' was the mild protest of one in a crowd against the act of a neighbor who had encroached on his pedal extremities, by attempting to violate the philosophical axiom that two bodies can not occupy the same space simultaneously. The remark raised a laugh; yet it involved a great truth. Each of us has at least one pet infirmity, which we nurse as earnestly, with a view to its becoming chronic, (perhaps unwittingly,) as we strive earnestly to eradicate other morbid troubles. And the position is true regarding moral as well as physical invalids. Who has not often been doubly irritated by the removal of his source of irritation? Thus Paterfamilias Bloggs, having been 'riled' by the overcrowding of the omnibus in which he proceeds homeward, makes up his mind that if Materfamilias B. has not provided fish-balls for supper, he will 'raise a row.' And he so gloats in expectancy over the imaginary denunciation that he will inflict on that long-suffering female, that he is quite disappointed, on entering his basement, to discover at a glance that a dish of beautifully-browned fish-balls decks the evening table. So Bloggs' wrath is smothered, and smoulders for the rest of the evening, finding insufficient vent in boxed ears for the children, and short, crisp replies to civil questions from the older members of the family. Thus you see that removing a cause does not always do away with a consequence.

–Who ever gave a satisfactory excuse for an inopportune laugh? Certainly, no child transgressing in this particular ever failed to receive less than ten-fold its due of punishment therefor, as many grown persons will join me in testifying. Especially is this true in instances of church cachinnation. I solemnly aver that I have felt a stronger tendency to hearty laughter in a church than I ever experienced in a theatre, and yet I could not and can not give any satisfactory reason for the inclination. I wanted to laugh for the child's reason, 'Because.'

Not many months since, in a land thousands of miles hence, I was stretched upon a bed of sickness. In pursuance of the humane duties of his calling, the minister of the Episcopal Church called upon me, and after a short conversation, proposed addressing the throne of grace. This he did in a few eloquent extemporaneous phrases, closing with the Lord's prayer. Now, from the outset, I felt an uncontrollable inclination to laugh; but for a time succeeded in restraining it. But when, in close succession upon the minister's words, there arose from the next room (separated from us by a thin board partition) a sepulchral echo in the voice of my room-mate, a grim and swarthy miner, who probably had not heard the prayer since he repeated it after his mother at her knee, and from the still potent though long dormant force of habit, now joined in its utterance, the incongruity of my surroundings overcame me, and I electrified the worthy priest by bursting into a guffaw. Looking back on the scene, I can see far more pathos than humor in it; but at the time, the scene was to me irresistibly ludicrous. And oh! the paltry excuse that I raked up. 'Nervousness,' I think. No matter, I had 'spoiled the whole party and broke up the ball!' 'Tis always the way.

–Somebody has said that to be a successful author, it is only necessary to feel what you write. This I deny, for many reasons which I might but will not cite, contenting myself with saying that to write what one feels, though much more gratifying and in a moral sense far more commendable than to conceal or falsify sentiments, is dangerous, and has been known to cause a writer to feel not only more than he wrote or could write, but more than he had any expectation or desire of feeling in such connection. Thus, whenever under an assumed but transparent title, I introduce my friend Scroggs into a little sketch of my production, I never express in that performance my actual estimate of Scroggs, physically or mentally. Nor in my glowing description of the incidents of a trip to Catskill Mountain House, do I confine myself to the expression of what I felt in viewing the many and varied scenes of rural beauty that presented themselves during the progress of that undertaking. Do you suppose that I would run the risk of conveying to Claribella, who was my only companion in that expedition, that I never was more bored in my life, and that my conversation was the result of operating with a constantly working though invisible pump at the well of common-places and platitudes, which a gentleman accumulates for such emergencies in the course of his social experience? Heaven preserve my hair, should I venture on such a step.

'But you digress,' some impatient reader suggests.

Digress! That is an impossibility in an article without a topic. But even if I plead guilty, my impatient critic; did you ever take a walk in the country, and if so, did you choose those broad roads that lead to churches and the village stores and the 'Academy,' or did you plunge, by some little modest path, into the recesses of a grove, careless whither your steps carried you, so content you were to yield to the enchanting guidance of accident? And what though, in following your bent, you were compelled to climb an occasional fence or cross a chance puddle, the satisfaction of coming suddenly upon some pleasant view, or unexpectedly entering an apparently previously unexplored nook, more than atoned for such trifling annoyances. Without digression in some degree, neither spoken nor written language can be made entertaining to the person addressed. Who is more discursive than the Autocrat, the Czar of table-talkers; and whose productions are more charming or wiser? We do not do our everyday thinking in strictly logical or consistent forms. It is sufficient to introduce hypotheses, premises, or syllogisms, when there are ends to be attained by such a course. Impulse is far more attractive than prim consistency in the character of those we love; and if this be true as to pet persons, why not in our favorite writings? So the most charming women I have met would be styled in Spanish las inconsecuentes. Therefore, when amusement is the aim of writing, let digression have full swing.

–I envy a good talker. There is no class of persons so generally underrated and vilified, yet this would be a dull world without them. And the faculty is not to be acquired. Really good talkers are born, not made. (And some, I hear a skeptic say, are not to be borne in certain contingencies.) Talk is like a river; it rushes onward, by expression of ideas, making room for thoughts to follow, and the dull elf, whose mouth is a mill-dam, finds his fancies and thoughts accumulate on his brain, till that organ is dull and sodden as is his facial aspect. Why is it that some can only be fluent from the point of a pen, while others can only address their fellows effectively by word of mouth? Of course there are conversational monsters as well as other violations of nature's creative processes. And the more thought that talk holds in solution, the more grateful the offering. But I have often listened attentively and pleasurably to an hour's flow from the lips of a pretty, graceful woman, or an interesting child, just saying enough myself to prove that sleep had not seized me. And at the subsidence of the tide, I could not for the life of me recall a single idea to which verbal embodiment had been given. Perhaps I had been carried away by the music of tone, or the charming, ever-changing curves of the opening and closing lips, or the dimples in the cheeks, as they budded, blossomed, and faded in the light of the now laughing, now languishing eyes, that never lost their hold of mine, yet never bore mine down by that most intolerable of all social manifestations—a stare.

–I have a friend, who declares that he has lost a smile. Not one from his sweetheart, for that would be either recoverable or replaceable with another. The smile he mourns is—his own. To speak plainly, he has lost, through neuralgia, the control over the risible muscles of his face, and they not only refuse to obey him in his desire and design to beam upon all peaceful comers, but occasionally put in motion another set of facial strings, which give him a depressed and lachrymose air when he would fain appear most jubilant. He says he never till now knew how much of his facial aspect was artificial. His present condition is only relieved when he is under the control of some powerful emotion. Then he can laugh as heartily and present the appearance of so doing as fully as ever. It is only the conventional smile, the bland, self-possessed smile of society, that is utterly gone from him. I elicited the confession by entering his room noiselessly one day, and detecting him in the act of making the gloomiest grimaces at a small boarding-house mirror on the wall. He was much confused, and at first denied any such employment; but ultimately admitted that he had been practicing facial gymnastics for the purpose of simulating the smile he had lost. Perhaps some of our fashionable dentists may be able to aid him by a suggestion. They certainly have more smiles at their command than any class of men that have come under my observation. How singular that the most ferocious quadrupeds and the blandest of men should evince their most contrasted characteristics—fierceness and amenity—by showing their teeth.

I sometimes think those are blessed who are endowed with a coarse organization. Sensitive people are chronic martyrs. Their nerves are so many toes, that their neighbors and friends are perpetually treading on. Not only are the pangs of such more acute, but the occasions of injury are infinitely multiplied by super-susceptibility. Talk of the happy hours of childhood! Ask nine persons out of ten, who are of susceptible organization, at what period in life their sufferings were most intense and unremitting, and if they be gifted with good memories, their reply will be, 'before adolescence.'³ For susceptibility of nerve implies also high mental capability, acute intelligence, vivid imagination, all of which go to intensify sensation, and thus to aggravate the mischief. And our sympathy is due to one who by one of those strange contradictions in human nature finds herself, a highly nervous creature, the victim of an affection for one of the coarser organizations to which I have alluded. I say victim, for such attachments seldom result happily. The effect produced, in the first instance, by the magnetism of a strong over a weak nature gradually dies away. With it die the brilliant colors in which the beloved has been invested by the belover, and life is thenceforward only lit up by the lamps that heaven sets in the eyes of the little children that sometimes cheer the darkness of these ill-assorted unions.

–'Sir we are too poor to be economical.' These were the words which I once heard a woman use to a rich relative of her husband, who had followed up his refusal of assistance by allusions to many little short-comings which he had noted in the domestic details of the family. The phrase seems to involve a contradiction; but a little consideration will show even the most superficial thinker that it expresses a truth. Great is the power of ready money. Ready money can save by wholesale purchases. Ready money can save by choice of place of purchase. Ready money can save by choice of proper time for purchase. Ready money can save by discount obtained under threat of discontinuance of trade; a threat futile in the mouths of the poor. Ready money can save in furniture and wearing apparel, by being able to provide the best in fabric and construction, and therefore the most lasting. But it is needless to extend the catalogue of ready money's powers. None know them better than those who seldom are able to obtain their aid.