Home as Found, James Fenimore Cooper [bookreader txt] 📗

falsehood,

and of his foreign correspondence, in particular, he is so

exceedingly careful, that he assures me he has every word of it

written under his own eye."

 

"On the subject of his religious scruples," added John Effingham, "he

is so fastidiously exact, that I hear he 'says grace' over every

thing that goes _from_ his press, and 'returns thanks' for every

thing that comes _to_ it."

 

"You know him, Mr. Effingham, by this remark? Is he not, truly, a man

of a vocation?"

 

"That, indeed, he is, ma'am. He may be succinctly said to have a

newspaper mind, as he reduces every thing in nature or art to news,

and commonly imparts to it so much of his own peculiar character,

that it loses all identity with the subjects to which it originally

belonged. One scarcely knows which to admire most about this man, the

atmospheric transparency of his motives, for he is so disinterested

as seldom even to think of paying for a dinner when travelling, and

yet so conscientious as always to say something obliging of the

tavern as soon as he gets home--his rigid regard to facts; or the

exquisite refinement and delicacy that he imparts to every thing he

touches. Over all this, too, he throws a beautiful halo of morality

and religion, never even prevaricating in the hottest discussion,

unless with the unction of a saint!"

 

"Do you happen to know Florio?" asked Mrs. Legend, a little

distrusting John Effingham's account of Captain Kant.

 

"If I do, it must indeed be by accident. What are his chief

characteristics, ma'am?"

 

"Sentiment, pathos, delicacy, and all in rhyme, too. You no doubt,

have heard of his triumph over Lord Byron, Miss Effingham?"

 

Eve was obliged to confess that it was new to her.

 

"Why, Byron wrote an ode to Greece, commencing with 'The Isles of

Greece! the Isles of Greece!' a very feeble line, as any one will

see, for it contained a useless and an unmeaning repetition."

 

"And you might add vulgar, too, Mrs. Legend," said John Effingham,

"since it made a palpable allusion to all those vulgar incidents that

associate themselves in the mind, with these said common-place isles.

The arts, philosophy, poetry, eloquence, and even old Homer, are

brought unpleasantly to one's recollection, by such an indiscreet

invocation."

 

"So Florio thought, and, by way of letting the world perceive the

essential difference between the base and the pure coin, _he_ wrote

an ode on England, which commenced as such an ode _should_!"

 

"Do you happen to recollect any of it, ma'am?"

 

"Only the first line, which I greatly regret, as the rhyme is

Florio's chief merit. But this line is, of itself, sufficient to

immortalize a man."

 

"Do not keep us in torment, dear Mrs. Legend, but let us have it, of

heaven's sake!"

 

"It began in this sublime strain, sir--'Beyond the wave!--Beyond the

wave!' Now, Miss Effingham, that is what _I_ call poetry!"

 

"And well you may, ma'am," returned the gentleman, who perceived Eve

could scarce refrain from breaking out in a very unsentimental

manner--"So much pathos."

 

"And so sententious and flowing!"

 

"Condensing a journey of three thousand miles, as it might be, into

three words, and a note of admiration. I trust it was printed with a

note of admiration, Mrs. Legend?"

 

"Yes, sir, with two--one behind each wave--and such waves, Mr.

Effingham!"

 

"Indeed, ma'am, you may say so. One really gets a grand idea of them,

England lying beyond each."

 

"So much expressed in so few syllables!"

 

"I think I see every shoal, current, ripple, rock, island, and whale,

between Sandy Hook and the Land's End."

 

"He hints at an epic."

 

"Pray God he may execute one. Let him make haste, too, or he may get

'behind the age,' 'behind the age.'"

 

Here the lady was called away to receive a guest.

 

"Cousin Jack!"

 

"Eve Effingham?"

 

"Do you not sometimes fear offending?"

 

"Not a woman who begins with expressing her admiration of such a

sublime thing as this. You are safe with such a person, any where

short of a tweak of the nose."

 

"_Mais, tout ceci est bien drole!_"

 

"You never were more mistaken in your life, Mademoiselle; every body

here looks upon it as a matter of life and death."

 

The new guest was Mr. Pindar, one of those careless, unsentimental

fellows, that occasionally throw off an ode that passes through

Christendom, as dollars are known to pass from China to Norway, and

yet, who never fancied spectacles necessary to his appearance,

solemnity to his face, nor _soirees_ to his renown. After quitting

Mrs. Legend, he approached Eve, to whom he was slightly known, and

accosted her.

 

"This is the region of taste, Miss Effingham," he said, with a shrug

of the jaw, if such a member can shrug; "and I do not wonder at

finding you here."

 

He then chatted pleasantly a moment, with the party, and passed on,

giving an ominous gape, as he drew nearer to the _oi polloi_ of

literature. A moment after appeared Mr. Gray, a man who needed

nothing but taste in the public, and the encouragement that would

follow such a taste, to stand at, or certainty near, the head of the

poets of our own time. He, too, looked shily at the galaxy, and took

refuge in a corner. Mr. Pith followed; a man whose caustic wit needs

only a sphere for its exercise, manners to portray, and a society

with strong points about it to illustrate, in order to enrol his name

high on the catalogue of satirists. Another ring announced Mr. Fun, a

writer of exquisite humour, and of finished periods, but who, having

perpetrated a little too much sentiment, was instantly seized upon by

all the ultra ladies who were addicted to the same taste in that way,

in the room.

 

These persons came late, like those who had already been too often

dosed in the same way, to be impatient of repetitions. The three

first soon got together in a corner, and Eve fancied they were

laughing at the rest of the company; whereas, in fact, they were

merely laughing at a bad joke of their own; their quick perception of

the ludicrous having pointed out a hundred odd combinations and

absurdities, that would have escaped duller minds.

 

"Who, in the name of the twelve Caesars, has Mrs. Legend got to

lionize, yonder, with the white summit and the dark base?' asked the

writer of odes.

 

"Some English pamphleteer, by what I can learn," answered he of

satire; "some fellow who has achieved a pert review, or written a

Minerva Pressism, and who now flourishes like a bay tree among us. A

modern Horace, or a Juvenal on his travels."

 

"Fun is well badgered," observed Mr. Gray.--"Do you not see that Miss

Annual, Miss Monthly, and that young alphabet D.O.V.E., have got him

within the circle of their petticoats, where he will be martyred on a

sigh?"

 

"He casts tanging looks this way; he wishes you to go to his rescue,

Pith."

 

"I!--Let him take his fill of sentiment! I am no homoepathist in such

matters. Large doses in quick succession will soonest work a cure.

Here comes the lion and he breaks loose from his cage, like a beast

that has been poked up with sticks."

 

"Good evening, gentlemen," said Captain Truck, wiping his face

intensely, and who having made his escape from a throng of admirers,

took refuge in the first port that offered. "You seem to be enjoying

yourselves here in a rational and agreeable way. Quite cool and

refreshing in this corner."

 

"And yet we have no doubt that both our reason and our amusement will

receive a large increase from the addition of your society, sir,"

returned Mr. Pith.--"Do us the favour to take a seat, I beg of you,

and rest yourself."

 

"With all my heart, gentlemen; for, to own the truth, these ladies

make warm work about a stranger. I have just got out of what I call a

category."

 

"You appear to have escaped with life, sir," observed Pindar, taking

a cool survey of the other's person.

 

"Yes, thank God, I have done that, and it is pretty much all,"

answered the captain, wiping his face. "I served in the French war--

Truxtun's war, as we call it--and I had a touch with the English in

the privateer trade, between twelve and fifteen; and here, quite

lately, I was in an encounter with the savage Arabs down on the coast

of Africa; and I account them all as so much snow-balling, compared

with the yard-arm and yard-arm work of this very night. I wonder if

it is permitted to try a cigar at these conversation-onies,

gentlemen?"

 

"I believe it is, sir," returned Pindar, coolly. "Shall I help you to

a light?"

 

"Oh! Mr. Truck!" cried Mrs. Legend, following the chafed animal to

his corner, as one would pursue any other runaway, "instinct has

brought you into this good company. You are, now, in the very focus

of American talents."

 

"Having just escaped from the focus of American talons," whispered

Pith.

 

"I must be permitted to introduce you myself. Mr. Truck, Mr. Pindar--

Mr. Pith--- Mr. Gray--gentlemen, you must be so happy to be

acquainted, being, as it were, engaged in the same pursuits!"

 

The captain rose and shook each of the gentlemen cordially by the

hand, for he had, at least, the consolation of a great many

introductions that night. Mrs. Legend disappeared to say something to

some other prodigy.

 

"Happy to meet you, gentlemen," said the captain "In what trade do

you sail?"

 

"By whatever name we may call it," answered Mr. Pindar--"we can

scarcely be said to go before the wind."

 

"Not in the Injee business, then, or the monsoons would keep the

stun'sails set, at least."

 

"No, sir.--But yonder is Mr. Moccasin, who has lately set up,

_secundum artem_, in the Indian business, having written two novels

in that way already, and begun a third."

 

"Are you all regularly employed, gentlemen?"

 

"As regularly as inspiration points," said Mr. Pith. "Men of our

occupation must make fair weather of it, or we had better be doing

nothing."

 

"So I often tell my owners, but 'go ahead' is the order. When I was a

youngster, a ship remained in port for a fair wind; but, now, she

goes to work and makes one. The world seems to get young, as I get

old."

 

"This is a _rum litterateur_," Gray whispered to Pindar.

 

"It is an obvious mystification," was the answer; "poor Mrs. Legend

has picked up some straggling porpoise, and converted him, by a touch

of her magical wand, into a Boanerges of literature. The thing is as

clear as day, for the worthy fellow smells of tar and cigar smoke. I

perceive that Mr. Effingham is laughing out of the corner of his

eyes, and will step across the room, and get the truth, in a minute."

 

The rogue was as good as his word, and was soon back again, and

contrived to let his friends understand the real state of the case. A

knowledge of the captain's true character encouraged this trio in the

benevolent purpose of aiding the honest old seaman in his wish to

smoke, and Pith managed to give him a lighted paper, without becoming

an open accessary to the plot.

 

"Will you take a cigar yourself, sir," said the captain, offering his

box to Mr. Pindar.

 

"I thank you, Mr. Truck, I never smoke, but am a profound admirer of

the flavour. Let me entreat you to begin as soon as possible."

 

Thus encouraged, Captain Truck drew two or three whiffs, when the

rooms were immediately filled with the fragrance of a real Havana. At

the first discovery, the whole literary pack went off on the scent.

As for Mr. Fun, he managed to profit by the agitation that followed,

in order to escape to the three wags in the corner, who were enjoying

the scene, with the gravity of so many dervishes.

 

"As I live," cried Lucius Junius Brutus, "there is the author of a--

a--a--actually smoking a cigar!--How excessively _piquant!_"

 

"Do my eyes deceive me, or is not that the writer of e--e--e--

fumigating us all!" whispered Miss Annual.

 

"Nay, this cannot certainly be right," put in Florio, with a

dogmatical manner. "All the periodicals agree that smoking is

ungenteel in England."

 

"You never were more mistaken, dear Florio," replied D.O.V.E. in a

cooing tone. "The very last novel of society has a chapter in which

the hero and heroine smoke in the declaration scene."

 

"Do they, indeed!--That alters the case. Really, one would not wish

to get behind so great a nation, nor yet go much before it. Pray,

Captain Kant, what do your friends in Canada say; is, or is not

smoking permitted in good society there? the Canadians must, at

least, be ahead of us."

 

"Not at all, sir," returned the editor in his softest tones; "it is

revolutionary and jacobinical."

 

But the ladies prevailed, and, by a process that is rather peculiar

to what may be called a "credulous" state of society, they carried

the day. This process was simply to make one fiction authority for

another. The fact that smoking was now carried so far in England,

that