Page images
PDF
EPUB

more frequently met with; thus the surnames terminating in ski or cki became prevailing among, and characteristic of, the Polish nobles. Sometimes, however, so terminating surnames are to be found among the lower orders (as sometimes servants take their lord's name); but then they are assumed only with the view of borrowing from them the lustre of gentility, which however never can impose upon natives that are nobles of right. It wonld be a mistake to believe that the names of all Polish noblemen have the above-mentioned termination; those that are not derived from estates .but from some other circumstances, terminate variously.

The Poles, not content with their birthright title of a gentleman, endeavor always to enhance it by their own merit; and to the outward graces and lofty feelings of a well-bred man, they are careful to add a familiarity with literature. Thus the Polish gentleman is never a total stranger to belles-lettres. Residing in the country on his estate as he generally does, he amuses himself with field-sports, and seeks the company of his books, or discharges the sacred duty of hospitality to his guests; and it is particularly in the latter capacity that his national character appears. With the taste for literature, he cherishes that also for the fine arts, and when his means allow he is glad to gratify it. But let us see him at home.

He keeps his house always open, and on his table are ever to be found a few covers for guests not expected. Here the wife shines like a gem, and all things reflect the light of her smiles. It is her lord's desire, and it becomes her pleasure to know how to direct her household affairs; the cooks and the waiters are her dutiful subjects. It would make Doctor Saw-dust shudder to behold the variety of courses that the domestics are busy in changing, while their lord with his guests sit at the table; but if he should taste the generous wine, and should it chance to be Tokay, he would be forced to acknowledge the merits of the cook, and the taste and judgment of the mistress. While good cheer merrily circulates round the company, from yonder gallery a band of music pours melody into their ears; for the host, being an adept in the philosophy of living, knows that music only can scatter the turbulent passions and restore the mind to calmness so important on this occasion, and he keeps the band in his pay.

The dinner over, the company retire to spend the remainder of their time in some pleasant way; and this is easily accomplished when each guest endeavors to contribute something to the pleasure of the other, and when the host and hostess enliven every scene with their smiles. Polished ease, freedom and courtesy in both sexes, cement all into harmonious union; each pleases, and each in turn is pleased. If the company consist of titled and untitled individuals, it is no less pleasant, for here they meet on the ground of being gentlemen bred--the all-important distinction. Besides, other titles have no importance among them, when they have that of a Polish gentleman; and being received by the same host, they are made acquainted with each other without the ceremony of an introduction. Acquaintances thus commenced, are always acknowledged by the well-bred.

While thus there is nothing to disturb the enjoyments of the company, time glides on imperceptibly. Evening comes and brings new pleasures. The music fills the festive hall with enchanting melody, and youthful hearts begin to throb in expectation of the coming dance. First comes the host leading some lady guest into the room, followed by a gallant knight with the hostess. Each finds a partner to his taste, and all, young and old, stand ready. The hall resounds with the polonaise, and the host leads the van of the array of couples. Though he may be threescore and ten, yet his elastic step, obedient to the eloquent violin-his lordly, graceful bearing, as he leads the merry ranks in the serpentine course through the hall, remind him that his blood still flows freely. Thus again and again they wind their way upon the wax-polished floor at the caprice of the music, that as rapidly plunges them into a sweet revery, and as quickly brings them out upon the waves of buoyant joy.

The polonaise is a national Polish dance with which evening amusements are opened. The old even join in it, as if to countenance the merriment of the young. It is a sort of dignified promenade to a very sweet music, an inadequate imitation of which one finds in what foreign musicians please to call the polacca.

After the polonaise more lively dances succeed, and the old are seated to behold the graces of their sons and daughters. Now four couples have the floor to give

expression to their favorite music of the mazurka. All fresh and joyous, clasping each other's hands, with a gliding step and waving graceful motion, they float, as it were, to and fro on the billows of the boisterous melody.

The mazurka, or more properly mazurek, is another of their national dances; it consists in moderately quick and even steps taken in an oblong space. The music of the mazurka has something boisterous and martial in its character, and it is sui generis. The movements are gentle and exceedingly graceful, and display the good proportions of the dancers.

As they dance, and the social glass circulates, the joy increases; and the youth vie with each other to carry off the palm in the Cracovian dance or krakowiak (krah-kov-yak). This dance, lively though dignified, is expressive of joy, and very fascinating to witness. In its movements, one would easily imagine joy dancing with love.

But in these raptures of pleasure, as if not satisfied with their own, they resort to some foreign dances, as the waltz, English country dance, or some other. At intervals, to rest the dancers, the band plays some national air, to which they cannot listen without emotion, since their music embodies both thought and feeling. Thus they feel and think, and laugh and make merry, till unwelcome midnight comes to separate them from the intoxicating bowl of joy.

Time has dropped its dark curtain on these joyous scenes, and so must we drop ours. Where joy, surrounded by its innocent progeny, once was enthroned, grim sorrow, with disheveled hair, suffused cheek, and eye red with tears, now reigns; and the owl, bird of gloom and night, chants in the lofty halls its doleful dirge to the departed spirits. But as from the womb of night the light of day issues; as from the depth of despair a ray of hope ever glimmers; so from this all-engulfing desolation the hopes of Poland shall blaze forth. The ashes that cover the face of Poland have not lost their vitality, nor ever will; they are, and they will be, warm enough to give birth to the Phoenix which, flapping its mighty wings, will blast her enemies. No, the indomitable spirit of their forefathers is not extinct, it is only subdued for a while; it burns in the oppressed breast of every Pole; it gathers its latent strength quietly, only to hurl, sooner or later, with more certainty the fiendish despots to utter perdition. Then the sun of liberty shall rise to the benighted race of man, and all people will see themselves brothers.

NOTE. The recent events in Poland give us an opportunity to say a few words more on the Polish cause; we promise, therefore, our readers in our next number, a supplementary chapter on" Brighter days for Poland."

THE AGE.

Ir is the age of bubble! Everywhere
One hears the gusty mouthing of pretence;
You'll find ten maniacs for one man of sense,

That jabber Truth (poor Truth !), their private care:
Your mad-house of a world! Will any dare-
Who yet have Reason, Reason's eloquence-
To speak one little word in her defence,
Before we all go mad? O Virtue fair!

Some sinewed champion deign once more to warm
With antique mettle, worthy your great cause!
He'll teach, sans doubt, these puppets of reform,
Profession is not practice-never was;

These fluent magpies, hatched our peace to balk, What they know not-the odds 'tween truth and talk. New Bedford, Mass.

PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF A MEDICAL ECLECTIC.

NO. III.

THERE are petty annoyances which disturb a man's equanimity a vast deal more than the real trials of life. We brace our nerves and meet life's troubles like men, but its disagreeables often find us children. Amongst the minor ills which have always been my particular aversion, are smoke, black flies, musquetoes and Fourth of July orations. It has been said by some metaphysician, or sophist-I leave the wise to settle whichthat sins are only sins relatively-that all crimes become virtues under peculiar circumstances for instance, rebellion in the Revolution was patriotism, and selfdestruction is duty when it is the only way to escape the blackest defilement. I do not throw myself into the arena to contest for or against any question of this kind. I have only to say that though I have never found ordinary smoke odoriferous and grateful, or black flies civil, or musquetoes amiable, or Pythagorean in their propensities, I have heard one Fourth of July Oration that aroused my enthusiasm, and brought before me images of grace and beauty, that will glow and burn in my soul through all my years.

In the young city of R-, which blends so lovingly with the parent city where I reside, a Mr. Arnott, a friend whom I very much prized for his devotion to what he considered true and right, had been mainly instrumental in founding a lyceum for the praiseworthy purpose of elevating the masses. It would be a difficult task to tell how much the uneducated were benefited by the effort to give them not only general but analytic ideas of astronomy, all kinds of philosophy, poetry, ethics, mechanics, &c., all in a dozen or twenty lectures of an hour each. I know of nothing more incongruous than the winter's bill of fare at a Lyceum, unless it be the "stock in trade" of a country store, where are apples and anchovies, nails and needles, sugar and salt, calico and codfish, coral beads and cucumber seeds-indeed, where all the alliteration of the alphabet is present. My practice extended to a considerable portion of the village of R., and I knew the need the people had of mental culture.

Indeed this was never more apparent than in the gratulation and grandiloquence that succeeded the first lectures. Miss Dorothea Simons expressed her gratification by saying, "I am glad that ladies now have an opportunity to see into things. I am sure, heretofore, our education has been too artificial"-meaning superficial. But ignorance and conceit do not need illustration in my pages. They are continually illustrating themselves, and though they will always be manifested in every effort of the masses for elevation, the upward gushing of the Eternal Spirit of true Progress is none the less glorious, though thus shamed and impeded by its great need. The lyceum grew and flourished. It was popular. In art, in science, in literature, and in trade, Americans are adventurous. We have invented the cotton-gin; we have discovered the law of storms; we have dignified speculation and repudiation by legislative action; and last and meanest, we have made mosaic in literature.

The lyceum gave an impulse to intellectual life. It gave wholesome occupation to that superabundance of personal curiosity so rife in small cities, and large and unoccupied villages, and families. It gave new impulse to mind-new food for thought and reflection—and stimulated inquiry greatly. I sympathized with the effort of these young men, who, with aspiring minds and earnest hearts, were seeking elevation for all who could go up higher. But my sympathy resembled that which many sentimental people feel, or think they feel, for the poor and miserable in the world around them. They will give you any amount of sentiment, but ask them for one sacrifice of time, taste or convenience, to say nothing of absolute happiness, and they are poorer than a rich miser. I blush to say that such has been my interest often in the progress of humanity. But then I comfort myself with the reflection that there is a division of labor in the world necessarily

that not only our ability but our taste may be consulted in our choice of the portion which we shall perform. I have chosen my work. I endeavor to do it

with my might, and thus excuse myself for all sorts of delinquencies and neglects in the spheres of other men. My friend, who had been active in the establishment of the lyceum, was determined that I should patronize his pet charity by my presence at its annual celebration, which was fixed for the Fourth of July. He had labored with all diligence to induce me to enlighten the multitude with a lecture, and I had refused with much firmness. I would let my light shine in the sick-room, but not in the lyceum. I saw that I must attend the celebration, and walk in a procession of gentlemen. I gave myself up to blot out a day-to have my ears split with noise, great words, and the every way fulsome declamation and glorification of a Fourth of July orator. But I felt that the sacrifice was due to my excellent friend, if not to the country. I seated myself in the hall with much of the merit of a martyr. A tall, slender man, with eyes that glowed like fire, and a hectic flush in his cheek, rose in the desk. He had a MS before him, on which lay a hand which the many would have called delicate and beautiful, but which revealed to me that utter falseness in physical training, which produces nervous weakness, irritability and misery; which are often felt but never accurately described, for they beggar description before the half of their horror is told. My eye rested on the hand, and I became interested as if reading in the hand-writing of nature the symptoms of a patient. I was so much interested even before he spoke, that I quite forgot to consider myself a martyr to the Fourth of July. He began in a low and tremulous voice to speak of our country. His was no tone of gratulation. He had not the one idea common to orators who spout foam and fury on our natal day, viz., "that we are the people, and that wisdom shall die with us." He spoke hopefully of our infant country-he felt our weakness, our deficiency; and he saw, too, with clear sight our wonderful capabilities. Toil, struggle, the labor of a Hercules, or rather the labor of a host like Hercules, he saw and portrayed as the condition of completeness for us. His breast dilated, his tall form seemed to tower higher, and his dark eye burned with an intenser light, as he pointed to the young men, and said, "It is for you, O youth of my country, to bear the ark of our salvation!" He

66

showed the importance of education to a country that has declared that the people shall rule, thus virtually saying that ignorance and brute force shall be our only law if the people are left ignorant and brutal. And then, when the uneducated looked discontentedly at him, his clear voice rung out, Man must be trusted with power before he can learn to use it. The only condition which should entitle any one to a vote, or voice in our elections, is, that he be a man. Let him blunder if need be, let him fall if he must. By exercising his powers he will come to walk erect, a being worthy to govern and guide himself." After a clear and profound consideration of our political, social, mental and moral condition, and pouring out the o'er-brimming cup of praise to him,

"Who scorned to die a branded thing, Or kneel for mercy to a king," he plunged into the genuine field for poetry, the natural scenery of our land. The awful thunder of Niagara, the lake of storms," and the vast family of lakes, such as no other land can boast, the mighty rivers that

[ocr errors]

"Seaward hurry by, Like Life to vast Eternity"all passed before us like the lights and shades of a picture by a master hand. I was wrapped from myself in a delicious, whirling ecstacy. The orator made me feel a heavenly assurance that as a people we must inevitably grow to be worthy of our Father-land. How I blessed the life that thus poured out its I felt treasures for me.

"The bounding pulse of life grow strong, And all within, like budding leaf, Seemed young."

With deep sadness I saw the speaker cease, and look for a moment upon his audience, as if to note the effect of his effort, and then sink exhausted into his seat. I sat with my eyes riveted upon his flushed face-I saw him wipe the perspiration from his reeking brow-I saw his face become ashy pale, and then a friend drew his arm within his, and led him away. I turned to my exulting friend and said

"It is hardly a profitable speculation to make all this preparation for a fifteen minutes' talk. I was just getting interested."

My friend silently held his watch to me. We had been two hours in the hall.

Two pieces of music had been performed, the orator had read half an hour, and extemporized an hour. I now honestly expressed my gratification. There are times when life hardly appears real to me; I seem to be walking, talking and acting in a dream-a troubled dream when a heavy load weighs on my heart. It is not cant when I say that the sins of the world lie upon me. Its garnered sorrows are poured out before me. I see the want of those conditions which humanity demands in order to its healthy develop ment. With a soul sick of the present, is it wonderful that I should at times despair of the future? But this day with the lyceum lifted the cloud from my spirit. I had seen and listened to a man who had made me willing, for the moment at least, to look away from my work-and he had made my eye rest with pleasure on his sphere of action-he had charmed my fancy,moved the deeps of my heart, and made me believe that day was dawning on America, if not upon the world. I was in great good humor during the next two days, when the friend who had procured for me all this pleasure called for me. His countenance was troubled, and he hurriedly made known the motive for his call. The Rev. James Moreton, the orator of the Fourth, was lying at his house with brain fever. I went to him immediately. As the Asiatic cholera is often the closing convulsion, consequent on a long series of sins against the human constitution, so a brain fever is the result of accumulated wrong. "The curse causeless cannot come." I found my hope and promise stretched upon his bed in the oblivion of insanity. Only a few hours had elapsed since he stood before me in the pride of commanding eloquence since he had swayed a thousand hearts as one. Now he lay with stertorous breath, tense-bounding pulse a shaven and blistered head, and every symptom denoting that if he did not die of his disease he must of his medication. In the extreme peril of his attack his friend had called in three physicians, one after another. One had given opium, another calomel, the third had bled and blistered him. He was delirious at the first, and was now in the stupor consequent from rapid depletion and the coma induced by opium. A very beautiful woman was weeping bitterly at a distance from the bed of the sufferer. She did not approach him; he seemed to be frightful to her. Alas for hopes that are

built on anything in this world! I looked around to see if any responsible person could insure me the care of my patient without intrusion. I could not appeal to the wife. I saw at a glance that she might be described by calling her a pretty, little innocent woman-an amiable, beautiful, but unfortunately uninteresting and unprofitable person. The Irish have a very characteristic name for an idiot,' viz., "an innocent." Though innocence is a desirable grace, it is not the virtue of achievement. I felt a sort of assurance that Mrs. Moreton could never have any of this last-named virtue. She might "suckle fools and chronicle small beer," but she could never be the companion of her husband. Presently, Mr. Arnott, my friend of the lyceum, came in, and I inquired if he considered himself at liberty to employ a physician for Mr. Moreton. He replied that he considered himself responsible for the care of his friend. I watched Moreton with earnest sympathy, doing very little but to allow him to get well, and seeking carefully to know the causes of his illness, which was universally attributed by his friends to hard study and laborious exertion in his profession. Mrs. Moreton innocently answered all my questions, hardly knowing to what they tended. From her I learned that soon after their marriage Mr. Moreton became "nervous," and subject to terrible depression of spirits. He had dyspepsy and a rush of blood to the head, and his doctor recommended brandy and water, and a few drops of laudanum. For a time his spirits were better, and then he became more nervous and unhappy, and impatient toward herself and their children, when these last were added to them. He was very successful in his profession, and became celebrated for brilliant thought and stirring eloquence. After some weeks of very severe suffering, Moreton recovered sufficiently to enable him to return to his home in a neighboring city, and I lost sight of him. Some years after these events my friend Mr. Arnott rung at my door one sultry afternoon in the latter part of the month of June. He was much agitated: a carriage stood at the door :

"For God's sake, Doctor," said he, "allow me to bring the worst sort of a patient into your office."

[ocr errors]

Certainly," said I, "any one you please to bring is very welcome."

With the assistance of the driver he brought in a man dead drunk, covered

« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »