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(Previous
Page) tall soldier came and placed himself alongside, and asked his
name. The Lieutenant told him. 'They do say you air from Vermount,' said the
Green Mountain boy. He was informed that such was the case; and upon further
inquiry learned that the battery was formerly commanded by Captain (now Colonel)
Platt, also of Vermont. 'Then,' said the man, rising, and stepping off like a
rooster, 'a whole corps can not take this battery while the Old Vermont brigade
supports it!' "
"SENSATION."
NATIONALLY speaking we write very
much as we eat, with cruel disregard of our digestion, be it mental or physical.
Judge a nation by its ballads, said some one (it would be an inconsistency in me
to remember who); but we neither make nor sing ballads. Those are for people who
take siestas and dance in orange-groves or about May-poles—people who keep
sheep, and have traditions, and are just as much a product of the country as the
heather or the twilights.
We scribble—every body—on every
subject. There is matter, plenty of it. Great events jostle us, trip us up;
great discoveries half blind us with the truths they are letting in on our
accustomed tread-mill rounds of thought; and in this feverish age, when the
whole world goes on at a mad gallop that makes the calm days when patriarchs saw
angels coming in at their doors incredible, the mighty Union artery fairly
bounds with the hot flow of the mingled blood of every nation under heaven.
All this whirl and fire and fever
must find vent, and has it, in our sensation writing—partly as an appropriate
expression, partly from necessity; for this strange thing, for which we have
coined a name for want of other expression of our habit of thought and action,
is a veritable Briareus, clutching at all our being and doing, down to its least
detail—our writing, talking, building, dressing, governing, our very religion;
even so grim a thing as our war-making—all scent of it rankly, and its presence
in any one of these conditions necessitates it in all.
So it occurs that in the
intellectual arena the scramble is as keen as in the stock-market; two-thirds
desire money, the other third are after fame, and all clamor together, something
like the two duchesses who compromised on the sugar-tongs—that is, each in turn
held the other's tongue with them while talking herself (that the tongue thus
held wriggled mightily is not apropos, but I append it for the benefit of
femininity).
There is reason for all this
clamor, for the Sensational creed reads something on this wise: The longest
advertising column and the hugest placards win the stakes; so, if you are going
to be on honor about your probabilities, and accurate with your facts, you will
be distanced and thrown out at once; if you mean to stop for scruples of
conscience or grammar, you are too nice for your profession; but if you have
really any thing to say, say it to the next generation, for to-day can't wait
for you; a great truth, a noble thought, is only the product of a lifetime.
Glorious harvest, worth the waiting for, if you can afford it! says the Age with
a sneer.
If Right were the thing we
battled for we could afford it; but "Sensation" is not only our living but our
object also; and for those who won't bow down to the great golden idol there is
very apt to be a fiery furnace of poverty and persecution in waiting. In the
days of Nebuchadnezzar three men were found faithful, and in that respect I
think we are something better than the Babylonians; but I am talking to my
fellow-cringers—those who, with me, bow down in the dust and sneer as we lie
there. I mean to berate our idol. I can do so safely, it being the fashion; for
it is hard to tell whether the magazine views the sensational serials of the
weeklies with more contempt than the full-fledged book the frothy articles of
the magazine, or the slashing review the last new blue-and-gold edition. So all
the way through I shall be in line with some one, and meantime I can put in a
quiet plea for us all; for there is the necessity—the money and fame
considerations hinted at—and there is the unsatisfactory nature of a check on
the next generation, viewed in the light of the butcher, the baker, and the
candlestick-maker, as palliatives and for inducement. Sensation articles are
simply writing made easy. They require little time, and comparatively to brain
wear; only tact, and a general knowledge of the technicalities of the different
schools—for sensational writing has its schools, like Mts. Browning's "common
flannel, worn with proper sense of difference as to quality;" dissimilar in
style, but identical in object, and all equally easy of achievement. Take the
following recipes in witness.
The Valenciennes:
Must hint, not tell its story;
shadow emotions, rather than paint them; deal with life in a rose-colored,
absent, distant way—at the finger-tips, as it were. It opens generally with a
pair of Indian vases or a scrap of stormy twilight, and ends with a marriage.
You come out of it very much as a mouse might out of a rag-bag, a nice rag-bag.
You have nothing very positive. Change the characters all around, and go over
the story again, it would make no very special difference. You have
reminiscences of a knot of gay ribbon, dainty slippers, white fingers, perfumes,
generally a rocking-chair, a long dressing-glass, silver-topped bottles, a ring
(it must be a signet, and be particular about the crest and armorial bearings,
for that tells), glances, rising color, and a keen look (masculine, that last).
Analyze it, and you will find a
bunch of violets or a coral comb to be at the root of the matter; all the rest
are but accretions. Indeed for a Valenciennes article best look in at Fountain's
or Ball & Black's for half an hour previous to composition. Commence with the
trinket that pleased you, and stir in circumstances and pretty girls to taste.
There is no better recipe.
The Poker and Tongs:
Deals in paragraphs and curt
sentences. The men bully the women, swear, and are not too delicate; the women
violate all the proprieties and some of the commandments, and make faces. All
the characters snarl, and you imagine them closing their sentences with a snap
like a cross cur. Indeed the principal incentive for reading is the natural
desire to hear the excuse that these repulsive people will offer for falling in
love with each other, as they do persistently.
The Legal Style:
Natural product of utter
weariness of the four people who talk assassination over their coffee; the gipsy
who steals that inevitable child; the fair-haired heroine who lounges on river
banks in white crepe morning-dresses; and the black-haired young lady who serves
a battery, takes the helm of a man-of-war, snuffs out a candle with a
pistol-ball, crochets, and sets every thing straight in the story with equal
nonchalance and success. We must have our crimes, but with the spice of mystery
to give it zest. The author makes of us all amateur policemen: we have the
excitement of the chase; we hunt our villains through the higher walks of life
(I take these walks on faith: I have never seen them, or found them on either
map or directory). We unearth him in courts of law, and hear counsel on both
sides; we deal largely in secret drawers and old-fashioned desks, and are very
particular about the northeast window that looked directly on the lawn, facing
the wing in which was located Sir James's study. And what shall I say more? for
the time would fail me to tell of the stalwart sailor, across whose bronzed yet
handsome features flitted a passing gleam of anxiety as he thundered, "Haul down
your forecastle! belay the clew-lines! furl the anchor! reef your rudder! lash
the gunwale fast to the maintop-gallant sail! and crowd on the bowsprit, my
hearties, as ever you wish to see your homes and your sweet-hearts again!"
Or of that excellent
policeman—that diamond in the rough—who knew that something was up, the
Superintendent looked so down in the mouth; and at last, says he,
" 'Craven,' says he, 'are you the
man for five hundred dollars?'
"And says I,
" 'I reckon I am, if I know where
they are to be got, and that they can be come by honorably.'
"And says he, 'You calculate to
finish a job when you undertake it.'
"And says I,
" 'I generally go in lemons and
come out on the square.' "
And then he makes a clean breast
of it. On —th Avenue, between —th and —th streets, there was a little shop that
I had took particular notice to, it being in my beat, etc., etc., till his game
is bagged.
Or of our Military Friend, who
commences:
"It was after our little brush
at— (any place will do; Fredericksburg and the Seven Pines are as popular as
any). We had fought like demons, but the enemy outnumbered us as usual. We had
been compelled to retire in the best possible order to a farm-house, which we
surrounded with our whole force, and, finding empty, entered with due caution.
We were without tents, the rain, or rather drizzle," etc., etc., ad infinitum,
ad nauseam.
We analyze our swill milk and
alum bread, and protest. I present specimens of the intellectual chaff offered a
hungering nation (analysis of them is impossible, annihilation being the only
process of which they are susceptible), and ask should such things be?
It is true that every century has
its sham, stalking triumphant on its stage, and for the time being elbowing
whatever there may be of virtue or heroism out of sight. And it is true that our
sham is so builded and founded on our education, our prejudices, and our
desires, that we want a Samson for its destruction. But it is equally true that
in all ages the lucky heirs of a truth, be it ever so infinitesimal, have risen
up to do battle with sham, and that it is in the nature of sham to be beaten.
And it is true that, were each worker and thinker only half as much in earnest
with their toy-hammers as I with mine, the result would be matter for
chronicles. And, at worst, as great things sometimes spring from mean
beginnings, there can be much satisfaction and no special harm in firing off my
pop-gun among the first.
FRENCH DEAD (AND GONE)
SHOTS.
THERE are three instruments which
the code of dueling recognizes: the small-sword, the sabre, and the pistol. In
France, the first is looked upon as the national and accepted shape; the others
are more or less barbaric and exceptional. Most Frenchmen are fencers, and learn
that useful science as an accomplishment. A French father does not, indeed, from
his dying bed press upon his child the duty of being "always ready with the
pistol," which was the affectionate testamentary farewell of an Irish gentleman
of some repute in these encounters, but he will take care to leave his son well
grounded in the management of the rapier. Up to a recent period a Frenchman,
when challenged, invariably selected pistols.
The constitutions, however,
distinctly recognize the pistol, and the peculiar variations which that special
shape of wager of battle is allowed to take. First, the rude Anglo-Irish and
semi-barbaric system may be adopted in all its rugged simplicity: a measured
distance, the two combatants facing each other, and a signal. So might
Rousseau's Indians, out of their State of Nature, and furnished by a pardonable
anachronism with the explosive weapons of civilization, decide their quarrel
about the charms of a squaw. The simplicity was hideous. See how it can be
refined into an elegant and more exciting pastime. First, for a duel a volonte,
according to the technical name.
Two lines, distant from thirty-five to forty paces, are marked off; within which
are drawn two other lines, from fifteen to twenty paces apart, which is the
nearest approach tolerated. According to the canon of the duel a volonte, the
combatants advance cautiously, starting from the outside line, and holding their
pistols downward. They can halt when they please, and can take aim when they
halt, but not fire, which is only allowed when the line is reached. Thus, if one
desires to have the first shot, he may walk on quickly till he reach the line,
and then fire; but he has the disadvantages of a hasty aim and a long range. The
moment he has fired he must remain steadily in his place, a prey to the most
uncomfortable feelings, until his adversary shall have adjusted his aim, and
covered him. On this account, in Ireland, there has always been a reasonable
prejudice in favor of receiving the adversary's fire; the apparent risk being
more than counterbalanced by the enormous advantage of a quiet aim, without the
disturbing influence of a hostile barrel, which must naturally confuse and
agitate.
The duel a marche interrompue
appears at first sight to differ little from the one last described; but there
are grave and important points of distinction. Out of these various shapes of
encounter the skillful amateur will find his advantage according to his
experience, and the peculiar manner he will have acquired during that
experience. There are the same lines, and the same distances marked off. But the
parties advance in a zigzag direction—halting and advancing like Indian
skirmishers—with power to fire the moment either halts. This is the grand
distinction—not one of form, it will be observed, but of principle, and much to
be recommended to novices, who might naturally be agitated by their debut. They
will thus secure an early shot with a freedom from disturbing influences. There
is, of course, always the drawback of having to accept the adversary's fire
without sign or protest. It should be mentioned, that as soon as one has fired,
the other is not allowed to advance further, but must discharge his pistol from
the point at which he is standing.
Next follows the duel au signal,
which is an approach to the old Hiberno-Britannic fashion, and was doubtless
meant to conciliate national prejudice. The signal was to be given by three
claps of the hand, with an interval of three seconds between each. At the first,
the parties were to move slowly toward each other; at the second, to level,
still walking; at the third, to halt and fire. The French code states that if
one fires before or after the signal, by so much as half a second, he shall be
considered a dishonorable man; and if by the disgraceful manoeuvre he shall have
killed his adversary, he shall be looked on as an assassin. To minds less nice
there would appear but little distinction between the cases. But if the
adversary who has been fired at thus dishonorably have been lucky enough to
escape, he is allowed a terrible retribution—to take a slow, deliberate aim, and
a shot a loisir. Where one disgracefully reserves his fire after the signal, the
disagreeable duty is allotted to the seconds of rushing in at all risk and
peril—even in front of the weapon, if no other course will answer—and disarming
him.
Then follows the Barriere, which
is, strictly speaking, a generic term, and applicable to any shape of combat
where a line of separation between the parties is enforced. Sometimes the term
is applied to an arrangement by which the parties are set back to back, and at a
given signal must march away ten, or any special number of paces, then turn
round smartly and fire. This is, perhaps, the most humane sort of duel, as there
are many chances that the parties will miss each other. Whereas the Englishman
who has graduated on the hogs and moors will have a fatal advantage in this
flurried style of shooting. Allowance, however, should be made for a profitable
experience of our neighbors among the robins and sparrows—a good range of
practice among those tiny warblers of the grove and bushes contributing to
steady the eye and hand very considerably.
There is also the duel a marche
non interrompue et a ligne parallele—a rather cumbersome title for a very simple
mode of arrangement. The inevitable parallel lines are traced at about fifteen
paces' distance (though it seems a little mysterious how those marks can be
"traced" along the green sward of the Bois de Boulogne), and the parties are
started from points exactly opposite each other. They can walk either fast or
slow, and can fire when they please, but are not allowed to stop or to reserve
their fire a second after reaching the end of the march. This system, however,
is not open to the objection of being too favorable to the person who receives
the first fire and reserves his own, for he is compelled to be en route while
taking his aim, and is limited by time and the short distance he has to walk.
Next in the gory annals of French
dueling comes the fashion of turning the two adversaries into a dark room, armed
each with a pair of pistols; then, that Mexican practice of an encounter on
horseback, armed with weapons of every kind. The first is worthy of gladiatorial
days and the most savage of the emperors, and there is something horrible in the
notion of the two caged men creeping round by the wall, with finger on the
trigger, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of giving their enemy a hint of
their position. There was room, too, for all manner of artful devices to make
the enemy deliver his fire first, the light from which would illuminate his
figure, and render him a favorable object. But these shapes of action the French
code looks on as exceptional and highly irregular, refusing to take any notice
of them, or apply its ordinances to their case. It throws out only one
contemptuous hint in reference to them —namely, that all stipulations and
arrangements must be put in writing.
The terrible duel a l'outrance,
where so desperate was the character of the offense it was agreed that one of
the parties should die on the ground, was contrived by loading one pistol only.
The other
was primed merely, and the second
holding them behind his back, the parties chose, by saying "To the right," or,
"To the left." Then the end of a pocket-handkerchief was placed in each of their
hands, and the fatal signal given. If the holder of the pistol pulled the
trigger before the signal, he was justly dealt with as an assassin, in the ease
of his having the loaded weapon. In case of its proving the empty one, the
opponent had the privilege of putting the muzzle to his head and shooting him on
the spot. But these extravagances—outpourings of an indecent and ungentlemanly
animosity—received but little toleration, and the genteel code, as was
mentioned, takes no cognizance of its incidents. Of the dramatic elements
involved in a "situation" of this sort, that skillful dramatist, M. Dumas the
elder, was not slow to avail himself; he has worked this strata up according to
true "Saint Martinsgate" traditions, in his melodrama of Pauline.
The chronicles of the Bois de
Boulogne (taking that arena in its widest sense as symbolical of such
battle-grounds all over France) show many encounters between Frenchmen and
foreigners. But the Bois de Boulogne has been invaded by the beautifiers of the
Empire, and its pleasant privacy for such meetings disturbed. It used to enjoy
the distinction of being the traditional locus in quo of all tournaments, just
as Chalk Farm was the trysting-place for London, and the Fifteen Acres, "be they
more or less"—as the attorney writing his challenge observed with professional
accuracy—for Dublin.
Going down to Marseilles about
the month of March, seventeen hundred and sixty-five, we discover Lord Kilmaurs,
the eldest son of the Scotch Earl of Glencarne, sitting in the theatre of that
wonderful Mediterranean city. He happened to be very deaf, and, with the
perversity of those afflicted in that way, talked with an earnest loudness. A
French officer in the next box, with devout attention to the performance, which
we have not yet reached to, and that intemperate manner of reproving
interruption, in which we are yet happily far behind them, stood up and called
out roughly, "Paix! paix!" This admonition was unintelligible to the deaf lord,
who maintained his conversation at the same level of pitch. The injunction was
repeated several times with the same result. Thereupon the polite Frenchman
rose, and, stooping over, said, with great violence, "Taisezvous!" To him the
viscount, at last restored to hearing, gave some short answer, and talked a good
deal louder to show his disregard. It chanced then that the officer changed his
box, and later on the English lord, who was wandering round the house, happened
to come into this very box, of all boxes in the world, and, in utter
unconsciousness, stood at the door, his eyes roaming over the features of the
officer. The latter, then boiling with rage at this apparent determination to
insult him, started up and flew at the Englishman, asking him what he meant by
staring at him. The other, no doubt bethinking him of the well-known proverb,
said he had a right to look at any one even of royal rank. On which the officer
flew at him, dragged him down into the street, and struck him on the shoulder
with his naked sword. Upon which the deaf lord drew his sword gallantly; but,
before he could make more than a pass or two, was run through the body, the
officer's sword coming out at his shoulder-blade. Those familiar with this gay
and Eastern port can fancy that scene in the open Place hard by to the Canebiere,
with the lighted cafes—not yet were the days of the gorgeous and fantastic Cafe
Turc—amid the colored awnings from the windows fluttering in the air, and the
great Mediterranean rolling up to the shore a few yards away. Shrieks for the
watch, a crowd, pouring fresh from the parterre, gathering round, and the
Marquis de Pecquigny, at the head of his guard, hurrying up to the spot where
the poor Englishman was lying. He was gasping for breath, choking for want of
air, while the crowd, with the stupidity of all crowds, pressed in still closer
on him. But the French guard made a ring round him, and saved his life for once.
He was still, however, gasping and struggling there, when a surgeon, who had
been at the play, came up, slit open the collar of his shirt, had him lifted up,
and some water given to him. He was all but dead, and could not speak; but,
wonderful to relate, in three days was perfectly well. Some little international
difficulty was apprehended at first, but the English embassador at Paris soon
set all straight.
Two years before the great French
Revolution, a French officer unguardedly delivered himself of the aphorism that
"the English army had more phlegm than spirit"—a sentiment which really had a
substratum of truth, but was awkwardly worded. He should have said that phlegm
was one shape of the spirit of the British army. The name of this incautious
Frenchman was artfully veiled under that of the Chevalier B—, and that of the
English officer, who promptly challenged him, was thinly disguised under that of
Captain S—, of the Eleventh Regiment. The offense would appear to have been so
deadly that the parties were placed at the alarmingly short distance of only
five paces! Captain S— fired first, and his ball "took place," to use the words
of the authorized report of the transaction, on the chevalier's breast, but, by
a marvel of good luck, was stopped by a metal button. The chevalier, touched by
so happy a deliverance, magnanimously fires in the air, and acknowledges that
the English have both spirit and phlegm. In illustration of this fortunate
escape, it may be mentioned that, some forty years ago, a person connected with
the family of the writer of these notes, was riding out one morning in Ireland,
accompanied by sympathizing friends, to arrange a little "difficulty" of the
same description. When at the gate his eye fell upon a horse-shoe. With
obstreperous cries of rejoicing he was called on to dismount and pick it up. All
felicitated him on so lucky an omen. He put it into his pocket, and his
adversary's ball actually struck it over the region of the heart and glanced off
at an angle.
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