The International Monthly, Volume 4, No. 3, October, 1851Various
History
The International Monthly, Volume 4, No. 3, October, 1851
Various
Art, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Science -- History -- Periodicals
Booksellers and periodicals were glad enough to publish these squibs, and
the reading public read them fast enough, with considerable amusement, and
no profit or intention of profiting by them; it was _parvis componere
magna_, like Aristophanes and Cleon; the bystanders cheered the exposer,
and followed the exposed as fast as ever. Carl began to set up for a
professed satirist,--one of the worst things that can befall a man, for the
benefit he confers on others is very problematical, and the evil he
inflicts on himself positive and inevitable.
He who had been the merriest of young men found himself growing ill-natured
and morbid when he should have been in the prime of life. It was hard to
say which he disliked most, the exclusives or the democracy, and he uttered
his mind about both pretty freely. He was sick of the newspapers, with
their bad print and worse principles--of the endless debates about the same
old questions in Congress--of literary pretenders and the thousand and one
"most remarkable men among us,"--of all the continuously succeeding popular
delusions--of the gossiping young men in illimitable cravats, and all the
personal intelligence about Mr. Brown and Miss Jones. Still he clung to old
Gotham for a reason that influenced few people in it. He had strong
conservative feelings and local attachments; his childhood (unlike his
brother's) had been spent in the city, and the scenes of his childhood were
dear to him, however little interest he might feel in the new characters
that peopled them. But when in the rapid march of "up town" progress, the
house which his father built, where his parents had died, and he and his
brother and sister played as children, became so surrounded by shops, and
stores, and manufactories, that he was fairly driven out of it, then he
withdrew from the city altogether, and established himself for all the year
round at his--that is to say, at his wife's--place on the Hudson. His
contemporaries speedily forgot him, or if they ever thought of him, it was
only as an unhappy recluse, Bellerophon-like, eating his own heart, and
shunning the ways of men.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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