THE EMPTY SLEEVE.
At a political meeting in New York, where
a number of speeches had been made, one of
our well-known poets was suddenly called
upon to do his part. Rising, without any
preparation, and pausing a moment for a
theme, his eye caught the empty coat-sleeve of
an officer at his side, and he instantly im
provised the following lines:
“By the moon’* pale light to this gazing throng
Let me tell one tale, let me sing one song;
’Tis a story devoid of an aim or a plan,
’Tis a simple tale of a one-arm man.
’Till this very hour I could ne’er believe
What a tell-tale thing is an empty sleeve.
It tells in a silent tone to all,
Of a country’s need and a country’s call;
Of a kiss, or a tear, for a child or a wife,
And a hurried search for a nation’s life.
’Till this very hour who’d ever believe,
What a tell-tale thing is an empty sleeve—
What a weird, queer thing, is an empty slccvo.
It tells of a battle-field of gore,
Of the sabre’s crash, of the cannon’s froar;
Of the deadly charge, of the bugle note,
Of a gurgling sound in a foeman’s throat;
Of the whizzing grapo, of tho fiery shell,
Of a scene which rivals the scenes of hell.
’Till this very hour I could ne’er believe,
What a tell-tale thing is an empty sleeve—
What a weird, queer thing, is an empty sleeve.
Tho’ it tells of myriad wound* and scars,
Yot it points to the timo when tho Stripes and Stars,
Take tho place of that flag with the Stars and Bars,
And in God’s own chosen time shall wave,
O’er a land whero dwells no cowering slave.
To the top of the skies shall we thon all hear,
The proud huzzas for tho empty sleeve—
For tho one-arm man with tho empty sleeve.
AUTOGRAPHS.
[Written for “ Oar Deity Fare.”]
A distinguished literary man reoently re
marked to us that he had written no less than
five hundred autographs within the last few
months, in compliance with the request of
Committees of Fairs and of private collectors.
Let us reflect upon this astounding fact before
proceeding further. Five hundred autographs;
bless us! Now let the reader sit down and
write his name in duplicate five hundred times,
and see how it feels. If the pen holds out, it
is doubtful whether the hand will, to say no
thing of the brain. Now add to this the labor
of inclosing and addressing these autographs,
to say nothing of the pleasant process of ap
plying the postage stamps, and some faint idea
may be obtained of the penalty of greatness or
notoriety, whichever name is most applicable.
Our literary lion evidently thought it a bore
to be subjected to tuch demands upon his time
afld patienee; although once on a time, per
haps, his vanity was tickled by such requests.
We can fancy him years ago, when he first
felt the sweet tremor of public applause, and
when having safely passed the threshold of fame,
he received, one morning, through the post, an
Ouia Daily Fabb.
epistle from some unknown sentimental school
girl, with the humble request that he would
send her his autograph, “to enrich her col
lection of distinguished men.” With what a
self-complacent smile he read and re-read the
flattering document, and carried it in his
pocket, and incidentally mentioned the circum
stance in conversation, and produced it, “ out
of mere curiosity,” for the inspection of his
friends. And then, too, with what satisfaction
did he sit down to pen his autographic reply to
that unknown admirer. How he wrote and
re-wrote his note until the expression of his
chirography was perfectly satisfactory to him
self, and how carefully he addressed, and
scaled, and posted, this, his first acknowledg
ment of the recognition of his greatness!
But now —how different is it.
“What an infernal nuisance ” docs he pro
nounce it to have almost daily to answer
“Silly notes from .nobody knows who, and
which take up pen, ink, time and paper with
out any remunerative return.” “But Fame,
my dear fellow, think of that.” “Fame,” he
replies, “ it’s all humbug; besides, I’ve bad
enough of it. Give me something that brings
in money, and that assures me ease and com
fort; it’s worth all this profitless trumpery
and false applause. What’s the satisfaction of
knowing that Mrs. Finance, the banker’s wife,
likes my poetry and graciously quotes my
lines, while I must be content to lift my hat to
her in her carriage, and feel that I have to
live on a sum fir less than her coachman’s
wages!” So goes the world.
But this subject of autographs is really very
suggestive. What on earth, we ask, do so
many people want of so many other people’s
signatures ? and wherein after all is the value
of such things ? We have arrived at the con
clusion that autographs are a sort of scarlet
fever. It’s certainly a calchiny disease, and
no one can deny but that it is well red, (at
least the autographs are. ) It seems a disease,
too, that most of us are bound to get once in
our natural lives, and it generally attacks
children and young people.
We had it dreadfully when we were a boy.
We caught it from Uncle Aminadab. How
well do we remember when he gave into our
sehool-boy fingers the veritable signature of
George Washington ! He bought it at an
evening auction, for tho “astonishing low
price of three dollars and a half.” We had no
proof that the writing was ever perpetrated
by the illustrious George —but took it for
granted, as we are very willing to take so
many other things for granted! We hoarded
the treasure until, like the possession of other
treasures, it urged us into the spirit of accu
mulation. We soon hankered for the auto
graph of John Adams, and then for Jeffer
son, and so on, until at last we possessed the
name of each President of the United States,
witten by himself! This was indeed a triumph.
Time rolled on. We got bravely over the
modesty which at first interferes with the
attempts of young collectors to swell their
collection, and before long felt no hesitation in
addressing everybody who possessed a famous
name in this country, and even in Europe.
We arc not sure but that we went so far as
to ask Her Majesty the Queen of England and
the Pope of Romo to send along their names
“by return mail.” We do not remember,
however, that their Illustrious Highnesses’ sig
natures reached us. Probably Prince Albert
forgot to post his wife’s note, and the Pope,
perhaps, was thinking more of the Auto-de-fe
than of Auto-graphs, and so forgot us. We,
however, completed quite a famous book at
last; full of the names of statesmen and poets
and philosophers and historians and generals
and giants and dwarfs. But alas, or, perhaps,
fortunately, our school-boy days came to an
end, and the more important business of life
foroed our thoughts into other and more pro
lific channels, and soon the volume of auto
graphs lay dusty and forgotten among “ child
ish things.”
We remember how great was the rejoicing
of our father when the fever left us, for he had
done little, poor man, for a long period back,
but to bring home from the post-office huge
bundles of letters addressed to his son, bear
ing all sorts of post marks, involving all
amounts of postage, and sealed with all sorts of
official impressions and noble crests. Many
of the missives, however, savoured deci
dedly of our republican institutions, such, for
example, as the long, outstretched scrawl of
Andrew Jackson, written on a single half
sheet of old brown foolscap. In contrast with
this was the lady-like, delicate signature of
that old hero, Winfield Scott, which accom
panied a very kind reply, covering a sheet of
gilt-edged note paper.
We have not forgotten, too, a note from
Henry Clay, whose answer to our applica
tion for his autograph was so original and
suggestive that we do not think we can better
bring this rambling article to a close than by
giving a copy of it to our readers. In doing
so we will venture the remark, that what the
great statesman wrote to the school boy, many
years ago, may apply to others of an older
growth, arid convey a lesson, which, in our
humble opinion, may be well taken to heart
by the autograph hunters of the present day.
It is as follows:
“Ashland, 19th July, 1842. —Dear Sir—
I comply with your request in transmitting
my autograph. But I must say, that I think
your time might be more usefully employed,
than in making a collection of any autographs.
A strange passion prevails for this species of
literary curiosity, if it deserves to be so de
scribed. Would it not be better directed in
study, and the acquisition of more important
knowledge ?
“ I am, with great respect, your obedient
servant, H. Clay.”